The Writer and the Box

The box was heavy. Much heavier than it looked, considering its size. At least 10 lbs. He looked at the returned address and recognized the name and address instantly. Ah, the little devil. He said a quick "Merci" to the man behind the counter and made his way up the three flights of stairs and down the endless hallway till he came to his door. Sacking the box and the other 50 or so rubber-banded letters from family, friends, and fans under one arm, he teethed out a key from the several on his keychain and keyed the door. Unsucessful, he tried another. Then another. Until he was in the living area 3 feet away.

He piled the letters on the corner of his desk. Then inspected the box once more, ignoring the "Fragile" warning on the side as he turned it over several times and shook it. He laid it on the desk and grabbed his letter opener. The one with the devil's head on the end he'd been given by another fan so long ago. He stopped. Nah, he couldn't open it just yet. Had to wait for the boyfriend to get home because there was usually something in there for him too. They liked to be surprised together. Or at least his boyfriend did.

He pushed the box to the back of the desk and looked at his computer. FUCK! He'd forgotten to publish his blog post. It had been hours since he'd finished it, the masses would be wailing. He laughed at the thought because he knew that he was the only one who'd be wailing about its lateness. He clicked the mouse and signed out, then made his way over to the window, which he opened on the brisk Paris afternoon. The wind wasn't blowing in, so he got out a cigarette and inched closer to the window, his head half out as he smoked.

He heard the kids playing soccer down the lane, so he moved a little bit closer and stuck his head out a little farther. He wanted to play soccer. He wished he was 10 again so he could go out and play with them. Fuck, he'd do it at his age, but all the people who didn't already think he was a perv would think he was and those who were sure he was a perv would just find it to be further confirmation that he was. Fuck people, he thought. He just wanted to play soccer. Or at least kick something really hard. Like Mussolini's head. How much fun must that have been kicking that old fucker's head around...

He threw the cigarette butt out the window and closed it. He sniffed around to ensure he wouldn't get caught by his boyfriend later. Taking off his old olive-green coat, he tussled the white hair on his head and sat down at the desk. Wiggled the mouse. Hit a bookmark for his one of his favorite porn sites. Then looked at the box across from him. Fuck it, he could re-tape it.

He stood up, pulled the box to him and grabbed his letter opener. A letter lay on top of whatever was balled up underneath. It contained just a few words:

"Glad we could meet in DC."

Laughing, he fingered the tissue paper apart. And jumped back two steps. "Jesus Christ!" When his panting ceased, he tiptoed to the desk and peered over the side of the box. He shivered. Jesus, no way. Just no way. He pulled the tissue paper farther apart, shoving it down the sides of the thing inside the box. And stared at it. He put a finger to his lips, his eyes looking into his brain for a similar image. Fuck, no way.

He sat down at his computer and did a quick search. Jesus Christ, it was him. But was it real? He knew the answer already because he'd seen too many dead people in his life. With a sigh, he pulled the box onto his lap, then dislodged the man's head from it. He turned it over and over, as if it were a priceless egg, studying its details, the gray hair, the swollen eye-bags, the protruding bottom lip, the glassy eyes - he even thought he could see the anger still residing in the landscape of the man's wrinkled skin.

He sat it on the desk. Moved it around. To where the light would hit it best, most provocatively. There was an incinerator in the basement. But no, he'd decided against that as soon he'd searched the man on the internet. His boyfriend would shit his pants, though. Then again, his boyfriend was always working. By the time he saw it, it'd be just another piece of furniture he'd grown accustomed to. And he'd tell him it was fake, a piece of art from a fan. Or his artist friend down the hall.

He grabbed a sheet of paper and leaned back in his chair, tearing the paper into little bits, which he then balled up and flicked with his middle finger at the face staring at him from God knew where. He laughed and shook his head as a tiny ball of paper lodged itself in one of the man's veiny nostrils. "Goooaaaaaaaaallllllllll!" he whispered.

Bette Meets Her Match

Bette sat upon the little, wooden shelf against the far end of the shack and looked the place over. "Did you build this yourself?"

"No," said Mark. He laughed. "It's been here forever. I used to come here and play by myself as a little boy."

"Weren't you scared?"

Mark shook his head. "I'm not scared of anything." He walked the fifteen or so feet to the door of the shack and dropped the duffel bag that hung from his shoulder onto the floor against the wall. "Though I guess I'm still a little boy. Or at least hung like one." He looked at Bette.

She rolled her eyes and smiled. "Stop it! Right now! You're an adult male. And I told you that doesn't matter at all. It's how you use it."

"Really? Do you really believe that?"

Bette looked away, her color changing from a slight beige to a slighter crimson. "Yes, of course, I believe that. Ask any woman."

"I'm asking you-"

Before Bette could get up, Mark jumped over to her, put his arms around her and squeezed. "I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?"

He let go and leaned against the waist-high table lining the wall. "Did you bring The Sluts?"

"Yep-"

"How do you like it so far?"

Bette's eyes rolled up into her eyelids, searching her brain.

"Huh?"

"Oh, it's good." She nodded, without looking at Mark. "The writing's really good. But it's..."

"What?"

"A bit extreme. I'll just be honest. It's a fine book, but I've had to put it down a few times."

"Does it lack literary merit, do you think?"

"Oh, no, not at all. It's very good."

Mark smiled. Then made his way back to the duffel bag. He stood over it, staring down at its zipper.

"You gonna get out the sleeping bags?" asked Bette, as she lowered her book bag to the floor.

"Actually," said Mark, "I have something for you."

"Oh, Mark-"

"No, no-"

"No, no to you. You didn't have to-"

"Yes, I did." And he picked up the bag once more and set it in Bette's lap. "Go ahead, look inside."

