Moans written down

George and Mildred went out for the first time in years. George picked out a small romantic restaurant in the city. The staff seemed nice and the food was good. The only thing that bothered George were the god-awful blue curtains.

They were in the middle of the main course when George started pushing something around his plate, “Waiter!” He yelled completely uninhibited.

The waiter quickly rushed towards their table smiling politely, “What seems to be the problem?” He whispered trying hard to stay discrete.

But George wasn’t a discrete person as he continued shouting for everyone to hear, “There is a hair in my meal. And I think we can all deduce it isn’t my hair!” Said George showing to his bald head.

The waiter tried to calm him down, “Please sir, there is no need to make a scene. I assure you we can sort this—”

“No! I’m making a scene? Me? Look at those ugly curtains, you’re making a scene yourself. I don’t know why in god’s name did I choose this place.”

The waiter persisted, “Please sir, if you could just—”

“No! I refuse to be silenced!” George shouted and got up swiftly, “I demand to speak to the chef!”

“Oh sir, I’ll talk to the chef. I’ll tell them you’re not happy.”

George pondered for a few moments then screamed, “No! You will sugar coat it. It can’t be sugar coated. The chef must hear it straight-up and take it like a man!”

“But sir, the chef is a woman, and please if you could just calm down. We’ll give you a free desert.”

George didn’t have any of this. He pushed the waiter to the side and made a run for the kitchen door. The waiter regained his balance and blocked his way.

“Now now boy, get out of my way. I’m no liberal pacifist. I’ve been to war you know. I’ve seen some action—”

Mildred interrupted her husband, “But dear you worked in the warehouse there.”

“Silence woman! I’ve seen action and I’m not afraid of some pompous waiter. I demand to speak to the chef now!”

Just as George finished his sentence a woman burst through the kitchen door. She was two heads taller than George and outweighed him by at least 50 pounds.

“You wanted to speak to me?” She said with a big kitchen roller in her right hand.

George swallowed his pride and looked to the floor, “No. Everything’s all right we were just leaving anyway.”

He went to the table and left a hundred, took Mildred by the arm and stormed out of there, but while he was standing in the door way he added, “This isn’t the last time we meet. I’ll come back. You haven’t got the best of me yet. You just wait!” And with that he went outside.

I have to say my dash is looking really lively tonight. I can’t remember a tumblr day when I read so much brilliant stuff. Even I wrote two pieces and I’m possibly going for third. Can’t remember when I was this inspired.

Maybe it’s a global thing, because some really brilliant stuff has been written today.

The stench of stale sweat and beer attacked my nostrils the moment I walked in. It was a juke joint on a side of some road in the middle of Mississippi. I was just passing through on my way north, but the driving killed my back and I needed something for the thirst.

At the back of the joint a black old man played electric guitar backed up with drums. He had a rough blues voice which fitted his style. The rhythm was hypnotic and repetitive, reminded me of Junior Kimbrough. The whole joint was rocking alongside. About hundred people all packed onto the dance floor moving to the rhythm. They were all sweaty and tired, but incredibly happy.

I made my way to the bar and sat down. A tough looking barman looked at me with his one good eye, “What you having chief?”

“Any whiskey you have. On the rocks.”

The barman nodded and filled my glass without breaking eye contact, “This one’s on the house chief.”

I thanked him and lifted the glass to my lips, but my attention shifted. She was standing in the middle of the room, rocking back and forth. Her auburn hair swayed while she danced. She had a green summer dress, and she wore the heck out of it. Big beads of sweat trickled down her upper back and down inside her dress. She turned around with a beer in a hand and caught me looking. Quickly I glanced elsewhere. It was too late; she started coming towards me.

“I’m Jesse. What’s your name stranger?” She asked me with a big smile across her face.

“I’m Nick. My name’s Nick,” I told her and extended my arm. She shook it hard. Jesse had a strong arm.

“Well, what you doing in these parts Nick? No offense, but you look like a city slicker. And you definitively don’t look like you’re from Mississippi.” Jesse said and stole my drink. She took a gulp and gave me a satisfied look.

“Yeah, I’m not from around here. I was just passing and —”

Two bulky guys in cowboy hats blindsided me and started talking away at Jesse.

“Hey pretty. How about you lose this city boy here. Me and my friend Wayne could show you darn good time. What you say darling?.”

Jesse gave them and irritated smile, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

She tried to push past them and gestured towards the door. One of the guys caught her by her hand, “Darling, my friend doesn’t take no for an answer very well.”

The music stopped and everyone turned to Jesse knowing trouble was coming. If there was one thing my father taught me, it was to help women in trouble, help everyone, but women in particular. So I got up from the chair and clenched my fist in preparation. But Jesse was quicker.

