Sex and Murder Magazine

By Phaedra LeStrange

He gets so fucking clammy, I thought as I shivered against Hank's sweat glaciered gut. He nibbled lazily on my neck as I stared vacantly over his shoulder at the holy statues lined up on the mantle. Their fingerless hands offering tarnished rosaries, his dead mother immortalized in their cold marble eyes. The bitch died three years ago, but her scented ghost lingers on. Heady gardenia and stale mothballs seep from the thread-worn mattress like an evil vapor, the third party in a nightmarish threesome-one I believe my boyfriend secretly gets off on.

"I'm gonna fuck you till you scream, little slut, no matter how much you beg me to stop."

"Yeah right. You couldn't rape a dead dog," I wanted to say. Instead I bit my tongue and parted my legs mechanically, mindful of the nothing that was to come. He slithered his fat slimy tongue across my lips. I gagged on the taste of old meat, a poisonous gas that curdles even latent desires. Bloody gum disease. Rotted teeth. Bile belch. Hints to the metastasizing necrosis caking inside his 400 lb. body. Clogged intestines a haven for feeding parasites. He takes an average of four dumps a day. I choke on the beefy sulfurous stink of it if God forbid I have to use the bathroom after him.

An assault of chemical warfare proportions. But no amount of clockwork defecation could possibly eliminate the stalagmites of waste exponentially putrefying along the walls of his cancer candidate colon.

My common law husband is still a butcher at the shitty little grocery down the street where we met three years ago. I was (and still am) a cashier there. Back then I had dreams of making something of myself, but those aspirations have long since rotted inside me like the rancidity infecting Hank's guts. He works in the back of the store, where he stuffs his smelly Marlboro duffel bag with pilfered cuts of fatty meat. Just like the day I met him.

It's disgusting to watch him clog his arteries all day long with heaping plates of mutton, tripe, pig parts, bison. Even raw chop meat, which he scoops up by the pound in sweaty shaking paws. He uses his blood caked fingernails as toothpicks to scrape the savory gristle out from his cavitied molars. Junkie. It's no different from the crackhead crawling around in their own shit, for a lost rock. Same mechanism. Same hunger.

If only he were half that voracious in the bedroom, devouring me with carnivorous intensity, screwing me the way a real man should. Sweat slick. Unrelenting, a drill banging me to oblivion. My head smashing hematoma hard into the headboard. Entire body so wracked with fuck fury I can hardly move. Hungover.

Instead I stare up at the ceiling, night after night, waiting for the gynecological like spectacle to exhaust itself.

"You're so sexy," he whispered as if to convince himself, slapping his limp cock against my lonely cunt like a dead eel against a sandscooped beach grave. Full body yawn. His chronic impotence would be more sad than anything else if I didn't hate him so much. But I do hate him. If only he knew that I call him Mr. Softee to my friends behind his back, and dress that floppy dick in frilly Barbie clothes while he sleeps, take pictures. Pathetic sonofabitch.

"I'm so sorry Ivy," he said, plunking massively obese body down next to me. I've heard it all before, the excuses, the theories. I don't even care what the reason is anymore. The idea of someone this grotesque-who I began dating out of misguided pity-to wilt at the sight of my naked body is almost too much for my long battered ego to bear. It's an outrage.

I lit a Marlboro and blew plumes of smoke in the Virgin Mary's general direction. Suffocating on all the acid laced things I wanted to say, but instead I exhaled a breathy "I understand," my unused hole stinging like the phantom limb of an amputee. If only I never went with him. If only my initial repulsion for his grossly swollen body and premature balding remained, and I didn't fall for his puppy dog devotion, his relentless wooing. How was I to know I'd end up with a man prematurely riddled with the afflictions of old age? Arthritic knees, liver spots. He can't take Viagra because of his obesity related hypertension.

It wasn't always this way. We used to fuck all the time before that overbearing hag of a mother died and left me to care for her broken baby boy, caught dangling in his umbilical noose, bereft and ineffectual.

No more Mommy to cook his meals, hold his hand. Even after I moved in she insisted on doing everything for him, from scrubbing the skid marks out of his underwear to clipping his horn like toenails. I began to feel like an intruder, an outsider to their private little jokes, their household rituals and secret whispers.

But I stayed with him anyway, hoping like all stupid women in love that he would change. Become more of who I wanted.

