ForEverAfter
Ex-Bluelighter
- Joined
- Jan 16, 2012
- Messages
- 2,836
Cunts & Janitors: A Love Story
Kenny remains in position, leaning over her like a pack hunter protecting the last scrap of meat. There are a couple of miserables lingering around a booth, opposite the pool table. Ordinary types. Middle-aged, fat.
Nothing to worry about, says the Gremlin. The place is fucking deserted.
No competition. No witnesses.
Focus on the cunt. What was her name? Suzy? Fiona? Greta? Who gives a shit. Bet she's never been fucked by a man who knew her name. Fast pussy like her doesn't need a name. Fucking sluts. They should all just go by Cunt. This one, her name probably is Cunt. Look at her, Kenny. She's disgusting. Trying to disguise her age with make-up. Looks like she used a fucking paintbrush. Probably started overdoing it when she was in her mid-thirties. Compensating, as she got worse, by increasing the width of her mask. Look at her now. 45, maybe 50. Her foundation applied so thick, her eye-sockets have shrunk into her face. Looks like a chipmunk, with a mouthful of nuts, after being filled with helium. Or, some kind of disease. No doubt, she's carrying something downstairs. Her eyes remain miserable when she smiles. Her joy and her youthfulness paralyzed by strange dick. There's nothing sacred about this one.
Amanda smiles, joylessly, nervously.
The ghost of her dead mother - Judith - says, Don't be nervous. It's a turnoff. He'll think you're nervous because you've got something to hide. Like maybe you're a Mormon. Or you give bad blow jobs. You're losing him already. God, Amanda. You don't want to remain single your whole life, do you? Show a bit of skirt. Say something, you know, provocative.
Amanda leaps to her feet and screams: "Shut up, mother!"
The pub is dead silent. Somebody even unplugs the jute box. The ordinary-types, the miserables, peering over the pool table and whispering to each other; the bartender, Jean-Paul, frozen in position mid-cocktail.
"Don't worry," Kenny says. "I have a Gremlin."
Amanda sits back down.
This Cunt is crazy, says the Gremlin. Probably escaped from a fucking mental institution. Score. Can't beat psych ward pussy. Remember that Christian Cunt. The schizophrenic. What was her name? You know: Ms. Bat-Shit. The one we convinced Jesus would appear, if she fucked properly. Corkscrew! That's what we used to call her. You know, on account of the way she used to twist around, all the time. Like she was trying to find the perfect angle.
"She killed herself," Kenny says.
Upon hearing this, Amanda ceases her less-than-subtle attempt to expose her underpants by inching up her skirt. She stares at Kenny, an expression of disbelief on her face. "How do you know, that?"
Kenny pours half a pint down the back of his throat, and points to his glass. “What?”
“That she killed herself.”
Jean-Paul, listening to every word, grabs the empty pint and refills it with Guinness. Kenny digging his finger into a near-empty packet of smokes, replies. “I was there, when it happened.”
He's lying, says the ghost of Judith, to her daughter. And so are you.
Spinning his zippo lighter, on it's way from his pocket to the tip of his smoke, like a gunslinger drawing a pistol in a Western, Kenny leans forward into the flame.
Never fails to impress, notes the Gremlin. But it's all you've got, in your arsenal. A party trick. Remember that, and cut the fucking suicide shit. She thinks you're talking about her mother.
Amanda, placing a hand on the crotch of his pants, whispers, “Tell me, everything. Every detail.”
Stop this, at once, insists Judith. You're sick, remember? Take a deep breath.
Kenny, cigarette balancing between his stubble-framed lips, looks down at the hand massaging his dick.
I've changed my mind, says the Gremlin. Go along with it.
“Did you fuck her?” Amanda whispers, tightening her grip. “I'm getting wet, just thinking about it.”
Tell her you fucked her, says the Gremlin.
“I fucked her.”
“I'll bet you did.”
Go on, urges the Gremlin, impatiently. Don't stop.
“I fucked her in the ass.”
“Was it tight?”
“No.” Kenny attempts to slacken his trousers, without Jean-Paul noticing. “It was loose. Like an old sock. An old sock that's, uh, lost it's elasticity. Not as loose as her pussy, though.”
Brilliant. The Gremlin approves.
Before vanishing, Judith says, I don't know how you can sleep at night.
