EVERYTHING, EVER – Evelyn Winters

November 12, 2025

Two people awkwardly made love on a boat. The man didn’t want to come so fast, but he did. He blamed the waves. He blamed the three IPAs.

She didn’t mind. She liked him as much as he liked her. They would have another go in exactly twenty-two minutes and fourteen seconds.

In the meantime, unbeknownst to either man or woman, his jizz-stars were searching for her egg.

The jizz-stars weren’t sure where to go. Some swam and lost their way and died lonesome deaths. Others were too slow, and perished in defeat.

One found the egg, but wasn’t sure what to do with it. To it?

Another swam past determined to find a more attractive egg.

“I want a hotter egg,” said the determined one. “Can’t wait to have it!”

But there was no hotter egg. Only one normal looking egg.

The brave one entered. It was brave because it knew what it was. Raw instincts. It had a firm grasp of its destiny.

The egg embraced the “jizz-star.” They danced and swayed gently to a distant music. The man and woman also danced along, to Lou Reed’s “Sweet Jane,” unaware of the union inside.

“I love you,” said the egg.

“I love you,” said the sperm.

Until they squeezed each other so tight they became one inside the uterus.

Grew and grew.

Twirled and kicked. One day they slid out and entered the light, as one.
*

The brave one grew again and again until she was finished growing.

She chose not to go to college. Instead she became a banker.

The banker went to the mall to buy shoes. She bought a pair of boots, instead. They were called Arctic Soles. Arctic Soles were light blue like some glaciers look. The person at the register said they were they’s favorite boots, too. They said they had four pairs.

The banker walked back to the bank in her Arctic Soles.

Jim said, “Whoa.”
Connie said “Hey there.”
Burt said nothing.

A couple walked into the bank with their dog. It was a small white dog with small white ears.

“Can I help you?” asked the banker, but she didn’t really want to help. She wanted to stand in front of a mirror and look at her new boots. She also wanted Burt to fuck her on her desk while wearing her new boots. It was a passing thought. A thought that startled her, but did not surprise her.

“We need money,” said the couple.

“For what?”

“So we can buy a home and then a pool and then a boat.”

“Follow me,” said the banker. The squishy feel of her new boots was pleasant. So pleasant, in fact, she decided to keep walking. Instead of helping the couple buy expensive stuff she walked out the door and into the day.

The day was a fine day. Not hot enough to jump in a pool. Too windy to be on a boat, but all in all, fine like breakfast. Fine, like Burt’s big brown eyes.

The couple was upset. They appeared to the banker to be hurt. Sometimes hurt feelings can morph into anger. Sometimes anger can turn into violence. Sometimes violence can turn into HORROR.

The banker ran from the couple and their dog. Her boots squished rapidly down the boulevard and up the byway and crossways to the Walmart on 2nd.

Luckily, there were guns priced at killer deals. Best sale in twenty-five years, stated a camouflage sign hung above a few tents and fishing poles.

The couple bought a Glock, so the banker bought a Glock. The couple bought a shotgun. The banker then bought a shotgun.

An AR 15.

An AK 47.

When they purchased one box of ammo the register gal gave them two extra, no charge. The sign said nothing about it. It was customer appreciation day.

“Great dealz,” said the happy couple.

“New boots, new guns,” said the banker.

They decided to go back and rob the bank. Together. Something about buying the same guns brought them together and made them friends.
*

Burt held his hands high. He had dark circles on his armpits. Burt was obviously scared. The banker’s lust grew and grew like a baby.

“Put the money in the bag,” said the couple.

Burt filled the banker’s bag full of fives and tens and hundreds. No fifties.

The white dog barked at the customer who just walked in. It was the person who worked at the shoe store.

“Nice boots,” they said.

“Why aren’t you wearing yours?” asked the banker.

“I don’t own a pair.”

“You told me you had four pairs.”

“I was trying to make you feel better about yourself.”

The couple chuckled. The white dog sat down.

The banker realized she could kill. She pointed her AK 47 at the person who sold her the Arctic Soles. And then at Burt. And then at the dog. And then at the couple. In the end there was no one worth shooting.

She dropped her guns and her money in the back of her pickup and drove home.
*

Burt was already there, home, on the couch with a bag of Lays.

