Herbert’s Balls

Herbert’s Balls,
By,
William Morgan

“Herbert, it’s not Friday, so, why are you showing me your block an’ tackle?” asked Madge Shrive, Herbert’s wife. More like twig an’ thistle, she mused.

Herbert, wearing nothing but his tatty blue striped pajama top, his hair in such disarray as to defy physics, looking concerned, befuddled, and, embarrassed all at the same time, said,

“Well, look at ’em,Madge,don’t they look funny to you?”

And, that is why we do it in the dark, my love.

She loved her husband. She really did. But, the chance Herbert would be mistaken for Richard Burton ( her favorite actor), would be the same chance of her fucking Richard Burton. She remembered a time when she’d gotten photos developed at that new one hour place downtown. Herbert was just sick at the sight of himself. He was all upset at how he looked. Frail, timid, skinny, his brown, gray hair all over the place, unmanageable, catastrophic really, eyebrows thicker than a forest, a hit-me chin, he just went on, and on about it.

Madge remembered saying, “but, I love you.” She didn’t protest his self description, didn’t tell him that the photo wasn’t that bad, didn’t lie to him. He was a mess of a man, but, she loved him. Deeply. 20 years they’ve been married. June 11th 1955. Childless. Her only regret. Adoption was out. They both wanted their own child. But, either his sperm was as empty as Edward Heath’s words, or, her ovaries had a closed sign when Herbert’s swimmers knocked. They didn’t check. Neither wanted to be at fault.

Not that she was Elizabeth Taylor. More like Else Garnett from Till Death Us Do Part. When asked to describe herself in a telephone interview for a job in a launderette, she said “misshapen’.” Pear shaped was how some people put it. But, pears do have some sort of symmetry, her shape was more abstract. As if Picasso created her when he was suffering delirium . Sure she’s got more than a few pounds than all the other women she’s been around, and sure she has that thing under her chin that looks like a zit had erupted from a tarantula. A wart ? A mole? Witches mark? Who knows, who cares? It doesn’t hurt, and Herbert, when he gets cuddly, likes to rub the top of his head on it. Maybe for good luck. Maybe for who cares? What she has, and what most women want, is a good, solid marriage. Herbert’s always dependable, especially on Friday nights. Even when he’s out with the lads, he’s still dependable on Friday nights. Could be as sloshed as a Russian in a vodka factory. Didn’t matter. Herbert and his twig and thistle always rose to the occasion.

Speaking of twig and thistle-

She stared at her husbands scrotum, and said,”Well, if you mean that they are tiny, ineffectual, and probably share one sperm between them, then, yes, they look funny to me.”

“Oh, very droll, Madge, very droll. Very cutting edge, I must say. What I’m speaking about is that they look, well, strange. They feel strange an’ all. ‘ere, ‘ave a closer look.”

“If this is your way of getting me finally on my knees-”

“Madge! I’m serious! For pity’s sake-”

“Oh, alright.”

She got on her knees, held his balls in her left hand, twisted them this way, and that. “Have you checked for lumps, dear? Wait… I need my glasses ”

“Madge!”

“Honest.You’re right, Herbert. I think I see something.”

Madge left the bedroom,went downstairs to the living room,and picked up her glasses by the TV stand. There was something, she thought. In the bedroom she held Herbert’s balls in her hand, looking at his scrotum from all angles again. hmmming and hawing.

“Herbert, maybe it’s my imagination, but, I swear I see a face imprinted on your ball-sack. When’s the last time you went out with the lads?”

“Haven’t been out with them for a couple of weeks now. Stevie fell, remember? Broke his arm. And Jim, well, Jim’s not allowed out. Not after that incident with the barmaid and a packet of crisps. Molly’s angrier than a slug in a salt mine, she is. And Bob, he’s got himself a girl, see. She’s all that matters. The hell with his friends. A face you say? A face? Who’s face?” Oh my God, please don’t let it be Arthur Scargill. I’ll kill myself.

“Yes, looks like a face alright. Who it belongs to I haven’t quite been able to make out. It’s quite fascinating, really. Doesn’t look tattooed. If it is, though, it’s a damn fine job. The more I look at it, the more it comes into focus. I need to see it better, though. I’m going to have to shave your balls, darling”

“Shave my-now, wait a minute, Madge-”

“Oh,come on now. It’s not like you go to a gym, or shower with other people. Only we will know. We’ll use my razor. It’s gentler.”

She frowned.

“What’s the matter, Madge?” asked Herbert, fearfully.

“Strange,Herbert. I’ve been holding your balls in my hands for about ten minutes-”

“You’ve been holding them longer that that, love. Bloody years, in fact.”

“Holding them for ten minutes, or, so, and you’ve had no reaction. None. Not a stir from His Lordship. Quite dead, in fact.”

“Well, you’re not holding ’em with affection, now are you? You’re holding them clinically, so to speak. Like a doctor-or something.”

“Hmmm, maybe so, dear, maybe so. Still, it’s quite discomfiting. Have I lost my touch, so to speak? Don’t you love me anymore, Herbert?”

His face went pale. “Madge! How could you even- I- well- really! Of course I love you!”

