Hole

by Fred Crawley

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Free Book

  Hole

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Hole

  Copyright © 2017 by Fred Crawley

  The rights of Thomas Hall to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are ficticious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Get an EXCLUSIVE book for FREE!!

  PAYBACK IS A BITCH

  When Walter is suspended from his private boarding school he is sent home to start the summer holidays early.

  Hoping to keep him out of further mischief, and to teach him some responsibility, his parents buy him a dog. Walter has no interest in the animal and spends his days ignoring it and snooping around the family estate. What he learns scandalises him and he finds an easy target for his frustrations.

  When his actions come back to haunt him, he finds himself fighting for his life.

  GET PAYBACK FOR FREE:

  http://teajampublishing.com/fc/freebook/

  HOLE

  TWO WEEKS AGO MY GIRLFRIEND HOLLY FOUND SKIDDIES in my pants. It was my fault for leaving them sunny side up on her bedroom floor, I know, but the thing is, it's not just the skid marks. They're just a symptom of a rather more embarrassing problem: haemorrhoids. Piles. Stinky little arse grapes.

  I've had them for about a year and successfully managed to avoid doing anything about them. My arse was just a bit itchier than usual, although lately, when I itch, it's almost sexually gratifying, if you know what I mean? Once Holly found my pants though, I had to face the music, to myself at least if not to her. She's an understanding girl and all but I think even she would be disgusted by my bum fruit.

  The day she found my pants, she thought it would be funny to call me at work and break the news, after hanging up I jumped on the computer and Googled piles.

  I got a million and one results, mostly links to different pages on Wikipedia, About.com and the NHS. I browsed a few of the pages and managed to confirm that I did indeed have piles but nothing really made me stop until about page eleven.

  I just about spat hot coffee all over the screen when I found an advert for something called “Arseperin.” Managing to avoid making a mess I put my cup down, picked up a biscuit and clicked on the link.

  A vibrant orange and yellow page flashed up on the screen and I began scanning through it while I gulped down the last of my coffee and picked up another biscuit. There were hundreds of testimonials for how quickly and painlessly the cream worked, and I was halfway convinced, but there was no mention of a price. So I began randomly clicking links.

  Most of them were dead or just led me back to the home page but one led me to detailed information about how the cream worked and potential side effects. Thousands and thousands of small, poorly formatted lines went into far too much detail and left me feeling dizzy. I quickly clicked the back button but, rather than being taken to the previous page, I somehow found myself looking at an order form.

  They wanted the usual information; name, address, blah, blah, blah and of course credit card details. Happily I began to fill in the boxes and ten minutes later I was back to random surfing and had all but forgotten about the cream.

  Over the next week the pain in my ass became progressively worse. Soon I was running to the toilet six or seven times a day, just to wipe my bum. It was as if the shit was leaking out of me because each and every time I managed to scar the white tissue brown.

  Until the day I turned it red.

  I was sitting at my desk, browsing a restaurant forum while I ate a mid-morning snack when, once again, my crack started to itch. I ground my arse into the chair as best I could but it did nothing to relieve me, if anything it just made it worse. I could feel the need to scratch all the way up inside myself.

  Soon I had to drop my sandwich and dash to the toilet. It was either that or reach inside my pants and do it right there.

  I locked the toilet door behind me and pulled down my underwear at the same time as my trousers. I grabbed a handful of toilet paper and began to rub as if I were grating cheese.

  It felt good.

  Really good.

  When I finally stopped and pulled out the paper it looked as if someone had painted it with red watercolour. I stared at it dumbly for a moment.

  Considering all the rubbing I'd been doing it was a miracle that it hadn't happened sooner but I didn't think about it like that at the time. No, when I first pulled out that damp, wet rag, I damn near shat myself.

  I thought I had arse cancer or something.

  I got no work done that afternoon and when it finally got to five I practically ran out the door. I walked as fast as I could, away from the office and away from home. I don't know how far you can get in twenty minutes but I'm over six feet tall and mostly leg. I didn't stop walking until I found a back road where the ground was mostly rubble and a burned out Ford Mondeo suggested that few people ever visited.

  Phoning the doctors surgery was more complicated than I’d expected. I had to navigate a series of electronic voices and it took nearly five minutes to be put through to a woman called Joan who sounded like her cat had just died. ‘Wreathing surgery group,’ she said. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I'd like to make an appointment,’ I said.

  I heard her type something into her computer. She asked me my name, my address and which surgery I'd like to visit. I answered her questions and started to feel pretty good about doing the responsible thing.

  ‘What's the nature of your problem?’ she asked, just as I thought we were at the end of the call.

  I froze.

  I honestly think I was silent for a whole minute although at the time it seemed more like ten.

