How could Dillweed not take a piss in Mr. Dickmeyer’s home-brewed Dunkel? Dickmeyer had been talking about his “world-class” recipe all goddamned year. He’d found ways to work it into conversations, hyping the shit out of it, counting down the days until the unveiling. The keg was just sitting there, waiting to be tapped. Waiting to be defiled.
It was 6am, and Dillweed was called in early to make sure the clubhouse was setup to perfection for the event. Get there early or get there fired. The clubhouse wasn’t even Dillweed’s responsibility. He was a caddy. But he was Dickmeyer’s caddy; a level of present-day serfdom Dillweed wouldn’t wish upon his greatest enemy. But the money was too good. Besides, opportunities like pissing in Dickmeyer’s Dunkel were plentiful and were well enjoyed by Dillweed and the rest of the caddy crew.
Deca-Dunkel. What a stupid fucking name. Dillweed could think of better… Dunkelmeyer… Play That Dunkel Music White Boy… Dunk-a-Dick… okay, maybe he couldn’t. But that last thought gave Dillweed an idea. He was going to attempt a full-member submersion. Then he would pee. It would be a thick, yeasty morning cloud that would turn Dickmeyer’s Dunkel into hot and sour soup. Dillweed unzipped his fly and popped the cork from the top of the keg. He braced his arms on the bar counter and lowered his body over the opening. The metal bit into his thighs. His triceps strained. Then with a little maneuvering, Dillweed pushed his cock into the wet, aluminum hole. He smiled and emptied his bladder.
Dillweed’s arms gave out in the shock. He smacked his chin on the bar and landed on his back. The last ounce of his urine puddled on his pants as he struggled to tuck his dick back into his briefs. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Bleach laughing over him hysterically. Bleach dried her tears with her apron.
“Oh, fuck you,” said Dillweed, getting back onto his feet.
“You almost zipped your cock clean off,” Bleach chuckled.
“We would’ve had to leave it in the Dunkel. You pee in there yet?”
“Yup. I also had like six scrambled eggs this morning, so I’ve been adding my own carbonation to it, too.”
“What?” Dillweed grabbed a bar towel and dabbed the pee from his pants.
“Farts, dumb-dumb. If Dickmeyer’s going to get my black ass up at 4am just to serve his nasty fucking beer to his chode bros, he shouldn’t expect anything less.” Bleach nudged the keg with a black work boot. A puff of cheddar colored smoke wafted through the cork hole opening.
“You’ve been farting into the keg?” asked Dillweed.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”
“All bare-assed,” said Bleach with a glint of pride.
“Then I’ve basically fucked you in the ass via Dunkel,” said Dillweed, thoughtfully stroking his chin.
Bleach threw a heavy arm over his neck. “AND THEY CALL IT… DUNKEL LOOOOVE!” she sang. Dillweed was about to add is own lyrics when he noticed the yellowish orange steam rising from the keg opening.
“Ew, what the hell?”
“They’ll be here any minute!” Dickmeyer entered screaming. He was on his phone.
“Honey, I got that stein specifically for today! Just get it here, now, goddammit!” Dickmeyer hung up and pointed to the keg. “Get that puppy tapped! I’ll let both of you take a sip if everything is executed in a timely manner!” Dickmeyer clapped his hands together and bounced his eyebrows.
Dillweed leaned to Bleach and said, “I’ve never felt safe around him.”
“And Dillan?” Dickmeyer winced. “Clean your shirt.” Dillweed had never cleaned his bright-green polo since Dickmeyer had thrown it in his face two years ago. He wasn’t going to start now.
Bleach sighed as Dickmeyer stomped into the dining area. “You can do better than this, you know,” she said.
“What?” said Dillweed. “You think we should shit in the Dunkel?”
“No, you can do better than this.” Bleach gestured around her.
“Fuck off,” said Dillweed. “This is the best either of us are going to do. With how we are? In this fucking society? We’ve got it crushed.”
“Crushed?” Bleach shoved Dillweed into the bar. “These old, white assholes telling you to serve the beer and clean your shirt, that’s crushed? Bullshit, man. Dillweed, you should get the fuck out of here before it swallows you completely.”
“Fuck off,” Dillweed said again. “Fuck right off into the night. I’m not getting swallowed by shit.” Dillweed left the clubhouse and hoofed it to the maintenance shed, where he descended the concrete steps to the sprinkler tank. This was his favorite place to masturbate.
There was little Dillweed’s seed had not been spilled upon at Hillbury Country Club. But the sprinkler tank in particular was thoroughly painted, inside and out. Dillweed thought about Bleach’s heavy arm around his shoulders. He thought about her shoving him. He thought about her tongue ring. Then right when he was about to cum–