Six Shots from Allan Guthrie

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He rolled over, started snoring. She punched his arm, woke him up. “You unromantic bastard.”

“You want sex and romance, Beth? You don’t want a man. You want a fucking candle.”

She waited till he fell asleep again, then cut off his cock with a pair of scissors.



When Dave checked his emails he discovered he’d won the lottery. A rich uncle he’d never heard of had left him a fortune and someone from Nigeria wanted to give him a very generous commission for banking a shitload of money for them.  Dave burst into tears. After twenty years of nothing but bad luck, this was just wonderful. Maybe with a few million he could buy his way out of here and find a surgeon who could remove the transmitter from his brain.



He started drinking at eleven in the morning, kept it up all day. Finally staggered home and rolled into bed about five a.m., waking his wife. She screamed. For ages. Then she snapped on the light and said, “Who the fuck are you?”



The judge wiped his brow, and looked at the defendants. You didn’t see too many conjoined twins. Certainly not ones who were charged with armed robbery, one of whom was found guilty, the other innocent. The judge wiped his brow again while he figured out how to sentence the bastards.



“Give me a kiss, my princess.”

“Away and shite, you ugly fucking frog.”



Geoff had a freckle. He rubbed it for seventy-three years and eventually it disappeared. Didn’t know what to do with himself then, the poor bastard.

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