"You're so damn beautiful," he said, as he belched up his dinner of fried chicken feet and ramen noodles.

It's true that I've never lacked for male attention. I don't claim to be a supermodel, but I have long, natural blonde hair that I'm proud of, along with delicate features and a curvy body.

"Then why don't you want me anymore? Why can't you just get past everything and fuck me the way you used to?"

"I don't know," he shrugged

"I guess it's intimidating, all the pressure. I feel like I'm auditioning."

"Your mother's been dead for two years, Hank," I said suddenly, turning my back to him.

"I've asked you time and time again to get rid of her stuff. She's dead."

I was going too far and I knew it, but I couldn't stop now. I was going to pick this scab clean.

"I've asked you so many times to get rid of her stuff. I'm sick of it, it's…it's everywhere. We finally have this place to ourselves, we can fix it any way we want, or better yet, move, but you just won't let go of her goddamned ghost."

"What does this have to do with anything?"

"Everything."

I went to her wood panel closet and parted the floral shower curtains that took the place of doors.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Giving you what you want you sick bastard."

I slipped into a gaudy rose print moo-moo. The fabric swam around my body like a tarp.

"And what is it you think I want?"

"This. Your mother back from the grave. The only woman you ever loved."

"That's bullshit Ivy and you know it."

"Then stop telling me how much you want me and show me, dammit."

I slithered to the bed, and lifted the hideous nightgown over my ample tits. Didn't he hunger? Didn't his mouth water at the sight of my aching nipples?

He looked down. Dead silence.

"To be honest you never could compare to my mother. My mother took care of me. You barely even clean around here; and you're always telling me what to do. You act like a fuckin' tyrant."

"If I was a tyrant, I'd have gotten rid of her shit by now."

"Shit?"

I shot a wad of spit onto her fake porcelain jewelry box. The froth clung like dew to the jade leaves of the oriental garden mosaic.

"That's right."

"You bitch," he growled, shoving me away from Mommy's precious little trinket box.

It thrilled me to make him come alive, even in violence. I think I'd rupture with orgasm if he ever hit me. But deep down I knew Hank didn't have the ability to lose such control. It required too much passion.

"Hit me Hank, go on and hit me," I breathed, writhing as he pinioned my wrists behind me on the hard dresser. I gazed up at his plump moonlit face pleadingly, tears choking my eyes.

And then he let me go. My cunt felt even emptier than before. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

All hopes of anger sex hissed out of me as he slammed the bedroom door. Another night on the couch. Frozen out of his head as well as his body.

I masturbated myself to sleep with the massive, purple jelly vibrator given to me by my friend Carla at last year's Christmas party. Hank's chronic impotence became a private joke between us. I was used to Carla's dirty humor, and laughed along with the rest of my co-workers, but inside I was dying. Had it really come to this? After three months of laying hidden in the back of my panty drawer, I finally put that cock to work one lonely weekend and it's been doing overtime ever since.

Carla often encouraged me to go for one of the Latino stock boys. They were hot for me, licking their lips when I passed by, seductively fondling the cantaloupes as they eyed my juicy ripe tits and ass. But I would never…things with Hank would improve, I told myself. Still tell myself. And as much as I resented him for what I'd been denied so long, I know I'll resent myself more if I ever act on my horny impulses.

I had my wet dream again.

Gritty subway platform late at night. Alone. A pack of growling wolves swarm around me like gathering storm clouds, licking bloody chops, tails swaying. One by one, they shape shift into young men with skin as black as charred barbecue meat. Grotesquely huge cocks stiff and veiny. Throbbing.

I spread like a lily white butterfly for them to impale me, which they do repeatedly, my astral cunt barbed on stakes of brutal black. Cum spitting cobras that glaze my entire body in a cocoon of hot, sticky white.

In real life, niggers repulse me. These bizarre nightly visions perplexed me when daylight hit.

I woke up at four AM, thirsty and restless. The dreamy blue light of the television spilled like a wave over my toes as I approached the door to the living room. I cracked it open an inch. The images on the screen shot through my brain like lead bullets.

A low budget dungeon setting. Groups of young women handcuffed to metal hooks in the ceiling, some dangling by their wrists, others by their ankles. Hooded men took turns cracking ivory canes across their backs and buttocks. Opening their skin. Fresh blood poured honey slow from the brutal lacerations. It looked like an otherworldly slaughterhouse, where human girls hung like beautiful slabs of meat, spilling blood and tears for the hungry.