“What do yah say?” he said, humping the couch cushion.

They did it on the couch. It was a good one. Satisfying.

The smell of chips on Burt made the banker very hungry.

She ate a big bowl of popcorn, naked, and washed it down with Michelob.
They watched Netflix and searched Craigslist for a used camper.

They bought one, cash, from a man known as Mr. Meat.
*

They agreed, doing it in the camper was better than doing it on the couch. The entire monstrosity would rock back and forth creating stress on the axel, and stress on the suspension. Something really super about being able to damage big things while doing it. They finished with heads and genitals full of pride.

They hit all the national parks. They visited the graves of Hoover, Limp Bizcut, and Ty Cobb.

They found the white dog chained to the person who sold her Arctic Soles in front of Cobb’s gravestone.

“Hey,” said the banker.

“Hey,” said they. “Go away.”

“What happened to the couple?”

“They got fat.”

“That’s not nice.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

When Burt rubbed theys back they cried. Everyone hugged. The white dog played dead.

They’s name was Jones.

“Do you need anything, Jonesy?”

“A new hero.”

“I heard those Bills are something.”

“I only see baseball.”

“Sure,” said the banker.

“Boots,” said Burt. “Jizz-stars are better.”

“At what?” said the banker.

“Banking,” snorted Burt.

The white dog got jazzed. It dug a hole and then jumped in, laid flat, and died. The banker covered it in dirt.

Jones said, “That’s respect.”

But the ravens swooped in, dug it up, and pulled out the white dog’s heart.

“Ravens like hearts,” said the banker.

“Dogs need to be buried deeper.”

“Does it matter?” asked the banker.

Jones climbed the fence and ran down the sidewalk. They entered the McDonald’s.

The banker and Burt hopped a Lyft. The Lyft driver asked where to.

Burt said he wanted to see nothing. The banker pulled out her Glock and pointed it at the digital clock.

“So damn sick of the time,” she said and shot it out.

The bullet struck the radiator. The car overheated.

The Lyft called another Lyft.

“Hey,” said Jim. “Remember me?”

“Sort of” said the banker.

“Hey Jim,” said Burt. “You were an okay teller.”

“Teller of the month two weeks in a row.”

The banker and Burt nodded their heads and yawned.

“Where to?” said Jim.

“You choose.”

“To prison it is!”

The banker shared a cell with Jones.

Banker 2

“What are you in for?” asked the banker.

“My boat fell off my trailer on the five,” said Jones. “A family is in critical condition. Daughter, son, baby, and parents.”

“You gotta strap her down,” said Burt. He was in the cell across the way with a guy named Laser.

“A real tragedy,” said Laser. “Something to make you think about the big picture.”

“I was trying to get to the lake,” they said. “I was almost free.”

The banker laid on the top bunk and dreamed about being a sailor. She was on the poop deck reeling in a net when the storm hit. The big one. Instead of catching tuna her net was full of garden tools. Steel rakes, spades, shovels, pitch forks, tillers, post hole diggers.

The captain picked her up by her belt buckle and threw her overboard. Said the boat needed less weight on the deck.

When she hit the water she found herself in jail, again, in the weight room, benching two-fifty, Laser giving her a spot.

“Give me one more,” said Laser, “just one more.”

Jones was flexing in the mirror. Burt was working his lats. The little white dog was on the treadmill.

The banker racked the bar, pulled out her AR 15, and shot the corrections officer in the arm.

They escaped. And so did Jones and Burt and the white dog.

The Lyft driver was Jim. Jim dropped everyone off at the lake. Jim said, Goodbye, but no one heard him.

“There she is,” said Jones pointing at they’s boat. It was docked, bobbing slightly with fishing rods sticking straight out the back.

“A real beauty,” said Burt looking down at his pair of Arctic Soles.

Jones and Jim rode off in the horizon on the boat. Burt and the banker took kayaks out to a wooded island. The white dog doggy-paddled to the same wooded island.

There was a couple in the woods on the island looking for their lost white dog.

“It’s white with little white ears,” said the couple, wiping their tears with Glocks. “We’ve lost all hope,” and then shots rang out.

The white dog shook water off his fur and sniffed his old guardians. He licked the couples’ bullet holes. There were four holes total: one in her right temple, another larger one in her left temple, one in his left temple, a larger one in his right temple.