Amanda, digging through a fake-leather shoulder bag with her free hand, produces a pair of nail scissors. Reaching into Kenny's pocket, she turns it inside out and starts cutting. “Did you change condoms, from hole to hole?” She puts Kenny's trouser pocket into her handbag along with the scissors. Her left hand, wriggling it's way towards his dick; her right, tugging and squeezing.
“Wasn't wearing one,” says Kenny.
She's incredible, says the Gremlin.
The palm of her left hand tight around Kenny's dick, Amanda says, “Did you eat her pussy?” She lets go with her right, hiking her skirt past her hips and burying a couple of fingers between her legs. “What did it smell like?” she asks, waving her wet fingers under his nose. “Like this?”
I think I'm in love, declares the Gremlin. It's a shame we have to kill her.
Amanda slides a fingertip into Kenny's mouth. “How did she taste?” she whispers, loudly, rotating his dick around, so that the head is sticking out, where his pocket used to be. She drops to her knees. “Did she suck your dick?” Her tongue flicking, back and forth. She wraps her lips around him, before saying, “Did she deep throat you?” Her voice, nearing conversation-volume.
Well? says the Gremlin. Answer the Cunt.
“She, uh, gagged,” says Kenny.
“I bet,” replies Amanda, almost loud enough to be heard by the miserables. “You're a big boy.”
Kenny glances over the bar, and shrugs. Jean-Paul pretends to be oblivious to the whole situation.
“You want me to gag on it?” Amanda screams.
Is this really happening? says the Gremlin.
Kenny climaxes, decorating her face with ribbons of hot salty cum, as if wrapping tinsel around a Christmas tree.
Amanda starts singing. “I'm singing in the rain, just singing in the rain. What a glorious feelin'
I'm happy again.” She stands up, a long rubbery strand of ejaculate dangling from her nose.
The Gremlin says, Wow. I don't know what to say. I'm speechless.
“I'm laughing at clouds, so dark up above.”
One of the other bar patrons – a fat forty-something businessman with a bad moustache – is standing, red-faced, less than three feet away. Kenny makes eye contact with him.
“The sun's in my heart, and I'm ready for love.”
Kenny shifts his gaze to Jean-Paul, then Amanda. “I think we'd better go,” he says.
The contents of his balls spread across her face like a mudpack, Amanda says, “Tell me one thing. And be honest. Who was better? Mother or daughter?”
You know what to say, says the Gremlin. Make it convincing.
“Daughter,” mutters Kenny, still a little disoriented. Then, more confidently, he says, “You.”
Judith, re-materializing, seated on the bar, gasps and promptly vanishes.
Kenny drops enough money on the bar to cover their drinks, before they leave. Nobody says anything. Nobody so much as moves. Amanda doesn't wipe her face. She drips a thin white trail, on the way back to Kenny's apartment. No words are exchanged, until they get inside.
Kenny absorbs the Gremlin. They become one and the same. “I forgot your name,” he says, padlocking the door.
“Amanda.”
Judith's ghost returns to the land of the living. Please, for the love of God, wipe that filth off your face.
“You're just jealous,” replies Amanda.
“What?”
“Oh, no. Sorry. I was talking to my mother.”
“I see,” Kenny says. “Care for some wine?” He pours two glasses. “So, Amanda, huh? Honestly, I'm not going to remember that. Too many syllables. Do you mind if I just call you Cunt?”
“Not at all. Actually, that's my middle name.”
Veronica, says Judith. Your middle name is Veronica.
He hands her the glass. “Unusual name.”
“It's short for Vagina. Mother was a feminist.”
You've stopped taking your medication, haven't you? Judith says, her head separating from her body and drifting around the room. You need help, Amanda. You're not well.
Kenny sits down on the couch. “So, Cunt, what do you do?”
“I'm a psychiatrist,” she replies, sliding her panties down to her ankles. Judith's body disappears.
“Doesn't that cause problems?”
“What do you mean?” Amanda says, wiping her face with her underwear. The disembodied head of her dead mother, butting a window pane like a fly.
“You know,” Kenny says, doing his gunslinger routine as he lights a joint. “Because you're crazy.”
Stepping back into her soaking wet panties, Amanda replies, “Oh, no. All psychiatrist's are crazy. Actually, my condition is relatively mild.” She slides her underwear back into position and sits down on the coffee table, directly in front of him, their knees touching. “I should introduce you to Freud,” she says.
“Sigmund Freud?”
“You know him?”
“By reputation, only.”