“Settle down, darling. I’m only joshing. Now come into the bathroom, and…, you know what? It might be better to pluck the hairs out, rather than shave. I’ll get the tweezers.”

Herbert sputtered “Madge!”

“Just joshing. Just joshing.” Madge laughed. He sighed. Just a bloody joke to her, he thought. My balls do feel weird, strange, it’s as if they were-what? Alive? Sentient? Herbert giggled. Thinking nads? Guys are always telling me my brains are in my arse, maybe they’re just off a little bit. He laughed, then frowned. She said they were dead, but, Herbert felt power in his balls. Throbbing, pulsating, and it seemed to be growing with each passing minute. He had to admit, he was scared. Not bloody funny at all, Madge. No, not bloody funny at all.

2.

After foaming his balls with shaving cream, and, delicately shaving, she rinsed them off, and frowned again. “Sweetheart? It might be my imagination, but, I do believe that your balls have gotten bigger.” Of course, it couldn’t possibly be right, she thought. Just isn’t possible. Still, they do look larger.

Herbert, always thinking the worse, always seeing the glass half empty, shuddered, and his eyes widened. “Oh my God, Madge, elephantiasis! Oh, no, no, no! Not that! Haven’t you ever seen those documentaries on the BBC? Those men from India practically sitting on these giant boulders that are actually their balls? How could I live with that? I’d never be able to go out. If I did go out, I’d need a shopping cart to carry my balls. And, where would I buy my pants? Who makes pants for men with this affliction? Big Balls R Us? And if I ever get in a fight, what’s the first thing they’re going to do? Kick me in the nads, that’s what! And you know I like to go swimming at the YMCA’s pool. I jump in there, and I’m liable to start a tsunami, and empty the damn thing! Oh, God, Madge. Oh, God, I’m doomed, doomed, Doomed!”

Madge looked at her husband with marvelous disdain. “Darling, please, has there ever been a case of elephantiasis here in England? Ever? No, dear, there hasn’t. And, in those dreadful documentaries that you watch, did any of those men have a face tattooed on their balls? Hmmm? Thought not. No, my sweet, this is something altogether different. I don’t know what it is, but, let me tell you, the face is coming clearer. I can almost make it out.”

“Who is it? It’s not that bastard Scargill is it? My luck, it’ll be worse. It’ll be Enoch bloody Powell.”

She stared at the face for a while, blocking out her husbands sputtering, and whining. Let me concentrate, she thought. It’s getting clearer. But, she didn’t say a word. She knew after 20 years of marriage to let Herbert blow off steam, or else he would go on, and on about it all night. And, she did need to sleep since she had a doctor’s appointment in the morning.

Not a face exactly. Doesn’t look human, to tell the truth. Definitely not Enoch, or, Arthur. Inwardly she laughed. Oh, Herbert, that’s why I love you. Let’s see, just what is it? Looks like an octopus, but, then again, it doesn’t. Hard to describe, really. Those may be tentacles. Is that wings behind it? Otherworldly. Yes, that’s the word I’m looking for. Otherworldly. Monstrous. Now she was getting scared, because it seemed as if it had moved.

“Herbert, darling, I think we’ll have to go to the fhtagn- the fhtagn- oh for heaven’s sake- the fhtagn!”

“Are you alright, Madge? What’s that you’re saying? Sounded like you’re making weird farting noises. What’s a f-f-f-say that again, love, I can’t seem to pronounce it.”

“R’lyeh , R’lyeh , oh, what’s going on? Oh, Herbert I’m scared. I’m scared! I’m Cth-”

The creature moved again, looked at Madge. She gasped as it seemed to look right through to her soul, and it grew, along with Herbert’s balls. She scrambled back away from it as far as she could, hitting her back against the toilet, and Herbert was yelling fearfully “Madge, Madge what is it? What is it? Madge!”

Then she let out a soul shattering scream, slumped to the floor. Her eyes rolled back, her legs trembled, and she began to speak in a strange language that wasn’t created for human throats.

Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn,” she chanted, her voice deep, guttural, contemptuous.

And Herbert’s balls grew, and grew, and he wailed, and screamed in terror as Madge chanted, and then something emerged into our world. Something cold, indifferent.

Then the world grew dark, cold, and lifeless, and the stars blinked out one, by, one as the universe made way for the Great Old Ones….

And Still I Ramble

As I was driving to work, dreading it, all I could think of was “I walk.” That kept pestering me all day, and on the way home, relieved, this story popped in my head.

I walk, and the more I walk, the more that I am at ease, and the more at ease I am, the less inclined I am to kill someone. It’s not like I want to kill someone you understand, it’s more of a building up of pressure, pressure that I can’t valve off, pressure that builds, and builds, to a point where I am either going to kill myself, or kill someone other than me. I get it, you’re saying, well, wouldn’t it be better to kill yourself? Save the suffering of others? True. That lady I strangled last month would be still with her family, right? Still working 3-11 at the hospital, cleaning asses for a taxed heavy, light wage, and her face, stomach, and back would still be taking punches from her alco boyfriend, and her purse would be still empty from her son, Brian’s pilfering cos he really needs his weed, i-phone apps, and PS4 games, and she’d still be listening to her mother’s snide comments about her white trash living, her smoking, her choice of cock, her parenting, her looks, and she’d still be envious of her sister who married a man whose vision for casinos on the docks by the lake brought in millions, a man who loves, and is gentle, and kind, who’s idea of violence is a surreptitious pat on the behind. She’d have killed herself eventually. I just brought the date forward.

