Six Shots from Allan Guthrie


He rolled over, started snoring. She punched his arm, woke him up. “You unromantic bastard.”

“You want sex and romance, Beth? You don’t want a man. You want a fucking candle.”

She waited till he fell asleep again, then cut off his cock with a pair of scissors.



When Dave checked his emails he discovered he’d won the lottery. A rich uncle he’d never heard of had left him a fortune and someone from Nigeria wanted to give him a very generous commission for banking a shitload of money for them.  Dave burst into tears. After twenty years of nothing but bad luck, this was just wonderful. Maybe with a few million he could buy his way out of here and find a surgeon who could remove the transmitter from his brain.



He started drinking at eleven in the morning, kept it up all day. Finally staggered home and rolled into bed about five a.m., waking his wife. She screamed. For ages. Then she snapped on the light and said, “Who the fuck are you?”



The judge wiped his brow, and looked at the defendants. You didn’t see too many conjoined twins. Certainly not ones who were charged with armed robbery, one of whom was found guilty, the other innocent. The judge wiped his brow again while he figured out how to sentence the bastards.



“Give me a kiss, my princess.”

“Away and shite, you ugly fucking frog.”



Geoff had a freckle. He rubbed it for seventy-three years and eventually it disappeared. Didn’t know what to do with himself then, the poor bastard.

Fucking Liars by Allan Fucking Guthrie

The fuck fucked the fucking fucker. Not fuck as in fucked, but fucked as in fucked him up. See, the fucking fucker was fucking around with the fuck’s fuck, so the fucker was asking to get fucked. Not content with fucking the fucking fucker up, the fuck fucked with the other fucking fucker’s fuck too. Fucked her in the fucker’s car. Fucked the fucking car as well. Fuckin’ A. When the fucked-up fucking fucker saw the fucking fucked-up state of his fuck and his fucking car, he fucked off fucking fast. Returned—fucked cause he was still fucked-up—with a fuck-off shotgun. Fucking blew the fuck out of the fuck and said to his own fucking fucked-up fuck, “Now that’s that fucking fucker fucking fucked.”

“Thank fuck,” she said. “That fuck was a real fucking fuck.”

Later, they were fucking. Mid-fuck she said, “You didn’t fuck his fucking fuck like the fucker said, did you? If you did, you’re fucked, you fucking fucker.”

He said, “I can’t believe you’d think so badly of me, honey.”

“Fucking mistake,” she said, cold as fuck, fucking blade ever-so-fucking-shiny in her fucking hand. “Only fucking liars don’t say fucking fuck.”

He was fucked. He looked at her and said, “Shit.”