Mark re-racked the barbell after his 10th repetition and jumped up from the bench, placing his hands on the dipping bar and leaning forward until the pain in his chest was unbearable. And then he held the stretch for a count of 60, his head bent down and away from the 20 sets of eyes marveling at him. His chest filled with extra-hot, ravenous blood as he righted himself, his new choker made of white bone cool around his neck.
"Jesus Christ, man," said Maury.
"What?"
"Dude, you just hit 10 reps with 315 like it was nothing-"
Mark shrugged. "The last few were pretty hard-"
"It didn't look like it."
Mark took a deep breath and squeezed his chest until he thought it might burst. He exhaled. "Dude, what do you call a girl who's a slut and a cunt?"
"I don't know. What?"
"A sclunt."
Maury's expression, as always, remained the same, his blue eyes locked in place, unblinking, like those of a sphinx; his lips separated as if about to speak though it rarely happened; and his complexion a pale eggshell white that never saw another color brought to it. "That's funny, man. Real funny-"
"Really?" Mark looked into the boy's eyes as his pony-tailed head nodded at him. "Dude, are you fucking autistic or something?"
"Huh?"
"Nothing-"
"How much do you weigh, Dennison?"
Mark turned to face his interlocutor, the teacher of his weight training class, Mr. Trees, the school's sports Renaissance man, as he coached every sport that mattered: football and wrestling. "Um, about 150-"
"Really? That's it?"
"Uh huh-"
"Ever thought about coming out for the football team?"
"Nah-"
"Why not? You don't like football?"
"No, I like football. I'm a big New York Giants fan-"
"You should try out next fall-"
"It's the team thing I don't like-"
"What do you mean?" Mr. Trees put one hand on his bald head and rubbed his large belly, which hung out from under his Cedarville High polo shirt, with the other.
"I don't like groups. I don't join groups or teams or clubs or organizations-"
"How about wrestling? There are individual classes-"
"Yeah, but you're still on a team. I'm just-"
"Scared!" came a loud voice from across the room.
Mark looked in the direction of the insult and narrowed his eyes. "I'm not scared of anything or anyone." He sniffed a quick loogie into his throat and popped his left elbow. "A wise man once said that if you're going to commit a crime, you should do it alone. I think the same applies for anything you do in life."
"Well," said Mr. Trees, tugging at the bottom of his shirt, which snapped back up to his belly button, "I think you ought to reconsider. As a matter of fact, I'm going to ask you every day until you do." He laughed.
Mark wiped a swath of sweat from his forehead and smeared it on his shorts. "How about this?" He pointed at the boy who had interjected himself in his and Mr. Trees' conversation. "I wrestle him and if I win, you never ask me about football or wrestling again."
"And if he wins?"
"He won't-"
A collective "Oooh" arose from the other boys in the weight training room as Mr. Trees leaned towards Mark. "Dennison, Jesse Simons is a 4-year letterman in wrestling. He's won States three years in a row and hasn't lost a match during that whole time. Plus, he outweighs you by 30 pounds-"
"If you're saying he's scared-"
"Let's get it on!" screamed Jesse's voice from behind Mr. Trees' blimp of a body.
The weight benches, dumbbells, and barbells crowding the middle of the room were rolled away to the farthest corners, and Mark and Jesse stood facing one another, Mr. Trees between them, acting as referee.
"Do you even know how to wrestle, Dennison?" snarled Jesse.
"I've seen it on TV-"
The boys circling the makeshift wrestling area laughed. Then became quiet just as quickly as Mr. Trees blew his whistle and Mark and Jesse lunged at one another, each grasping the other's biceps, their wet heads knocking and rubbing together. Suddenly, Mark rocked to his right, then jerked left, twisting his arms with all the force he could summon from his legs, Jesse's body pirouetting horizontally in the air twice before thudding face first into the weight room's rubber flooring. Quickly, Mark flipped him over and slid across his torso, pressing the boy's shoulders into the floor, a smile cementing itself on his face as he watched the blood trickle upward from Jesse's nose into his closed eyes.
Mr. Trees tapped Jesse out, then fell to one rickety knee to tend to the boy. Mark high-fived Maury and the two walked out of the weight room between two rows of mute, wide-eyed boys who couldn't back away fast enough.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Lazy
"Oh, my God-"
Mark looked up from his runny eggs, a yolk-soaked piece of toast in his hand. "What?"
"Isn't this your teacher?"
"Who?"
"Irwin Cook? Isn't he the one whose house you used to go to?"
"No." Mark chewed off a slimy bite and swallowed it. "I mean, I only went over there once. I left right away. He was a creep-"
"He was murdered-"
"I know-"
"And this girl, did you know her?"
"Not really. She was in my English class. She was a whore-"
"Mark! Your mouth-"
"Whatever. She was. A whore, that is. She slept with everybody-"
"Well, she was murdered too. That's not nice to talk about her like that-"
"What do you know? Maybe she deserved it."
Sarah looked back at the newspaper on the table in front of her with a shake of her curler-strewn head.
Mark yawned and rubbed some more sleep out of his eyes. He circled the last of the transparent egg white and hardening yolk off his plate with his last piece of toast and devoured it as he put his plate in the sink. "Where's Lightning Dan?"
"Mr. Wheate to you, Mark-"
"Yeah." He coughed. "So where is the old fart?"
Sarah shook her head again. "He's run up to the hardware store. We need a plunger."
"Is that what they're calling Viagra these days?"
"Shut up-"
Mark laughed. "Are you finished reading that crap yet?"
"Mark, this is serious stuff. They haven't caught anybody yet-"
"They never will-"
"Yes, they will, and when they do, I hope they string him up-"
"That's nice. Then you'll be just like him-"
"Mark, we've been over this-"
"Too many times." Mark rubbed his bare belly with both of his veiny hands, looking at the nub protruding from his nylon rugby shorts just below. "I'm going up to my room."
"Did you know this Phil kid too?"
"Not really. He was some retarded kid they put in my Art class so he wouldn't feel different-"
"Oh."
Mark was in his room in ten seconds, locking the door behind him, sliding his shorts over his erection and off his body. He sat bare-assed at his tiny desk, on which sat an old computer monitor, CPU, and keyboard, a stack of graphic novels, a large file, a small, battery-operated hand drill, and 32 teeth. The trash can next to his desk was filled with sticky Kleenex tissues and the New York Giants sheets on his bed were crumpled with a restless night's sleep. He picked up the last tooth he'd been working on, which he had filed into the shape of a triangle and leaned back in his creaking chair.
It was Daniel's tooth. One of the top canines. So it was easy to make it a triangle and not some other geometric shape. The incisors were harder. But not. They were more fragile, but they were larger. If you were careful, you could make any shape you wanted. If you weren't, then you were fucked. Just little floaty bits that you couldn't do shit with. The molars were the worst. Very thin. And you had to split them. Just right. Or it was another mess and a prayer the SuperGlue would work.
He put the triangle to his own canine, which was so sharp that he'd cut his tongue just brushing against it a couple times. He wanted to SuperGlue Daniel's over his. But he couldn't. Because it'd look like shit. Everyone'd call him Mr. Ed. So he stuck it in his dickhole. Daniel's dick was perfect. A perfect fit. He could fuck it all day without it hurting but he'd feel it intensely against his prostate the whole time. Daniel'd been the only boy who'd made him come just by fucking him, without touching his little dick.
FUCK! MEMORIES! They were nothing. Nothing but bruises on the brain. Nothing but pain. People are masochists. Which is why they keep mementos. Clothes, jewelry, love letters, teddy bears, furniture, whatever. Teeth. They stab those parts of their brains over and over - and fucking feel good about it. Because they're scared they might feel better without it-
Mark sat up quickly and pulled the tooth out of his dick before it slipped so far in he couldn't get it out and placed it back on the table in a puddle of his pre-ejaculate. He queued up the music player on his computer and began filing as the song he'd written and recorded on his old Hewlett-Packard let loose through the speakers on the floor beneath his desk:
"I fell in love with a boy
until he told me
to shut the fuck up
to shut the fuck up
to shut the fuck up
Just shut the fuck up"
Mark looked up from his runny eggs, a yolk-soaked piece of toast in his hand. "What?"
"Isn't this your teacher?"
"Who?"
"Irwin Cook? Isn't he the one whose house you used to go to?"
"No." Mark chewed off a slimy bite and swallowed it. "I mean, I only went over there once. I left right away. He was a creep-"
"He was murdered-"
"I know-"
"And this girl, did you know her?"
"Not really. She was in my English class. She was a whore-"
"Mark! Your mouth-"
"Whatever. She was. A whore, that is. She slept with everybody-"
"Well, she was murdered too. That's not nice to talk about her like that-"
"What do you know? Maybe she deserved it."
Sarah looked back at the newspaper on the table in front of her with a shake of her curler-strewn head.
Mark yawned and rubbed some more sleep out of his eyes. He circled the last of the transparent egg white and hardening yolk off his plate with his last piece of toast and devoured it as he put his plate in the sink. "Where's Lightning Dan?"
"Mr. Wheate to you, Mark-"
"Yeah." He coughed. "So where is the old fart?"
Sarah shook her head again. "He's run up to the hardware store. We need a plunger."
"Is that what they're calling Viagra these days?"
"Shut up-"
Mark laughed. "Are you finished reading that crap yet?"
"Mark, this is serious stuff. They haven't caught anybody yet-"
"They never will-"
"Yes, they will, and when they do, I hope they string him up-"
"That's nice. Then you'll be just like him-"
"Mark, we've been over this-"
"Too many times." Mark rubbed his bare belly with both of his veiny hands, looking at the nub protruding from his nylon rugby shorts just below. "I'm going up to my room."
"Did you know this Phil kid too?"
"Not really. He was some retarded kid they put in my Art class so he wouldn't feel different-"
"Oh."
Mark was in his room in ten seconds, locking the door behind him, sliding his shorts over his erection and off his body. He sat bare-assed at his tiny desk, on which sat an old computer monitor, CPU, and keyboard, a stack of graphic novels, a large file, a small, battery-operated hand drill, and 32 teeth. The trash can next to his desk was filled with sticky Kleenex tissues and the New York Giants sheets on his bed were crumpled with a restless night's sleep. He picked up the last tooth he'd been working on, which he had filed into the shape of a triangle and leaned back in his creaking chair.
It was Daniel's tooth. One of the top canines. So it was easy to make it a triangle and not some other geometric shape. The incisors were harder. But not. They were more fragile, but they were larger. If you were careful, you could make any shape you wanted. If you weren't, then you were fucked. Just little floaty bits that you couldn't do shit with. The molars were the worst. Very thin. And you had to split them. Just right. Or it was another mess and a prayer the SuperGlue would work.
He put the triangle to his own canine, which was so sharp that he'd cut his tongue just brushing against it a couple times. He wanted to SuperGlue Daniel's over his. But he couldn't. Because it'd look like shit. Everyone'd call him Mr. Ed. So he stuck it in his dickhole. Daniel's dick was perfect. A perfect fit. He could fuck it all day without it hurting but he'd feel it intensely against his prostate the whole time. Daniel'd been the only boy who'd made him come just by fucking him, without touching his little dick.
FUCK! MEMORIES! They were nothing. Nothing but bruises on the brain. Nothing but pain. People are masochists. Which is why they keep mementos. Clothes, jewelry, love letters, teddy bears, furniture, whatever. Teeth. They stab those parts of their brains over and over - and fucking feel good about it. Because they're scared they might feel better without it-
Mark sat up quickly and pulled the tooth out of his dick before it slipped so far in he couldn't get it out and placed it back on the table in a puddle of his pre-ejaculate. He queued up the music player on his computer and began filing as the song he'd written and recorded on his old Hewlett-Packard let loose through the speakers on the floor beneath his desk:
"I fell in love with a boy
until he told me
to shut the fuck up
to shut the fuck up
to shut the fuck up
Just shut the fuck up"
Sunday, December 16, 2007
The Life and Times of Phil Wii, Part II
Mark, crouching over the boy’s head, watched him as he awakened, wheezing through his nose, moaning through the rocks stuffed in his mouth. The boy began to roll on his side, at which Mark pushed him back over and rapped him on the forehead with the straight razor. “Don’t fucking move, you idiot. You’re just gonna make it harder on yourself.”
As tears rolled down each side of the boy’s face, Mark looked down the length of the kid’s body, which seemed so much longer unclothed. His eyes stopped at his penis, which he found surprisingly large on a boy who had barely started growing pubic hair. One quick hop and he straddled the boy’s waist, dropping the baggie to the side and grabbing the boy's penis. With his other hand, he pulled the twig from the slit, the boy’s body shaking under him, and began tugging up and down.
When the boy’s penis hardened and a dollop of pinkish fluid at the hole, Mark unclasped his straight razor and nestled it snugly under the boy’s scrotum. Ten or twenty more pumps and the boy’s abdomen tightened between Mark’s legs. He flicked the razor as semen shot straight into the air and held the boy’s genitals up above his head like a trophy. He looked down at the red-black pulp that was the boy’s crotch and just beyond he could see where the kid had shat a couple of the rocks he’d stuffed him with.