Jesse took the guy’s arm and twisted it painfully behind his back. The guy screamed and cursed. She took her other hand and hit straight in his nose. A torrent of blood rushed down his face and dripped to the floor. Then she released him and turned to the other cowboy. Her leg caught him square on the balls. He bended over in pain; that’s when she followed up with a knee to the face. The guy fell head first to the floor. The first one recovered enough to reach for his trousers. I knew what he wanted to do. He pulled out a semi-automatic handgun and turned to Jesse with an evil grin. But he was greeted with a barrel of a silver Magnum, a gun that could take his head off with one bullet. Jesse just smiled.

“Why don’t you put down that boy gun to the ground, or I’m going to shoot a hole through your head wide enough for my fist. What’s it gonna be cowboy?”

Of course he put the gun down, who wouldn’t? He and his boy got out of the joint and music teared through the place again. People quickly forgot about this and started dancing again.

Jesse took me by the hand and dragged me out. She pushed my into her car and drove for a few miles. She stopped the car in some field and told me to climb the hood. We spent the night there, star gazing, fucking, talking, dreaming.

When she couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore her head slid down to my shoulder, “And you thought I needed protection from those guys. How sweet.” Then she trailed off to sleep. Pretty soon I joined her.

My name is Robert Frost. I’m 34 years old. I’ve been raised by my grandmother in Boston after my parents died in a car crash. And this doesn’t look my room. The room I’m currently in is weird. Like a dream, it looks familiar, and I know it’s my room, but I can’t describe it. I’m lying on the bed, it’s lumpy.

I get up and look at the nightstand. There’s a brown leather wallet there. Inside I find an I.D. It’s my I.D. But it’s not. There’s a picture of me in it. Yet, it says my name is Chris Barstowe and I’m 26.

But my name is Robert Frost. I’ve been raised in Boston all my life. Yet, on the other side of the I.D. there is a lot of text which says,

“Hello, my name is Chris Barstowe and I suffered a head injury. Symptoms include dizziness, disorientation, hallucinations, unconsciousness, headaches and possibly split personalities. If something’s wrong with me, or you find me lost, please call 911.”

But… my name is Robert Frost and I’ve been raised in Boston by my grandmother. My name is Robert Frost.

Like any other morning George woke up and took care of his bathroom needs. After he showered and dried his hair he opened the sock drawer, but something was wrong. George took a pair of white socks and lifted them to his eyes. He screamed and sat back on his bed in shock.

“Mildred! Wife! Get over here now!”

After a few seconds Mildred rushed into the room, “What’s wrong honey? Is it something important?”

George jumped up from the bed and put the socks right under the nose if his wife, “What is this my dear? What is this!”

“Socks my dear husband. Socks.”

George laughed sarcastically, “I know these are socks! They look like my favourite socks actually. But, they are not!”

Mildred let out a surprised gasp and put her hand to her mouth, “They’re not?” She whispered.

“Don’t play coy woman. What have you done with my good socks? I wore those socks on our first date, I wore those socks when I got the promotion. They are my lucky socks. What have you done’”

Mildred looked down at the ground and avoided George’s eyes, “There’s been an incident.” Mildred put her hand in one pocket and drew a pair of pink socks.

George gasped as loud as he could, “No! It can’t be. It mustn’t. Tell me this is a lie! Tell me wife, tell me you are joking.” George’s hand grasped his chest where his heart is. He gasped again and fell on the bed.

Mildred turned around and faced the wall, “Oh. I’m sorry George. Don’t look at me. I can’t bear it. I’m so sorry. I know there is nothing I can do to make this easier. I should just kill myself.”

George got up from the bed and grasped Mildred’s arm, “Don’t babble rubbish woman. You won’t kill yourself. It was my fault really.”

Mildred’s eyes shined bright for a moment hoping for an apology.

“I should never let a woman do a business this sensitive. I should have known you would mess it up!”

Mildred took a real hard swing and slapped him across his face, “Oh you misogynistic old baboon! From now, do your own damn laundry!”

Mildred ran out of the room and slammed the door leaving George with his pink socks.

George steps into the kitchen and finds his wife Mildred scuttling around. He looks at the table and sees eggs and bacon. George takes a seat and puts some eggs on the fork. He sniffs them a little before putting them in his mouth. Immediately he spits the eggs out all over the table.

“Wife!” George screams and bolts out of his chair. “These eggs are cold! How could this be! Unforgivable!”

Mildred jumps up from shock. She puts her hands on her head and screams to the heavens, “Oh! What a shame! What and unbelievable shame. If anyone knew. If anyone just knew I couldn’t make breakfast for my husband. Let the Lord strike me in place right at this moment. I can’t stand the embarrassment! Oh!” Mildred puts the back of her hand on her forehead and drops down to a chair near her.