I stared disbelieving at Hank writhing in the linty black recliner, raging erection thrusting deep inside a hunk of raw flabby liver, white knuckled fist pumpsqueezing furiously, as if trying to choke the life out of his cock. Slack jawed, possessed, until finally, a fountain of thick cum and clotted animal blood spewed from his lap, spraying the television screen and wall like crime scene splatter. The stench was horrifying. Coppery rot and sour semen.

My bowels clenched as my stomach swallowed my heart whole. Undulant-a snake devouring a squirming mouse. Fuck. He needed this, not me. He preferred manufactured images over my warmth. These were his secret fantasies? I am not a stupid woman. I know all men have them, but why didn't he ever try to act them out with me? It was the ultimate rejection.

I showed up later that morning at Newson's wired on crying and coffee, the cold air an assault on my jangled nerves. The store was empty except for Carla, leaning against her counter, sucking a cigarette. I was glad that Hank wouldn't be in until noon. I hadn't confronted him about what I'd seen. Didn't plan to.

"Thought you gave that up."

"Heh-heh, so did I honey, but you know how it is- stress," the hard road redhead said.

Her sandpaper voice sounded even rougher than usual.

"What's up?"

What's up skipped toward us down aisle 3, his head turbaned in pink toilet paper. Scotty Reardon. Tall as a redwood tree, the redheaded teenager was afflicted with the half stiff face of a palsied midget, features pushed in, colorless eyes perpetually leaking an ugly milky fluid. The pupil was shattered in the left one, and rattled around confused like a bug trapped inside a marble. A reddish constellation of freckles circled his drooling mouth, drawing morbidly erotic interest to his crusted lips.

"Hello Scotty." I waved. He giggled and said nothing.

"Get that shit off your head!" Carla barked, unwrapping her clown mummy son.

"You know better. Now go sit down."

She nodded towards the manager's station. "And don't touch anything, for Chrissakes!" She lit another cigarette, and said, "Looks like neither one of us can escape our boys."

I was grateful that Scotty only came in a couple days a week to collect stray carts or mop up spilled milk. The sight of the retarded boy was a repulsive nuisance. Carla screamed at him constantly, and I'd seen bruises on his bony arms more times than I could count. The whole thing made me sick.

"Boy, he's in top shape today, knocked down two jars o' pickles already. Drivin' me crazy. I regret ever talkin' Newson into hirin' him." She offered me a smoke which I accepted hungrily.

"He won't leave his dick alone," she whispered as she lit me up. "Fuckin' disgusting."

I resisted the urge to burst into laughter, and instead mouthed a sympathetic "Oh."

I read somewhere that the retarded can't control their base urges, and beat off constantly-even in public. Their undeveloped brain is completely without inhibition.

Scotty's runny eye glared at me from the wood paneled both; sure enough, he had one hand wriggling around inside his brown corduroys, the other exploring his nostrils. Staccato groans fired from his drooly mouth. I wondered if he was a virgin. From where I stood, the bulge in his pants looked enormous. Tempting. Forbidden. My pussy dampened, while my head reeled in self-disgust.

"Between you and me, I think he's got a little crush on you. If he makes you uncomfortable, I could just-"

"No, no," I countered, taking a deep drag, "I understand."

"You look stressed too, what's going on with you and Hank?"

"The same." I shrugged, knowing if I told the truth I would just get that look-head cocked, eyes full of pity, tsk, tsk. Or maybe another vibrator. Luckily Carla disappeared before I was forced into further elaboration.

She stormed into Newson's office and grabbed Scotty by the arm, spitting curses. "Put your Goddamn pants on," she screeched. I stood rooted in place, transfixed by the massive purple cock that sprung from his open fly.

All I needed was a mindless animal fuck. And the thought of screwing around right under Hank's nose was a delicious one indeed. And he'd never even suspect I would lower myself to this-corrupting a retarded teenager. Would I? Could I? I couldn't deny its disgusting appeal.

Later that afternoon when Hank stumbled into work, no doubt sleep deprived from his night of frenzied self gratification, I did my best to avoid him completely. I spoke in clipped answers and averted all eye contact. Not that he even seemed to notice.