He zipped the baggie back up and crouched down by the boy’s whimpering head. “I had to borrow a few things from you,” said Mark. “I’ll take good care of them. I know: same old predictable shit, huh? It’s hard to be original nowadays, what with the genetic code being discovered and all. And so many smart motherfuckers, unlike you, having come before us. We’re all so fucking dull and uninteresting.” Mark laid the warm, slushy baggie of teeth, fingers, thumbs, penis, and testicles to the side and pulled the X-acto out of his pocket. “But there’re two fucking things that I really need.”
The boy’s eyes widened as the blade approached his eyelids.
As tears rolled down each side of the boy’s face, Mark looked down the length of the kid’s body, which seemed so much longer unclothed. His eyes stopped at his penis, which he found surprisingly large on a boy who had barely started growing pubic hair. One quick hop and he straddled the boy’s waist, dropping the baggie to the side and grabbing the boy's penis. With his other hand, he pulled the twig from the slit, the boy’s body shaking under him, and began tugging up and down.
When the boy’s penis hardened and a dollop of pinkish fluid at the hole, Mark unclasped his straight razor and nestled it snugly under the boy’s scrotum. Ten or twenty more pumps and the boy’s abdomen tightened between Mark’s legs. He flicked the razor as semen shot straight into the air and held the boy’s genitals up above his head like a trophy. He looked down at the red-black pulp that was the boy’s crotch and just beyond he could see where the kid had shat a couple of the rocks he’d stuffed him with.
He zipped the baggie back up and crouched down by the boy’s whimpering head. “I had to borrow a few things from you,” said Mark. “I’ll take good care of them. I know: same old predictable shit, huh? It’s hard to be original nowadays, what with the genetic code being discovered and all. And so many smart motherfuckers, unlike you, having come before us. We’re all so fucking dull and uninteresting.” Mark laid the warm, slushy baggie of teeth, fingers, thumbs, penis, and testicles to the side and pulled the X-acto out of his pocket. “But there’re two fucking things that I really need.”
The boy’s eyes widened as the blade approached his eyelids.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Storm (or, Batter Up!)
Mark stepped just inside the front door and glided the thin, black gloves over his short, skinny fingers. Closing the door behind him, he sauntered to the bathroom to take a quick piss. When finished, he zipped up and looked in the mirror. He was probably the cutest he'd ever been, his hair spiked stiff and straight up, his blue eyes clear and non-bloodshot, the skin of his face slick, pimple-less, naturally hairless.
He grabbed the aluminum Louisville Slugger from the utility closet across the hall, then nudged open the bedroom door with his shoulder, Jenny's grunts cascading into his ears from over her shoulder, the crack of her ass open to expose her purplish hole as she rode Mr. Cook's cock like a starving squirrel hungry for nuts. Mark took one step into the room and swung the bat in the widest arc he could, so that he had to pry it out of the back of Jenny's head with a thrust of his foot against her spine, her blonde hair soaking gray brain and black blood as she fell to the side of their teacher in a lump of cooling bones.
Mr. Cook's eyes widened behind his glasses, his pupils narrowing, as they met Mark's, and he let out a scream that Mark could have sworn could only have come from Jenny. He looked at his teacher's starved body, which was stretched across the length of the bed, the bony wrists and ankles handcuffed to the metal bars of the headboard and footboard, and laughed.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" He stretched his arms out to each side. "One of those fuckin' sorry dime-store hack novelists you like so much couldn't have written it any better. This is gonna be fun."
"Please don't kill me, please don't kill me," blubbered Mr. Cook, tears plopping onto his pale bird chest and wetting the three hairs he'd been so thankful had grown there.
"Shut the fuck up." Mark flicked the end of the bat in Mr. Cook's face. "You're such a fuckin' girl." He opened the drawer on the night stand, pulled out a chocolate bar, unwrapped it and took a bite. "And to think I wanted you to fuck me when I first met you. You know I would've let you, right?"
"No, I didn't know that," said Mr. Cook between short inhalations. "I didn't know you were gay-"
"I'm not. I just like to fuck-"
"I mean, if you want to talk about anything-"
"What? Like what Principal Voorhees is gonna say when he finds out about you fucking a student?"
"Please. Don't. Listen-"
"I'm listening-"
"Look." Mr. Cook swallowed a deep pocket of air. "Let's forget about everything. Let me go. I'll help you get rid of her. I won't say word. You don't say a word. I swear-"
Mark shook his head. "Nope. Too late."
"You fucking little faggot-"
"Dude, you know she was my girlfriend, right?"
"Fuck you. If you knew how to fuck her with that little homo dick of yours-"
"I mean, Irwin, you let underage kids fuck in your house. You gave 'em beer and weed. Then you fucked one of 'em. You sick fuck-"
"You're the sick fuck-"
Mark laughed. Then reached into his pockets and laid their contents on Mr. Cook's empty, striated belly: straight razor, X-acto knife, pliers, and a pair of tin-snips he'd found in the kitchen drawer at home. "You ever been skinned alive?"
Mr. Cook's mouth opened so wide that Mark could see his uvula swinging freely and emitted a sound that was a cross between the locked tires of a semi and the haunted purr of a kitten. "Please. Haven't you done enough-"
"It's never enough-"
Mark reclaimed his tools as he finished the last of the chocolate bar and re-pocketed them, with the exception of the tin-snips. He laid the bat against the closet behind him. With his left thumb and index finger, he stretched his teacher's scrotum to its maximum length. The tin-snips glided through the rubbery, wrinkled skin as if cutting paper, and he lost his grip as the sweaty body jolted against the crisp sharpness of the cold metal.
"You know, if you keep moving like that, it's only gonna hurt worse," said Mark. "And stop fucking yelling like a woman." He shook his head. "I'm glad we never fucked. It would've been like fucking Carol Channing or something. Plus, your dick's not much bigger than mine. I wouldn't even have felt it."
With a few more clips, Mark reached the base of the penis, then retraced his movements until he had circumscribed a perfect ripping arc back to the perineum. He wiped off and pocketed the tin-snips, then grabbed each side of the scrotum and pulled, the testicles and a loose gaggle of thick, clotting blood and soft, tubular coils falling onto the bed between Mr. Cook's legs.
"Does moaning like that make it feel better?" said Mark. He removed the glove from his right hand and picked up one testicle, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger several times. "Wow, it's not at all like I expected. It's like a hard-boiled egg but much firmer. Not as slippery as I thought. Kind of dry actually. I wonder what would happen if I stuck a needle through it?"
"Please," Mr. Cook howled. "Please just kill me-"
"Okay-" And Mark put his glove back on and left the bedroom. He filled the tea kettle with water in the kitchen and put it on the stove. When it whistled, he took it off and made his way back to the bedroom, whistling himself. He set the kettle on Mr. Cook's belly, the man's body jerking with such force that his lungs couldn't expel any sound. "Oops, sorry, didn't see you there." Mark put the kettle on the night stand, then sat on the side of the bed.
"Stop breathing so hard, you pervert." He took out the tin-snips again. "I usually take the eyes or teeth, but that m.o. is so tired. I'll take these." He grabbed the testicles in one hand.
"You?"
"Jesus Christ, you're so dramatic. I swear to God if I didn't see these balls in front of me right here, I'd swear you were a woman." Mark giggled. "Well, you kind of will be in a second-" Quickly, he removed the testicles with the tin-snips and pocketed all three items.
He pulled out his straight razor and flicked it open, holding it up for Mr. Cook's blurred eyes. "Huzzah!" he said. Then shook his head. "Don't you hate it when people say shit like that? Whoever came up with fucking 'Huzzah'?"
Mark stuck the tip of the razor into the man's throat, under the Adam's apple, and drew it down the length of the man's body, the blade disappearing as he reached the abdomen, just below the sternum, and reappearing at the pubic line. The only sound in the room was that of a little boy crying, quick, hearty sobs that emerged from Mr. Cook's lungs in rhythm to the blood spilling from the crevice dissecting his frame.
Mark reapplied the razor to the man's stomach and dug at his incision several times, his strokes so deep that his right wrist was dyed with blood and what must have been compacted feces. He wiped the razor on the back of Jenny's firm ass, then grabbed the kettle, which he tipped over Mr. Cook's body, the fleshy man-made cavern of entrails filling and unfilling, a muted wail thrumming Mark's eardrums with a song of what never was.
With a great heave, the kettle caved in the left side of Mr. Cook's face, settling itself cantilevered to the man's temple when Mark let go. He looked at the two lovers lying in their own waste of bodies and sighed. He rubbed his stomach, then grabbed another chocolate bar and exited the room, munching the candy as he strolled down the sidewalk on his way home.
He grabbed the aluminum Louisville Slugger from the utility closet across the hall, then nudged open the bedroom door with his shoulder, Jenny's grunts cascading into his ears from over her shoulder, the crack of her ass open to expose her purplish hole as she rode Mr. Cook's cock like a starving squirrel hungry for nuts. Mark took one step into the room and swung the bat in the widest arc he could, so that he had to pry it out of the back of Jenny's head with a thrust of his foot against her spine, her blonde hair soaking gray brain and black blood as she fell to the side of their teacher in a lump of cooling bones.
Mr. Cook's eyes widened behind his glasses, his pupils narrowing, as they met Mark's, and he let out a scream that Mark could have sworn could only have come from Jenny. He looked at his teacher's starved body, which was stretched across the length of the bed, the bony wrists and ankles handcuffed to the metal bars of the headboard and footboard, and laughed.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" He stretched his arms out to each side. "One of those fuckin' sorry dime-store hack novelists you like so much couldn't have written it any better. This is gonna be fun."
"Please don't kill me, please don't kill me," blubbered Mr. Cook, tears plopping onto his pale bird chest and wetting the three hairs he'd been so thankful had grown there.
"Shut the fuck up." Mark flicked the end of the bat in Mr. Cook's face. "You're such a fuckin' girl." He opened the drawer on the night stand, pulled out a chocolate bar, unwrapped it and took a bite. "And to think I wanted you to fuck me when I first met you. You know I would've let you, right?"
"No, I didn't know that," said Mr. Cook between short inhalations. "I didn't know you were gay-"
"I'm not. I just like to fuck-"
"I mean, if you want to talk about anything-"
"What? Like what Principal Voorhees is gonna say when he finds out about you fucking a student?"
"Please. Don't. Listen-"
"I'm listening-"
"Look." Mr. Cook swallowed a deep pocket of air. "Let's forget about everything. Let me go. I'll help you get rid of her. I won't say word. You don't say a word. I swear-"
Mark shook his head. "Nope. Too late."
"You fucking little faggot-"
"Dude, you know she was my girlfriend, right?"
"Fuck you. If you knew how to fuck her with that little homo dick of yours-"
"I mean, Irwin, you let underage kids fuck in your house. You gave 'em beer and weed. Then you fucked one of 'em. You sick fuck-"
"You're the sick fuck-"
Mark laughed. Then reached into his pockets and laid their contents on Mr. Cook's empty, striated belly: straight razor, X-acto knife, pliers, and a pair of tin-snips he'd found in the kitchen drawer at home. "You ever been skinned alive?"
Mr. Cook's mouth opened so wide that Mark could see his uvula swinging freely and emitted a sound that was a cross between the locked tires of a semi and the haunted purr of a kitten. "Please. Haven't you done enough-"
"It's never enough-"
Mark reclaimed his tools as he finished the last of the chocolate bar and re-pocketed them, with the exception of the tin-snips. He laid the bat against the closet behind him. With his left thumb and index finger, he stretched his teacher's scrotum to its maximum length. The tin-snips glided through the rubbery, wrinkled skin as if cutting paper, and he lost his grip as the sweaty body jolted against the crisp sharpness of the cold metal.
"You know, if you keep moving like that, it's only gonna hurt worse," said Mark. "And stop fucking yelling like a woman." He shook his head. "I'm glad we never fucked. It would've been like fucking Carol Channing or something. Plus, your dick's not much bigger than mine. I wouldn't even have felt it."
With a few more clips, Mark reached the base of the penis, then retraced his movements until he had circumscribed a perfect ripping arc back to the perineum. He wiped off and pocketed the tin-snips, then grabbed each side of the scrotum and pulled, the testicles and a loose gaggle of thick, clotting blood and soft, tubular coils falling onto the bed between Mr. Cook's legs.
"Does moaning like that make it feel better?" said Mark. He removed the glove from his right hand and picked up one testicle, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger several times. "Wow, it's not at all like I expected. It's like a hard-boiled egg but much firmer. Not as slippery as I thought. Kind of dry actually. I wonder what would happen if I stuck a needle through it?"
"Please," Mr. Cook howled. "Please just kill me-"
"Okay-" And Mark put his glove back on and left the bedroom. He filled the tea kettle with water in the kitchen and put it on the stove. When it whistled, he took it off and made his way back to the bedroom, whistling himself. He set the kettle on Mr. Cook's belly, the man's body jerking with such force that his lungs couldn't expel any sound. "Oops, sorry, didn't see you there." Mark put the kettle on the night stand, then sat on the side of the bed.
"Stop breathing so hard, you pervert." He took out the tin-snips again. "I usually take the eyes or teeth, but that m.o. is so tired. I'll take these." He grabbed the testicles in one hand.
"You?"
"Jesus Christ, you're so dramatic. I swear to God if I didn't see these balls in front of me right here, I'd swear you were a woman." Mark giggled. "Well, you kind of will be in a second-" Quickly, he removed the testicles with the tin-snips and pocketed all three items.