“If they only waited,” said Laser. “Really puts things in perspective, don’t it.”

There was a haunted house in the middle of the island.

“Cozy,” said the banker.

“You don’t mind the goblins in the basement?” said Burt.

“Jesus taught us to suffer.”

“Who’s Jesus?”

“The warden.”

Laser walked the dog.

Burt and the banker took a nap.

Jim landed his chopper on the runway.

The couple decomposed.

“I’m hungry,” said the banker, waking from her nap.

“I just caught two tunas,” said Burt flopping the fish on the kitchen counter.

Burt yawned as he rolled the sushi.

“Didn’t know we were so far out to sea,” she said.

*

Later in the night they made awkward love on a flimsy futon in the basement surrounded by gray goblins.

“So awkward,” said the goblins, drooling green drool.

“We’re not used to the ascetics,” said Burt.

“I miss the camper,” she said.

Meanwhile Burt’s jizz-stars were eager to meet the banker’s egg.

*

There was a race through the tunnel. They was ahead at first, but Jim overtook they in his jet ski. When they knew all was lost they leaped onto the back of the Skidoo.

Jim liked to be held.

Jones liked the feel of Jim in they’s arms.

Jim steered them to the football game. Liverpool played the Werewolves. The Werewolves mascot was a real werewolf. Its Jersey was #15.

Liverpool’s mascot was the goblins. All the fans ate deviled eggs in the stands.

Jones’ egg was ready to be coupled, but they ignored they’s egg every day.

Jim’s sperms were fully loaded like a fully loaded AK 47. But he, like they, didn’t bother every day.

Laser was always a thief at heart.

The banker daydreamed about robbing the stadium.

Burt finally remembered to buy condoms, but it was too late. His jizz-star had already entered the banker’s egg.

The deviled eggs needed salt.

The werewolf chewed on a goblin’s calf.

There was a pool near the goal post. A couple swam the breaststroke in the pool.

“We finally got a loan for the pool,” said the couple.

The white dog growled at the werewolf.

The soccer ball plopped in the water, again. A Liverpool player drowned. A Werewolves’ player laughed at Laser’s robber’s mask.

The banker was pregnant. She didn’t know it, but had a suspicion. The suspicion was misguided. She thought the suspicion had something to do with robbing the stadium. But really it was trying to tell her she was going to have a child in nine months.

The crowd roared as they kept pushing toward an egg. It’s not their fault the egg was already occupied.

They danced in the womb of the pool with the dog on the diving board.

Jim grew and grew. There was nothing he could do.

They was confused for a second. They’s hair was short but could be long, it wasn’t against the rules, they didn’t think so.

Burt ate an egg, scratched crotch, and cheered secretly for the opposing team.

The opposing team staked their goblin to the foul pole. The goblin was green in sadness. Red tears fell from its purple eye.

Eggs were everywhere. Everybody had guns. They bought them at Walmart on customer appreciation day. Killer dealz to kill and steal and to shoot bullseyes posted on home plates.

The owner of the stadium led the fans in a singalong. The couple sang England’s national anthem instead.

Jones bought a wig. A blonde wig. A blonde wig is a suitable place to hide a pistol.

*

Burt had a suspicion that his tuna had entered the end zone. But the suspicion led elsewhere like a white dog digging up a pair of white corpses.

The white dog sniffed the white temple on Island Drive. The temple’s pillars rose high above, like erected eggs.

Jim’s erection hadn’t subsided. The blonde wig only made things harder.

The banker robbed the hotdog man. She ate three and divvied out one-hundred thousand. Two per fan. In celebration they shot they’s gun to the sky.

Unfortunately they shot the parachuter in the clouds.

*

The parachuter was okay. A wound in the shape of a tuna fish was on her thigh, but nothing deadly.

When she landed on the werewolf it was an instant connection. Their child came out howling, but afraid to be without a red balloon.

The banker was in bed sleeping with Burt. She could smell chlorine in her dream. Her guns were getting cleaned. The temple’s pillars looked more like beams. She didn’t want to rhyme, but soon it’d be her time. To deliver a baby she never even met.

