My tales of terror and filth will surely shake the meat from your bones and I'll be there to suckle and engorge every blood sodden chunk. Come join me for horror...
The first tiny tale has no plot and I didn't want one. It is a conveyance of atmosph...
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I've never shared my most inner secrets in fear of going to prison, the death penalty, and losing the ability to appear normal and love my life. I have done the most horrific things and have been dear friends to the most sadistic psychotic people imaginable. I was 15 years old earning astronomical cash and I did because I wanted to. I do what I want. Always. . .
April 7, 2015
I'm curling my long red hair as I look at myself in the mirror knowing I could easily look around 23 years old. My makeup is flawless and always finished off with Guerlain lipstick from France. I have every color they make. I know I have a much more developed body than most girls my age and wore a 32C cup bra when I was only eleven. Older boys and men always wanted to see more even at that age. I'm wearing the tiniest neon-green spandex shorts with matching low-cut sleeveless top—my breasts exploding outward and barely contained—and low-cut black high heel boots. I look like a nasty slut because I am a nasty slut. I have a small raspberry purse with gold trim containing everything I'll need today.
After parking on the beach, I walk two miles to Walmart, my favorite store, to look around. As I walk in, the greeter is an old man just smiling and eyeballing me. He says, "Hello, might I say you look lovely today."
I spit a soaking wod of bubble gum in his hair and say, "Eat the maggot crusted guts out of your dead mother's putrid pussy you perverted old fuck. STOP LOOKING AT ME. FUCKING GO DIE."
I giggle in a frenzy as my mood improves with every step. As I walk past the pharmacy, I dump about half a gram of cocaine on the back of my hand and snort it up with a loud wild hog grunt, licking up the remainder to clean my paw. I stop by a sunglasses rack to check my face in the little mirror, not even the tiniest spec of white on my nose. That comes from experience.
I see a guy, tall, fucking rad body, holding hands with his girlfriend. She's a total stoner wearing a little scorching kaleidoscopic peach-magenta-yellow top with a large black circle logo on her chest that reads 420 just beneath a yellow smiley-face smoking a joint. The male is wearing a maroon Florida State shirt and matching cap. They are stopped looking through DVD movies as I walk up behind them. They are discussing what movie they'll buy for tonight. She has Easy A in her hand and he has The History of The Civil War six disc box set by Ken Burns.
She says, "I ain't watching no stupid fucking war movie on our last night here. Fuck no."
I move to her right side, put my left hand on her shoulder. She jerks slightly as I scared her but she sees me and relaxes. I reach and grab the movie Pineapple Express and I say, "Excuse me, didn't mean to jump in front of you two." My hand is still on her shoulder but I slide it up to the back of her neck as I intensely invade her personal space looking in her ice-blue eyes, smelling her breath. I look down at her tits, smiling and say, "Nice Shirt, 420 is my favorite three digit number."
They both smile and begin laughing as I step in closer, hugging her, with my free right hand I shake his. He says, "Hi. . .Layne. This is my girlfriend Adrianna."