He pulled out his straight razor and flicked it open, holding it up for Mr. Cook's blurred eyes. "Huzzah!" he said. Then shook his head. "Don't you hate it when people say shit like that? Whoever came up with fucking 'Huzzah'?"
Mark stuck the tip of the razor into the man's throat, under the Adam's apple, and drew it down the length of the man's body, the blade disappearing as he reached the abdomen, just below the sternum, and reappearing at the pubic line. The only sound in the room was that of a little boy crying, quick, hearty sobs that emerged from Mr. Cook's lungs in rhythm to the blood spilling from the crevice dissecting his frame.
Mark reapplied the razor to the man's stomach and dug at his incision several times, his strokes so deep that his right wrist was dyed with blood and what must have been compacted feces. He wiped the razor on the back of Jenny's firm ass, then grabbed the kettle, which he tipped over Mr. Cook's body, the fleshy man-made cavern of entrails filling and unfilling, a muted wail thrumming Mark's eardrums with a song of what never was.
With a great heave, the kettle caved in the left side of Mr. Cook's face, settling itself cantilevered to the man's temple when Mark let go. He looked at the two lovers lying in their own waste of bodies and sighed. He rubbed his stomach, then grabbed another chocolate bar and exited the room, munching the candy as he strolled down the sidewalk on his way home.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Calm
Mark's throat tightened as the door opened upon Jenny's form. As far as he could tell, his eyes were jutting out of their sockets like some bad excuse for a monster mask. Her sandy-blonde hair was untied and wild behind her head, her thick black-rimmed glasses were in the corner of the couch half-folded, and her feet were bare. He hocked a silent ball of gelatinous snot into the back of his mouth and swallowed. "What are you doing here?"
"What are you doing here?" she said, her widened eyes slowly narrowing.
"Your mom said you were at the mall-"
"She did?"
"Yeah-"
"Stupid bitch." Jenny shrugged and walked over to the couch and sat down on her glasses. "I told her I was coming over here to study."
"Have you been studying?"
"No, asshole, just smokin' weed and watchin' TV." Jenny looked away, her face reddening, and giggled.
"Where's Irwin?"
"In the bathroom, I think-"
"You think?"
"Yes. Therefore I am-"
"Shut the fuck up-" Mark leaned back and stretched, then snapped his fists out, his elbows popping.
"I hate it when you do that-"
"I know." He looked down at his girlfriend's curled up legs under her short skirt as she turned on the TV and could see half her ass but not the slightest hint of panties. Something sounded behind him and he turned, only to catch the back half of Mr. Cook's emaciated, slouching, towel-wrapped body whisk its way down the hall. "I've got to pee."
The bathroom was humid, a film of antibacterial soap smeared on the walls and toilet, the mirror a refuge of manufactured fog. A triple-bladed shaving razor with a curly spring of a hair lay on the slippery sink. As he pissed, he leaned over and peered into the waste basket: empty. A zip and two deep breaths and he was in the hall again, a vein in the side of his forehead filling and emptying as fast as he could think.
Mr. Cook's bedroom door was shut. So he went into the other bedroom, where Mr. Cook kept his computer and where he and Jenny had spent many nights sleeping at nonexistent friends' houses. "Jenny," he called.
As she tiptoed into the room, Mark pushed her onto the day-bed and closed and locked the door behind him. He dropped to his knees and heaved his face between her legs, into her hairless labia, which were stiff and leathery and smelled, under the initial scent of shaving cream, of latex and chlorine. He stabbed four fingers in her, scraping with his nails against the walls of her vagina, digging flesh into his fingertips, until she pulled his hair and cried, "Stop, Mark, that hurts-"
"But you like it to hurt-" he panted.
"Not like that." She let out a breath as he pulled his hand out of her. "Just fuck me and get it over with-"
Mark got up on the bed and back on his knees but next to her head. He unzipped his pants. "Just suck it."
Fifteen or twenty vacuums of her lips and tongue and Mark pulled his penis from her mouth, jerked her head back with his blood-stained hand, and pumped semen into her face with the other. He quickly buttoned his jeans and wiped his hands on her skirt. "I've got to go."
At the door to the bedroom, he turned and watched for a moment as Jenny rubbed her eyes with a corner of blanket. He shut the door behind him without making a sound.
"What are you doing here?" she said, her widened eyes slowly narrowing.
"Your mom said you were at the mall-"
"She did?"
"Yeah-"
"Stupid bitch." Jenny shrugged and walked over to the couch and sat down on her glasses. "I told her I was coming over here to study."
"Have you been studying?"
"No, asshole, just smokin' weed and watchin' TV." Jenny looked away, her face reddening, and giggled.
"Where's Irwin?"
"In the bathroom, I think-"
"You think?"
"Yes. Therefore I am-"
"Shut the fuck up-" Mark leaned back and stretched, then snapped his fists out, his elbows popping.
"I hate it when you do that-"
"I know." He looked down at his girlfriend's curled up legs under her short skirt as she turned on the TV and could see half her ass but not the slightest hint of panties. Something sounded behind him and he turned, only to catch the back half of Mr. Cook's emaciated, slouching, towel-wrapped body whisk its way down the hall. "I've got to pee."
The bathroom was humid, a film of antibacterial soap smeared on the walls and toilet, the mirror a refuge of manufactured fog. A triple-bladed shaving razor with a curly spring of a hair lay on the slippery sink. As he pissed, he leaned over and peered into the waste basket: empty. A zip and two deep breaths and he was in the hall again, a vein in the side of his forehead filling and emptying as fast as he could think.
Mr. Cook's bedroom door was shut. So he went into the other bedroom, where Mr. Cook kept his computer and where he and Jenny had spent many nights sleeping at nonexistent friends' houses. "Jenny," he called.
As she tiptoed into the room, Mark pushed her onto the day-bed and closed and locked the door behind him. He dropped to his knees and heaved his face between her legs, into her hairless labia, which were stiff and leathery and smelled, under the initial scent of shaving cream, of latex and chlorine. He stabbed four fingers in her, scraping with his nails against the walls of her vagina, digging flesh into his fingertips, until she pulled his hair and cried, "Stop, Mark, that hurts-"
"But you like it to hurt-" he panted.
"Not like that." She let out a breath as he pulled his hand out of her. "Just fuck me and get it over with-"
Mark got up on the bed and back on his knees but next to her head. He unzipped his pants. "Just suck it."
Fifteen or twenty vacuums of her lips and tongue and Mark pulled his penis from her mouth, jerked her head back with his blood-stained hand, and pumped semen into her face with the other. He quickly buttoned his jeans and wiped his hands on her skirt. "I've got to go."
At the door to the bedroom, he turned and watched for a moment as Jenny rubbed her eyes with a corner of blanket. He shut the door behind him without making a sound.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
The Life and Times of Phil Wii, Part I
Mark glanced at the watch he'd taken off a dead boy two months ago, then looked up at the end of his street. Sure fucking enough, there he was, a slight kid in a McDonald's uniform baby-stepping a straight line across the entrance to the avenue. He picked the last of the chicken out of his teeth with the slender X-acto knife he'd stolen from art class and took off.
He could see the back of the kid's bobbing body as he rounded the corner and began to pick up speed. Putting his his blade in his pocket, next to his straight razor, pliers, and a large, folded Zip-loc baggie, he yawned, keeping his eyes cheetah-like on the boy's slinky form. After several blocks of nondescript, aluminum-sided houses that looked exactly like his own, the boy turned onto the bike path that led directly to the back of their high school. Mark wiped his dry brow as he came within ten feet of the boy.
"Hey."
A small scream escaped from the boy's pale lips as he turned around.
"Where you going?"
"Home." The boy looked down and away as Mark stared into his eyes.
"Do you have to go home right now?"
"Yes."
"What's your favorite color?"
"Blue."
"Mine too. Do you like animals?"
"Yes."
"Which ones?"
"Umm, I like squirrels and frogs."
"Really? Me too." Mark rocked back and forth on his heels in his Nikes. The boy was not quite Asian, not quite white. His hair was a shiny, stereotypical black, his face a boring oval. But his eyes, from what Mark could see of them, were a deep dark brown, almost coal in color, and weren't quite almond-shaped. For all the good Asian qualities they exhibited, they were fortified with the best of Caucasoid characteristics. Same with the nose - it was no wide, formless bump with two holes; rather, it was a slick sliver of cartilage perfectly bordered at the tip, which was turned up just the slightest. "You know, there's a place in the woods over there where there's a lot of squirrels and frogs."
"Really?" The boy looked up, then straightaway looked back at his black sneakers.
"Yeah. Wanna go see?"
"I have to go home."
"No, you don't. I mean, there's, like, a million squirrels and frogs in this one place back there. It's amazing. You won't believe your eyes."
The boy turned the toe of his sneaker into the asphalt and finally looked up. "Where?"
"This way."
Fifty yards into the woods, Mark stopped and turned to face the boy. "How come you never told me you worked at McDonald's?"
The boy looked away. "I don't know-"
"You know, I fucking hate McDonald's-" And Mark buried his fist into the center of the boy's face, sending the kid onto the leaves and sticks of the woods' floor with a hushed plop!
He could see the back of the kid's bobbing body as he rounded the corner and began to pick up speed. Putting his his blade in his pocket, next to his straight razor, pliers, and a large, folded Zip-loc baggie, he yawned, keeping his eyes cheetah-like on the boy's slinky form. After several blocks of nondescript, aluminum-sided houses that looked exactly like his own, the boy turned onto the bike path that led directly to the back of their high school. Mark wiped his dry brow as he came within ten feet of the boy.
"Hey."
A small scream escaped from the boy's pale lips as he turned around.
"Where you going?"
"Home." The boy looked down and away as Mark stared into his eyes.
"Do you have to go home right now?"
"Yes."
"What's your favorite color?"
"Blue."
"Mine too. Do you like animals?"
"Yes."
"Which ones?"
"Umm, I like squirrels and frogs."
"Really? Me too." Mark rocked back and forth on his heels in his Nikes. The boy was not quite Asian, not quite white. His hair was a shiny, stereotypical black, his face a boring oval. But his eyes, from what Mark could see of them, were a deep dark brown, almost coal in color, and weren't quite almond-shaped. For all the good Asian qualities they exhibited, they were fortified with the best of Caucasoid characteristics. Same with the nose - it was no wide, formless bump with two holes; rather, it was a slick sliver of cartilage perfectly bordered at the tip, which was turned up just the slightest. "You know, there's a place in the woods over there where there's a lot of squirrels and frogs."
"Really?" The boy looked up, then straightaway looked back at his black sneakers.
"Yeah. Wanna go see?"
"I have to go home."
"No, you don't. I mean, there's, like, a million squirrels and frogs in this one place back there. It's amazing. You won't believe your eyes."
The boy turned the toe of his sneaker into the asphalt and finally looked up. "Where?"
"This way."
Fifty yards into the woods, Mark stopped and turned to face the boy. "How come you never told me you worked at McDonald's?"
The boy looked away. "I don't know-"
"You know, I fucking hate McDonald's-" And Mark buried his fist into the center of the boy's face, sending the kid onto the leaves and sticks of the woods' floor with a hushed plop!
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Police Briefs
Police Confirm Remains Are Those of Missing Teen
By Mike Gribble
Evening Gazzette Staff Writer
Cedarville - The Cedarville Sheriff's Department confirmed Tuesday that the human remains found in the woods behind Cedarville High School last Saturday are those of fourteen year-old Phil Wii, a student at Cedarville High School who suffered from autism and had been missing for the last two months. The Sheriff's Department immediately ruled Wii's death a homicide - the fifth of a male teenager in Cedarville this year after a ten-year period in which the city had seen no murders and a decrease in all violent crimes.
Wii had been missing since June, when his parents contacted police and then the media in an effort to bring their son home. Community support for the Wiis was overwhelming, and a grassroots campaign to find the missing boy was undertaken, only to prove fruitless after several weeks of round-the-clock searching by hundreds of volunteers. The community was dispirited but refused to give up hope. "We thank everyone in Cedarville for their vigilance, support, charity, and prayers. Our son is home. May God bless you all," said the Wiis in a prepared statement read by family spokeswoman May Wii, the young teenager's paternal aunt.
Police say that Wii's body may never have been found if it had not been for a homeless man who decided that fateful Saturday to dig himself a makeshift latrine in the woods behind the high school, where he had migrated that morning after being asked to leave the forest around the city dump where he had been living for more than a month. While excavating mounds of earth with his bare hands, the man, Lorenzo Dundell, of no fixed address, came upon a gruesome sight: that of young Wii's dismembered corpse. Police say that Dundell is not a suspect and has been cleared of any involvement in the slaying.
Though the circumstances of the five cases are striking in their similarity - all five boys' bodies showed signs of torture and possibly rape and were missing all fingers, teeth, and eyes, as well as their genitals - the Sheriff's Department refuses to conjecture that the homicides are related or were even committed by the same person or persons. "While some things are the same, we need to have further evidence before we can objectively say that the last four murders aren't copycats of the first murder," said Stacey Lyman, spokeswoman for the Cedarville Sheriff's Department. Lyman added, "We want to assure the public that they are safe and that we have several strong leads we are pursuing."
