Lovienthal: A Short Story

“Yyyaaahhha,” Was the sound that came out of Lovienthal 's pasty parched mouth as he rolled from his left side over to his back to take pressure off his bloated belly. With the shifting of his weight jarring something loose, he lifted his leg letting out an intensely long and rank fart. His urge to pee had built up inside him and growing stronger by the minute. But being still firmly griped by the paralysis of sleep, the very thought of leaving the warmth of the cocoon he had made from several old, ragged comforters seemed like a cruel torture. With the urge to whiz eventually having won the battle with sleep, he threw the coverlets aside, laid there for a few more minutes completely naked, baring a striking resemblance to

His breast, too large for any man, pointing awkwardly at ten and two and cruelly revealing to him that his New Year’s resolution to get himself in shape had been yet another dismal failure. Lovienthal struggled looking past his belly trying to check the time on his Elvis alarm clock that sat atop his television at the foot of his bed. The television sat atop of a couple of wood planks supported by milk crates he’d pilfered from the Quan’s mini-mart. The clock used to fully work at one time, but now it only keeps the slightly incorrect time. Fully functional it would 've woke him up by saying, “Hail to the King, Baby.” over and over again. That was before he had broken it by falling ass first into it along with the television after a late night of drinking Jungle juice made with a generic fruit punch, a personal favorite of his best friend V.Q. V.Q. who’s real name is Steve Soloman is Lovienthal’s oldest friend and new business partner. The forty-six-year-old Native American is commonly known as Vision Quest by the other residence at Ocean View Trailer Park because of history of recreational drug use, especially of the hallucinogenic

Sunny spring day had always reminded Lovienthal of when he was a kid, and... “Crap, crap, crap...” he exclaimed as his urine flow shot out from him in two different streams, neither hitting its mark in the bowl. The right flow ricocheted off the wall and back splashing on his forearm in little droplets while the left flow angled downward hitting his foot and the already urine stained enamel floor. He worked quickly to tighten up his grip on himself pinching off the flow until he had one steady stream flowing, and then he listened to the sweet sound of his pee hitting the water in the dead center in the