Aside from a few stray shoppers, Scotty and I were alone. Carla was on one of her three hour lunch breaks, and left me in charge of supervising the boy. Instead of getting something to eat, (last night's events left me with no appetite whatsoever) I studied the boy as he clumsily stocked the shelves with boxes of generic tampons. Periodically he giggled to himself, and slid his hand down his pants. My clit engorged painfully in my jeans. I approached him slowly, as one might a predatory animal out in the wild, and knelt between his legs.

"That's a naughty thing to do," I said, smiling coyly.

"No, I didn't mean to do bad, I was just-"

"Shh," I pressed my fingers to his trembling lips. He winced as if burned.

"Please don't tell my mother."

"I won't tell. But I will teach you a better way to feel pleasure Scotty, the way grown-up men and women show their feelings."

"D-do you mean sex?"

"Why yes, I do," I countered.

The desire pulsating between us was unbearable and unreasonable. It was so vile and nasty and hot I couldn't take it anymore. I massaged his hardening cock, now straining the confines of his corduroys.

"Does that feel good?" I asked, quickening my ministrations, cupping his meaty balls.

"Really, really good, oh yes."

His runny eyes rolled up in their sockets.

"Have you ever been inside a woman, Scotty?"

"No, no but I saw pictures. It looks fun but scary."

"Mmm, it is fun, lots of fun. I'm going to show you."

"We're gonna have sex?" he panted.

He was even more grotesque up close. Pushed in pug nose dripping watery mucus-probably because of his pitiful excitement. His freckles were a deep rusty color, and looked as if someone sprayed him with some sort of hellish iodine. Yet it didn't matter to me; if anything his ugliness heightened the animal urges pulsating inside me. Was he even a human? There was nothing behind those drooling eyes, no spark, no wheels turning.

"We're gonna fuck," I whispered.

He groaned under his breath as I slid my hand inside his underwear. His jungle hairy crotch felt like a swamp-warm, furry, damp. I retrieved my hand and sniffed it. Sour nasty male musk. Intoxicant.

"We're gonna fuck Miss Ivy, we're gonna fuck!" he yelled, tapping his duct taped shoes on the polished floor.

"Shh, shh."

I led him to the inappropriately warm backroom where the meat was stored. This place really should be shut down. Half rotted slabs of beef hung from the rusted ceiling like gruesome piñatas, buzzing with blood engorged flies. Metal tables piled high with smelly carcasses so livid with decay, their species was unidentifiable.

The lighting was bluish and dim, like the muted ambience of a half remembered dream.

Scotty's anticipation was palpable. His clammy hand felt like wet clay in mine as I guided him to the double sink, the deep left basin of which was swamp steamy and thick with gallons of rotted entrails, warm fermenting suet, gristle, bone fragments, eyeballs, and busy black parasites.

I shimmied out of my jeans and took my tits out of their oppressive bra. Kicked off my dirty panties. His chapped lips brushed against mine suddenly, and I almost vomited. The thought of his kiss-a deeply intimate and romantic gesture, made my stomach knot up. I felt violated. I felt like punching him in the face. Instead I belch talked into his mouth, "Don't kiss me," a comical growl that lightened the mood and made us both laugh.

The boy climbed out of his pants and underwear. Big, purple, veiny dick sprang ready, oozing a sticky web of pre-cum all over his iodine freckly thighs.

I sat inside the empty side of the sink and spread my legs agonizingly wide. Pulled my long lips apart and guided the glorious hard-on inside my gaping hungry hole slowly, letting us both luxuriate in the sensation of my cunt muscles tightening around his thick shaft.

"Oh Miss Ivy. Oh, oh oh, oooh," he cried.

I thought I saw tears welling in his eyes. But maybe it was just more of the runny goo.

"Quiet, we don't want Hank to hear you," I said, writhing hard into his swollen prick.

But a part of me did wish Hank could hear us. Through the door I could hear him talking to customers, slicing cold cuts. Instead of looking Scotty in the eye, I gazed at Hank's duffel bag on the table across the room, next to the industrial meat grinder and a set of butcher knives. Imagining the look on his fat face if he could see me getting fucked like this right here and now.

Scotty thrusted deep, like a pro, bucking his hips, pumping rhythms slow and fast according to my directions and reactions. My pussy had never been so wet. It sloshed in tandem with the worm infested meat in the next sink. I couldn't keep from screaming as my violent orgasm electrocuted every cell. The whole room pulsed as the boy shuddered his own climax and filled me full of hot creamy seed. In my delirium, I squeezed at a pig liver, held it up as one might a human heart in an ancient sacrifice, and squirted its steamy brown blood all over my puckered little nipples. The boy licked it all off.