However, officials close to the five investigations, speaking on condition of anonymity, informed the Evening Gazette that the Sheriff's Department does not, in fact, have any leads - or much evidence, for that matter. "They have nothing," said one source. "No suspects, no leads, no DNA evidence. They doubt they'll ever recover the boys' missing body parts, and I very much believe they are in over their heads and will not be able to solve any of the cases without help from the federal government." Lyman had no comment on these allegations.
Stephanie Adcock contributed to this report.
By Mike Gribble
Evening Gazzette Staff Writer
Cedarville - The Cedarville Sheriff's Department confirmed Tuesday that the human remains found in the woods behind Cedarville High School last Saturday are those of fourteen year-old Phil Wii, a student at Cedarville High School who suffered from autism and had been missing for the last two months. The Sheriff's Department immediately ruled Wii's death a homicide - the fifth of a male teenager in Cedarville this year after a ten-year period in which the city had seen no murders and a decrease in all violent crimes.
Wii had been missing since June, when his parents contacted police and then the media in an effort to bring their son home. Community support for the Wiis was overwhelming, and a grassroots campaign to find the missing boy was undertaken, only to prove fruitless after several weeks of round-the-clock searching by hundreds of volunteers. The community was dispirited but refused to give up hope. "We thank everyone in Cedarville for their vigilance, support, charity, and prayers. Our son is home. May God bless you all," said the Wiis in a prepared statement read by family spokeswoman May Wii, the young teenager's paternal aunt.
Police say that Wii's body may never have been found if it had not been for a homeless man who decided that fateful Saturday to dig himself a makeshift latrine in the woods behind the high school, where he had migrated that morning after being asked to leave the forest around the city dump where he had been living for more than a month. While excavating mounds of earth with his bare hands, the man, Lorenzo Dundell, of no fixed address, came upon a gruesome sight: that of young Wii's dismembered corpse. Police say that Dundell is not a suspect and has been cleared of any involvement in the slaying.
Though the circumstances of the five cases are striking in their similarity - all five boys' bodies showed signs of torture and possibly rape and were missing all fingers, teeth, and eyes, as well as their genitals - the Sheriff's Department refuses to conjecture that the homicides are related or were even committed by the same person or persons. "While some things are the same, we need to have further evidence before we can objectively say that the last four murders aren't copycats of the first murder," said Stacey Lyman, spokeswoman for the Cedarville Sheriff's Department. Lyman added, "We want to assure the public that they are safe and that we have several strong leads we are pursuing."
However, officials close to the five investigations, speaking on condition of anonymity, informed the Evening Gazette that the Sheriff's Department does not, in fact, have any leads - or much evidence, for that matter. "They have nothing," said one source. "No suspects, no leads, no DNA evidence. They doubt they'll ever recover the boys' missing body parts, and I very much believe they are in over their heads and will not be able to solve any of the cases without help from the federal government." Lyman had no comment on these allegations.
Stephanie Adcock contributed to this report.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Tie
His tongue wiggles against her clit in circles x's pluses minuses numbers letters he even spells his name in spittle-If he sucks on it long and hard enough it's an infant's cock in his mouth-Her moans alternate with screams unintelligible words names somebody's name his or his or his-A hand pulls his hair-
"Fuck me with that little dick of yours-"
Heart engorged veins a roadmap of anger on his forearms he slides a hand under the small of her back flips her over buries his face in her crack swabs her asshole with his tongue lips for what seems like an hour until she raises up-He pushes her face into the pillow grabs his belt off the floor binds her wrists together over her bumpy spine-
"What-"
He grabs a graying sock from the floor shovels it in her mouth his tiny dick smearing pre-cum all over her ass then uses another to secure it tightening the knot at the back of her head-A quick slap-
"Fucking take it bitch-"
And he inserts all 4 inches in her struggling cunt in one fell swoop batters her ass the back of her thighs with his pelvis a thumb on each side of her asshole stretching digging opening forcing looking closing one eye then the other a drop of sweat like an arrow to a bullseye nothing-He pulls out puts it there his pointy hips bruising her as he cums in her rectum pumping without control and a straight tight knuckled straining right to the back of her head he pulls out a second time collapses flattening them-
He reaches between the mattress and box spring pulls out his straight razor and with a flick of the wrist the belt gives-He crawls up her damp back slides the metal next to her ear the sock falls then the other her panting his-
"I love you-"
"I love you too-"
"Fuck me with that little dick of yours-"
Heart engorged veins a roadmap of anger on his forearms he slides a hand under the small of her back flips her over buries his face in her crack swabs her asshole with his tongue lips for what seems like an hour until she raises up-He pushes her face into the pillow grabs his belt off the floor binds her wrists together over her bumpy spine-
"What-"
He grabs a graying sock from the floor shovels it in her mouth his tiny dick smearing pre-cum all over her ass then uses another to secure it tightening the knot at the back of her head-A quick slap-
"Fucking take it bitch-"
And he inserts all 4 inches in her struggling cunt in one fell swoop batters her ass the back of her thighs with his pelvis a thumb on each side of her asshole stretching digging opening forcing looking closing one eye then the other a drop of sweat like an arrow to a bullseye nothing-He pulls out puts it there his pointy hips bruising her as he cums in her rectum pumping without control and a straight tight knuckled straining right to the back of her head he pulls out a second time collapses flattening them-
He reaches between the mattress and box spring pulls out his straight razor and with a flick of the wrist the belt gives-He crawls up her damp back slides the metal next to her ear the sock falls then the other her panting his-
"I love you-"
"I love you too-"
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Wrong!
Jenny Walters opened the door, smiling, her hair pulled back in a blonde ponytail, making her glasses look even larger on her small face than they actually were. "Hey."
Mark looked down, his brow furrowing without him asking it to. "Um, I was looking for Mr. Cook's house-"
"This is it!"
Mark looked up, his eyebrows two sandy blonde arches just under his spiky hair. "Really?"
"Yep, come on in."
Mr. Cook's house was small just like his car but it was cleaner and contained less books. The man himself walked out of the kitchen as Mark settled himself in an armchair across from the love seat on which Jenny propped herself on her curled legs, her tight jeans stretching to the point of tearing as she wiggled to make herself comfortable.
"Hey, Mark, make yourself at home-"
"Thanks." Mark looked around the living room as Mr. Cook disappeared down the hallway. Besides the two pieces of occupied furniture, there was a flat screen television, under which sat a Wii console and about 10 indistinct video games; a book case stacked full of DVDs, CDS, and VHS tapes; and a low-sitting glass coffee table, chipped on its corners, decorated with old copies of Time magazine and the NEA Newsletter. And everywhere were pictures of the same chubby woman, a brunette with a dimple in her left cheek, next to her shit-eating grin, and a soft pair of gray eyes that either said 'I love you' or 'Help me.' "Who's that?"
"Oh, that's Irwin's girlfriend-"
"Really?"
Jenny giggled. "Did you think he was gay too?"
Mark shrugged his shoulders.
"He's not." Jenny giggled again. "Believe me, he's not-"
Mark looked up at her eyes, which were squeezed tight with giggling above her small turned-up nose. "Oh, really?"
Jenny shrugged, cocking her head to the side, and stared at Mark from under her bangs until he looked away. He stood up. "Where's the bathroom?"
He shut the door behind him and locked it. He leaned over the sink, supporting his weight on his skinny arms, and looked into the mirror, short breaths coming and going furiously in and out of his lungs. He put a finger to his neck to make sure his blood was still flowing through his slight body. Finally, a deep sigh, a splash of water on his flushed cheeks, and a good thorough drying and he walked back out into the living room.
"Can you believe it?" said Jenny. She pointed to the TV. "And here in Cedarville."
Mark sat down on the love seat next to Jenny, their thighs rubbing together. He looked at the TV and saw the boy. "Yeah, that's fucking sick."
"Tell me about it." Jenny shook her head. "They cut off his genitals, the police can't find them." She picked up the remote. "Or his eyes. I hope he didn't suffer too much-"
"I'm sure he did-"
"You think? Wouldn't you just go into shock and pass out-"
"No. You'd be surprised what the human body can endure before it shuts down. Or fights back."
Jenny shivered and changed the channel. She loosened, then re-secured her ponytail. "My hair's such a mess-"
"I like your hair-"
"Aww, you're so sweet." Jenny put her hand on Mark's knee-
"So what are you kids doing?" Mr. Cook's bony ass fell back into the armchair.
Mark leaned back and stretched his arms along the top of the loveseat, his left brushing the back of Jenny's neck where he let it rest. "Nothing, Irwin," he laughed.
Mark looked down, his brow furrowing without him asking it to. "Um, I was looking for Mr. Cook's house-"
"This is it!"
Mark looked up, his eyebrows two sandy blonde arches just under his spiky hair. "Really?"
"Yep, come on in."
Mr. Cook's house was small just like his car but it was cleaner and contained less books. The man himself walked out of the kitchen as Mark settled himself in an armchair across from the love seat on which Jenny propped herself on her curled legs, her tight jeans stretching to the point of tearing as she wiggled to make herself comfortable.
"Hey, Mark, make yourself at home-"
"Thanks." Mark looked around the living room as Mr. Cook disappeared down the hallway. Besides the two pieces of occupied furniture, there was a flat screen television, under which sat a Wii console and about 10 indistinct video games; a book case stacked full of DVDs, CDS, and VHS tapes; and a low-sitting glass coffee table, chipped on its corners, decorated with old copies of Time magazine and the NEA Newsletter. And everywhere were pictures of the same chubby woman, a brunette with a dimple in her left cheek, next to her shit-eating grin, and a soft pair of gray eyes that either said 'I love you' or 'Help me.' "Who's that?"
"Oh, that's Irwin's girlfriend-"
"Really?"
Jenny giggled. "Did you think he was gay too?"
Mark shrugged his shoulders.
"He's not." Jenny giggled again. "Believe me, he's not-"
Mark looked up at her eyes, which were squeezed tight with giggling above her small turned-up nose. "Oh, really?"
Jenny shrugged, cocking her head to the side, and stared at Mark from under her bangs until he looked away. He stood up. "Where's the bathroom?"
He shut the door behind him and locked it. He leaned over the sink, supporting his weight on his skinny arms, and looked into the mirror, short breaths coming and going furiously in and out of his lungs. He put a finger to his neck to make sure his blood was still flowing through his slight body. Finally, a deep sigh, a splash of water on his flushed cheeks, and a good thorough drying and he walked back out into the living room.
"Can you believe it?" said Jenny. She pointed to the TV. "And here in Cedarville."
Mark sat down on the love seat next to Jenny, their thighs rubbing together. He looked at the TV and saw the boy. "Yeah, that's fucking sick."
"Tell me about it." Jenny shook her head. "They cut off his genitals, the police can't find them." She picked up the remote. "Or his eyes. I hope he didn't suffer too much-"
"I'm sure he did-"
"You think? Wouldn't you just go into shock and pass out-"
"No. You'd be surprised what the human body can endure before it shuts down. Or fights back."
Jenny shivered and changed the channel. She loosened, then re-secured her ponytail. "My hair's such a mess-"
"I like your hair-"
"Aww, you're so sweet." Jenny put her hand on Mark's knee-
"So what are you kids doing?" Mr. Cook's bony ass fell back into the armchair.
Mark leaned back and stretched his arms along the top of the loveseat, his left brushing the back of Jenny's neck where he let it rest. "Nothing, Irwin," he laughed.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Mama Mia
Mark opened the door and saw a blurry V of white ass jackrabbit-ing between his mother's legs. Jesus Christ, how can you even feel anything going that fast? Then again, Dan did everything at hyper-speed - walking, talking, writing, typing, even his eyes twitched so quickly you almost couldn't see the tiny blinks. Fuck, his turds probably came out of his ass like missiles leaving a silo. He closed the door.
It opened just as quickly behind him. "Mark-"
He turned around.
"You need to learn how to knock-"
"You need to learn how to lock the door-"
"Don't be smart-"
"Don't be careless-"
Sarah looked down as she finished fastening her robe and sighed. "What did you want?"
"I was just going to tell you that I was leaving-"
"Where are you going?"
"I told you - to Mr. Cook's house-"
"Who's Mr. Cook?"
"Geez, mom, I told you. He's my English teacher. We're going to watch a movie and talk about books and stuff-"
"Mark-"
"What?"
"Is he a homosexual?"
Mark could hear, above the blood sprinting to his brain, Dan smoothing the sheets in the room behind his mother. He looked her in the eyes, a mirror of himself but older and in female form. "I don't know-"
"Well, you better. You know what The Bible says about them-"
"I know what it says about fucking Flash when you're not married to him, too-"
Sarah's hand was cold, then warm against Mark's cheek and barely made a sound. "Don't use language like that in my house-"
"Don't throw stones in your house-"
"Don't use cliches in my house-"
"Touche-"
Sarah put her arms around Mark's shoulders and giggled. "I just worry about you, honey. I don't want you to go to Hell."
"Don't you worry about that. I don't." Mark kissed her cheek and walked out the front door.
It opened just as quickly behind him. "Mark-"
He turned around.
"You need to learn how to knock-"
"You need to learn how to lock the door-"
"Don't be smart-"
"Don't be careless-"
Sarah looked down as she finished fastening her robe and sighed. "What did you want?"
"I was just going to tell you that I was leaving-"
"Where are you going?"
"I told you - to Mr. Cook's house-"
"Who's Mr. Cook?"