“We can’t have that. We can’t have this story ever leaving our house. If evil tongues got a hold of this, my family’s reputation would be ruined. No one can know of this. I would to rather be impaled by a Rhinoceros than ever speaketh of this. It must never happen again!”

Mildred jumps out of the chair and falls before her husband, “Let me make it up to you my dearest husband. Let me try again! I beg of you. Let me make you breakfast one more time.”

“Very well Mildred. I’ll let you try again. But beware, I don’t have and infinite number of second chances to give.”

“Well of course my dearest husband. There can only be one second chance, the second one.”

“Silence woman! Do not question what I say. Now go woman! Make me my eggs! Oh, if anyone knew. What a disgrace.” George lit his pipe and stormed out of the room while stroking his manly mustache.

The only woman I have ever been intimidated in my life was Becky. She waited tables at the local watering hole. By local I mean the only one in the godforsaken shit-hole of my town. I was born and raised here; Becky on the other hand was just passing.

Becky looked like a southern girl. She had straw blonde hair, big pouty lips and a killer smile. Her whole wardrobe consisted of daisy dukes, shortest skirts I ever seen and two summer dresses. Her nails were always polished red. And her shirts shown amounts of cleavage I never thought possible. Becky dressed like a feminist’s worse nightmare. What really mattered was her personality, and let me tell you, she was a wild one.

Becky drove a blue 1968 Mustang, the manliest car I ever laid my eyes on. She had a belt in Muy-Thai and I’ve seen her use it sometimes guys in the bar got a little too friendly. Inside her purse she carried a gun. And not a small women’s peashooter. Becky carried a .357 Magnum that weighed as much as a newborn baby. She was independent and strong. The strongest women I ever knew.

She had all the boys going crazy, but me especially. I must have spent every single day in that bar just talking to her. Staying there hour after an hour, beer after a beer, and I don’t even like beer that much. No matter how many beers I had in me, I could never ask her out, or tell her what I felt. Every time I tried to tell her, my knees buckled. Becky intimidated me. I often thought there was no way I could please her, no way I could be man enough. Word around the town was she played for both teams, and probably been with more women than me. Yet, every night at closing time I’d convince myself tomorrow was the day. I’ll ask Becky out on a date tomorrow.

But one day she wasn’t there. The owner said he picked her paycheck up and told she was leaving north. Didn’t say where. She packed her things in her Mustang and left in the middle of the night. She was just passing.

After another night of hard drinking and chain-smoking the cold outside air shocked me. I spent so much time in the bar I forgot how cold it was. The night could have been called a success. I didn’t shoot anyone like the last time, and Rusty had the good whiskey. The only thing my mind thought about was getting into my warm bed. Still, my nights tend to turn out differently than I expect them to.

Just a few feet down the street three punks were strolling around like they owned the place. The alpha-dog was quick to spot a poor hobo lying on the sidewalk; he pointed at him and the two others followed. They quickly surrounded him and woke him up.

“Wake up you piece of shit. You sad fucking asshole. Homeless faggot.” The boys spared no words at the guy. One of them took out his phone and started filming.

“Will you suck my dick for five dollars? Would you? Fucking dirty faggot!” The alpha-dog hit him with his leg across the face. The others followed.

For a second I wanted to turn my back. This isn’t my problem, I thought. But the kids didn’t stop their relentless attack. And the poor hobo started crying and begging for mercy. Fuck. God knows I never walked away from a free fight.

I rushed before they could see me and hit the first guy on the back of his head. My sucker punch left him out cold on the concrete with a few missing teeth. The guy next to him decided to take a swing. He was a skinny little fellow with too much confidence. I caught his fist mid-air and twisted his arm. My hand pushed the back of his elbow until it broke like a dry twig. The guy looked at his arm flapping around in shock. He tried to run but I caught his shin and he fell on his broken arm. The scream was agonizing.

The last guy, the alpha-dog decided to improve his chances. He whipped out a butterfly knife out of his jacket. His smile twisted into a perverted grin. He lunged at me. At the start of this thing I decided not to use guns. These guys were push-overs anyhow. But I wasn’t about to go hand-to-hand against some asshole and get cut. So I drew my trusty gun and fired at his legs. The bullet blew his kneecap to pieces. That was it for his career in sports, if he ever planned one. But the asshole didn’t stop. He put the pressure on the other leg and jumped again hoping to catch me. I shot again. The bullet tore a hole trough his other knee. He fell down convulsing in pain. That was it for walking for the rest of his life.

I took a breath and looked at the scene of destruction. The three bodies littered the street. The hobo got up and hugged me, “Thank you. Thank you so much.” He said and then ran off down the street. He wasn’t waiting around for the police. And I didn’t feel like waiting either. With my gun holstered again I walked back into the bar.

“God kid! What the fuck did you do now! Who in the Lord’s name did you shoot?” Rusty asked with a very concerned look on his face.

