Quiz Kids Just Do It by Harris Coverley

In terms of pub quiz etiquette, the Poon Tang Clan were the very worst. Every time they won—which was fairly often—and the result was announced over the mic, they would all stand up whooping, unzip their trousers, and slap their dicks on their table in unison, chanting their team name. The barmaid would return their quiz sheet, laughing like it was nothing, telling them, “Come on, come on now, put ‘em away, you’ll get us shut down again…”

When our own team, the Foxy Stoats, happened to win they’d make a scene, accusing us of cheating, spraying beer into the air. They’d come up to us, their cocks out, and slap them on our table, going: “OI! OI! OI! OI! OI! OI! OI! OI! OI! OI!” And the barmaid would return our quiz sheet, chuckling as always, saying, “Come on, come on, be good sports now…”

“OI! OI! OI!”

The sight of those pale white members hitting the wood before our eyes was bad enough, but since we shared the crisps and peanuts on our table by opening the packets fully as a spread so anyone could take from wherever they were sat, we were anxious not get any penile sweat or loose smegma in our hard bought pub snacks.

One time when this was happening we’d got a 55 out of 62, our highest ever score, so I was particularly pissed off at their usual stink-making.

Gary, their de facto leader, I found especially obnoxious, so as he slid out his limp grey sausage skin of a lady-poker and smacked it down, I took a drink of my ale and then slammed the pint glass on his glans.

He yelped and swung his right arm at me. I ducked and bent the edge of the glass into his shaft as he whimpered.

The other Poon Tangers were too horrified to do anything, while the rest of the Foxy Stoats and at least half of the pub hooted and cheered.

Gary got his hands around my neck, squeezing, but I just twisted the glass tighter into him.

My demand was clear: “I don’t want any more dickmeat on this corner table you greasy motherfucker!”

“What’s going on here Sam?!” cried the barmaid as she returned our sheet.

“We’re sick of it,” said Jules, a fellow Stoat. “He’s just giving him a lesson!”

“Release him Sam or you’re barred!” she shouted at me.

“Release this cocksucker?” I said as Gary’s hands tightened about my throat. “He’s the cunt with his lil’ shrimper slapping against the table!”

“YOU BASTARD!” he screamed, and he finally got my windpipe to collapse. At this I at last released his todger, but not before dragging the glass against his glans, crushing his Jap’s eye—or, to use the correct medical term, urethral meatus.

Free from my pint he fell to the floor in agony, whereupon on pure impulse I kicked him in his still exposed parts.

“Hope you’ve learnt your fuckin’ lesson you fuckin’ perverted son-of-a-bitch!”

Bob, Gary’s second in the Clan, slapped the back of my head, so I threw the rest of my pint in his face. He swung for me, catching my ear, but I got him in the guts with my right fist. Another Poon Tanger grabbed my shoulders from behind and pulled me back, the chair tipping. On the floor blows thundered down, but I slid my chair into his shins and he dropped, his jaw a perfect target for my knee.

 Harris Coverley has verse published or forthcoming in Polu Texni, California Quarterly, Star*Line, Corvus Review, The Oddville Press, Better Than Starbucks, EgoPHobia, 5-7-5 Haiku Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, and many others. He lives in Manchester, England.