"Geez, mom, I told you. He's my English teacher. We're going to watch a movie and talk about books and stuff-"
"Mark-"
"What?"
"Is he a homosexual?"
Mark could hear, above the blood sprinting to his brain, Dan smoothing the sheets in the room behind his mother. He looked her in the eyes, a mirror of himself but older and in female form. "I don't know-"
"Well, you better. You know what The Bible says about them-"
"I know what it says about fucking Flash when you're not married to him, too-"
Sarah's hand was cold, then warm against Mark's cheek and barely made a sound. "Don't use language like that in my house-"
"Don't throw stones in your house-"
"Don't use cliches in my house-"
"Touche-"
Sarah put her arms around Mark's shoulders and giggled. "I just worry about you, honey. I don't want you to go to Hell."
"Don't you worry about that. I don't." Mark kissed her cheek and walked out the front door.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Golden Rule Dayz
Mark stood up and looped his book bag over his left shoulder when the final bell of the day rang.
"Mark, can you come here for a second?"
He made his way over to Mr. Cook, whose first name was Irwin and who hated that fact and did everything to avoid its mention. Mr. Cook was in his thirties, a tall man with an anorexic build, who looked like he'd be much more comfortable on a runway in his Old Navy clothes than talking about books in front of a bunch of open-mouthed, bored kids, of which his youthful looks made him seem as one, so much so that many times he'd been mistaken for just another apathetic student, even by his own colleagues. Mark always felt under-dressed walking into Mr. Cook's classroom and now thought he was almost naked.
"So did you at least like Dorian Gray?"
"Oh, yeah, I liked it. It was very well-written and put together. I just, um, I'm just disappointed in Wilde-"
"How so?"
"Well, for all his philosophizing and arguing about art for art sake's and experiencing the soul through the senses and vice versa, in the end, he essentially says that's all crap and will just lead to a life of insanity and a not so very nice death-"
"You can't confuse an author with his work. His biography and his writing are two different things-"
"No, but you can expect more." Mark looked up at the clock on the wall above them. "Look, I understand that a work of the imagination is just that. But that's only good in theory. This is real life. And if you're going to make yourself a household name and live a certain way and pretty much support a specific way of living, then you shouldn't write a novel that says just opposite. It's just disingenuous and cynical and insecure and makes one question everything about you and your work." He looked up at the clock again. "I'm gonna miss my bus-"
"Where do you live?"
"In Cedarville. In the Westfield development."
"So do I. Burberry Court."
"I'm on Manson Ave. On the other side."
"I can give you a lift home-"
"Cool-"
Mr. Cook's Toyota was a small affair of chipped paint, dog-eared books, smashed insects, dust, and great gas mileage. "You know, you're the only student who gets it-"
"Really? Thanks-"
"I mean - and don't you repeat a word of this - the rest of these kids are just out of it. At least you read the books-"
"Actually, I read all of them years ago-"
"Wow. Really?"
"Yeah. A few times-"
"Jesus." Mr. Cook shook his head. Behind his words, the light, trembling guitars and moaning voice of an indistinct British band could be heard spitting from the speakers under the dashboard. "See, that's what I mean. Not only do the others not get it, they don't even give themselves the chance to get it." He cleared his throat. "So what do your parents say about you reading so much?"
"It's just my mom. I live with her and her boyfriend-"
"Oh. Divorced?"
"No. My father was murdered-"
"I'm so sorry. Forgive me-"
"It's okay. He was murdered by a serial killer in the state where we used to live-"
"Oh, my God-"
"Right before I was born-"
"Mark, I'm really sorry-"
"It's okay. It's not like I knew him or anything-"
Mr. Cook glanced at Mark and shifted in his seat. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
"No-"
"No? Why not?"
"I don't know-"
"A good-looking guy like you? You should be having to beat them off with a stick-"
Mark giggled. "That sounds interesting-"
Mr. Cook laughed and put his foot on the brake as he pulled in front of Mark's house. "There you go-"
Mark got out of the car. "Thanks for the ride-"
"Mark-"
"Yeah?" Mark leaned into the passenger side window.
"We'll have to hang out some time-"
"That's cool-"
"Do you like chocolate?"
"Yeah, I guess-"
A Hershey bar appeared in the palm of Mr. Cook's hand. "I got 3 for a dollar but could only eat 2-"
Mark grabbed it, his fingers scraping the back of his teacher's hand. He looked into Mr. Cook's bespectacled eyes from under his blond bangs and grinned. Mr. Cook looked away with a smile. "I'll see you in school tomorrow-"
"Cool-"
Mark slid the chocolate bar into his pocket and skipped up the driveway.
"Mark, can you come here for a second?"
He made his way over to Mr. Cook, whose first name was Irwin and who hated that fact and did everything to avoid its mention. Mr. Cook was in his thirties, a tall man with an anorexic build, who looked like he'd be much more comfortable on a runway in his Old Navy clothes than talking about books in front of a bunch of open-mouthed, bored kids, of which his youthful looks made him seem as one, so much so that many times he'd been mistaken for just another apathetic student, even by his own colleagues. Mark always felt under-dressed walking into Mr. Cook's classroom and now thought he was almost naked.
"So did you at least like Dorian Gray?"
"Oh, yeah, I liked it. It was very well-written and put together. I just, um, I'm just disappointed in Wilde-"
"How so?"
"Well, for all his philosophizing and arguing about art for art sake's and experiencing the soul through the senses and vice versa, in the end, he essentially says that's all crap and will just lead to a life of insanity and a not so very nice death-"
"You can't confuse an author with his work. His biography and his writing are two different things-"
"No, but you can expect more." Mark looked up at the clock on the wall above them. "Look, I understand that a work of the imagination is just that. But that's only good in theory. This is real life. And if you're going to make yourself a household name and live a certain way and pretty much support a specific way of living, then you shouldn't write a novel that says just opposite. It's just disingenuous and cynical and insecure and makes one question everything about you and your work." He looked up at the clock again. "I'm gonna miss my bus-"
"Where do you live?"
"In Cedarville. In the Westfield development."
"So do I. Burberry Court."
"I'm on Manson Ave. On the other side."
"I can give you a lift home-"
"Cool-"
Mr. Cook's Toyota was a small affair of chipped paint, dog-eared books, smashed insects, dust, and great gas mileage. "You know, you're the only student who gets it-"
"Really? Thanks-"
"I mean - and don't you repeat a word of this - the rest of these kids are just out of it. At least you read the books-"
"Actually, I read all of them years ago-"
"Wow. Really?"
"Yeah. A few times-"
"Jesus." Mr. Cook shook his head. Behind his words, the light, trembling guitars and moaning voice of an indistinct British band could be heard spitting from the speakers under the dashboard. "See, that's what I mean. Not only do the others not get it, they don't even give themselves the chance to get it." He cleared his throat. "So what do your parents say about you reading so much?"
"It's just my mom. I live with her and her boyfriend-"
"Oh. Divorced?"
"No. My father was murdered-"
"I'm so sorry. Forgive me-"
"It's okay. He was murdered by a serial killer in the state where we used to live-"
"Oh, my God-"
"Right before I was born-"
"Mark, I'm really sorry-"
"It's okay. It's not like I knew him or anything-"
Mr. Cook glanced at Mark and shifted in his seat. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
"No-"
"No? Why not?"
"I don't know-"
"A good-looking guy like you? You should be having to beat them off with a stick-"
Mark giggled. "That sounds interesting-"
Mr. Cook laughed and put his foot on the brake as he pulled in front of Mark's house. "There you go-"
Mark got out of the car. "Thanks for the ride-"
"Mark-"
"Yeah?" Mark leaned into the passenger side window.
"We'll have to hang out some time-"
"That's cool-"
"Do you like chocolate?"
"Yeah, I guess-"
A Hershey bar appeared in the palm of Mr. Cook's hand. "I got 3 for a dollar but could only eat 2-"
Mark grabbed it, his fingers scraping the back of his teacher's hand. He looked into Mr. Cook's bespectacled eyes from under his blond bangs and grinned. Mr. Cook looked away with a smile. "I'll see you in school tomorrow-"
"Cool-"
Mark slid the chocolate bar into his pocket and skipped up the driveway.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
All Good Things
Mark dropped the pliers and the tooth on the bed beside Maggie's cool, stiff body and the 31 other teeth that had recently called Daniel's mouth home. He leaned over and looked into the boy's blurry, rolling eyes.
"What are you doing?"
Mark slapped his face, the pasty blood from Daniel's mouth decorating the wall.
"Mark-"
He slapped him again.
"Dude-"
Mark unclasped his straight razor, held up Daniel's shirt by the collar and sliced it down the middle.
"Where's Maggie?"
Mark nodded. Daniel's eyes widened as he strained against the ropes strapped around his wrists and ankles, his torso writhing against the lifeless body beneath him. "Fuck-"
Mark relieved Daniel of his jeans and briefs with the razor and grabbed the boy's penis. It seemed even larger than the last time he'd sat on it. He put the razor to its base, his own erection trying its best to fill with more blood.
"No. Mark, why are you doing this? I love you-"
"There's no such thing as love-"
"Yes, there is-"
"Ha! You wouldn't know what love was if it fucking walked up to you and raped you as good as I raped her-"
"Mark-"
"What?"
"How'd you finish it?"
"Your favorite-"
"Oh." Daniel's pants lessened in frequency. "Do me the same way-"
Mark squeezed Daniel's limp penis in his hand and brought the straight razor to rest firmly on the hole on its tip. With a sigh, he dragged the smeared metal through its length till his knuckles were firmly ensconced against Daniel's scrotum and the small bedroom was thick with the boy's whimpering.
"You son of a bitch. I fucking hate you. I hope you die." Daniel gasped three or 4 times, the blood of his gums rattling in his throat. "You've got the smallest fucking dick in the world-"
"Hilaaaarious," said Mark. And he stuffed an enormous wad of toilet paper into Daniel's mouth. He squeezed the boy's nostrils together until the bed began to shake with violence, then he let go and lit a cigarette, gently placing the match on the mound of toilet paper. As the fire reached Daniel's lips, Mark threw his hands on the boy's twisting, veiny neck and pressed until the windpipe relented and all was still in the the room but the blood rushing to his penis.
He gathered up Daniel's teeth, his razor, and his pliers and shoved them into his pocket. With the care of a surgeon, he untied the ropes from the boy's extremities, then lit and positioned the remaining matches around the two teenagers on the twin bed. As he left his bedroom for the last time, he looked back at the growing blaze. "Yeah. Good times," he said, shrugging, and closed the door behind him.
"What are you doing?"
Mark slapped his face, the pasty blood from Daniel's mouth decorating the wall.
"Mark-"
He slapped him again.
"Dude-"
Mark unclasped his straight razor, held up Daniel's shirt by the collar and sliced it down the middle.
"Where's Maggie?"
Mark nodded. Daniel's eyes widened as he strained against the ropes strapped around his wrists and ankles, his torso writhing against the lifeless body beneath him. "Fuck-"
Mark relieved Daniel of his jeans and briefs with the razor and grabbed the boy's penis. It seemed even larger than the last time he'd sat on it. He put the razor to its base, his own erection trying its best to fill with more blood.
"No. Mark, why are you doing this? I love you-"
"There's no such thing as love-"
"Yes, there is-"
"Ha! You wouldn't know what love was if it fucking walked up to you and raped you as good as I raped her-"
"Mark-"
"What?"
"How'd you finish it?"
"Your favorite-"
"Oh." Daniel's pants lessened in frequency. "Do me the same way-"
Mark squeezed Daniel's limp penis in his hand and brought the straight razor to rest firmly on the hole on its tip. With a sigh, he dragged the smeared metal through its length till his knuckles were firmly ensconced against Daniel's scrotum and the small bedroom was thick with the boy's whimpering.
"You son of a bitch. I fucking hate you. I hope you die." Daniel gasped three or 4 times, the blood of his gums rattling in his throat. "You've got the smallest fucking dick in the world-"
"Hilaaaarious," said Mark. And he stuffed an enormous wad of toilet paper into Daniel's mouth. He squeezed the boy's nostrils together until the bed began to shake with violence, then he let go and lit a cigarette, gently placing the match on the mound of toilet paper. As the fire reached Daniel's lips, Mark threw his hands on the boy's twisting, veiny neck and pressed until the windpipe relented and all was still in the the room but the blood rushing to his penis.
He gathered up Daniel's teeth, his razor, and his pliers and shoved them into his pocket. With the care of a surgeon, he untied the ropes from the boy's extremities, then lit and positioned the remaining matches around the two teenagers on the twin bed. As he left his bedroom for the last time, he looked back at the growing blaze. "Yeah. Good times," he said, shrugging, and closed the door behind him.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Life's Tough
"Where you been?"
"Um, nowhere-"
"I mean, I haven't seen you in, like, weeks-"
"Yes, you have. At school-"
"Yeah, and all you do is-"
"I've been really busy-"
"Why don't you want to hang out anymore-"
"since we got back from vacation-"
"How was that?"
"Okay. Just me and my parents-"
"Cool-"
"Yeah, listen, I gots to go-"
"Who's that?"
"Who's that?"
"Who fucking is it?" Mark squeezed the cordless till he could no longer hear it cracking and creaking in his numb fingers.
"Dude, it's Maggie-"
"Maggie? Who?"
"Maggie Lolley-"
"What's she doing there?"