“Don’t ask me nothing Rusty. Just call an ambulance,” I told him and sat down at the bar, “Oh. Rusty, please pour me some whiskey. The good stuff. You know?”

There was a regular in the bar I frequent going by “Stone Cold” Steve. I never pegged him for a wrestling fan, so his nickname didn’t come from Steve Austin. For years I watched Steve sit alone nursing his beer in the corner. The owner Rusty would talk to him a little, but no one else did. I found it sad, going to the same bar for years and never talking to anyone. One boring night I decided to talk to him. Nothing exciting was going on anyhow. The Mariners were playing against the Indians, no one cared.

I took two beers and walked over to the lonely corner; sat down against Steve and pushed the beer in his hands.

“I’ve been here too often for a couple of years now, and my curiosity is killing me. Will you please tell me how you got the nickname “Stone Cold”?”

Steve lifted the beer and took a big gulp. He sighed and wiped his mouth with his hand, “What’s the biggest instinct every living being on this planet possesses?”

“I’m not sure what do you mean? Like eating, procreation?” I asked Steve and matched his gulp with a bigger one.

“No kid. We eat and procreate to survive. That’s the first instinct. The survival instinct. And that’s exactly what got me in trouble. Got me thrown out of the society. They labeled me insane just because I did something in my nature. You ever been camping kid?”

I shook my head and put down my beer.

“My friend Billy and I loved camping. We camped all over the US. From the east to the west. One of those camping turned ugly. It was night and Billy and I were in our tent. Something was rattling outside, sounded like it was trying to steal our stuff. We got up and hurried outside thinking we’ll find a rabbit trying to steal our food, or a beaver. But it was a cougar. A big fucking cougar looking straight at us.”

Steve paused his story to down his beer and slam it on the table.

“The cougar pounced at us. It caught Billy on the stomach with his claws. He was cut pretty deep, blood gushing and all. I managed to drive the cougar away with a fishing rod and drag Billy onto the biggest rock we could find. There we were, two fucking idiots in a middle of nowhere on a big rock, and a hungry cougar waiting for us.”

Steve stopped for a moment to take his breath, “When you push an animal, or a human to the edge, and they’re looking down straight at death, there is nothing they won’t do. Nothing that stops them from surviving. It’s the most basic instinct. It’s in your nature.”

Steve stopped his story once again to ask Rusty for another beer. Rusty brought it and Steve continued.

“I did it, the unthinkable. I threw Billy to the cougar. Took off running like the devil himself was on my heels. Never looked back. I survived. They made me go to shrinks, told me I wasn’t normal. No one would do the same they said, no one would throw their friend without blinking like I did, but they would. When you put a human between a rock and a hard place they’ll fight. That’s when they’re at their most vulnerable and most dangerous. I did what I did; I’m not ashamed. I’m alive. That’s what matters the most. And that’s how I got the nickname “Stone Cold”.”

Steve threw some money on the table and walked out through the door without batting an eye.

God I hate my job. I thought that to myself as I was setting up the camera for the scene. Around me was a normal porn studio. A bunch of dildos, sexy clothing, fetish outfits and so on. There was one that stood out though. Four restraints on the wall. Two a little higher for the hands, and two on the ground for the legs. It wasn’t a masochistic torture device. It was designed to keep the zombie still. Because I film zombie porn.

There is so many fucked up shit in the world that gets people off, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I discovered this niche. It was a new one, well it started after the zombies arrived. Thankfully the society didn’t collapse. We keep the zombie population under control. And some people, like us in the studio actually found uses for zombies.

The director Jack came in with two big guys carrying a zombie in the cage. They quickly got this poor sucker out and strapped him to the wall by his hands and feet. His jaw was wired shut so he couldn’t bite. All he had to do was stay there tied-up while Alexa tried to fuck his rotten piece of flesh. Alexa was starring in underground shit before the outbreak. Bestiality, golden showers and that sort of things. So she had no problem fucking zombies for money. As long as they had specially designed very thick condoms and they weren’t older than two weeks.

Alexa got out the dressing room looking pornstar hot and stood in front of the camera. She nodded to the director, then knelt in front of the zombie and started sucking on his flaccid dick. You see, zombies are technically dead, therefore unable to maintain erections, so shooting zombie porn can be a bit “hard”. Pardon the pun.

The director shouted, “Silence! “My Sister is Fucking a Zombie” Scene 2. Take one!”

Alexa tried to blow his smelly dick as seductive as she could, but failed miserably. She stood up and bended over carefully sliding the limp penis in her vagina. She started rocking back and forth. Just as I zoomed in for the closeup of the penetration the dick broke off. Another problem in undead porn is the fact zombies tend to fall apart.

“Not again! Jesus!” Alexa screamed and ran off to her dressing room with the zombie dick still inside her.

