The first in a series of epic short stories, Plight of Vicente, tells the saga of serving God's will after returning to earth as a ghost. Vicente travels the world seeking joy and love but finds only death and destruction. Join Vicente on his first adventure to discover his true purpose in God's will.
Trigger Warning: Epics are not good reading for religious zealots, especially Christians, sexually uptight pricks, or stupid people.
*All books in the Epic Short Story Series contain adult content.
The Epic Short Stories are satirical, sometimes raunchy narratives poking fun at religion, entertainment, and society. Written originally as a concept for animation, the Epics soon developed into tiny fiction installments made available on KDP.
Chapter 1. Ye Old Bungholery!
Twas 1435 when death stole me during my fat wife’s screeching, “Geet yer cock out of the gloryhole!” In my head’s turn to her pointing and screaming, sudden pain struck my lower back as the frightened donkey behind me kicked. Bucking and smashing me against the wall, still penetrated by my manhood, the donkey crumpled me to the barn’s dirt floor. Writhing in pain ended with a final crushing hoof to the skull that stole the world in blackness, leaving only the wife’s voice fading, “You geet what you deserved, you bastard!”
Dead. For a time. Then darkness. Then a distant glow. Suddenly, I raced through a dimensionless tunnel toward the light and soon emerged like a shit bucket dumped from a window. Unscathed from the brutal death, I stood, and before me, giant feet rested under legs that stretched upward, forming a massive, white-bearded man sitting upon an enormous throne of gold. God!
Unsure what to do, having never believed in God, I stared aimlessly about the room's marble floors and white walls, empty except for the throne and God. I expected more furniture in Heaven but did not get the opportunity to voice this opinion, for God leaned forward and bellowed, “Vince.”
“Vicente,” I corrected.
“Whatever. Having lived a lecherous, corrupt life boozing and for just not liking you, I condemn you to walk the earth as a ghost until you serve my will. Upon completing your task, you may enter my kingdom.”
“Okay, Lord, but what do you want me to do?”
“Silence, fool. Return to the Earth and serve my will.” God waved a hand, and I stood on my little farm in England. Scratching my head, not understanding the purpose of this earthly sentence, I shrugged and returned to the gloryhole’s pleasuring. Entering the barn and placing my manhood into the wall’s hole behind the donkey stall, I waited, but nothing happened. I knocked on the barn wall but cursed, seeing my hand passed through the wood. “Damn thee, Lord.” I was a ghost, just as he said a minute prior.
Slowly sticking my head through the wall and looking down revealed the farm lass and the field hand romping like stray dogs. The tastiness of the scene did not escape notice and began much stroking and leering. Invisibility's benefits now formed endless possibilities made even better by lack of hunger or need to sleep.
“Who is the fairest maiden of them all?” I questioned, hoisting my trousers while leaving the barn. Nodding and smiling to thoughts of the tavern owner’s daughter, who all the townsmen thought a delicious fantasy began a walk to town. Arriving and watching the young maiden serve drinks as her ripe, inviting bosom challenged her dress for freedom affirmed their opinion. Hours of pleasure passed until the tavern closed, and though not thirsty, the mugs of ale lining the bar tempted but disappointed my immaterial tongue that tasted no drink.
Touching, poking, and many other forms of bungholery also met with failure as my phantom manhood found no joy except rubbing myself while she slept or walked about her upstairs bedroom naked, but noncorporeal self-pleasuring attempts ultimately held no satisfaction. The hope of touching the maiden ended after weeks of futile attempts, bringing occasional contemplations of God’s mission, which frustrated much since he could have just told me his will. Unable to divine His will or partake of the maiden’s bungholery motivated leaving. Exiting the tavern one afternoon, I stopped to say goodbye to the fair tavern girl, whispering in her ear, “You’re a dirty bitch. Fare-thee-well.”
Suddenly, the maiden tilted her head inquisitively. “Warty witch cast thee spell?”
Patrons of the tavern stared at the lass.
“You heard me!” I exclaimed.
“Burn thee?” she questioned, looking about the room.
Panic befell the town folk who dragged her into the street and delivered her to the local magistrate, who, hearing the townsmen, ordered her death. Despite the sadness of the maiden's burning, I reveled in the newly discovered ability to communicate. As the girl screamed from the fiery stake, I walked away feeling confident that people would hear me again, and many possibilities of bungholery awaited.