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THE GORKO’S FIRST WHOOPS SELECTION FOR AUGUST 19-25

Sin Eater Stan

JD Clapp

My name’s Stan. I eat sins. They sustain me. I don’t eat my own sins, mind you. I’ve committed the big one already. Not much left to munch on.

Not all sins are biblical. Most are, but not all. Can an atheist sin? Fucking A right they can. The sinner defines the sin. Spiritual sins taste best, offer the biggest energy boast. They’re especially good seasoned with guilt. Sin and guilt should not be muddled. The latter is a product of the former. Catholics and Muslims have better tasting guilt seasoning than bible thumping Baptists, hand waving mega-church born agains, or Jews. Kosher guilt is consistently a one note flavor. Atheist sin is often like Buddhist sin in taste, but not as consistent. You never know what you’ll get with non-believers or spiritual dabblers. Could be fine fusion cuisine, could be bland as dry peanut butter on a saltine cracker. Buddhist sin is always like unflavored oatmeal, steamed white rice, or polenta with no sauce. Bland but calming. Great to eat to settle your gut.

The psychology of the sinner also comes into play. Sociopaths produce rich dishes of sin sans the spice of guilt. Eat too much sociopath sin and you’ll hurl like that time you drank two pints of Banna 99. A little goes a long fucking way. Psychopaths produce uneatable sin stews, taste like pork rinds, gummy bears, and vomit slow cooked in a crockpot. Just don’t do it. Starvation is better than choking down that rancid shit.

After I became a sin eater, it took me a while to figure out how to consistently eat. I mean you can’t just go to Costco and load up. Shit. I wish. Eventually, I figured out hotel bars, especially near major airports where great places to chow down. They tend to be well stocked with people who have fresh sins, cooked just long enough to have great flavor and solid nutrients. Sidle up to the middle-aged woman drinking hard liquor, looking dazed, and fiddling with her wedding ring…Winner, winner, infidelity sin dinner! Pretty much any male drinking alone after a business conference or trade show will have at least a ‘I hit on the hot girl from marketing instead of calling my kid to say goodnight’ snack-size meal on board. Catch a guy who just lost his paycheck in Vegas on his way home to Salt Lake in Holiday Inn bar…hell, you don’t need to eat for a week. Pro-tip: Avoid groups of people coming from stag or hen parties; the meal will be consistently undercooked. It’s not worth the effort.

So how do I do it? Easy. Sit down next to any promising food source and look forlorn. Sigh loudly. Order a double whisky neat and tell the barkeep to keep ‘em coming. Say things like, I really fucked up this time. If they got some fresh sin, there’s nothing like a kindred spirit to unburden themself too. Empathy goes a long way. When you first start, learn some beginner phrases like: ‘It happens to us all.’ ‘We’re just human and we all make mistakes.’ ‘That’s nothing compared to the shit I did…’ Get them talking and feeling just a little better and you’ll eat like a fucking king or queen.

You might be wondering if I’m a demon, or maybe even an angel. Neither. I wasn’t always sin eater. This shit all started when I was fifteen, a good Catholic, and dutiful altar boy. Well, back then when I was kid, there was more buggering going on in the church vestment room than Folsom. I was big kid, strong, and raised homophobic like most kids back then. So, when Father Dennis stuck his dick in my face after he told me to kneel and pray for world peace, I lost my shit and punched him square in sack. Unfortunately, the old bastard fell, hit his head on the marble floor and fucking died with his dick out and a crushed left nut.

It caused quite a stir at old St. Sebastian’s. Goddamn, I was a pariah and a hero at the same time. The police only interviewed me once. My mom, God rest her soul, said, ‘Son you need to go to confession. Murder is a capital sin.’ My old man said it was self-defense and that homo priest had it coming. But I went to confession just the same.

Bishop Fratello came to hear my confession and the entire church knew about it. When I got into that dark confessional and started saying the Act of Contrition, that fucker cut me off. I’ll never forget his words:

‘Son, you murdered a priest. You should have just blown him or said no for Christ-sake. Now I got a big fucking scandal. So, if you want to be forgiven, you’re going to feast on the sins of the world for the rest of your shitty life. Now get the fuck out of here. Go say a Rosary too, you little shit.’

I had no fucking clue what he meant. But when I went home to eat that night, I couldn’t. I started losing weight. Couldn’t keep shit down. The folks took me to the doctor. They ran tests, didn’t find dick. Next thing I know, I’m looking at some fucking spilled ink on cards and a shrink is asking me if I want to fuck my mother. Jesus what a Sicko. Finally, my parents think it’s in my head, just guilt. So, my dad gets and idea. He tells me how he drove drunk and killed a guy in a hit and run crash when he was 17. He’d felt guilty ever since. When he told me that, I felt like I ate an entire pizza. It took a hot minute, but I learned what I needed to do soon enough.

Ok, that’s my fucking story. This guy at the bar looks like he just killed his dog. I’m hungry. Gotta go.

ABOUT THE ARTIST

JD Clapp lives in San Diego, CA. His work has appeared in Cowboy Jamboree, Bristol Noir, Roi Fainéant Press, trampset, Punk Noir and numerous others. In 2023, he was a Pushcart nominee in nonfiction, and had a fictional story selected as a finalist in the Hemingway Shorts, Short Story competition. He is a regular contributor to Poverty House. X @jdclappwrites. IG @jdclapp

Images generated on Magic Studio, collage by Raddy