We stunk terribly. Hosed off in silence, with the water intended for sides of beef, slabs of pork. Scotty looked morose, pensive. He kissed my hand and whispered, "I love you now." Before I had a chance to throw my hands up in disgust, he threw me face down on the concrete ground and drilled my cunt like a mad rapist. I came immediately, with only moderate clitoral stimulation, by way of the gritty ground. Orgasmic tears blurred my eyes. I was delirious with the fuck. Intoxicated. Wanted. Taken.

Any slight pang of guilt I may have felt evaporated later that night when I caught Hank and his Dungeons and Dragons type porn again. Women in chains, getting drilled unmercifully up their assholes with studded ivory rods. No impotence problem now. He was beating off inside what looked like a clump of raw, slimy chicken gizzards. I alleviated my jealousy by initiating hours long fucking sessions with the insatiable Scotty. All right under Hank's bulbous, unsuspecting nose. Standing up, sitting down, sideways. Every position imaginable. Sex with the retarded boy was the best I'd ever had in my life. The sheer perversity of my own repulsion gave the act a powerfully dichotomous edge I found intoxicating. I'd come home torn and bruised, leaking enormous amounts of retarded cum. Not that Hank ever even noticed. We still only spoke in clipped monotones, and barely spent more than five minutes in the same room together.

But despite it all, I would have given anything for Hank's cock to be the one buried deep inside me, night after night. But maybe that wasn't meant to be.

"I made this for you," Scotty said one slow Wednesday, taking the piece of crumpled loose-leaf from his pocket. A homemade card covered in messy red crayon hearts. I was still panting with orgasm; I'd spent the afternoon with my legs wrapped around his head, getting eaten out inside a piss filled urinal. I felt dirty and exhausted; I wasn't in the mood for addled sentiment.

Deer Miss Ivy-

I luv yoo. I want to get maried to yoo. Yoo are so butyfull. I wont to mak yoo happey and I no I can. We can liv our lifes toogethir, foriver.

His dumb declaration of love, coupled with the overwhelmingly acrid stench of male urine made my stomach churn and burn.

"That's very nice of you Scotty, but I-I'm with Hank, I explained that to you."

The thought of the boy falling in love with me, when he was nothing more than a meat dildo, flooded me with self-loathing. Was this how pathetic I'd become? Feeding on this feeble minded creature like a sick predator, getting off on his childlike brainlessness like some sort of depraved sex offender? Sure, he was nineteen, but he had the mental capacity of a ten-year-old who'd spent their childhood snacking on lead paint.

I would have to end it.

Scotty slumped to the floor, and cried softly into his hands.

"B-b-but I love you-" he sniffled. I knelt between his legs, and stroked his messy red hair. I could smell my pussy on his breath, and wondered if Hank would have even noticed. I couldn't remember the last time my own lover tasted me.

"It's ok," I whispered. "Feelings are so hard sometimes. You'll find the right girl for you someday."

Stock answers even a simpleton could see through. Who was I to give romantic advice when I was starved for genuine intimacy myself? Riddled with self-doubt, confusion, humiliation?

"Can I still put my penis in your vagina?" he asked, unzipping. Before I had a chance to protest, his massive prick sprang out of his skid marked Spiderman underwear like an X-rated jack in the box. I could smell old cum, rotting shit, and vinegary sweat fermenting in his crotch. A nasty brew that aroused my animalistic senses.

Sex in a bathroom has always made me crazy. When Hank and I were first dating, we'd keep a record of all the public toilets we managed to screw in. It became a little hobby of ours. The irony now, was that he was just beyond the door, slicing and packing meat where Scotty and I usually fucked. He could walk in on us at any moment.

I was bent over the sink, getting drilled in the ass. Scotty's balls were enormous low hangers and I felt them battering like fists against my butt cheeks as he thrusted deep and fast. I was strumming my hard clit, when the iron door swing open. A slow motion creak that coiled up my spine, and reverberated through my ears. Before I had a chance to throw the boy off me, I was face to face with Hank's bloody work boots.

He grabbed Scotty by the scruff of his neck, and slammed him into the wall.

