Glancing for a second at the analogue clock atop his dashboard, he returned his eyes to the road. Like most delivery truck drivers who would drive at 2 o’clock in the morning, he listened to the radio rather than entertaining himself with the silence from his dirty, old, abused, grey-white sock puppet that sat there in the passenger seat. Two buttons were stuck to the tip, with superglue, for eyes, and a crudely sewn smile right below them. It had been with him for ages, stuffed, and tied down on the open end.
A crusty man, he had a white beard and some sort of a cartoon beggar’s build with his small arms and small waistline. A red cap embraced the hair on his head, the type with a rainbow-coloured, net back. A pair of relatively oversized and overused jeans rested around his legs. His shirt was a large blue Ed Hardy, with the printed image of a woman caught in the middle of a provocative dance.
“Hard-core, or soft-core porn, eh, Bobby?” He asked the sock in his native tongue, partially quoting a song on the radio. He smiled calmly and chuckled to himself for being so bored. The song changed to something rather loud, he cursed in his distaste.
After a while his ears began to ache. He flicked off the radio. Silence filled the front cabin of the delivery truck. He frowned at the ever distant end of the road. The headlights were on and several other trucks were driving alongside him on the four lane highway. It was a long way to go to get up to Baguio, a subsequently modernized mountain city. He still hadn’t left Manila, and he had more or less six hours to go before reaching his destination, a quick nap, and a drive back down to Manila. These quick orders are verily, quite unfriendly to the delivery truck drivers.
“I thought so, buddy. I always knew you were one of those who liked that type of music.” He addressed the sock again in his native tongue as the wind rustled his long, white hair beneath the cap. The heat was intense in the city, especially since it was midsummer. The air was thick with the whispers of a slow death. The only consolation was that he was driving fast enough for the wind to cool off his face and change every split-second. He peered at the upcoming billboards that advertised useless products and for a second there, he forgot the road.
Returning his gaze to the immensely uninspiring road before him, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a 3 year old copy of an FHM magazine. His boredom led him to once more gaze at the beautiful women that lined the covers and inner pages. A figure emerged from his pants, creating a hill centred on the plains of his pants. The crevices with loose threads adjusted themselves accordingly. Dropping the magazine next to Bobby, he thought about how his life had always been going in the wrong direction. Every choice made was a mistake not worth making, and every major decision was a failure that couldn’t be solved. He lost everything he had and lives in his truck, the last of his possessions. Delivering these useless products was all he could do to stop starving. This time it was women’s underwear. Pulling out a cigarette from his soft pack of Marlboro Reds, as they would call it, he lit one and began smoking. His erection had barely subsided.
After finishing his cigarette, he began undoing his belt. It was time. He had to make it fast before the erection faded. With a wide grin that was seemingly hell-spawned, he unzipped his pants. His teeth were incomplete, and moist black spots lined the outside of the crevices where once there dwelled teeth. Pulling out his penis from beneath the tight cotton of his briefs, he transferred his gaze towards the sock and winked. His penis was hard, fully erect, though it hadn’t done that in so many years. He cackled towards the early morning sky, and adjusted in his seat, as if showing his penis off to the sock, that kept it’s eternal smile.
“This one’s for you, Bobby!” he shouted at the sock, again in his native tongue, as he stepped hard on the pedals, looking directly into the road.
Remembering his past with a boy named Bobby, he began stroking the back end of his penis. Bobby, his most beloved companion, had stuck with him through the worst times. Even when all his other friends had begun to call him “faggot”, Bobby was the one to push them all away and pull him aside. Bobby was the one to care for him when he cried over the loss of his first childhood crush during their grade-school years, Alexis. Bobby was the one to care for him as he cried over the loss of his second childhood crush and first male crush, Joey, who had dated Irene during their high-school years. That was when they parted ways, right after high-school. Bobby had gone to college. His family on the other hand was too poor to pay for tuition, and so he needed to work. No matter how hard Bobby’s exam was, the following day, Bobby would always call, just to check up. He was working but he always appreciated hearing Bobby’s voice. Even when he’d gone to rehab for taking shabu, a local drug similar to cocaine, Bobby was the only one who visited at the graduation and cared enough to buy chocolates and lunch for the occasion. He loved the bastard.
He remembered that one fateful night, 3 years after Bobby had graduated college, when he had finally summed up the courage to ask Bobby out to an actual dinner-date. He was so excited he chose his best clothes and put on his lipstick, tied his long hair, and readied himself 2 hours before actually having to leave his apartment. Bobby had left a message saying that he would meet him there at the restaurant. It was a hotel restaurant and he’d been saving up for so long that he nearly starved for that night. Just as he arrived at the restaurant, he saw Bobby, climbing out of his car. Bobby’s smile was heaven-sent, and he looked dashing. Alas, fate, as it would have, twisted lives and so a bus had crashed into Bobby and his car, pinning the two against the wall. He ran towards Bobby, but it was too late. Bobby’s head had been fractured open. Brains were all over the hood of the car. Blood dripped down towards the sidewalk canal and began flowing into the drain. He let out a gut-wrenching scream, but it couldn’t help; nothing could. It was too late.
He quit his job, and used the last of his money to pay for Bobby’s cremation, and the whole family was there. After everyone had left, he broke the lock of the frame that contained Bobby’s urn, and took the urn, spilling some ash as he went along. Having nowhere to turn, he ran to his truck and drove off into the far south. After months, he sold the urn for a low price, and kept Bobby’s ashes in one of his socks. He never went anywhere without it. He knew he never would. Looking back at the sock, a tear in his eye, he smiled, saying;
“This one’s for you, Bobby.” And he began masturbating over the sock. With each hard tug and each bead of sweat that fell, he imagined Bobby’s body. With each gasp for breath he imagined Bobby’s penis. The sock was still smiling, and he could see the smile on Bobby’s face that night they were supposed to date. It was as glorious as it was painful. He furiously shook his hand whilst keeping the other hand steady. He tried to keep his foot steady, as to not eliminate his chances of ever completing his quest. He closed his eyes hard, and his face began to wrinkle even more. Stretched in a somewhat frown of concentration, his hat gained the moisture from his head. His bony body, although physically tired was rejuvenated with the memorized image of Bobby in the common shower that time after physical education class. With a slight bit of semen emerging at the tip of his penis, he smiled a purely satisfied smile. He screamed as he came on the sock. He covered it with his very own human milky-white substance. It was a scream of joy, a scream of pain, a scream of anger, a scream of hate, a scream of bliss, a scream of lust, but mostly, a scream of love. Fate struck its final blow and he crashed the truck into the trees alongside the high-way. He bled to death with his face pressed against the sock, the mixture of blood and semen not disturbing him in the slightest. He smiled peacefully as the ambulance sirens wailed in the distance.
“This one’s for you, Bobby!”
(c) Anachronic Works 2012