"Um, we're going out-"
"Where?"
"I mean, we're going with each other-"
"Where?"
"Like boyfriend and girlfriend-"
"Oh-" Mark's grip on the cordless loosened. So much that he almost dropped it. A pressure, like that of a vise on a delinquent druggie's fingers, formed behind his eyes, forcing them to swell. "Fuck-" His voice broke.
"Mark-"
"What?"
"Don't be like this, man-"
"Like what?"
"You know-"
"Fuck-"
"Come on, Mark-"
"Fuck, man-"
"You knew-"
"Fuck-" Mark pushed the OFF button and threw the phone on his New York Giants-clad bed. He wiped his eyes and sat down at his desk, vacuuming a wad of thick, salty snot down the back of his throat as he snatched the stained straight razor out of the drawer. Slowly, he pulled it across the paper-thin skin of his veiny forearm until he couldn't feel anything but a familiar tightening in his groin-
Fucking Maggie Lolley, the whore. Walking down the hallway, her ass an upside-down heart pillow stuffed in a pair of jeans meant for a girl half her size, her floppy breasts two shivering ghosts of the woman she thought she was but would never be. All he'd ever wanted to do was hold her down and force sex on her. But now. "Fuck-"
He licked the razor, then bent down and put his mouth over the welcome gash in his forearm, a close facsimile of the one on his other arm. And his thigh. And his ass. And his neck. And his other thigh. And his-
As he slurped in silence, he stared at the spots on the carpet under him, lonely red raindrops in a desert of beige shag carpet. From under his brow, he glanced up at the picture of Claude on his desk, framed in a piece of cheap, plastic wood engraved with the words 'In Memoriam,' and began to laugh, his lips pasted with his own warm, sticky blood, his underwear absorbing the pre-ejaculate slipping out of the hole in his penis.
"Um, nowhere-"
"I mean, I haven't seen you in, like, weeks-"
"Yes, you have. At school-"
"Yeah, and all you do is-"
"I've been really busy-"
"Why don't you want to hang out anymore-"
"since we got back from vacation-"
"How was that?"
"Okay. Just me and my parents-"
"Cool-"
"Yeah, listen, I gots to go-"
"Who's that?"
"Who's that?"
"Who fucking is it?" Mark squeezed the cordless till he could no longer hear it cracking and creaking in his numb fingers.
"Dude, it's Maggie-"
"Maggie? Who?"
"Maggie Lolley-"
"What's she doing there?"
"Um, we're going out-"
"Where?"
"I mean, we're going with each other-"
"Where?"
"Like boyfriend and girlfriend-"
"Oh-" Mark's grip on the cordless loosened. So much that he almost dropped it. A pressure, like that of a vise on a delinquent druggie's fingers, formed behind his eyes, forcing them to swell. "Fuck-" His voice broke.
"Mark-"
"What?"
"Don't be like this, man-"
"Like what?"
"You know-"
"Fuck-"
"Come on, Mark-"
"Fuck, man-"
"You knew-"
"Fuck-" Mark pushed the OFF button and threw the phone on his New York Giants-clad bed. He wiped his eyes and sat down at his desk, vacuuming a wad of thick, salty snot down the back of his throat as he snatched the stained straight razor out of the drawer. Slowly, he pulled it across the paper-thin skin of his veiny forearm until he couldn't feel anything but a familiar tightening in his groin-
Fucking Maggie Lolley, the whore. Walking down the hallway, her ass an upside-down heart pillow stuffed in a pair of jeans meant for a girl half her size, her floppy breasts two shivering ghosts of the woman she thought she was but would never be. All he'd ever wanted to do was hold her down and force sex on her. But now. "Fuck-"
He licked the razor, then bent down and put his mouth over the welcome gash in his forearm, a close facsimile of the one on his other arm. And his thigh. And his ass. And his neck. And his other thigh. And his-
As he slurped in silence, he stared at the spots on the carpet under him, lonely red raindrops in a desert of beige shag carpet. From under his brow, he glanced up at the picture of Claude on his desk, framed in a piece of cheap, plastic wood engraved with the words 'In Memoriam,' and began to laugh, his lips pasted with his own warm, sticky blood, his underwear absorbing the pre-ejaculate slipping out of the hole in his penis.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Arsenic, No Lace
Mark lay in his twin bed, Daniel's head in the crook of his armpit, his leg looped over Daniel's, watching Spongebob Squarepants. At each commercial, he put his nose into the thickness of Daniel's mud-brown hair and inhaled deeply the tincture of shampoo he'd smelled so many times over the last 4 years. Puppies' entrails. Side of beef. Asshole. Licked clean. Growing cocks. Blood from an unused vagina. Five year-old balls ripped to shreds. But yet. It was always there. The scent. He kissed Daniel's head as the cartoon returned-
Thwick.
Before Mark could realize he'd forgotten to lock the door, Claude's beige, rocky knuckles were bruising his left cheek. The man grabbed Daniel's arm and put the boy to his feet with one jerk of his wrist. "Get!" Claude locked the door behind him and unbuckled his belt. "That's what I thought-" He unzipped his baggy, stained work slacks and stepped out of them, his two-tone erection bouncing. "We ain't gonna have no faggot shit in this house. You hear me, boy?"
Claude grabbed Mark, turned him over, and pulled his pants and underwear to his knees in one motion. He spit in his ass crack, smeared it with the tip of his hard-on and pushed his way into his rectum, his forearm against the back of the boy's shaking neck. He pistoned 3 or 4 lengths of his dick in and out and came in the bottom of Mark's torn guts. At the door, he turned back to the prostrate boy. "Remember, no faggot shit in this house-"
Mark pulled up his pants and locked the door, then resumed his place on the bed. He wiped his eyes, trying to extinguish the fire in anus. Daniel, oh Daniel. That scent. Where? Mama. Her belly. The floor. Handcuffs. 9mm. Her temple. Pull it. Pull it. Pull it. You fucking pussy. Pull it. Orange. Jumpsuit. Mama.
Mark awoke and looked at his digital clock. 1:45. In socked feet, he unlocked the door and slid-shuffled his way to the tiny, broken kitchen downstairs without a sound. He reached into the refrigerator and grabbed the large porcelain bowl with the masking tape on it that read, "Claude. Keep Out." Then he pulled out a heavy box from under the sink, the only visible image on it in the dark a large rat with X's for eyes, and dumped its contents into the bowl. Slowly, he mixed it in with a wooden spoon on the counter top, then replaced the items and made his way back upstairs, the match stick of pain in his anus a distant memory, the scent of Daniel suddenly coming to his brain from his top puckered lip.
Thwick.
Before Mark could realize he'd forgotten to lock the door, Claude's beige, rocky knuckles were bruising his left cheek. The man grabbed Daniel's arm and put the boy to his feet with one jerk of his wrist. "Get!" Claude locked the door behind him and unbuckled his belt. "That's what I thought-" He unzipped his baggy, stained work slacks and stepped out of them, his two-tone erection bouncing. "We ain't gonna have no faggot shit in this house. You hear me, boy?"
Claude grabbed Mark, turned him over, and pulled his pants and underwear to his knees in one motion. He spit in his ass crack, smeared it with the tip of his hard-on and pushed his way into his rectum, his forearm against the back of the boy's shaking neck. He pistoned 3 or 4 lengths of his dick in and out and came in the bottom of Mark's torn guts. At the door, he turned back to the prostrate boy. "Remember, no faggot shit in this house-"
Mark pulled up his pants and locked the door, then resumed his place on the bed. He wiped his eyes, trying to extinguish the fire in anus. Daniel, oh Daniel. That scent. Where? Mama. Her belly. The floor. Handcuffs. 9mm. Her temple. Pull it. Pull it. Pull it. You fucking pussy. Pull it. Orange. Jumpsuit. Mama.
Mark awoke and looked at his digital clock. 1:45. In socked feet, he unlocked the door and slid-shuffled his way to the tiny, broken kitchen downstairs without a sound. He reached into the refrigerator and grabbed the large porcelain bowl with the masking tape on it that read, "Claude. Keep Out." Then he pulled out a heavy box from under the sink, the only visible image on it in the dark a large rat with X's for eyes, and dumped its contents into the bowl. Slowly, he mixed it in with a wooden spoon on the counter top, then replaced the items and made his way back upstairs, the match stick of pain in his anus a distant memory, the scent of Daniel suddenly coming to his brain from his top puckered lip.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Backdraft
The pencil was in his face before he had a chance to bend down and grab it off the floor. He took it. And looked at the boy on the other end of it. "Thanks," said Mark.
"You're welcome." The boy smiled.
All the blood in Mark's heart rushed into his brain, throbbing in waves against the inside of his skull. He smiled. For the first time all school year, he smiled. Then nodded and looked down to the paper on his desk, his eyes flitting to the side to catch a glimpse of the boy's Air Jordans as they walked away. And the blood refused to flow, it just ebbed and ebbed and ebbed and Daniel Riley and Daniel Riley and Daniel Riley Daniel RileyDanielRileyDanielRiley-
The school bell rang and the children got into line and followed their teacher, a small, freckled black woman in an ill-fitting green dress, out to the playground, little groups forming as their feet hit the sand and taking off to this set of monkey bars or that sliding board or some other metal apparatus offering a break from the forced air-conditioned homogeneity of the classroom. Mark took up his usual spot on the far end of the playground, balancing himself on a short beam of wood that helped close in the fun of the other children.
"Hey-"
Mark turned and quickly looked down, sucking a silent breath into his lungs. "Hey-"
"You wanna see something?"
Mark nodded. "What?"
"Come here-" Daniel jumped up on the beam, looked around a few times, and took off, one foot in front of the other, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Mark followed, his legs bloodless, numb, floating Daniel Riley Daniel RileyDanielRileyDanielRiley-
Daniel stopped at the bottom of a small but steep brush-lined dip just past the playground, from which they could see only the tops of the rocking swingsets. He turned around and held out his hand. Mark glanced down, then up into Daniel's blue eyes, the irises of which were outlined by deep black rings, and giggled. Daniel's dimples appeared as Mark took the match box from his hand, his chest heavy with forced breathing, and opened it, spilling the matches into his hand.
Zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet
The brush caught fire on the 17th match, and the two boys ran back up to the playground, pushing each other back and forth with their shoulders and laughing. As they joined the rest of the class marching in single-file back into the red-brick building they would call home during the day for the next 5 years, they looked back and saw the first visible tips of the conflagration shoot above the playground. Mark put up his small hand and Daniel met it with his in the few inches of space between their grinning faces.
"You're welcome." The boy smiled.
All the blood in Mark's heart rushed into his brain, throbbing in waves against the inside of his skull. He smiled. For the first time all school year, he smiled. Then nodded and looked down to the paper on his desk, his eyes flitting to the side to catch a glimpse of the boy's Air Jordans as they walked away. And the blood refused to flow, it just ebbed and ebbed and ebbed and Daniel Riley and Daniel Riley and Daniel Riley Daniel RileyDanielRileyDanielRiley-
The school bell rang and the children got into line and followed their teacher, a small, freckled black woman in an ill-fitting green dress, out to the playground, little groups forming as their feet hit the sand and taking off to this set of monkey bars or that sliding board or some other metal apparatus offering a break from the forced air-conditioned homogeneity of the classroom. Mark took up his usual spot on the far end of the playground, balancing himself on a short beam of wood that helped close in the fun of the other children.
"Hey-"
Mark turned and quickly looked down, sucking a silent breath into his lungs. "Hey-"
"You wanna see something?"
Mark nodded. "What?"
"Come here-" Daniel jumped up on the beam, looked around a few times, and took off, one foot in front of the other, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Mark followed, his legs bloodless, numb, floating Daniel Riley Daniel RileyDanielRileyDanielRiley-
Daniel stopped at the bottom of a small but steep brush-lined dip just past the playground, from which they could see only the tops of the rocking swingsets. He turned around and held out his hand. Mark glanced down, then up into Daniel's blue eyes, the irises of which were outlined by deep black rings, and giggled. Daniel's dimples appeared as Mark took the match box from his hand, his chest heavy with forced breathing, and opened it, spilling the matches into his hand.
Zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet zzet
The brush caught fire on the 17th match, and the two boys ran back up to the playground, pushing each other back and forth with their shoulders and laughing. As they joined the rest of the class marching in single-file back into the red-brick building they would call home during the day for the next 5 years, they looked back and saw the first visible tips of the conflagration shoot above the playground. Mark put up his small hand and Daniel met it with his in the few inches of space between their grinning faces.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Zoology 101
Mark put both hands around the body of the tiny, orange tabby he'd found in the woods behind his foster home amongst its 4 dead brothers and sisters and submerged it in the full sink until the bubbles stopped. He wrapped it in a thick, white towel that smelled strongly of chlorine, stuck his head out the bathroom door, looked around several times, then scampered to his bedroom.
Locking the door behind him, he pushed six or seven copies of Spiderman comic books and one well-read copy of Crime and Punishment off his tiny desk and spread the towel open on its surface. He held a ruler along the tabby's length. Six inches from nose to tail-
A knock came on the door. Mark quickly wrapped the tabby in the towel and put it in the top desk drawer. He opened the door. It was Claude, his foster father, a tall, light-skinned black man whose face was hidden behind black and white curly whiskers and whose average-length penis fit effortlessly into Mark's anus when it was properly lubricated with enough saliva.
