Fiction: Fairytale

By Sebastian Vice

Once upon a time a handsome prince asked a gorgeous princess to marry him.
She said no.
So he drank whiskey and scotch and smoked cigars. He stayed up all night watching whatever the fuck he wanted. He blasted his old records and danced naked around the house.
He quit his job and told his boss to eat a dick. He stole office supplies and shit in the printer.
He found a job the next day.
He was fired.
Then found another one.
He was fired again.
Nobody nagged him or told him to pick up his underwear. Nobody told him how to dress, or talk, or act a certain way. Nobody said his friends were crazy or weird or a bad influence, nor did anyone tell him to find better company. And nobody prevented him from getting the motorcycle he always wanted because it was too dangerous.  
He liked fast cars and even faster women.
He lived at strip clubs and snorted crank off strippers’ titties. He fucked cheap whores outside dark alleys, and like in porn, they all got blasted in the face. And for the right price, he always got anal.
He never used condoms and even visited gloryholes from time to time.
He got syphilis, crabs, and gonorrhea every few years, and went to the doctor with a shirt that red: No Fucks Given. He didn’t regret the warts on his balls. They were his badge of honor, displayed with pride. And when the doctor’s burned them off, he’d reminisce that the blisters brought him back.
And he was never saddled with child support or alimony and he never lost his house in a divorce settlement. He never had to pay hundreds of thousands to divorce lawyers. A woman never keyed his car or threw his clothes out the window.
All his friends thought he was cool as hell and everyone envied his freedom.
The prince never regretted the princess’ rejection, and even laughed when her new prince charming cheated on her and gave her HIV. He and his friends got shitfaced at her funeral.
The Prince lived happily ever after.
Taking no fucks and giving only the best in return.
He died from cirrhosis of the liver when he was 69.
“Peace out, motherfuckers,” were his last words
A middle finger was engraved on his tombstone.

Sebastian Vice is the founder of Outcast-Press, an indie publishing company specializing in transgressive fiction and dirty realism. His poetry and short fiction has, or will, appear in Punk Noir Magazine, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Close To The Bone, Terror House Magazine, and the anthology In Filth It Shall Be Found.


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