“Maybe we could have a three-way sometime.”
“Yes,” Kenny says, passing her the joint. “I'd like that.”
Judith's forehead tapping rhythmically against the glass. A clock ticking, somewhere. The smell of burnt cannabis, semen and sweat. “Yourself?” Amanda asks, releasing a thick cloud of smoke, through her teeth. “What do you do?”
“I am God's janitor.”
“Do you know Jesus?”
“No.” Kenny motions for the joint. “I've never been to head office.”
“Just as well. He's one of those ultra-faggots. You know the type. His entire life revolves around sodomy. Acts like he's got a cock up there, twenty-four seven. Even his voice. He has this gasping breathless way of speaking. Doesn't matter what he's saying. It sounds like he's getting pounded, every second of the day.”
“I didn't know he was gay.”
“Are you serious? He's like the gayest person ever.” Amanda takes the joint, now only a roach, and bites down it. She speaks through her teeth, pausing between sentences to inhale and exhale. “Not that there's anything wrong with a bit of back door action, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“There just needs to be a balance, you know?” She extinguishes the joint with her tongue, and swallows it. “Everything in moderation, as they say.” She stands up, approaching Judith. “Do you mind if I open this? Mother wants to get out.”
“By all means, Cunt. By all means.”
Amanda opens the window and her mother's head finds it's way outside.
Turning back to face her daughter as she floats off down the street, Judith says, Don't forget, you have to kill him.
Kenny drops a crystal into his crackpipe. The gunslinger routine. He smokes, inhaling as much as he can and holding his breath until he turns red in the face. While exhaling, he relights the pipe. The crystal liquifies, erupting into a dense column of smoke. He fills his lungs again.
Reseating herself on the coffee table, Amanda spreads her legs and says, “I like feeling cold sticky milk on my asshole.” Then, she closes her legs, and leans forward. “It's going to set soon. You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to peel it off, and keep it for later.”
Kenny exhales. “You know what I fucking hate? And, tell me if you're on the same page about this. I hate all these so-called geniuses. Fucking professors. Scientists. Doctors. No offense, but they've all got their heads up their asses.”
“None taken.”
He hands her the pipe. “The sort of people who inject foreign phrases into everyday language and make frequent references to Greek mythology. They should all be fucking shot in the face, kept alive by any means necessary, and forced to undergo reconstructive surgery so that the bullet-hole is regrafted into a vagina. Then dosed with a combination of LSD and Viagra, before getting fucked repeatedly by a Clydesdale horse. Until they either: drown in equine ejaculate; or the horse forcibly jams it's cock up into their brain – resulting in a slow, prolonged, uncontrollable-spastic and excruciatingly-painful fuck session – phallus slamming into cerebrum until every last living brain cell has been bludgeoned utterly beyond recognition – until no DNA remains – and even the world's top microbiologists are incapable distinguishing semen from cerebrum or human from horse."
"You took the words right out of my mouth," Amanda says, jumping to her feet. “What gets me is those little girls you see, dressed up like sluts. Inch long skirts and bikini tops in winter. Fucking posers. Most of them have never even been double-teamed. They walk around, flaunting this non-existent sexuality. Like they have interesting sex lives. They think because they're young that they own fucking. Like fucking belongs to the young. I could outfuck them all. Spoilt little bitches. Probably don't even know how to suck a dick.”
Kenny, feeling around under the couch cushion, says, “Couldn't agree with you more. I'd love to take one of them and split them open from the inside out. A good old-fashioned unlubricated fisting, that'd sort them out. Bend them over and punch them in the cunt hard enough to force my way inside. Up to the fucking elbow. Until they break in half.” He stands up, pocketing the knife.
Amanda reaches into her cleavage, as he approaches. “You really are God's janitor.”
“Yes, I am.”
Looking down, he sees a blade sliding out of his abdomen. The pain, although dulled by alcohol, is excruciating. He pulls the knife out of her belly button. She, too, looks down just as it is removed. Bleeding out onto the floorboards, they look deep into each other's eyes.
“I think I love you, Cunt.”
“I love you, too.”
Kenny's legs give out beneath him. He drops to his knees. “Marry me.”
Amanda collapses. "Yes," she says. "A thousand times, yes."
Positioning himself beside her, he wraps an arm around her waist.
They lie there, together. Spooning. Bleeding. In love.
With her last breath, she whispers, "Till death do us part.”
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