"What you doing, boy?"
"Homework-"
"All right. I was just checkin on ya." Claude laughed and shook his head. "You got more homework than any first grade kid I know." He shut the door behind him.
Mark locked it and pulled the tabby out of the drawer, along with a stained straight razor Claude had been missing since Mark had been placed in his home six months before. He pulled his shorts and underwear off and leaned back, snapping his arms forward so that his elbows popped, then hunched over the tabby as he drew the razor down its plump belly. As usual, the congealed blood seeped out first, trickling purple over the white-orange fur of the tabby's stomach, followed by the mixed wires of the thing's slimed, fatty innards.
Mark stood up, gathered the guts in his right hand and shoved them back into the carcass. He then slipped his minute erection into the incision and smashed the tabby against his pelvis, his eyes rolling back in his head, a longed-for sigh escaping his lungs, the thought of his only acquaintance at school, a small dark-haired boy with dimples named Daniel Riley, the only occupant of his brain.
Locking the door behind him, he pushed six or seven copies of Spiderman comic books and one well-read copy of Crime and Punishment off his tiny desk and spread the towel open on its surface. He held a ruler along the tabby's length. Six inches from nose to tail-
A knock came on the door. Mark quickly wrapped the tabby in the towel and put it in the top desk drawer. He opened the door. It was Claude, his foster father, a tall, light-skinned black man whose face was hidden behind black and white curly whiskers and whose average-length penis fit effortlessly into Mark's anus when it was properly lubricated with enough saliva.
"What you doing, boy?"
"Homework-"
"All right. I was just checkin on ya." Claude laughed and shook his head. "You got more homework than any first grade kid I know." He shut the door behind him.
Mark locked it and pulled the tabby out of the drawer, along with a stained straight razor Claude had been missing since Mark had been placed in his home six months before. He pulled his shorts and underwear off and leaned back, snapping his arms forward so that his elbows popped, then hunched over the tabby as he drew the razor down its plump belly. As usual, the congealed blood seeped out first, trickling purple over the white-orange fur of the tabby's stomach, followed by the mixed wires of the thing's slimed, fatty innards.
Mark stood up, gathered the guts in his right hand and shoved them back into the carcass. He then slipped his minute erection into the incision and smashed the tabby against his pelvis, his eyes rolling back in his head, a longed-for sigh escaping his lungs, the thought of his only acquaintance at school, a small dark-haired boy with dimples named Daniel Riley, the only occupant of his brain.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Etymology
A chubby, wrinkled woman with bleach-blonde curly hair and enormous breasts sat across the desk from Mark and his mother, looking at a sheet of paper Sarah had given her moments earlier. "Honey, half the kids here are on court order."
"Oh-"
The woman looked at Mark, then at his mother. "He's adorable."
"Thank you-"
"He'll get along just fine here-"
"The state's paying for it-"
"Yes."
"Until I get back on my feet-"
"That's what we're here for." The woman handed the paper back to Sarah, her large breasts covering half the desk as she leaned forward. She picked up her pen. "We're open 24 hours, so we can provide all the care you need-"
"I work 7:30 to 4:00 with Wednesdays and Sundays off-"
The woman scribbled on her pad. "Do you have transportation?"
"Yes."
Scribble. "Will Mark be bringing his lunch-"
"No-"
Scribble. "Is he on a regular napping schedule?"
"No-"
Scribble. "Does he know his ABC's?"
"Yes."
Scribble. "Does he know his numbers?"
"Yes. He can count to a million-"
Scribble. "Can he spell his name?"
"Yes. He can read and write-"
"Really?" Scribble, scribble, scribble. "That's something else at that age-"
"But he can't talk-"
"Huh?"
"He can't talk-"
"What do you mean?"
"He's never said a word-"
"How about his hearing-"
"Everything's fine, he's been to the doctor and everything checks out-"
Scribble, scribble, scribble, scribble. The woman laid down her pen and sat back in her chair, the nipples of her humongous breasts casting shadows over the edge of the desk. "I'm not being smart, but if he's never said a word, how do you know that he knows his ABC's-"
"He points-"
"And reading and writing-"
Sarah reached over and grabbed the lady's pen and yellow notepad and handed them to Mark. "Write your name-" She slid the pad over to the woman when Mark was finished.
The woman looked at the pad, then at Mark. "Okay." She nodded, wide-eyed, her crow's feet smoothing, and turned her eyes to Sarah. "Forgive me. I'm sure you can understand-"
"No problem. Don't worry about it."
The woman looked at her watch. "Well, you're going to be late getting back to work if I keep you any longer. I'll take this fine young man to the activity center so he can meet his new friends before nap time."
Sarah got up and shook the woman's hand, then rubbed the thin blonde hair on Mark's head back and forth a few times. "Mama'll be back to get you at 4."
Mark adjusted his Batman backpack with a wiggle of his slight shoulders and followed the big woman down the tiled hallway, marveling at the width and density of her jiggling ass, packed tight and lumpy in a pair of stretch pants much too small. They stopped inside a door that opened upon a large room, the floor of which was littered with children, desk-chairs, yoga mats, and toys. Mark stood under the woman's breasts, shaded from the fluorescent lights overhead and nodded slightly to himself. The woman picked up a bell from the largest desk in the room and rang it, the children scattered about the place looking up at its sound. "Children, this is Mark. He's new and I want you to give him a hearty welcome."
"Hi, Mark," rang out a chorus of high-pitched voices.
A young woman, tall and slender, her brown-streaked blonde hair pulled back tight in a pony tail, came over to Mark. She held out her hand. Mark took it. "Hi, Mark, I'm Ms. Cleary. I'm the leader of this activity center. I want to welcome you." She looked up at the fat woman, then back down to Mark, smiling. "Give me your backpack and go join the other children. They're very nice. Don't be scared. It's almost nap time."
Mark watched as the woman opened a closet door behind her and hung his backpack on a hook inside; the little room had no light and seemed limitless in width and length. When the woman touched his shoulder, Mark made his way to a yoga mat and sat down. He watched as the the two women whispered to one another, their eyes widening and narrowing, their heads nodding toward him now and then, until the obese woman left.
The bell rang again - this time, it was the young woman ringing it. "Nap time." At this, the children put down their toys, pencils, crayons, paint brushes, and scissors and made their ways to the twenty or so mats arrayed in a circle in the center of the room. As the woman turned off the lights, all the children lay down, including Mark.
But he couldn't sleep. He'd never taken a nap in his short life. He'd never slept more than five hours on any given night. So he turned on his side and stared at the dozing boy next to him. A wisp of brown hair tumbled over the boy's forehead towards his turned-up nose. His eyelashes were as long as his perfectly-formed lips were full. Every few seconds, his nostrils expanded with an inhalation, then found their regular shape with a corresponding exhalation that had no scent.
A loud snore reverberated throughout the room and Mark sat up. He looked at the large dark-brown desk near the door: the young woman was behind it, her feet on the desk, her head stretched back over her chair, her small breasts heaving with sleep. After a quick survey of the room and the rest of its occupants, Mark leaned over and put his hand on his neighbor's shoulder, shaking him.
The boy's eyes popped open and he giggled. Mark put a finger to his lips and stood up. He reached his hand out to the boy, who took it and got up. Mark led the boy to the closet, opened the door carefully, and pushed him in. As he closed the door behind them, the room became pitch black, save for a sliver of dim light under the bottom of the door.
"What-"
Mark put his finger to the boy's lips and slowly dropped to his knees, digging his fingers into the waistband of the boy's shorts and underwear. He pulled them down and put his mouth on the half-inch of warm, pee-stained flesh that protruded from the boy's pelvis, rolling his tongue swiftly as he sucked in and out vigorously, the tiny holes of his nose stretching with breath-
The boy let out an animal cry as Mark bit down at the sound of the cracking door behind him. He turned and looked up, his tiny mouth smeared red with blood, and saw the young woman glaring down at him, her eyes the size of half-dollars. He opened his mouth and the boy's penis fell to the floor.
"Fuck," said Mark.
"Oh-"
The woman looked at Mark, then at his mother. "He's adorable."
"Thank you-"
"He'll get along just fine here-"
"The state's paying for it-"
"Yes."
"Until I get back on my feet-"
"That's what we're here for." The woman handed the paper back to Sarah, her large breasts covering half the desk as she leaned forward. She picked up her pen. "We're open 24 hours, so we can provide all the care you need-"
"I work 7:30 to 4:00 with Wednesdays and Sundays off-"
The woman scribbled on her pad. "Do you have transportation?"
"Yes."
Scribble. "Will Mark be bringing his lunch-"
"No-"
Scribble. "Is he on a regular napping schedule?"
"No-"
Scribble. "Does he know his ABC's?"
"Yes."
Scribble. "Does he know his numbers?"
"Yes. He can count to a million-"
Scribble. "Can he spell his name?"
"Yes. He can read and write-"
"Really?" Scribble, scribble, scribble. "That's something else at that age-"
"But he can't talk-"
"Huh?"
"He can't talk-"
"What do you mean?"
"He's never said a word-"
"How about his hearing-"
"Everything's fine, he's been to the doctor and everything checks out-"
Scribble, scribble, scribble, scribble. The woman laid down her pen and sat back in her chair, the nipples of her humongous breasts casting shadows over the edge of the desk. "I'm not being smart, but if he's never said a word, how do you know that he knows his ABC's-"
"He points-"
"And reading and writing-"
Sarah reached over and grabbed the lady's pen and yellow notepad and handed them to Mark. "Write your name-" She slid the pad over to the woman when Mark was finished.
The woman looked at the pad, then at Mark. "Okay." She nodded, wide-eyed, her crow's feet smoothing, and turned her eyes to Sarah. "Forgive me. I'm sure you can understand-"
"No problem. Don't worry about it."
The woman looked at her watch. "Well, you're going to be late getting back to work if I keep you any longer. I'll take this fine young man to the activity center so he can meet his new friends before nap time."
Sarah got up and shook the woman's hand, then rubbed the thin blonde hair on Mark's head back and forth a few times. "Mama'll be back to get you at 4."
Mark adjusted his Batman backpack with a wiggle of his slight shoulders and followed the big woman down the tiled hallway, marveling at the width and density of her jiggling ass, packed tight and lumpy in a pair of stretch pants much too small. They stopped inside a door that opened upon a large room, the floor of which was littered with children, desk-chairs, yoga mats, and toys. Mark stood under the woman's breasts, shaded from the fluorescent lights overhead and nodded slightly to himself. The woman picked up a bell from the largest desk in the room and rang it, the children scattered about the place looking up at its sound. "Children, this is Mark. He's new and I want you to give him a hearty welcome."
"Hi, Mark," rang out a chorus of high-pitched voices.
A young woman, tall and slender, her brown-streaked blonde hair pulled back tight in a pony tail, came over to Mark. She held out her hand. Mark took it. "Hi, Mark, I'm Ms. Cleary. I'm the leader of this activity center. I want to welcome you." She looked up at the fat woman, then back down to Mark, smiling. "Give me your backpack and go join the other children. They're very nice. Don't be scared. It's almost nap time."
Mark watched as the woman opened a closet door behind her and hung his backpack on a hook inside; the little room had no light and seemed limitless in width and length. When the woman touched his shoulder, Mark made his way to a yoga mat and sat down. He watched as the the two women whispered to one another, their eyes widening and narrowing, their heads nodding toward him now and then, until the obese woman left.
The bell rang again - this time, it was the young woman ringing it. "Nap time." At this, the children put down their toys, pencils, crayons, paint brushes, and scissors and made their ways to the twenty or so mats arrayed in a circle in the center of the room. As the woman turned off the lights, all the children lay down, including Mark.
But he couldn't sleep. He'd never taken a nap in his short life. He'd never slept more than five hours on any given night. So he turned on his side and stared at the dozing boy next to him. A wisp of brown hair tumbled over the boy's forehead towards his turned-up nose. His eyelashes were as long as his perfectly-formed lips were full. Every few seconds, his nostrils expanded with an inhalation, then found their regular shape with a corresponding exhalation that had no scent.
A loud snore reverberated throughout the room and Mark sat up. He looked at the large dark-brown desk near the door: the young woman was behind it, her feet on the desk, her head stretched back over her chair, her small breasts heaving with sleep. After a quick survey of the room and the rest of its occupants, Mark leaned over and put his hand on his neighbor's shoulder, shaking him.
The boy's eyes popped open and he giggled. Mark put a finger to his lips and stood up. He reached his hand out to the boy, who took it and got up. Mark led the boy to the closet, opened the door carefully, and pushed him in. As he closed the door behind them, the room became pitch black, save for a sliver of dim light under the bottom of the door.
"What-"
Mark put his finger to the boy's lips and slowly dropped to his knees, digging his fingers into the waistband of the boy's shorts and underwear. He pulled them down and put his mouth on the half-inch of warm, pee-stained flesh that protruded from the boy's pelvis, rolling his tongue swiftly as he sucked in and out vigorously, the tiny holes of his nose stretching with breath-
The boy let out an animal cry as Mark bit down at the sound of the cracking door behind him. He turned and looked up, his tiny mouth smeared red with blood, and saw the young woman glaring down at him, her eyes the size of half-dollars. He opened his mouth and the boy's penis fell to the floor.