And the twelve year old I stabbed? On the news it was stated she was found in a field raped and stabbed. I’m like, huh? Raped? Now, wait a minute, I’m a killer, not a pervert. I was so enraged I almost turned myself in. Turns out daddy had been raping her since she was eight, and he’d just assaulted her before she walked off to school, which is why she was running late, and ran straight into my path. Thinking back on it, did I see a hint of relief on her face? She didn’t put up much of a fight, as I recall. I did that little girl a favor by taking her life.

The boy I shot? Bullied mercilessly at school cos of the way he looks. He reminded me of Glen/Glenda from that Chucky movie I watched a while ago. It was late at night. I was waiting for my wife to show up. She was out on one of her benders with “the girls.” Simmered at the thought that hers was the only vagina there. Imagination going haywire. Images of her on her back, on her knees, on top with someone other than me. I’d gone to the laundry hamper, picked out a pair of her Hanes, sniffed them, dried my eyes with them as I watched a possessed doll tear some poor actress to pieces. I think that’s where the idea of murder began. Yeah, it’s Chucky’s fault. That’ll be my defense. A fucking doll.

I’m still walking, still content. I will have to stop sometime, though. I can’t walk forever. I have a job, I have bills to pay, alimony. I get to see the kids this weekend. More social on their phones. Talking, conversation, is anathema to them. I hardly remember what they look like because their faces are constantly looking down, their chubby fingers a flurry, texting. The only time I get to see their faces is when they’re doing selfies. They send me the pictures to my phone, which I hardy use. Truth be told, they are a sullen lot of antisocial beings, obsessed with Apps, Facebook, and YouTube. The older one, Jacob, who is 10, got burns on his arms from trying a challenge on YouTube. I remember my Mother asking me would I put my hand in a fire if my friend told me to? Nowadays, that’s a yes, and it doesn’t have to be a friend, just some anon on the internet. Did my sperm help create this moron? The other boy, Ted, is eight, I think he’s retarded. He’s dumber than dumb. I’ve tried to get him to count beyond ten, but all I get is blank stares. I sometimes wish my sperm had been blank. I blame my ex, Barb. She’s too busy dolling herself up for some young muscle than actually parent. If it looks like a whore, acts like a whore, smells like a whore…oh, you bitch, how many men, huh? How many? 12 years of marriage down the drain and all because you like the cock way too much…, shit…, walk it off, walk it off, keep walking.

Look at the clear blue sky, not a cloud in sight, enjoy the beauty of the fall leaves, the bright reds, umber,orange, listen to the birds chirping, and warbling, yes, nice, relaxing, keep walking. There’s a house at the end of the street, recently painted a lovely light blue, complementing the sky. A woman lives there. She’s beautiful. Always outside working on her little garden. Wears light blouses, and tight shorts. I fear for her, for it seems like she lives alone. I want to stop and tell her to wear something less provocative, that there are monsters around, but, all I ever do is smile, and wave. She waves back, she has a nice smile. I fear for her, but I keep walking. I turn right, walk toward town.
My ex wears provocative clothing all the time. Clothes a woman of her age shouldn’t even wear. Tight tops, no bra, jeans that adhere to her skin, or short skirts that ride up her thighs, barely hiding lace thong. Sometimes she goes commando and you see her well fucked pussy.Why doesn’t she work the streets? She’d make good money. Then, I wouldn’t have to scrimp and save to pay her alimony. She wants it increased. Bitch wants more of my hard earned money. I work 12 hours a day, sometimes I have to pull a double just to get by. I window shop, then get myself more depressed looking at stuff I’ll never be able to buy. My computer still has Win XP for Chrissake, and this bitch, this whore wants more?

Yeah, I hear you, I know what you’re thinking. Why don’t I kill the bitch?

Because I love her. Okay? I love her. Fucked up, I know. Tell it to myself everyday. Even through all the betrayals, and really turbulent arguments, I’m talking fights where no object in the house was safe. I’ve never counted how many clocks, mementos, dishes, cups, glasses were obliterated in the years we were together, but I’ll bet if the dollars were calculated, we are talking serious money. The fights were legendary in the neighborhood we lived in. Cops at the house all the time. Knew us by name, probably rolled their eyes when they were dispatched. Bet they have a drinking game based on us.

Is there such a thing as love? It’s not just lust, obsession, fear of being alone, dying alone? Is there true love? True love shouldn’t involve violence, should it? True love’s like Heaven, right? Everything perfect? I’ve never seen that. Never. Only in movies. Fuck, even then, the couple argued.

I love her.

Dammit.

I’ve been with other women after the divorce, but, they don’t have what she has. She’s passionate, hot blooded, deadly. In bed, she’s a fucking rabid wildcat. A tornado of wanton lust. Her vagina a wet, dripping altar where men are sacrificed to the Goddess of Unrepentant sex.