Bette unzipped the bag and spread it open, her long, chestnut hair catching in the zipper for a second. She giggled, then reached inside and pulled out a giant ball of tissue wrapping paper. "Wow, it's heavy."

"Go on, open it-"

With all the care in her tiny fingers, Bette leafed apart the thin folds and pulled them back, finally unmasking her nephew's face. The rotting, scent-less head dropped onto the floor without a bounce, as she let out a scream so loud that no one could hear it but Mark and Dick, who walked up behind Mark, a gallon of gas in one hand, his other hand falling lightly on Mark's shoulder. As Bette's wailing turned into shaking sobs, Mark turned and pecked Dick on the lips. "Perfect timing," he said.

"You told me to come in when she screamed-"

Mark turned and backhanded Dick across the shoulder. "Shut the fuck up, you dumbass-"

"Oh-"

They turned to Bette, who pushed the duffel bag and the rest of her dead nephew onto the floor beneath her. Mark kicked it to the side, then grabbed her book bag and rifled through it until he found the book he'd given her. He thumbed its pages. "You haven't even read a page of this, have you?" he said. When he got no response from the blubbering woman, he snapped a quick punch to her throat, her head whiplashing into the wall behind. "Have you?"

Bette shook her head, swallowing hard. As she regained breath, her body ceased to shake, her limbs steeled themselves, veins rising on her forearms. She shook her hair out of her wet eyes, which she steadied on Mark. "That book fucking sucks, you little-dicked moron," she gasped. "It's not literature, it's not Art, you fucking little twerp. You little kid."

"Life is Art. And everything in it's Art," said Mark. He shook his head, grinning. "Why couldn't you just be honest with me?"

"Fuck you-"

"And why did you make your classes read those shitty books? I mean, really, fucking young adult novels about black kids written by some fucking foreign white guy? Really?"

"I make-"

"Made. Past tense, Bette. You know, you really are a shitty English teacher." Mark giggled. "And not a very good fuck."

"You can't fuck a needle-"

A couple seconds and Mark had the rope in his pocket around Bette's neck, twisting it from behind. His dick hardened as he listened to her moist yelps and felt the force of her kicking legs reverberate through the knotting rope. He slackened his grip when she fell limp and wrapped the rope several times around the large nail in the wall behind her.

"Is she dead?" said Dick. "Because I ain't fucking no dead chick-"

"They're the best, though," said Mark. He laughed at Dick's wide eyes. "No, she's not fucking dead. Jesus Christ, give me some credit."

Dick laughed. Then put down the gas can and jumped out of his clothes as Mark stripped himself and Bette. His semi-hard penis slapped against against his knee, wetting it with pre-cum, as he walked towards Bette's vagina - and Mark, who straddled her stomach and held her legs up and apart.

"You're gonna need to get harder than that," said Mark. At which he hopped down, Bette's feet slamming the ground, and got to his knees. A few deep-throats and what seemed to be a gallon of pre-cum later and Dick was inside Bette up to the hilt, her ankles chafing at his collarbone. As he pumped harder and harder, Bette's eyes slowly opened, then quickly widened. Her mouth opened, the jaws pistoning, but nothing escaped save for a tiny spurt of rasps and a few drops of white spit that pooled on her lips.

Mark walked up from behind Dick and stood beside Bette's rocking body, his rusty razor in one hand, his other grasping the corroded face and scalp of her nephew. "Is that big enough?" he said. He watched Dick's slimy cock go in and out a few more times as he stroked his cock with the fleshy mask. As his chode tightened, he raised up on his tip toes and released his wad across Bette's red, swollen, tear-streaked face. "You know," he said, "you always said you and your nephew looked alike. Well, you're really going to look like each other now." And he stretched the skin of the little boy's head over his aunt's face until he was sure it wouldn't slip off, a chunk tearing off in his hand. He licked the square of leathery flesh, then reached down and fingered it between Bette's clit and Dick's jackhammering cock until it disappeared inside her for good.

As Dick grunted and finally came inside Bette, Mark went through her bag once more, pulling out a copy of Gangbangaz. He sucked out the last of Dick's semen after the latter pulled out, then soaked the book in gasoline, reaching up and wiping the excess that smeared his hand onto Bette's thick cunt, which throbbed open and shut and spit out Dick's come in short bursts. Standing up, he opened the book and ripped out the pages one by one, crumpling then inserting them into Bette's vagina until he couldn't fit any more, at which he laid the book on her belly.

Dick finished pouring the gasoline around the rest of the shack, then he and Mark dressed quickly. Mark stood between Bette's legs, which were turning blue and varicose as they hung off the shelf. "Matches," he said.

"Oh, I got a lighter-"

"Jesus Christ, dude, I said matches! What the fuck? I don't want to catch myself on fire. Duh. Plus, we could've played darts with them-"

"Sorry-"

Mark flicked the lighter and held it at arm's length. As the pages hanging out Bette's cunt caught fire and her legs jutted into the air, her body twisting almost silently on the little shelf, Mark grabbed his copy of The Sluts and headed out the door, Dick on his heels. He squatted at the entrance and put the lighter to the gasoline on the threshold, throwing the lighter into the inferno as he and Dick walked away.

"Here," said Mark. He handed the book to Dick. "An anniversary present for you. I think it's been about two months."

"Thanks, man." Dick turned the book over, trying to read its back cover in the fading light of the setting sun through the trees. "So are you my boyfriend?"

"I better be-"

Dick sighed. "Do you think we'll get caught?"

"We better not-" And Mark slapped his boyfriend upside his head.