"Fuck," said Mark.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Effluvia
sed sed sed sed sed sed sed sed sed sed
Mark snorted a rubbery ball of thick snot back up into his sinuses and with a quick pull of the back of his throat, swallowed his third such meal of the day. He pushed the bare, plastic crotches of the dolls - two boys - together with more force, the backs of his chubby hands whitening, and resumed rubbing them back and forth against one another with greater ferocity.
sedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsed
When his tiny wrists grew tired, he stopped and put his forefingers to the hot mons pubis of each genital-less doll, and smiled at the searing heat. "Hoo." He re-positioned the dolls and recommenced playing as the door to the lone bedroom opened and the last man, a white man, the only he'd seen all day but one he'd seen before, walked out.
sedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsed
The man - close to 30, anorexic thin, hair the color of mud, eyes the color of an outdated computer screen - stood over Mark and looked down upon the oblivious boy. He crossed his arms, both of which were tattoed, one with a cross that was upside down when he raised his arm above his head, the other with burst veins, and stroked each with his opposite hand. He hovered for another minute, his bottom lip forcing itself out until he finally reached down and stroked the little blonde hairs of Mark's head. "Take care of yourself, you little fucker," he whispered, then made his way quickly out the front door.
Mark dropped his dolls with a hiss as he heard the door snap shut. He stood up, using the glass table, straightening his legs until his knees hyperextended to forget their crampedness. He saw the flashing light of his mother's TV through the open bedroom door. He put a hand to his stomach, then slid it around to his back, forcing a finger into his diaper and deep into his crack, digging against his anus with quick flips of his soft nail. Carefully bringing his hand to his mouth, he sucked his finger between his lips and swirled his tongue around it several times until it was clean and he was full.
"Mark, baby-"
He made his way around the rocker and into the bedroom he shared with his mother. She lay in the center of her empty bed, head propped against the wall behind her, knees drawn up and far apart. "Come up here with mama-"
The boy climbed onto the end of the bed, which rested on the floor without the benefit of a bed frame, and crawled to his mother, his knees smearing the brick-brown puddle on the sheet between her legs as he made his way up her unclothed body. She held him close. "Mama's had a rough time this last hour or two. You gotta take care of mama now-" Sarah put her hand to the top of his head and gently pushed him back down between her legs until his wide-eyed, hungry face was in the slush of stain that rested just beneath her hairless labia.
Mark snorted a rubbery ball of thick snot back up into his sinuses and with a quick pull of the back of his throat, swallowed his third such meal of the day. He pushed the bare, plastic crotches of the dolls - two boys - together with more force, the backs of his chubby hands whitening, and resumed rubbing them back and forth against one another with greater ferocity.
sedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsed
When his tiny wrists grew tired, he stopped and put his forefingers to the hot mons pubis of each genital-less doll, and smiled at the searing heat. "Hoo." He re-positioned the dolls and recommenced playing as the door to the lone bedroom opened and the last man, a white man, the only he'd seen all day but one he'd seen before, walked out.
sedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsedsed
The man - close to 30, anorexic thin, hair the color of mud, eyes the color of an outdated computer screen - stood over Mark and looked down upon the oblivious boy. He crossed his arms, both of which were tattoed, one with a cross that was upside down when he raised his arm above his head, the other with burst veins, and stroked each with his opposite hand. He hovered for another minute, his bottom lip forcing itself out until he finally reached down and stroked the little blonde hairs of Mark's head. "Take care of yourself, you little fucker," he whispered, then made his way quickly out the front door.
Mark dropped his dolls with a hiss as he heard the door snap shut. He stood up, using the glass table, straightening his legs until his knees hyperextended to forget their crampedness. He saw the flashing light of his mother's TV through the open bedroom door. He put a hand to his stomach, then slid it around to his back, forcing a finger into his diaper and deep into his crack, digging against his anus with quick flips of his soft nail. Carefully bringing his hand to his mouth, he sucked his finger between his lips and swirled his tongue around it several times until it was clean and he was full.
"Mark, baby-"
He made his way around the rocker and into the bedroom he shared with his mother. She lay in the center of her empty bed, head propped against the wall behind her, knees drawn up and far apart. "Come up here with mama-"
The boy climbed onto the end of the bed, which rested on the floor without the benefit of a bed frame, and crawled to his mother, his knees smearing the brick-brown puddle on the sheet between her legs as he made his way up her unclothed body. She held him close. "Mama's had a rough time this last hour or two. You gotta take care of mama now-" Sarah put her hand to the top of his head and gently pushed him back down between her legs until his wide-eyed, hungry face was in the slush of stain that rested just beneath her hairless labia.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Christening
Ruth looked across the cluttered living room to the baby's mother, her best friend, Sarah. "Well, you've got to name him something-"
"I've got the last name." Sarah laughed as she steadied the pipe against her dry lips and put the flame to its end. She inhaled deeply, her eyes widening to a size to which they were accustomed to enlarging several times a day, her lungs clenching the smoke as tight and long as she could stand the searing, massaging pain, her brain a 30-second orgasm of crack. When she finally exhaled, she dropped the pipe and lighter on the tiny glass table in front of her and lay back. "He is a cute little fucker, ain't he?"
"He's a fucking doll baby, girl."
"Well, I had a name all picked out-"
"For a fucking girl-"
"They told me it was a girl-"
"How can fucking doctors be so wrong-"
"They couldn't see his dick. It's so-"
"He's nothing like your brother then-"
"His father-" Sarah cleared her throat.
"Whatever-"
"Anyway, they said that happens a lot, when he grows up, it'll be normal." Sarah nodded towards her son, who was couched in the crook of Ruth’s right arm. "It looks like he's finished-"
Ruth pulled the steel mesh nipple - the only they could find that the child couldn't bite through - from the boy's slender lips, which continued to pucker in and out furiously, and held up the bottle. "Yep. What's that, number fucking five today?"
"Uh huh-"
"And it's only noon o' fucking clock-" Ruth laid the child on his back on a small, tattered square of fabric next to the tiny table between her and Sarah, the little thing's legs kicking like two meaty hydraulic pumps.
"What can I say? My boy likes to eat. Just like his father." Sarah winked and put her hand between her legs witha a laugh. "Ouch. These fucking stitches hurt my pussy-"
"And your work-"
"Fucking tell me about it. Darryl'll never let me hear the end of it-"
"Fuck Darryl. That nigger's lucky he's alive after what he did-"
"Yeah, you would have done a lot-"
"I can tell you this much, I wouldn't have fucking let him walk out of here without paying me what's mine-"
"Shut up. You don't understand-"
"I do. You're a dumb, scared white bitch-"
"Shut the fuck up-" Sarah's voice was almost a screech.
"Whatever-" Ruth sighed and leaned back into the threadbare leather of the loveseat. "So what are you gonna name him?"
Sarah looked up into the air. "Mark-"
"Mark of the beast?"
"Shut up, bitch-"
"Mark the Apostle?"
"No, bitch." Sarah righted herself and looked into Ruth's yellowed eyes. "After my favorite actor, Mark Hamill-"
"No fucking way-"
"Way-"
Ruth shrugged. "Fucking awesome."
Sarah leaned forward and grabbed the pipe. Then dropped it. She pushed herself back into her broken rocking chair, her eyes fixed on the floor and glued open. "What the fuck?"
Ruth looked down and yelped, pulling her feet up under her.
The baby, his back a lush, wrinkled shade of red, was on his hands and knees, his mouth around the wooden leg of the miniature coffee table, gnawing recklessly.
"Mark!"
The infant's bald head swung around to his mother, his eyes narrowed and full of blood, smearing the blue of his irises. With all the effort in his sinewy body, he pulled himself up the table leg to his feet, legs bowed and trembling. Then darted teeth-first at the shadowy space that was his mother's much-used crotch.
"I've got the last name." Sarah laughed as she steadied the pipe against her dry lips and put the flame to its end. She inhaled deeply, her eyes widening to a size to which they were accustomed to enlarging several times a day, her lungs clenching the smoke as tight and long as she could stand the searing, massaging pain, her brain a 30-second orgasm of crack. When she finally exhaled, she dropped the pipe and lighter on the tiny glass table in front of her and lay back. "He is a cute little fucker, ain't he?"
"He's a fucking doll baby, girl."
"Well, I had a name all picked out-"
"For a fucking girl-"
"They told me it was a girl-"
"How can fucking doctors be so wrong-"
"They couldn't see his dick. It's so-"
"He's nothing like your brother then-"
"His father-" Sarah cleared her throat.
"Whatever-"
"Anyway, they said that happens a lot, when he grows up, it'll be normal." Sarah nodded towards her son, who was couched in the crook of Ruth’s right arm. "It looks like he's finished-"
Ruth pulled the steel mesh nipple - the only they could find that the child couldn't bite through - from the boy's slender lips, which continued to pucker in and out furiously, and held up the bottle. "Yep. What's that, number fucking five today?"
"Uh huh-"
"And it's only noon o' fucking clock-" Ruth laid the child on his back on a small, tattered square of fabric next to the tiny table between her and Sarah, the little thing's legs kicking like two meaty hydraulic pumps.
"What can I say? My boy likes to eat. Just like his father." Sarah winked and put her hand between her legs witha a laugh. "Ouch. These fucking stitches hurt my pussy-"
"And your work-"
"Fucking tell me about it. Darryl'll never let me hear the end of it-"
"Fuck Darryl. That nigger's lucky he's alive after what he did-"
"Yeah, you would have done a lot-"
"I can tell you this much, I wouldn't have fucking let him walk out of here without paying me what's mine-"
"Shut up. You don't understand-"
"I do. You're a dumb, scared white bitch-"
"Shut the fuck up-" Sarah's voice was almost a screech.
"Whatever-" Ruth sighed and leaned back into the threadbare leather of the loveseat. "So what are you gonna name him?"
Sarah looked up into the air. "Mark-"
"Mark of the beast?"
"Shut up, bitch-"
"Mark the Apostle?"
"No, bitch." Sarah righted herself and looked into Ruth's yellowed eyes. "After my favorite actor, Mark Hamill-"
"No fucking way-"
"Way-"
Ruth shrugged. "Fucking awesome."
Sarah leaned forward and grabbed the pipe. Then dropped it. She pushed herself back into her broken rocking chair, her eyes fixed on the floor and glued open. "What the fuck?"
Ruth looked down and yelped, pulling her feet up under her.
The baby, his back a lush, wrinkled shade of red, was on his hands and knees, his mouth around the wooden leg of the miniature coffee table, gnawing recklessly.
"Mark!"
The infant's bald head swung around to his mother, his eyes narrowed and full of blood, smearing the blue of his irises. With all the effort in his sinewy body, he pulled himself up the table leg to his feet, legs bowed and trembling. Then darted teeth-first at the shadowy space that was his mother's much-used crotch.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Egress
Ha coo
gloop bloop bloop gloop bloop bloop bloop bllllloooopppp
pffpfpfppfpfpfppfpfpffharummmphhh nnnmm..dll.d...dlloos oolsllll
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppppppp
The birth was silent. Silent in that the creature, an infant human male, made no sound. Its eyes were wide, bloodshot, free of the detritus of the womb. The slit beneath the protruding dot of flesh marked by two opening and closing holes, wrinkled itself into misshapen, unrecognizable figures of agony.
The doctor, a man in his fifties and completely hidden behind the olive curtain of his uniform, handed the child to his mother, resting its smooth, reddened back just beneath her breasts. Before she could look down to gaze in her firstborn's eyes, its mouth was on her teat, suctioning furiously- She screamed, her throat's veins visible to all in the room. "Get it off!"
The nurse to the woman's left gently grabbed the babe under its arms and tugged. And tugged some more. And some more. Another set of hands latched around the child's squirming waist, swelling with the might of the doctor's effort. A few more minutes and the creature finally surrendered his mother's bloody, rent nipple with a plop.
The doctor, drenched in salted sweat, held the infant at arm's length above his head and stared into its blue, engorged face. In the little black cave that was its lipless mouth, the man espied what must have been 30 or 40 of the smallest, sharpest teeth he'd ever seen.
gloop bloop bloop gloop bloop bloop bloop bllllloooopppp
pffpfpfppfpfpfppfpfpffharummmphhh nnnmm..dll.d...dlloos oolsllll
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppppppp
The birth was silent. Silent in that the creature, an infant human male, made no sound. Its eyes were wide, bloodshot, free of the detritus of the womb. The slit beneath the protruding dot of flesh marked by two opening and closing holes, wrinkled itself into misshapen, unrecognizable figures of agony.
The doctor, a man in his fifties and completely hidden behind the olive curtain of his uniform, handed the child to his mother, resting its smooth, reddened back just beneath her breasts. Before she could look down to gaze in her firstborn's eyes, its mouth was on her teat, suctioning furiously- She screamed, her throat's veins visible to all in the room. "Get it off!"
The nurse to the woman's left gently grabbed the babe under its arms and tugged. And tugged some more. And some more. Another set of hands latched around the child's squirming waist, swelling with the might of the doctor's effort. A few more minutes and the creature finally surrendered his mother's bloody, rent nipple with a plop.
The doctor, drenched in salted sweat, held the infant at arm's length above his head and stared into its blue, engorged face. In the little black cave that was its lipless mouth, the man espied what must have been 30 or 40 of the smallest, sharpest teeth he'd ever seen.
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