I was born into a Catholic family. My grandparents imported Guilt and Damnation from Ireland. Shame and Sin were the norm in our family. The nether regions stayed nether. Unspoken, invisible. Is that why I married her? Betraying my upbringing? A big fuck you to my parents? Is it a cliche if it’s true? I was so ashamed when I first placed my hand on her breast, and I had a raging hard on. I still don’t like it when a woman holds my cock, though I fantasize about it when I masturbate. Only I can hold my cock right. Conflicted, confused, thrilled. A fucked up concoction of feelings, and fears sure fucked me up. Deep down, I knew why she strayed. I’m pretty damn boring in bed. Oh, I wanted to release the savage fucker in me. I wanted to be wild, and damned for all time. But, I was so repressed, sex was difficult. I’m feeling some guilt now, for fuck’s sake. God, I was, no, am pathetic, useless, cockless. I mean I did spurt two retards, didn’t I? Two fuck ups, just like Daddy.

Take a deep breath, keep on walking, at ease, at ease, think of the beautiful things, like when Jacob was born, before you knew he was a moron, when you had dreams of him going to college, becoming a quarterback, getting picked by the Cleveland Browns as a first pick in the NFL draft, leading them to a their first Superbowl, with numerous Superbowl’s to come, being inducted into the Hall Of Fame, making shit loads of money. Yeah, right, instead, I get a fucktard who burns his arms, and who has an average C is school, who doesn’t give a shit about anything except how to beat Dark Souls 3, and whose idea of sport is playing Madden…stop…remember the good times…the zoo, his crazy laughter as he pointed at the chimps having a poop throwing party…, yeah, that was…, but, then, at home after, the little bastard started his own poop throwing party, shit all over the walls, us, him. Never believed in corporal punishment, not after what I went through growing up, but, I just wanted to beat the shit out of him, although he did a pre-emptive strike. She thought it was hilarious, that’s because she didn’t help clean all that shit up. Lazy cunt. Adulterous cunt. So many cocks, so little time, is that it? Bottomless well unable to fill with cum? I hate you, I love you, oh Christ why must I be this way? Why? Why God? Why did you make me this way? Why? What did I do to deserve this? Keep walking, asshole, keep walking.

No. No more walking.

I stop, turn around.

Feel for the knife in my pocket.

Walk back.

I told you I fear for her.

Tears Of A Clown

Tears Of A Clown
by,
William Morgan

The kids fear me because I’m a clown. I blame Stephen King. Pennywise, y’know?
They all float down here.
Asshole.
I want the kids to laugh. To have fun, to be happy.
I’m joyous when they smile, when their eyes light up with glee.
But, when I see fear in their eyes, when they flinch, or, back away, well, then I get angry.
My nose gets redder, my balloons deflate, tears streak my face.
Then there is blood, and, pain, and all that is left is bits and pieces.
They don’t float, just decompose

Sunday

Sunday
by,
William Morgan

In the shower. In my cell. They get me. Five against one. Every night. Except Sunday. A day of rest? I fight. I fight real hard. I always lose. And it hurts. Hurts real bad. My girl, Jenny. She’s sneakin’ stuff in. Every visit. A good girl is my Jenny. Sunday arrives. I draw the circle. Light the candles. Open the book. Slice my palm. Speak the words. I hear their screams. I hear their screams. I smile.

Autumn

Autumn,
by,
William Morgan

The autumn leaves fell in a cascade of flaming reds, burnished copper, golden yellows, and settled upon my dead wife’s face.
She didn’t love me anymore. Hell, didn’t like me. Said I’m cold, distant. Wanted out, with half my earnings of course, and our two children. Well, she’s out. For good.
The woods in my backyard are covered with leaves, but I can still see where my other ex-wives are buried.
Marriage is easy. It’s the loving part that I haven’t quite got the hang of yet.

More ramblings.

Driving every day sometimes gets so fucking banal all you got is weird rambling to keep your eyes open.