  ‘Sir?’ she asked when I still didn't provide the information she'd requested. ‘Sir?’ she repeated.

  I could still hear her saying ‘sir’ as I took the phone away from my ear and pressed the little red symbol to hang up.

  My heart was thumping loudly in my chest and the back of my shirt was suddenly wet and clinging to my skin.

  I switched off my phone, wishing that I'd withheld my number or given a fake name. I put my phone in my pocket and, as there was no one around, reached back and gave my arse a good finger.

  It was dark when I arrived home and when I opened the front door the house was quiet. I looked at my watch; five to nine. Either they were all having a ridiculously early night or they'd gone out. A night at the pub perhaps. It sounded like exactly what I needed and I pulled out my phone to call. The screen was still blank and, when I remembered why, I dropped it on the side. What if the surgery had tried calling me back? What if they’d left messages on my voicemail? I just wasn't ready to deal with that yet.

  I switched on the light and walked through to the kitchen. There was a pile of letters on the table, which I wouldn't even have noticed, but I needed something to do while I waited for the kettle to boil.

  It was mostly utility bills and statements, addressed to everyone except me. Then, at the bottom of the pile, I found an A4 jiffy envelope with my name on it.

  It was light in my hands, difficult to imagine that it contained anything at all really. I held onto it while I made cof
fee and grabbed a sausage roll from the fridge, then I made my way into the living room where I switched on the television.

  I tore open the envelope and emptied a small plastic container onto the coffee table. It was the Arseperin that I'd ordered and, until that moment, completely forgotten about. I reached into the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper: an order form, nothing more.

  After showering I padded across the landing and into my room. I let my towel drop to the floor and picked up the bottle. I squeezed a generous amount of the clear gel onto my fingers-

  - bent over.

  With one hand I pushed my arse cheeks apart-

  - and with the other I applied the cream.

  I woke up and threw the covers off. For the first time in weeks I didn't have my hand in my arse and was desperate to see if the cream had worked.

  I stuck my legs in the air, pulled off my pants and looked inside. Nothing. I was clean. I'd managed to go a whole seven hours without soiling myself. I felt happy like a four year old on Christmas morning. Not only was I shit free but it was also the weekend too.

  I jumped in the shower and scrubbed myself down. After dressing I went into the kitchen and made myself a celebratory breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausages and beans. I washed it all down with fresh orange juice and a large cup of strong coffee. A good base for the day.

  I dumped my plates on the side, grabbed my jacket and headed out the front door.

  Holly looked radiant as ever when she opened her door. Her hair was still wet and she'd brushed it backwards. She looked at me with her dark brown eyes and gorgeous smile. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her towards me. I leaned down and kissed her on the top of her head.

  When I finally let go of her she looked at me with a slightly puzzled expression. ‘What’s gotten into you?’ she asked.

  I smiled. ‘I just love you baby,’ I said. ‘Are you ready?’

  She nodded but the puzzled expression remained. ‘Just let me dry my hair and I'm all yours.’

  I patted her on the bum as she turned around and walked up the stairs. A few moments later I heard her hair dryer start.

  I walked into her living room and sat on her sofa. There was an old sitcom on the television and an open box of Roses on the coffee table. I helped myself to a handful of chocolate and settled in.

  Some twenty-minutes and a dozen chocolates later Holly was ready to go. I'd booked us a table in a country pub and it took us nearly half-an-hour to get there. We worked our way through a packet of chocolate covered raisins while we sat in traffic.

  Despite the traffic and leaving later than I’d planned we still arrived early for our table, so we went to the bar and Holly found us a table while I ordered the drinks: a dry white wine for her and a Fosters-top for me. I helped myself to a handful of mixed nuts while I waited for the barmaid to prepare the drinks.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Holly as I returned to the table.

  ‘Sure am,’ I replied as I placed her drink on the table and sat down opposite her. ‘What do you think you'll have?’ I asked.

  She looked at me with that quizzical look she gets, most of the time it means she thinks I'm up to something. ‘Not sure,’ she said at last. ‘It all looks good.’

  It really did look good and as we drank and waited for our table I scanned through the menu hoping to find something a little bit special.

  I ended up ordering the breaded mushrooms to start and the duck for mains while Holly went for potato skins and then Salmon. They'd given us a small table beside the window so we had a perfect view of the pond outside. I hoped I wouldn't see any ducks as I gazed out.

  After ten minutes of waiting my stomach was beginning to grumble and at first I just thought it was hunger. Pretty soon, however, I realised that wasn't the case and stood up from the table with an unplanned sense of urgency.

  Holly looked up at me, concerned. ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

  I shook my head. ‘I'm fine. Just going to the little boy’s room.’