Nursery rhyming never sat well with Burt. His dream brought him back to the nanny that made him eat string beans with kidney beans. Not even the white dog could eat it. Burt was stuck in his dream. A dream about torture or something. He suspected the nanny hated him for being a rich black kid. Servants can be like that.

*

The blonde wig on they’s head jerked around they’s head in bed with Jim. They were playing kill the carrier, once called smear the queer. It wasn’t Jim’s idea. It was Jones’ idea. Jim was uncomfortable at first, but after getting smeared a few times settled in.

“I like to smear you,” said Jones.

“Hashtag me too!” said Jim.

“They say, ‘Don’t make a serious subject light.’”

“Football is so violent,” he said and gave her a crack back block.

“What position did you play?”

“Cheerleader.”

“Usually cheerleaders aren’t black dudes. Interesting.”

“Do you always say what you’re thinking?”

When they tackled him a gun dropped from they’s head. Jim picked up the pistol and pointed it at the mirror.

*

The banker liked the mirror on the camper’s ceiling. Burt was afraid it’d fall on him. They kept the cash under the bed.

They bought a boat and invited everyone over to the lake house.

The werewolf ate twelve hotdogs, but passed on the breakfast burritos.

“Too many eggs,” said the parachuter. “He’s got some weird aversion to them.”

“It’s true,” said the werewolf. “I’d probably eat all of you right now if I didn’t think you had eggs in you.”

Everyone laughed except Jim. Jim was not paying attention. His erection had not subsided.

They watched the big game on the boob tube. They felt bad for Jim. They wanted to give him relief.

“Poor Jim,” said the banker. She handed him three fives and one ten.

“No thanks,” said Jim, but later, he found fifteen hundreds in an egg carton.

Burt thought erected things were funny. Once, when he was a kid, him and his friends erected a pillar made out of pine cones.

A goblin served them cigarettes and then headed back to the basement. The white dog with an old heart ate the leftovers. There was a run filled with the couple’s ashes in the refrigerator.

The couple walked in looking for a loan.

“We still need a house,” said the couple.

The dog barked to get their attention. But they didn’t bark back.

The banker gave the couple a camper to hold them over.

At night, in the driveway, the camper rocked back and forth. They could imagine a jizz-star diving into an egg. They remembered how it worked. They was taught this area by Mr. Meat in the fifth grade.

*

Mr. Meat’s real name was Merkle. But his cheeks were meaty and red all the time like a flank steak.

Mr. Meat lived in a trailer by the highway. Once, when the banker was playing dodgeball Mr. Meat told her she’d have a child that would soon rule the free world. Like an emperor of old. That her offspring would pound the erect podium while addressing the universe.

It was awkward stopping mid game for a prophecy by Mr. Meat, but all and all mostly forgotten.

They pegged Burt in the balls with one of the werewolf’s hotdogs. They was pleased with the accuracy. They still had it.
Mr. Meat always said they would someday save a friend from physical abuse. They would overpower the abuser with a swift arm and swift accuracy.

Mr. Meat was taken from his trailer on an August morning, in the middle of an egg omelette breakfast full of steak and peppers and cheese.

“You don’t belong here,” said Jim. A different Jim. A white skinned Jim in a white jumpsuit.

“Where do I belong?” asked Mr. Meat.

“The insane asylum,” said white Jim. “Guys who prophesy don’t belong.”

The banker, before she was a banker, was on her calculator dividing differences. Like if Mr. Meat truly knows then we should divide it by what there isn’t on the breakfast plate. It’s not random or anything. No gibberish, not necessarily, but math in these times seems super important.

Jim, white Jim, and they shot each other’s mirrors. And then ripped through the thrift shops searching for more mirrored images. Each mirror revealed something new that needed to be shot.

Mirrors don’t break.
Mirrors divide and multiply.
They and Jim were blessing the mirrors with an endless offspring.
*

They’s egg got smeared by Jim’s jizz-star earlier that day. It wasn’t egg-rape, not exactly, but fate did play a heavy sperm-hand. Like how goblin females sneak attack goblin males when they’re pooping. There’s nothing for the males to do but ship off their jizz-stars one by one.

Werewolves make sweet quiet love, like frogs.

The banker and Burt liked to call their fucking, “Black Business”. It was something whites could never get, even the white folks who had done it on the black deed.

