/lit/ - Literature

>>13966478
I just suddenly had a spurt of inspiration to start writing. Not really any plot but you could probably get how I generally write from it. Thoughts? Be harsh.

“SIR PATRICK HENRY,” the speaker announced, “*AHEM* SIR PATRICK HENRY PLEASE COME TO THE FRONT DESK.” Patrick noted “Oh this is for me,” and abandoned the girl that had been with him. Her soft puppy eyes followed as he made his way to the marbled counter. What he arrived Patrick looked down at a pile of fat and mediocrity who spoke up with her eyes still glued to the computer screen, “Yes the Mr. Brown is ready to see you.” Patrick tipped his bowl hat, “Why thank you my dear shelley.” His smile was sincere despite not seeing that refuse as truly human. Patrick walked down the bland white hallway with countless doors lining both sides. You could almost believe it was just a really large doctor’s office if not for the noises, it sounded like a human jungle. Laughter from some doors, screams and moans of all varieties from others. Patrick past one door where he heard a chainsaw and then a gurgling noise and thought to himself, “I really do wish they would stop renting to the cartels, such an unpleaseant business.” Patrick finally came to the last door on the right side of the hallway. On it was a golden label entitled “SIR MR. BROWN TO YOU GOOD SIR”. Patrick Henry knocked and walked in on the old fogey attempting to jerk off his wrinkled old cock. “MR. BROWN!” Sir Patrick Henry shouted in a befuddled manner. “THAT’S SIR MR. BROWN TO YOU GOOD SIR SIR,” angrily screamed Sir Mr. Brown To You Good Sir, “And what kind of buffoon just knocks on a door and doesn’t wait on the other person to answer,” as he pulled up his khaki pants. The man looked a thousand years old probably because he was. The man said the secret to eternal life was his one of a kind collection of traditional early American Empire Hawaiian shirts. Sir Patrick henry wasn’t sure how true that exactly was, lord knows the loon was diagnosed as autistic by a number of online users from some preinterconsciential web forum archives that had surfaced. “So anyway…,” Sir Patrick Henry tried not to look in the old master’s eyes as he changed the subject, “what have you dragged me in for today?” The fogey leaned back in his chair put his feet on the table and lit a cigar, puffing the smoke into his floating disposal cube after each puff. “You’re really not gonna like this one Patty.”
“I never like any of them just tell me.”
The Mr. Brown Regarded him, “Well you see…she’s back…”