DEAR DOWNINGTOWN , THERE’S A HOLE IN THE MATTRESS by Olivia Hunt

i. The PVC pipe was about four feet long, swung down so hard between his legs that it cracked into a cloud of white dust as it met the red cotton of his boxer shorts. His legs went limp and crashed down beside him, slapping together. Slowly, his knees clamshelled open, and rolled him over the wall onto a row of muddy blue recycling bins that collapsed under his weight, and sprung him gently onto the grass. “I’m not gonna show you the blood in my buttcrack. But hell yeah brother.” Nineteen thousand and thirty four views.   I....

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