Whites robbed three banks that same day, all meth heads except for the PE teacher, Mr. Meat’s female counterpart. She got caught dodging the oddly accurate eggs thrown by some black kids from the Ferris wheel.

That’s the thing with Ferris wheels they make the most innocent prophets fire down judgment on those who forget to heed rightful destinies.

The couple rose from the tomb. Bright lights blinded their smeared eyes. The white dog was covered in soot.

Banker 3

Mr. Meat taught them to be themselves no matter what their prophecy said.

“Don’t serve your future.”

The banker served eggs Benedict to Jim and Jones out at the lake house. It wasn’t a cabin. It was a lake house. With a shed full of oars and fishing poles and binoculars and some guns hung on hooks.

Jones said they were in for a pleasant summer. Jim said it would be chilly in the mornings before breakfast. They talked over coffee about his experience with Mr. Meat.

“He said I’d kill a couple,” said they.

The couple was rowing a small raft in the lake. They immediately went to the shed, grabbed a gun, and shot the couple fulfilling they’s destiny.

The white dog jumped out the raft and swam to shore.

“Now I don’t have to worry about my prophecy. Mr. Meat would be proud.”

“But Mr. Meat would say don’t act with the knowledge of the prophetic. Just be cool. Let it come to you.”

The couple floated face down in the water.

Werewolves don’t like to get wet, especially before breakfast.

White Jim wore a werewolf costume to shield his skin from the sun. His skin was prone to blister. A hot island could do damage to occupants like white Jim.

Anyone can climb a tree at night if they want to, but it takes a prophetess to sleep and wait for the little blue eggs to hatch. Robin eggs are as good as any crystal ball.

Mr. Meat didn’t mind a branch in the back, a leaf in the ear. As long as he had a goblin to curse.

To curse a goblin is to bless a couple and their white dog.

Jim and Jones got in the ring with a couple goblins. Tag team in the cage like a couple of vets at a black rally exchanging business cards over pickled herring. Some say it never happened.

The rally was a success, but the goblins cheated. Kept pistol whipping vets on the brim of their black hats. Mr. Meat officiated the tournament. He was into fairness but like most prophets his eyes were bad.

They cracked the egg but threw out the yolk.

“Yolks are good for brains,” said the banker. “Burt likes to fish them out of shells. Sometimes he hardboils a yolk and hooks them to a bobber.”

Whenever Burt talked like he knew stuff the banker got horny. She did a surf’s up signal (thumb and pinky wag). Burt met her on the grand piano.

They tickled the ivory. Jim said they should leave them be. They were riding the black top like a white witch on her flying broom.

But witches don’t hump brooms. They said that. Jim said there’s something very suggestive about the whole thing in the horny sky, and the evil.

The banker came twice, accidentally pounding the middle C with her last toe-digit. Burt cussed with pleasure.

They played Canon in D to settle everyone down.

The werewolf was spying through the anchor shaped keyhole. If only he could unzip the crotch of his costume he could have joined the fun or at least relieve his erected middle C.

The Whites read all the good ones and then reenacted the fun parts. Naked on a raft down the river with Jim; stealing pills in the hospital room with George; shooting the critic through brain in the bank.

The banker picked up the white dog and whispered in its little ear, “Beware of the white Jim. He’s not like us.”

Us, meaning her and Burt and Jones and Jim.

White Jim built crosses out of cedar and birch. Cedar for the cross bar. Birch for the center pole. He hated when the center pole was off-kilter.

They used one of his crosses for a Christmas pageant at the local Methodist church. They said it was the best cross in town.

Burt took offense but read the book anyway. He enjoyed telling people he read the book BEFORE seeing the show. The banker couldn’t get through the book. It was good, it was okay, but there were bills to count and boots to buy.

The werewolf was sad. He didn’t have a date for the show. The goblins were in the performance, so they didn’t have to worry about scoring afterwards.

They played the angel. They was a beautiful shining star with a wand, halo, and white bright garments. Someone thought it was a good idea to spray they’s hair with tinsel.

The werewolf sat in back and cried. He thought the angel was so pretty. He prayed that someday he’d be a man so that he could date an angel. An angel just like Jones.

Jim fell asleep during they’s big scene. They was declaring a jizz-star’s birth while Jim was dreaming about the time he and Mr. Meat pulled the emergency exit.