She sniffed his shorts, smelled semen. That sonofabitch, she thought, either he’s been fucking around, or he’s back to masturbating. I’m cancelling the internet. How can I compete with all those airbrushed trollops? She had to figure out a way how to count the tissues in the box. When he gets home tonight, I’m gonna see if he wants me. Get on my Victoria’s Secret. The purple lace set. He loves that. Well, we’ll see if he still loves that.
Sonofabitch. I’ll kill him if he don’t want me.
She lay on the bed, forlorn, her fingers flicking her labia absently, the crotch-less panties just a useless garment, a piece of expensive, un-erotic lace. Her husband lay next to her, snoring, wearing his protective, blood red pajamas, no bulge in sight. She sighed. Jack would’ve-no-stop-he’s dead.
What to do? What to do?
Kill him.
Kill him?
Remember?
But, that’s just…well…I didn’t mean…figure of speech is all.
Find yourself a walking, raging boner, then. A young one. College boy, maybe. You’ll have to be a bit more…energetic, shall we say?
I…, wait a minute…, am I talking to myself?
No…, you’re talking to me.
Who’s me?
I’m me. You’re you.
What’s your name?
What’s my game?
Your name! Your name!
Same as it was yesterday.
Oh, you’re infuriating!
Bit like marriage, ain’t it? Ever think that he’s tired of you? Same body, same positions, same fake screams of endearment. Could be it’s like a job to him. Could be it’s no longer a labor of love, but a tedious, tiresome ordeal that he has to get through until he’s able to clock out. Does he still love you? Do you still love him? It’s not sweaty and sticky any more, is it? Passionless, mechanical. A forced fuck. Here’s my semi hard cock, see how I still love you? Oh, yes, put it in my almost desert dry cunt, let it scrape within me, hurt me, see how I still love you? Cum in my mouth, dear, cum in my mouth. Will you please cum in my mouth for chrissake! Don’t you see what time it is? Do you know you taste of piss and bitterness? Do you know he think’s your pussy tastes like cheese and whey, with a tang of iron? Or, how he wishes you’d shave so he doesn’t have to continually spit out dry brittle pubic hair? That he would love to bring a foot pump to bed to try to inflate your flabby breasts? That’s he’s seen better nipples on 100 year old corpses? That-
Shut up! Shut up!
He wants to spank you to spice it up a bit, but he doesn’t want to hurt his hand. Your ass is too big, too dirty, don’t you wash between your cheeks? It disgusts him-
Shut up! I’m warning you!
Warning who?
You!
Who am I?
What?
Who. Am. I?
Fuck, I’m tired, I give up, who are you?
Someone.
What someone?
Can’t you guess?
Me?
No!
Who, then, who? Stop playing these games!
I’m just a girl who can’t say no…
I-what?
Whorehair?
Wait a minute-wait a fucking minute-let me think-that’s familiar, so familiar.
Tireless pussy? Brazen cunt? Walking wet hole?
Jenny?
Oh, she remembers!
Jenny? Jenny Wilson?
Bingo! Give the cunt the clap!
You’re dead!
Oh, yes, that I am!
You’re dead. You’re dead! You’re dead! Get out of my head!
Oh, a poet.
Shut up! Fucking whore.
Jack liked me. Jack fucked me. In every orifice. Jack-
He was mine, cunt! Mine!
No, he belonged to me. He stayed with you because you were good at cooking, and cleaning. He laughed at your pathetic fucks. Feeble fucks he called them. Like fucking an empty jar. Oh-
Cunt! Shut your fucking mouth!
Try to stop me. You can’t. I’m here with you. Took a lot of depravity to get here. Took a lot of pain. Worth it, though. Did you think I would go away by killing me?
I didn’t-
Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t deny it. He showed me the truth. You were driving the car-
No! Jack was! I swear! Whoever told you that lied! I was with Mom, she fell down stairs. She broke her hip. I was at the hospital! I swear! It was Jack!
You’re lying!
No! Who told you I killed you?
He Who Rules The Pits Of Hell.
He Who-what?
It’s what he wants to be called. I dunno, sounded stupid when I first heard it as well.
That’s so…so, pulp.
He’s got a lot of Weird Tales authors down there.
But, isn’t lying his forte? Isn’t he the Father Of Lies?
No!
Yes! He is! The Devil fucked you more ways than one!
No!
Yes! Your in my mind, scan my memory, see the truth. It was Jack. Jack killed you.
Shit.
See? I wasn’t lying.
Oh, shit.
I’m waiting.
For?
An apology.
Then, I’m sorry. So, so sorry.
For possessing me?
No. For the other. I’ll go now. Leave you be. Go back to scorching pain, and eternal blisters. Find Jack, find him and-ah, fuck-find him and what? Shit,he’s already down there, how do I get revenge? Guess I’ll have eternity to figure something out. Fuck! Death ain’t fair!
Jenny? Jenny! Jenny! Come back!
Then, the world came back, and she saw the scissors, her bloody hand, and she screamed long, and loud as she turned her head and saw her husband’s blood red pajamas soaked in black red blood.

I don’t know. I swear, I don’t know!

“Are those titties?”
“Oh, yes, those are titties.”
“Those are a nice set.”
“Those, my friend, are a great set.”
“Pity she’s my Mom.”
“She’s not my Mother and I’m gonna masturbate to those two awesome visions.”
“I envy you.”
“I’m sure. Wanna go to my place, see if my sister is showering? We can both masturbate to that since I hate the preening cunt.”

Oh, I Wish I Was A Poet!

I need to poop
I need a nap
Close my eyes?
Or, take a crap?
Toilet’s upstairs
Too far away
I’m so tired
Worked hard all day
What to do?
I’m in a quandary
Take a snooze?
Or make some laundry?
Then it hit me
I’m such a dunce!
I can just do
Both at once!
I recline my chair
Unbutton my slacks
Shut my eyes
Try to relax
About to nod off
Dreaming of Meg
Something hot
Runs down my leg
It smells real bad
Must be the curry
Ah, well, I think,
No need to worry
Cos Meg’ll be home
To take care of her man
Strip me, wash me
If all goes to plan
She’s out on the town
Spending my money
this’ll be a helluva
“welcome back honey!”
Oh, the looks I got
When she came home
Her smile disappeared
Her mouth did foam
She stripped me down
In more ways than one
Made me feel small
At what I had done
She scraped my shorts
Scoured and scrubbed
washed, rinsed,and cleansed
Rub-A-Dub-Dub
She yelled and screamed
Threw the shorts in my face
They still smelled of curry
My, Such a disgrace!
You clean like an amateur
I said in disgust
Her face bloomed red
About to combust
Silently she seethed
Picked up a knife
Am I about to be
Killed by my wife?
I take it all back!
I hollered in fear
Your are the best!
My love! My dear!
Besides, if you kill me
Who’ll pay the bills?
You’ll shop no more
Have no more thrills
Put the knife down,
Let’s be like before
And I’ll promise to
Never poop no more
I’ve learned my lesson
I’m now a good chap
Pooping comes first,
Then I can nap.