  She smiled and turned away to carry on looking at the swans out the window.

  I dashed through the restaurant doing my very best not to knock anyone over or soil myself. It was a close call on both counts but eventually I found the toilet and, thank-god, an empty cubicle.

  My pants were off almost before I'd reached the door and my arse on the seat before it was closed. I thought my insides were going to fall out.

  In the end it was more like trying to push a brick through a key-hole.

  It's a wonder I didn't tear my arse.

  When I returned to the table our starters had arrived and I wolfed mine down in only a couple of mouthfuls. Holly took slightly longer but we'd both finished before the waiter arrived to ask if everything was okay.

  ‘Everything's fine,’ I said. ‘Bring out the main course as soon as it's ready.’

  He nodded and smiled. Holly looked at me with that look of hers.

  By the time my duck arrived my appetite had started to diminish but it tasted so good that I forced it down. Holly too managed to clear her plate and we both ordered dessert. She went for the chocolate brownie with cream while I took the apple pie. As tasty as it was I could only manage to finish about half.

  While we sat drinking our coffees and talking I took a turn for the worse.

  It was a strange feeling, not exactly like needing to use the toilet but that was the closest it came too. This time I stood up with more dignity.

  ‘Again?’ she asked.

  ‘I've got the bladder of a mouse,’ I said and reached into my pocket. ‘Would you like to see it?’

  She smiled and turned her head away with a fake-disgusted laugh. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Get on with it.’

  I sat on the toilet facing the dark wooden door, listening to the hand dryer being turned on and off and the occasional squeaky footstep.

  I could feel my guts bubbling away and when I squeezed-

  - I farted.

  It was loud and smelly but barely a relief. I caught my breath and tried again.

  This time nothing at all.

  I sat there for a while longer, looking down at my feet and praying for something else to come.

  Eventually I decided that god must hate me and I stood up. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and wiped myself. I examined it before flushing and found no trace of either blood or shit. Neither was I particularly itchy. The cream seemed to have done its job.

  I returned to the table and paid the bill. During the drive home I told Holly that I wasn't feeling too well and I dropped her back at hers rather than mine. The pain in my gut was getting steadily worse. When I arrived home I went straight to the toilet.

  That's where I am now. It’s been an hour but I still haven't managed to go. My arse cheeks are numb while my stomach is swollen and distorted. I think I know what happened but I haven't summoned up the courage to check yet.

  There's a mirror on the side.

  I stand up and almost fall straight back down. My legs are as useless as a new born calf’s. I manage to grab hold of the sink and hold myself there with one hand while, with the other, I reach up and grab the small, round, face mirror.

  Carefully I lower myself back down and lean so that my arse hangs off the bowl. I'm not worried about an accident. Whatever could happen now would be a blessing compared to what I expect to find.

  I lower the mirror between my legs. Steel myself for a moment and then I look down. I find exactly what I expected, nothing. That is to say, no hole. Where my anus should be there is nothing but smooth, clean skin.

  On the plus side my piles really have gone.

  My stomach lurches and for a moment I think I'm going to be sick. I drop the mirror and brace myself but the feeling soon passes.

  I stand and pull up my trousers. It seems pointless to sit on the toilet for any longer.

  My stomach churns and my chest starts to heave. I turn around, meaning to put my head in the bowl, but before
I can lower myself the feeling has gone.

  I consider calling a doctor but wonder what I would say when they ask about the nature of my problem. Perhaps, I seem to have sealed my arse up using medicine that wasn't prescribed for me doctor.

  Perhaps I will die. If I do will they cut me open and find me full of my own shit?

  A wave of pain hits as I walk across the landing to my room and I'm forced to stop, double over and clutch my distended belly until it goes.

  When I stand up again I am light headed and convinced that I am going to be sick, or die, or possibly both.

  I run back to the bathroom, fall to my knees and worship the porcelain god of drunks and bulimics. I feel as if I am choking and my eyes start to water.

  I cough and splutter, something alien is climbing up my throat. Whatever it is I want it gone from me as soon as possible and I begin flexing the muscles in my neck. I can already smell it.

  The pressure is building in my head. My eyes bulging and my skin glowing a fiercely unattractive red. I can feel something in my mouth now. Soft and melted like chocolate that’s been left by a radiator. I can smell it but I don't want to believe it.

  I close my eyes and continue to cough and choke.

  I hear a wet plop and water splashes my face. I look down: a marble sized piece of shit sinks to the bottom of the bowl. For a moment I have forgotten all about the pain.

  My chest spasms and my throat heaves. Tears fall from my eyes and land like rain on a lake. I hear a large plop and something else enters the water. I wipe my eyes, look down and can no longer deny what has happened. I've done a shit from my mouth.