Jack shooed two make-up girls to help her. He turned to the guys that brought the zombie, “I told you I wanted a fresh one. This one stinks and is already decomposing. I want my money back!”

The two guy looked and laughed, “You sure you don’t want to keep this guy? He could still be useful. How about gay scenes? He could get fucked up the ass.”

Jack screamed at the top of his lungs, “Listen you idiots! Why would I need a dick-less zombie? I shoot porn. If it doesn’t have a dick, and it should have it. I don’t want it!” Jack then took a machete from the nearby table and lobbed the zombie’s head off in one quick move. Then he scurried off to his room in the back cursing.

At times like that, I sure hate my job.

You bit my shoulder and gasped
I thrust as hard as I could
Toes curling, breaths broken
Orgasm approaching.

But you faked it
Loud and obnoxious
Screaming my name
So no one could hear me

Panting for dear life
Grabbing at the headboard
Blood trickling onto the sheets
As you stabbed me in the back.

It was raining cats and dogs and they dragged me out of bed again. I always wanted to be a cop, but nights like these I really wished people killed each other during the day. The scene was an alleyway. The vic had a fancy suit on and his briefcase was trashed. So many murders happen in alleyways in film, beats me why people hang around there. I took another look at the scene from afar, then ducked under the police tape and went in close.

A uniform greeted me, “Two shots to the chest. I was the one that found him. I was just around the corner when I heard the shots. Ran down here, but some poor lady found him before I got the chance. She’s inside the building there waiting to give a statement.” He turned around like he was finished, then stopped and spoke again, “There’s one more thing. I had to bag the knife that was beside him since it was starting to rain.” He told me and handed out the bagged knife.

I lifted it up to my eyes. There was something on it, not blood though. It looked slippery and had glitter, kind of sparkled, “We’re going to need analyze what’s on the knife.” The poor guy lied on his back with two wounds in his chest. He was covered due to the rain. Nothing I could get out of this scene I thought to myself and went inside.

Detective Briggs was inside with a blonde woman. Presumably the one that found the victim. She had blonde hair and nice makeup. You could tell she was wearing quite a lot, yet it wasn’t trashy, it looked natural. Her face was long and kind of cold. She reminded me of a trophy wife. She even had some pink designer jacket. A silver expensive watch. Some shoes that started with Manolo or something equally foreign, big diamond earrings. I was afraid she may not be of much use to us.

“This is Ms. Bates. She found the stiff,” Briggs blurted out. Ms. Bates started sobbing, “Sorry. Our victim. She found the victim.”

I took a seat at the table across her. Something stood out, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what, “Tell me miss, you found him? Did you see anybody else? Something suspicious?”

“Look. I already told everything I know to the other cops. I didn’t see anything except the body. I can’t help. I’m sorry, I really am,” She broke into crying again, stopping a few times just to blow her nose. She looked like a crying baby. No way she was going to be of any use.

“Sorry to disturb you miss. Thank you for your time,” Briggs got up and put his arm around trying to steer her to the exit.

“Wait! Just wait a second!” I finally figured out what was bothering me, “Where’s your purse Ms. Bates?”

She turned obviously shaken and stuttered, “I didn’t bring one.”

“Bullshit. You have these designer clothes and a fancy jacket and you think I’ll believe you didn’t bring your purse. Women would forget their children at home more easily than their purse.”

Ms. Bates licked her lip. That’s when I noticed it. Lip gloss, “Tell me miss. Where is your lip gloss? Or did you also forget it?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about. This is nonsense,” She still insisted in her innocence.

I quickly got up and shown Briggs to follow me, “Officer, keep her here,” I told the uni and stormed out back into the rain.

Just a few feet away from the corpse there was a dumpster no one yet checked. That had to be it. Manically I ran to the dumpster and started throwing stuff out. Ms. Bates didn’t have much time to improvise so she only covered it with a few layers of garbage. I pulled it out of the dumpster, the pink purse. A pink purse that had a big knife hole in the middle. And sure as hell, it contained a gun and a stabbed through lip gloss. Ms. Bates was as guilty as they come. I lifted the purse up victoriously and hurried back inside. Alas, it was too late.

The officer was lying on the floor with his head on backwards. She broke his neck. That had to require power. This wasn’t amateur hour. On the table was a note.

Thank you for playing detective… never got your name anyway. Till next time.

xoxo

Once again I was fooled by a woman. Till next time.

Phillip opened his weary eyes and groaned. He got up and turned off the alarm clock. He walked over the room to his big french window and opened it. This was the first thing he does in the morning for years now. It was nice day outside. The trees were green and the air was warm. Phillip looked at the city beneath his window for a few moments inhaling the air.

“Today is the day.”