Cassie Frugelli Wants To Go Far, Far Away

Cassie Frugelli Wants To Go Far, Far Away
by,
William Morgan

The fine hairs on her arms seemed sentient for they hated, and punished her. They felt like white hot needles stabbed viciously into deep tissue. The sweat poured out of her, a torrent of foul smelling contempt. In her mind her body was attempting to dehydrate her. Her stomach gurgled with rage, and spasmed wave, after wave of nausea. She felt hot, cold, hot, cold, body temperature going haywire. Out of control. The sickness made her kneel, made her bow to the god of the away powder. If it didn’t get worship, it punished severely.

If she didn’t get a hit soon…

She remembered the party all those years ago. Well, some of it. She had gotten pretty drunk. Tina, who had just turned eighteen and now was eligible to die in a land she didn’t give a shit about, invited just about all of Lorain county. So many people. All young. All full of energy. All not expecting to die anytime soon. Many drinking their livers into submission. Some snorting coke, some smoking crack, some injecting the far away powder.

Tina’s boyfriend, one of three actually, Brian was his name, she couldn’t remember his last name, all she could remember was that he was a leather boy. A metal head. Banging his head, mainlining to Iron Maiden. Glazed eyes, slack mouth, drool. Far away somewhere. Far away with not a care in the world. Want a try? asked Tina. C’mon, Cassie, try it. See where it takes you.

Back then she was Cassie Frugelli, 17, a fresh faced, gullible, beguiled, drunk girl with an unbroken hymen. If she wasn’t so drunk…, so pliable…, so fucking stupid. When Brian came back from heavy metal heaven, him, Tina, and, Cassie had sneaked off to the attic, the only place where there were no other bodies. Tina, damn her, had found the vein while Brian, damn him, had gotten the far away powder, spoon, and lighter ready. Tina gently held Cassie’s head in her lap and caressed Cassies’s long brunette hair. Cassie distinctly remembered Tina smelt of blood. Tina cooed, and whispered sweet lies in her ear as Brian injected liquid nirvana.

That feeling! That indescribable feeling was something she had never experienced before, or since. The high was so euphoric, so godly for she had left her earthly body, traveled the universe, alone, but, not lonely, floating in between the stars, flying through deep, deep space, impenetrable blackness, the vastness, the nothingness, a vision to behold, a wonder, she sees 5 lanes, roads of the future, her futures, all possible, the universe letting her decide, choose her life ahead and it was all hers, all Cassie’s, her body alive, alive, alive, aware of every inch, every molecule, every atom, her skin tight, pores open wide, black sludge oozing, cleansing, releasing every toxic thought, poisonous dream, noxious nightmare, her organs working in perfect synchronicity, her sex afire, dripping, swollen, wanting release, her mind filling with all the data of the world, the galaxy, the universe, open to a whirlwind of all the true meanings of life, knowing the reason she was here in the universe, she spreads her arms, tries to hug the world, love the world, love everyone, I love you, love you, I love you all, look at the universe, see how perfect, how mathematical, how-, then she was harshly brought back to reality, and found herself laying on her back, the musty mattress spotted with blood, her hymen no longer unbroken, and through dull eyes sees Brian wiping his cock on her panties, smiling, Scorpions’ Another Piece Of Meat playing in the background.

Now, 20 years later, she still thinks back to that first high, that amazing vision, tasting the universe, experiencing all of creation. When she told Tina, and Brian, (after screaming, and running to the bathroom to cry, and lament, and rage, and finally to clean), of her experience, Brian had laughed, looked puzzled. Wasn’t LSD, darlin’. Don’t know what happened to you. Maybe a little crazy? She crazy, Tina? Loopey? Get dropped on your head?

Tina had tried, unsuccessfully, to wrap her arms around Cassie. Sorry, Cass, I’m on my period. Otherwise. Y’know.

Like she was excusing rape. Like it was okay. She was just a back up fuck thing. No worries. The horror of the realization that Tina was a monster, scared Cassie even more than the defilement by Brian. Tina wasn’t even embarrassed, or felt any shame. She thought Brian did nothing wrong. It enraged Cassie enough to slap Tina hard. Tina stepped back, shocked. Brian pushed Cassie back. What the hell, cunt? Cassie kicked him as hard as she could between his legs, smiling as he doubled over, his eyes crossed, his face a comical farce of pursed lips, blown out cheeks, knotted eyebrows. Brian groaned, then yelled as she kicked him in the face. Bitch! Here came Tina, claws out, lips curled. Fucking bitch! Cassie stood her ground, waited until Tina got close enough, then, with her own claws, she made trenches, and grooves, scratching deep, scarring, blood pooling, Tina screeching, Cassie laughing, Brian sobbing. She left, making sure she grabbed Brian’s far away powder, and kit, then walked home. Sad, angry, ashamed. When she got home, she showered, scrubbed, cried, scrubbed, raged, scrubbed, until the water became too cold to bear, until she had the cleanest vagina in the world. Violated, yet spotless.

