Crack Attack: A Collection of One-Shots and Other Disturbing Shit

Gone Wrong (Poofless-ish)

I hear the shower turn on in the master bathroom and this's the only chance I'm gonna get. I might get in so much crap for this but I can't take it anymore - I need to know. I stick my head out in the hallway and check to make sure it's Mom, and her door's shut so it's gotta be her. I check to make sure no one's gonna notice me bein' all creeptastic over here but it looks like the kids're all busy doing who knows what and Dad won't be home until five unless there's some kinda horrible accident I don't know about. I listen for a few more seconds... coast is clear.

            I speed walk as fast as I can to the master bedroom and wiggle the door handle and it isn't locked. I peek inside and the bathroom door's shut and - bless up - she isn't walkin' around in her birthday suit. I see her phone perched over on her side table and I leave the door open just a crack and creep over like the plastic villain guy from that one kid's show that's somehow turned into the internet's ExLax.

            I know I shouldn't but I hafta.

I need to know.

It's killing me inside and I don't wanna die.

I need to know what's been making her laugh and cry and make faces and cry and hafta suddenly shut her phone off and cry. I wanna know why she keeps freaking crying in the living room. In the middle of the day. When I'm playing COD with Caleb. Then she'll get up and scurry away and I can hear her blowin' her nose in the bathroom then she'll come back with something from the kitchen and her eyes'll be all pink.

Not gonna lie: it's getting kinda concerning now.

I look over at the door again and there's no sign she's comin' back anytime soon. I feel like a kid who's sticking their hand in their Christmas stocking at two in the morning and knows they're gonna get whipped and nae-naed if they get caught.

But I hafta know, and the only way to know's to check.

Come on, Preston. You're runnin' outta time.

Password. What's her password?

Tap-tap... tap tap tap. Click.

We're in.

There's nothing open right now but I double-click the home button and there're apps open in the background.

Solitaire doesn't make people cry. Right?

Safari's just house listings for her job. Probably not that.

It's just old people I barely know on Facebook. Nothing interesting there except maybe the smell when they sit next to me on the couch at Thanksgiving.

Twitter's open and there's a tweet pulled up that links to something else. Maybe this's it?

Tap.

It opens in another app.

It immediately plunges into the wrinkled opening so deeply that it feels like it might force its way out of his mouth.

His fragile virginity is gone, and now so are his dreams and his butthole.

'No, Robbie! Please!' No matter how loud he screams nothing makes the feral pounding in his ass stop. He feels it ripping him in two and the raw burning makes the inside of his eyelids glow angry red as the merciless mushroom head crashes into his tender spot again and again and again and again. Sobbing, scratching, pleading, even crawling away on his knees does nothing but bring his ass assassin along behind him on the rough dirt floor of his parents' bedroom. He feels the single eye weeping, sowing his potent seed inside and he knows it is too late. He is going to have to bear his fruit. His soft, fresh belly will swell up with the unholy child and the king will know. He will have his manhood forcibly incinerated and he will be forced to marry his assaulter.