Brad Pitts Body

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Posted by ebas420 at on April 17, 2002 at 10:05:01:

Give me you're opinion on this short story...

I looked from the television to my skinny bare chest. ‘I wish I had Brad Pitt’s body,’ I thought as he kissed some bimbo. I clicked off the television, walked into the bathroom, staring at my pale wiry frame again. Oh well. Sandi didn’t seem to mind, and it wouldn’t be worth the work anyway. I shaved and drew the curtain back to step in the shower.

The breath caught in my throat. Usually my tub is clean-Sandi keeps on me so I clean it on a semi regular basis-but this wasn’t soap scum. This was a naked man lying face down in my tub, which was also half full of ice. Now, I guess it was the shock, but the first thing I did was put my pants back on. Call me crazy, call me homophobic, but my idea of fun does not include being caught naked with corpse.

How did I know it was a corpse? Well, who else would lie motionless in a tub full of ice?

I buckled my belt and kneeled next to the tub.

“Hey,” I called, which seems strange now, but what do you want? It wasn’t even nine am and I had a dead body in my tub, with no idea how it got there.

In the living room the television clicked on, and again I thought of my girlfriend…then remembered she had slept at her place last night.

“Sandi?” Again, facetious, but today was shaping out to be pretty fucking strange. I stood and walked into the living room on legs made of shaking rubber.

Jennifer Anniston was on the screen, crying. “I…I don’t know! We were having dinner and he just got up and went to the bathroom, and he never came back!”

Back to the reporter: “Tom, we now have confirmation from Ms. Anniston that her husband actor Brad Pitt has been missing for at least forty-eight hours. Police are looking for this man for questioning.”

I saw my picture fill the screen and my blood ran cold, I could literally feel the temperature of my body change as my heart pumped much too fast. I ran to the bathroom and again kneeled by the tub. Motionless. The skin was turning gray. I grabbed one well-sculpted arm, closed my eyes, and pulled. When I opened them, I was indeed staring into Brad Pitt’s face. ‘Not so dreamy now, are we?’ I thought and turned to the toilet to puke.

There was a knock on my door: “Mr. Randolph? Mr. Ebin Randolph? This is the Los Angeles Police Department, and I suggest you open the door.”

I didn’t. They did, opened it right off the hinges and came in like gangbusters. One look at the body in my tub, I was hung for life. “Happy Halloween, kid,” the cop said as he cuffed me.

That was a year ago, and they still say they can’t figure out how I did it. Believe me if I knew, I would tell them.

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