The withdrawal was something horrifying. Fire, Ice, Pain, Misery. She thought she was going to die. Wanted to die. The far away soothed, comforted, relaxed. She always had a thrill of anticipation before she plunged in the far away, hoping for a repeat of the the first one. It never came. She wondered if it was a mixture of the alcohol, and drug, but she could never remember what she drank. There was so much beer, and hard liquor at the party. She remembered vodka, rum, Bud, Miller, Jack, moonshine, even. She tried drinking before injecting, various mixtures of beer, and liquor, but, there were so many combinations, so many variables, it just made her more miserable after, made the pain more intense, the depression darker. She tried, and tried, but, she never had the vision again. Just a high, just a normal fucking high. She did go somewhere, but, it was like going on vacation to Gettysburg, or Niagara Falls. Everyone did that. It was nothing special. Bland, vanilla, been there, done that. Still, she needed the far away. The punishment was too much to bear without it. Life was nothing without it. She would do things for it. Degrade herself. Whore herself. Steal. Rape Peter to pay Paul. Her body was a temple for the far away. Those movies. They are out there. She thinks of them a lot. Has any of her family seen them? Her Mother, Brothers, Billy, and Jim? She thanks God every night that her Father died before she ran out of money, out of hope, out of far away. That’s one burden she doesn’t have to carry.

Now here she was, with another creep, damning herself to go far away.

Cassie watched the creep. Studied him. His excitement unnerved her. His anticipation shocked her. He smelt of garlic, rosemary, and fear. His tall, thin frame shook, his gray eyes were shining, the lips wet from constant licking. He looked so ordinary, so human. He could be a neighbor, a co-worker, a fast food manager.

“Money up front, alright?”

He took out his wallet. It looked ordinary, as well. Not made of human skin. He took out a wad of notes.

“A thousand? Yes? That’s what we agreed on.” He didn’t look her in the eyes.

His profile stated he lived in California. That’s a long way to travel to Ohio. Then again, it was the internet. A liar’s domain. Full of small, weak men typing their impotent rage in ALL CAPS.

She counted slowly, making sure it all was there, and none of it was funny. Plus she was putting off what was agreed on.

Was there another way?

She wished. She prayed every night. Got on her knees, implored, begged, beseeched God for help, for assistance.

Assistance. Ha! What a joke! Couldn’t get that from welfare. Basically told her to go fuck herself. Her family had disowned her. Her husband had divorced her. Didn’t they realize that she needed the money? Couldn’t they show a little compassion? She hated stealing from them. Hated it. But, she had no choice.

No choice. Well, there was one, but that involved a lot of pain, and sickness, and strength. She knew she was weak, hell, she was born weak. Weak of mind, of self, of spirit. No. There was no choice.

She sighed.

“Ready?”

The man hesitated for a sec, then undid his belt, unbuttoned his pants, dropped them to his black, shiny shoes, took them off. Next came his underwear. He kept his shirt and tie on.

His penis was rock hard, the glans glistening.

“I’m ready.”

“I can see that.” A lame joke got a lame smile.

“Over here.” She walked him to the corner of the bedroom.

Oh, God, oh, God, where are you?

Eyes brimming with tears, hands shaking with shame, she reached down into the second hand blue crib, and undid her little boys diaper, exposed him, avoiding his year old baby blues, trying to block out his laughter. He wasn’t wet.

“No touching,” she said, firmly.

“No, no, I won’t. I swear.”

“Because if you do…” Showed him the baseball bat.

His hands came up. “Swear to Christ. I won’t, I won’t.”

She stepped back.

“Get it over with.”

The man looked into the crib, and began to stroke himself.

When he was finished, he asked if he could use the bathroom to clean himself up. He apologized for the carpet. His face was red. From the act, or shame, she couldn’t tell.

He stopped at the door, kept his back to her, said, “you could make more if you-”

“No. Never. Understand?”

He nodded, went into the bathroom. Shut the door. She heard the water running.

She quickly fixed her boy’s diaper. Wiped her tears off his little face. So sorry. So sorry. So sorry.

She looked at the money. Imagined the escape, the bliss. Need to get to Nick’s, get some bliss, some far away. Far, far away powder. How much can I buy with this? How much will I need? How pure? Far away and lax do not mix. Shitting the dream is not what I want. I want my universe, I want that vision. It was so pure. One more time, then I’ll quit. Swear. On my father’s-no-don’t-don’t-

She wondered fleetingly whether she even had a soul anymore.

The man came out of the bathroom, nodded, put on his underwear, pants, coat, and hat. “I have friends. Lots of friends. We could set up a timetable of sorts. On your time, of course. Lots of money to be made. I could help weed out the, ah, more aggressive types. No fee, maybe a discount. You have my private number. I suggest you get a landline. I can help you secure it. You won’t want for anything. Until he gets too old, of course. Just let me know.”