The banker sat on Burt’s lap with her Arctic Soles on the pew in front of her.

“You’re being disrespectful,” said Mr. Meat.

Burt loved the banker. He’d kill for. He’d murder any or EVERY jizz-star for her. Not sure why killing proves loving, but there was nothing left to do.

The congregation was tired from all the theatrics and didn’t heed the message. Therefore they died by accidental suicides. The goblins told the cops that it was a group suicide. All the guns went off at the same time. Like they had a timer inside the chambers or something.

The white dog licked the church’s blood.

Burt walked out holding his gut. The banker’s boot got shot on the lip. She was unhappy.

The werewolf helped the white dog. They became pals. They became pals with white Jim, in a weird kinda way. No, no smear the carrier or passing jizz-stars. More of an overall camaraderie-weirdness.

“We like your costume,” said they.

White Jim touched his fur and licked the blood on his claws. “I love you,” he said, a tear caught in his furry cheek.

“What’s this all about?” asked Jim.

“No worries,” they said. “I don’t do white.”

The werewolf felt energized by the nutrition in the blood. He went out that night, haunting the mostly black town.

Banker 4

The werewolf was cloaked in white. Holding a cross and leading a band of white hoods through the center streets. Burt and the banker sat on lawn chairs reading books that told their future.

Jones and Jim were on the roof tops with bows and arrows. The arrows had fiery marshmallows on the tips.

They accidentally hit the cross.

White Jim was growling in a megaphone.

Laser was jogging on the sidewalk, heading the opposite way.

“I really shouldn’t be jogging in this heat.”

“Banks close on days like this.”

The white dog bit the werewolf’s cloak and pulled it off.

The goblins peaked through the basement windows afraid to go out in the hot sun. Hot sun can make green skin red.

After the rally everyone, even the couple, went to visit Mr. Meat in the insane asylum. They found him playing ping pong with a guy in a goblin mask.

“Hey you,” said Mr. Meat.

Team high fives all around.

Jones told him about the pageant. They said they was an angel with tinsel hair and everything.

Burt asked if there was a dodgeball court nearby.

White Jim wanted next game.

The werewolf sat in a circle with the other patients. His hand was raised, more tears running down his fur.

The banker laid her Glock on the shuffleboard table.

“These things get cold and heavy this time of year,” said the banker. She placed a hundred dollar bill under the Glock so it wouldn’t blow away.

Mr. Meat was tired of white walls. He was tired of prophecies. So many visions were passing through him, like a million colored kayaks floating by the island.

“You quitting on me?” asked the goblin. The goblin was tapping the table with his paddle.

Jones put they’s halo back on and touched Mr. Meats’ forehead with they’s wand.

“You are my child,” said Jones.

“Can you touch me?” asked white Jim.

Jim took off his silver necklace with a silver cross and gave it to white Jim.

“White Jim,” said Jim. “I know you like crosses.”

“Thanks Jim,” said white Jim then zipped back into his werewolf costume.

They met up at the snack bar. The doctor wo-manning the register asked them for their IDs.

“Hand them over,” said the doctor.

“We’re only looking for snacks,” said Burt.

“We don’t trust outsiders,” said doc. “Meaty, you vouch for this kind?”

“Old students of mine,” said Mr. Meat. “They keep their guns in their pockets. Ain’t that right, ya’ll?”

Everyone nodded and got in line to order goldfish, Twizzlers, apple slices, baby carrots.

“Babies aren’t completely necessary, are they?” asked the banker.

“You’ll have three,” said Mr. Meat in his sleep. He was lying on a couch made from a vintage canoe.

Burt said, “As long as they’re black.”

White Jim pointed the cross at Burt and sneered.

“I think you do that to vampires, not black people,” said Jones.

“It’s a bad habit,” said the goblin. “People can’t help patterns. Or they can but choose not to.”

“What about goblins?”

“We’d rather eat eyes then break hearts.”

There was a moment of silence until the doctor tied them up, stuck them in a padded white room, and forced them to confess their sins.

All admitted to lust, burglary, and murder.

The banker argued her lust was bigger than the rest.

The werewolf added gluttony, cleaning its teeth with white fur.

The couple came in with a pot of pea soup, to share.