He turned and entered the bathroom. Once there Phillip took a real long shower. He let the warm water ease his mind. He shampooed his hair three times to make sure it was really clean and dried himself. Next, he took the razor and started shaving. Unlike other days when he shaved just because he had to, this time Phillip did a good thorough job. Once he was happy he looked in the mirror and slapped some after-shave on, brushed his teeth and went back to the bedroom.

Phillip ransacked his drawer in search of his good boxers. Thankfully he found them and got them on along with his good socks. Out of the closet after a few minutes he fished out a suit. The suit looked pretty old and worn, but that was his only suit. He needed some time to squeeze into it. Phillip hadn’t worn it for a few years. Once he suited up Phillip tied his expensive blue tie, then he took a final glance in the mirror and happily sighed.

For breakfast he had 2 scrambled eggs, 4 pancakes and orange juice. Though he prepared another thermos bottle filled with coffee. Phillip then shined his black shoes before putting them on. Finally he was ready.

He exited the door without locking it, took another moment to observe his apartment then left.

Once outside he realized it was too warm for a suit and he was going to become sweaty as a pig really fast. The homeless man who slept next to his building was shocked when Phillip gave him a hundred dollar bill. The man asked him was he sure, Phillip just nodded and walked off.

After a couple of blocks he was already sweaty, so he sat on a bench in the middle of a park. He looked over the park. It was too early and no kids were around. Phillip let out a decisive sigh, inhaled deeply and opened his thermos bottle. He put to his lips and stopped for a moment, but shrugged his second thoughts off and took a big gulp. Then another, and another until the thermos was empty.

After he finished the coffee Phillip felt really sleepy and bad. His eyes started closing themselves and he fell to sleep on the bench.

But that was going to be Phillip’s last and longest sleep he ever took. Before her got out of his place Phillip slipped cyanide into his thermos. Cyanide he kept in his house at all times in case the next day would be that day. The day Phillip decided to die.

Once upon a time in a bar not so far there was a man they called “Tell me a Story” Rob. They called him that since Rob was his name and he would ask people he just met to tell him a story. Beautiful women, normal guys, tough looking biker guys, it didn’t matter. Rob would buy them a drink and ask them to tell him a story about themselves. That’s how you get to know people Rob used to say.

Rob was regular at the bar. No one really knew what he did for a living. He was in the bar what seemed to be 24/7. Over the years Rob heard and memorized thousands of stories and adventures. Some were embellished, some were probably fake. But Rob pretty much knew them all.

One day a stunning woman got into the bar. She walked over and sat next to Rob. Just as Rob tried to ask her about her story the woman asked him first. She asked Rob about his story.

But poor Rob didn’t have any. He spent years and years listening to other people’s stories in a bar. And when it was finally his turn to tell a story he didn’t have one.

She was standing on the side of the road with her thumb in the air. I was surprised no one picked her up before me because she was a looker. She had great locks of blonde hair falling to her shoulders, shortest daisy dukes I ever seen, a white tank top and snake skin knee high boots. She sure looked like a walking southern girl stereotype. I hit the brake and stopped before her.

“Hi sir, got a free seat for me? I’m going to town, it’s only 20 miles down your way.” She said with a cute accent, “Name’s Alice by the way.”

“Well Alice, guess it’s your lucky day. Get in,” I told Alice and gestured to the other side of the car, “I swear I’m not a crazy axe murderer.”

Alice giggled and got into the car. We drove for five minutes and talked. Alice was talking something about a band I never heard of and I didn’t pay much attention. But then her hand went over my leg touching my cock.

“You’re cute. My mama always told me to beware of strangers, but I just can’t help resisting you,” Alice rubbed her hand over my crotch again. At that point I was sure she was my girl, “Listen. I’m kind of high right now and I’m acting on impulse. Why don’t you take the next turn on that forest past. I know a really good place we could hang out and stuff. I got some weed too,” Alice took a joint out of her pants and showed it to me.

“Sure, I’d love to.”

Just as she told me I took a turn and drove for a few hundred meters before taking another turn that lead us to a small clearing in the middle of the forest.

We both got out and Alice lighted up the joint. She inhaled, coughed a little and handed it to me, “You’re a really lucky boy. Weed makes me horny,” Alice gave my a sly wink then pushed me against the car. She got down on her knees and unzipped my pants. I would have enjoyed it if I wasn’t looking out for her boyfriend.

Her previous marks didn’t get it, since they found them all dead in these woods. But I wasn’t blind. As soon as I picked Alice up a silver old Ford started tailing us. Her guy was at the wheel. And just as I predicted he came out of the bushes behind me with a big knife in his hand screaming like an idiot.

I drew real fast. My trusty Colt left a golf ball sized hole in the guys head before he went down and impaled himself on his own knife. It wasn’t a very pretty sight that for sure.

Alice screamed and jumped away from me. For a second I could see she contemplated running, but the gun pointed at her was a darn good argument against that.