She couldn’t speak, because she knew she’d just scream. She nodded instead.

“Goodbye, then.”

She waved, then he left.

Then she looked down at her little boy again and questioned if she ever loved him at all for there was a tiny voice speaking behind her collapsed soul, a voice that desired, demanded the far, far away powder, uncut, pure, euphoric, a voice horrific in it’s insistence, chilling in it’s influence, frightening for she was listening, that chanted over, and over, and over. Never say never.

Flayed

Hungry Horace ate Keyhole Kate’s face, with a side of roast potatoes, wonderful Yorkshire pud, and a heaping helping of Rodger’s blood sausage. Rodger was behind Horace, tied to a chair, eyes glazed as blood oozed from the slit in his neck ( Dodge outta that one, boy! Har Har!)

Elsewhere, Peter Piper checked the handcuffs, rope, and chloroform, and then began to play his pipes in front of a BeyoncĂ© poster, Sid’s face was purple, tongue black, eyes almost popping from their sockets, because he forgot the rudimentary procedure when feeding his snake, Faceache was a shoo-in to win Britain’s Got Talent, and he was getting emails from numerous horror movie makers like Dario Argento, and John Carpenter, Oddball was forced to make money by advertising himself as the Ultimate Dildo, Little Mo was tasting cock for the first time, Desert Island Dick finally saw a ship passing by and swam out to meet it, only to be disemboweled and devoured by Hook-Jaw, Judge Dredd blew Bully Beef away for obvious reasons, Chips, despondent, hanged himself from a lamppost on the corner of Bash Street, Ginger stole Vals Vanishing Cream and watched Beryl taking a bath, the knife in his hand sharp and gleaming, Shiner lay crumpled in a heap by a gutter, pulverized by Pansy Potter after making comments about her sexual orientation, and Billy Whizz proved once and for all on YouTube that he was faster than The Flash.

All this happened because some kids were exploring and came upon the flayed skin of a god, and one of them decided to don it.

Stephen And Carrie-A Love Story

Sammy the Pug jumped and yipped, wagging his stumpy little tail as his Master, and Mistress cuddled on the couch. The couch was decorated with hearts, and flowers. Cupid covered the walls, the wallpaper almost alive with romance. The Welcome mat by the front door Stated ” Love is…”
Stephen, and Carrie hugged each other, looked deep into each others eyes and professed their love, their kisses deep, and passionate. Stephen got up off the couch, knelt before Carrie, producing apparently from thin air a beautiful diamond ring.
“Will you marry me?” he said, bottom lip quivering.
Carrie, tears running down her beautiful, perfect face, said, “yes, oh, yes, yes, yes! My darling! My sweetheart!”
They hugged again, and Sammy yipped, and carried on with delight, sensing their happiness.
Stephen, and Carrie went to bed, and made beautiful love together, as Sammy slept in his cage, snoring and snuffling.
They were all content.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, something popped behind the microwave. Bad wiring.
The fire grew slowly, but, the happy couple never did put new batteries in the smoke detectors during Spring forward, daylight savings time.
The house burned to the ground, killing Stephen and Carrie, but Sammy miraculously survived. He is no longer a small, tan happy dog, but, a burnt black leathery mess of a thing, yipping, and whining, and whimpering, and howling in incredible pain.

Dammit.
Almost!

Brian And Mary

“Do you smell that?”
Mary sighed. Here we go again, rolling her eyes as she popped the lid off a new bottle of Tylenol.
“Smell what, hon?”
“Cat piss. Jesus, it’s strong.” Brian said, gagging.
“We don’t have a cat, dear. Never had one.” Mary emptied the bottle of pills onto the comforter, reached in the drawer for a small plastic sandwich bag.
“You sure? I distinctly rem-”
“We had a dog, and some goldfish. Percy died last year. Run over by that psycho next door. Remember? All that commotion, fighting? Police arriving? Taking you to jail for using the baseball bat on his Mini Cooper? Anything ring a bell?” She passed each pill into the small baggie, humming as she did it.
“I was in jail? All I know is that we had a lot of stuff, Christ, a shitload of newspapers, and magazines, boxes of trinkets, and cuddly toys. Where did it all go?”
“Honey, we have this conversation just about every month now. The cats, all that junk? That was your previous life. You were an old lady named Molly Parsons. You were a hoarder, and a cat lover. You had too many cats, and not enough litter boxes. Your house reeked of cat piss, and cat shit, and mold from all those newspaper, and magazines. You fairly reeked yourself because washing was way down on your list of things to do. You were a sad, pathetic, lonely creature, and you died alone. They found you a month later, face down in cat shit.”
“So, that means I’ll never get rid of this smell? Should I just go kill myself now?”
“No, here’s some Vick’s, rub it under your nose, lay back down, and go to sleep. I have to work a double shift tomorrow” Mary jumped out of bed, squatted, and inserted the baggie of Tylenol up her ass.
Brian was flabbergasted. “What in the hell are you doing?”
“I was a mule in a previous life. Now, shut up, and go to sleep!”

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