"Retard piece of shit," he growled into the boy's face as I threw on my jeans and T-shirt. I watched helplessly as he dragged Scotty into the meat workshop. His heels scraping along the floor like the hooves of a doomed animal off to the slaughter ramp.

"No, it's not his fault, Hank please stop!"

"Shut up whore!" he screeched, holding the scruff of Scotty's neck with one hand, grabbing a fistful of my hair with the other. I could feel my scalp ripping in his grasp. When I tried to pull away, a tuft of blonde came loose in his hand.

"Slut." He laughed, slapping me so hard I fell backwards into the brick wall. Defeated and hysterical I slumped to the ground.

"Hank, please stop; leave him alone!"

I shut my eyes against the sight of a metal pipe smashing into Scotty's head. Seized by panic, I crawled to the corner, mind racing, my limbs knotted up like galvanized lead. I never knew a skull could explode its contents so suddenly, spewing a fountain of blood and brain tissue as if it were vomiting. Twitching violently, Scotty collapsed in a fetal heap at Hank's feet.

"Wanna fuck my girl, you retarded piece of shit?" Hank screamed, dragging his limp body to the meat grinder. Scotty looked like a doll, limbs flailing, busted bloodied head lolling back as Hank shoved the length of his flaccid cock into the meat grinder. His teeth chattered through his death's head mask of a face. A gurgling scream tore from his throat, "Nnn-nnno-nnnnoooo…"

His entire body shook as the buzzing metal machine swallowed his dick. Metal teeth chomping balls, then thighs, then…everything.

I was in a dreamlike state, chewing my hair in the corner, muttering softly to myself, "This can't be real, this can't be real…"

Scotty's rheumy eyes were the last of him I ever witnessed, protruding obscenely, then finally imploding and streaming down his destroyed face like runny egg yolks, viscous yellow fluid, streamed with slimy blood.

I felt skinless, exposed. Witness to an entire human being reduced to a steaming pile of chop meat in a barrel. Blood, flesh, bone, muscle.

"Is this what you wanted, slut?" Hank asked, wiping his bloody face on his sleeve.

"You'll take cock from anybody, won't you? Filthy bitch!" He charged at me and pinioned me against the wall, unzipping his pants. Panting, I cried out his name. My head reeling. My heart pounding. My cunt soaking wet. He drove his rock hard cock deep inside me. Drilled me into oblivion, each pump sending shockwaves of electrical pleasure through my cunt and belly.

"You want my cock? "

"Yes, please yes, Hank, I've wanted it for so long."

"This is what you want, to be split open?"

"Yes, yes, God yes!"

"Fuck yeah, say it, beg for my cock, you filthy bitch!"

"Please, oh God, I'm dying for it, fuck me!"

Just as I was about to flood with orgasm, he pulled out, and dragged me by the hair to the barrel of gore.

" Bad girl," he said, grinning diabolically, tsk-tsking and pointing his finger playfully at the broth of the boy in the barrel, like a father catching his daughter doodling with crayons on the refrigerator door.

Before I knew what hit me, he shoved me into the bucket of human meat. Vomit spurted into my mouth, hot and sour. As much as I thrashed, skin crawling, tears spilling down my face, there was nothing I could do because Hank's enormous girth was enveloping me, and I was impaled on his bulging prick, slimy corpse goo sloshing against my back, soft, the cock so hard inside my pussy. I'll never forget the stench of it all. Sex and death at once, and me transformed, the Goddess at the apex of the pivotal stages of existence.

Baptized in blood, shit, cum, decay. I shivered in the paradox of pleasure and disgust.

Altered states of consciousness, all afternoon. Bliss, sorrow, a culmination of every emotion possible. I knew this now made Hank a man, and that I worshiped him, so moved by his passion, his rabid jealousy. I knew it now made me a true woman. The rending of my pussy, my Hell bound soul, all worthwhile for the sweetly brutal hours of fucking. But a part of me is forever frozen. I feel like I lost the core of my humanity, but I don't care.

I went numb inside as we robotically shoveled Scotty's remains in with the vat of processed luncheon meat, sealed it up with cellophane, ready to serve, ready for the unsuspecting to eat and shit out later on.

When we got home, we fucked the night away, still covered in the sins of our bloody crime. But not before blotting out the Virgin's eyes forever with blood stained fingers.

We're all just meat after all, in the beginning and the end.






























































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