“Who are you? What do you want? Fuck you!” Were the words Alice shouted at me in fear.

“I’m just an old regular con-man. Just like you and your boy, Alice. You can’t fool a con-man Alice. You never stood a chance.”

I shot two more shots at Alice. They echoed in the forest for what appeared an eternity. Usually I double tap, one to the chest, one to the head. But this time I shot two straight at the heart. It was a shame to ruin that pretty face. With just a squeeze of a trigger Alice’ seductive days were over.

Lucy looks like a pretty ordinary girl. She has that girl-next-door thing, blue eyes, black hair and a cute attitude. You’d think she’s just a perfectly normal girl, nothing extraordinary about them. But I know Lucy suffers from Hybristophilia, a sexual perversion towards violent criminals. One time Lucy told me she had sex with 26 men in her life, and 22 two of them ended up in jail at one point in their life. Her latest boyfriend was the worst. Just two months ago she was running around the country fucking the brains out with Ronald Harrison. She started seeing him before the murders, but even before Ronald was a bad boy. One night a few months ago he killed a newly wed couple in their home. He tortured them for 4 hours before slitting their throats. While on the run Ronald killed three more innocent people that crossed his path and a police officer. Lucy left him just before he got arrested and escaped prison.

Lucy was sucking my cock, looking straight into me with her pretty eyes in some sleazy motel room. At that time we were fucking occasionally, nothing serious. That was the time I asked Lucy what I wanted to ask her for a long time.

“Lucy, I wonder… why do you like bad men? How could you sleep with that guy. I mean, he murdered people with no remorse. Weren’t you scared?”

Lucy took my dick out of her mouth and smiled, “That’s what it is. You can’t understand. ” She took a deep breath and continued, “There’s sex, and then there is SEX. With Ronald it’s different. The fact he killed people was exactly what makes me wet.” Lucy slobbered on my cock some more then got up and sat on the bed.

“You know, when Ronald was fucking me. When any of those guys were fucking me. It’s the best feeling ever, because I know that at any time they could snap my neck. Ronald could choke me till I died just because he wanted to. Sex in public places, sex on drugs, nothing comes to it. When you know the person that’s fucking you has your life in their hands. The excitement gets me wet any time. I never came so hard like Ronald made me cum. They way he placed a knife to my throat, the way he held me down and bit me. It’s all in the power really, power gets me wet.”

After hearing what Lucy said I was sure of a few things. Lucy was crazy, I knew some crazy people with weird fetishes, but Lucy topped them all. I also knew what she liked now. And I decided I was going to give it to her. Just the way she talked about sex got me hard again.

So I pounced on her and grabbed her, threw her on the bed with her head hanging down. I slid my cock in her mouth and started face-fucking her as hard as I could. Lucy gagged, choked and tried to talk but I didn’t have any of it. After a good minute of throat fucking I got my cock out, “You like it Lucy? Do you?”

Lucy cleared her throat and swallowed spit before talking, “Actually, it’s not the real thing. Great thing you try to make it exciting for me, but it’s not really working. I know you’re not capable of what Ronald was. Like this, it’s just role play. Sorry.”

Something in me boiled. Once again she compared me to Ronald and insulted me. Lucy didn’t believe I had it in me. Well I was about to show her.

I wrapped my fingers around Lucy’s small neck and started choking at my earnest. Lucy just giggled thinking it was cute what I was trying to do. So I tightened my grip. After a few seconds Lucy wasn’t giggling anymore. She was tapping out with both hands, pleading me to stop. I didn’t stop. Her face turned red and all the playfulness left it. Her eyes widened, she was in shock. After some time her hands started going limp, her eyes lost all hope and started to close.

That’s when I released her. Lucy took the biggest breath of her life. Looked straight at me for a moment. Then she looked at the bed and laughed. I looked at the bed too. She squirted.

I was just typing away at my new novel under the afternoon sun. Albert King was playing in the room and everything seemed good. Then my wife came in.

“I read the pages you gave me hon. And… I have to be honest it seems exactly the same as your last book, and the book before that.” My wife told me and bit her lip waiting my response.

“What do you mean honey? How is the same?”

“Come on. Main character is a perfect anti-hero. A pacifist on the inside, a romantic. But when pressed he turns into a regular John Wayne. Kills his way to save the girl. He’s every man’s wet dream of what they wanted to be. He’s just the same as any of your characters. I just wish you challenged yourself. Write real romance, real love. Not this dime-store cowboy bullshit.”

“You don’t get it love.” I told my wife and chuckled. “Violence can be the most romantic thing in the world. Men turn into heroes for love. Most romantic character have lost people they loved and that’s what makes them so dangerous.”

My wife smirked. “I just wish you wrote some happier stuff. Write about real people, realistic stuff.”

