Funny stories in under 500 words.

Shit Sandwich's Last Ride

funny short story: shit sandwich's last ride

They called him Shit Sandwich.

The residents of Porter County Correctional Facility used to call him Chuck Norris, thanks to a resemblance to a certain action hero.

The inmate formerly known as Chuck Norris was down on his luck - a stringy, gamey junkie with no game. Chuck Norris had been forgotten by the outside world, leaving the lanky-haired tweaker to shake out his poisons.

Junkies have very little self control at the best of times, but none whatsoever when coming off their drug of choice. This led Chuck Norris to take on all manner of Herculean challenges, in exchange for treats, none of which he was able to accomplish. He tried to do a thousand squats, only getting to a hundred before passing out and pissing blood. He tried to snort a packet of chili powder, only to have his decimated septum betray him.

These outlandish bets earned him his new name when the other inmates ask what it would take to get him to eat a shit sandwich.

“I don’t think I can do that,” Chuck Norris stammered.

That slight amount of hesitation cost him his action hero stature and earned him a name.

Shit Sandwich moved on to making ill-advised deals in the pursuit of salt and sweets. He would trade half a week’s worth of meals for a single Little Debbie. It was sad, watching this mummified junkie waste away.

Shit Sandwich began backing out of his debts, trying to cop an attitude. Although this was a minimum-security county jail, these were still criminals with reputations to uphold. Even Pee-Wee, the pinheaded chess ch

ampion, was beginning to throw hard glances and shade in Shit Sandwich’s direction. There began to be seismic rumbles that SS was about to get his ass kicked. He became paranoid, which is not a far jump for a former amphetamine abuser.

“What should I do,” he asked Arsenic, another inmate.

“You’ve got to ride the boat, man,” replied Arsenic.

“The boats” were temporary plastic bunks that were used when the prison was overcrowded, which was always. The grey pallet could be flipped over to become a kind of Tupperware canoe, which could slide down a flight of stairs like a bobsled. It was jail folklore that “riding the boat” was an automatic out. The inmate would spend a few days in solitary, and then be moved to a different pod. Everybody was too comfortable in their current situation to want out. Here was a chance for entertainment.

Finally, the day came. Shit Sandwich wheeled the boat to the top of the stairs and, like an Alpen skiier, pushed off, and out of Pod A’s life. A moment of hesitation, as the boat teetered and the whole pod held their breath, and Shit Sandwich was away; stringy, greasy hair blowing out like a Swiss flag behind him, as his face carried a mixture of idiotic childhood glee and utter terror.

No one ever saw Shit Sandwich, or Chuck Norris for that matter, again.

J. Simpson is attempting the unlikely - mastering three disparate traditions of music, criticism, and writing in one lifetime. He lives in an old wooden house with a black cat and the love of his life in Portland, Or. He makes dreamy folk/trip-hop with his mate, Lily H. Valentine, in the band Meta Pinnacle and solo electronic noise under the name Dessicant. His main pursuit and labor of love is Forestpunk, where he writes about the intersection of horror, magick, music, art, and culture.