I used to live in Monroeville, Alabama. The preacher who lived across the street behind us once made his 6-year-old son walk to one end of the street, back past the house to the other end of the street & back home while wearing his urine-stained sheet like a toga.
He later whipped the boy with a CB antenna because he caught him trying to launder the stained sheets before his parents saw them.
I hope the kid grew up to murder his father, but I'm thinking he just grew up to beat his own children.
How is it you've spent your entire life living in the worst places the entire United States? Did an old Indian woman put a curse on your grandmother, or something?
I want to take that story and make it into a Stephen King-esque horror movie where the preacher father has a piss curse put on him. He pisses himself in public more and more, and then...the cravings to drink it begin.
And then the son murders him. We have to have some surprises in there.
I was talking to my friend about being a bedwetter. It didn't fully stop until I was 16. I slowed down a lot around 14, but I'd still have episodes once in a while.
He told me he stopped wetting the bed at 7, and I couldn't believe him. I asked him how it happened. He told me his stepfather would fill up a sink, grab him by the ankles, hold him upside and then dunk his head in for a little while, pulling him out and saying "BIG BOYS DON'T WET THE BED!" and then back in the water, repeating the process over and over.
A few sessions of that and he stopped wetting the bed.
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