“There is nothing more romantic than Liam Neeson killing bad guys that took his daughter. There is nothing more brutal and heart-breaking than Max Payne risking his life, shooting his way through a conspiracy to find who killed his wife and child. Nothing better than The Punisher spending his life avenging the death of his wife and children.” I told my wife without taking a breath. “That’s just how I write baby. I’m a violent romantic. Nothing I can do about it.”

My wife let out an angry groan and then stormed out of the room.

I’m staring at her body and she stinks. She must have been in this metal box in the swamp for a few weeks, maybe the same day she disappeared. Her name was Amber and she was just 17 years old. One day she left her home and never came back.

The police found a diary. She wrote about some guy, she wanted to leave this small fucking town with him. She said they bought two bus tickets to Denver, and then they would go anywhere from there. The cops didn’t need anything else to make it a runaway case. They had it all in writing. But the parents couldn’t take that. So they hired me, the private eye.

I really wanted to believe she ran away and she’ll come crawling back when they ran out of money. I went to Denver and asked around, used all my contacts and skills, but she couldn’t be found. And now I know why. Amber never left the town. There’s something in her pocket though, a damp piece of paper. I pull it out and it’s a bus ticket to Denver. Guess that really was the plan, or he just convinced her that. Whatever happened didn’t matter, she was still dead.

My next thought is calling the cops and the parents. I have to tell them I stumbled on heir daughter by accident in a metal coffin in the middle of the swamp. That’s gonna destroy them. I can’t tell them. Right now they believe she is in New York or L.A. and she’s living with some stupid young boy, but they believe she’s alive. For the rest of their life they’re going to wake up and think this may be the day their daughter walks back through the door and hugs them. Any day could be the day. I can’t rob them of that, can’t rob them of hope.

Therefore I decide to bury her. Bury her in a nice grave here. No one will know she’s dead. The guy who done it would never get caught. Two weeks in the water, no way they could do anything with the body. Like this everyone will remember her alive. The last thing people that loved her will remember was her smile. Not the fact she spent two weeks in a metal coffin. And every single day her parents will still have hope, a hope that will burden them, but hope after all. They’ll still be able to believe their little girl is still alive.

You really loved to write about me. You wrote for hundreds of people about our relationship, but I had stumble upon it by accident. It shocked me, the things you wrote, the names you called me. According to you I was making you miserable, eating away at you from the inside. I took your heart out and ripped it out of your chest and then ate it raw. The blood dripping down my throat and into my shirt. Everything was my fault. You just couldn’t tell me it was over and I didn’t know how to take a hint.

The heart part was the worst, I couldn’t believe you wrote that. That I metaphorically devoured your heart. I’m sorry about that babe.

You keep coming to my mind while I cut a piece of meat on my plate that used to be your liver. You taste really good babe and you go perfectly with some Pinot Noir. You wrote I couldn’t take a hint, but I did take it. You wanted me to eat you and I am. And you taste real good babe, real good.

I take another sip of wine and think about tomorrow. I’ll have some of your breast tomorrow. I think I’ll be in the mood for some breast. I’ll leave your heart for last.

Imagine a world where nothing is constant. Where doing the same things over again wouldn’t make you insane like Einstein once said. Imagine a world where you  shoot a bullet into a man and kill him, but only seconds later shoot another one from the same gun only for the bullet to bounce off like a pinball. Imagine falling from a three-story building and not breaking a bone, but tripping over your feet and having your head split on the concrete like a watermelon. A world without rules of physics, a world where everything changes and nothing is sure.

That’s the world I live in. It wasn’t always like this; it didn’t become like this overnight. In fact I can’t tell you when everything went to shit, since I always remember the world being fucked-up and yet I still remember the world being normal. This kind of life takes a toll on people, the sole fact your skull could split open from a simple collision with a lamp-post, yet you could survive an axe to the head drives people insane. My wife and I decided we didn’t want to live like this anymore. We climbed a twelve story building and jumped off. The feeling of falling down to your death was insane. Imagine the scariest roller-coaster ride and multiply it by a hundred. I didn’t fall into my death though. I bounced off the pavement and survived unscathed. My wife on the other hand splattered all over the concrete.

Since then I tried to kill myself three more times. I shot myself twice in the head. The first time the bullet ricocheted off my head; the second time the bullet flew out of the gun at such a low speed it didn’t even make it my head. My last attempt I tried to impale myself on a Katana, but the sword broke in half. I later only cut my foot on the useless blade that lied on the floor. Killing yourself can be tricky business in this world.

I believe you can imagine what a nuisance this can be. This ever-changing world I live in. Where rules that applied a second ago don’t apply right now, nor will they apply a few seconds from now. The boiling point of water is always different, you could die in a car crash at 20 miles per hour, yet survive a 200 miles per hour head on collision. The world I live in is the definition of chaotic, it’s simply pure chaos.