Sex and Murder Magazine

By Catfish McDaris

I checked my grenades, my stiletto, and my .357. The liquor store was about to close. The fucking sign had driven me insane. The Coldest Beer In Milwaukee, like they actually knew that for a fact. There was a Mexican whore with a parrot sitting on her shoulder, paying for a pint of Old Granddad. The bird was giving me the mean eye—actually, they both were.

I pulled out my pistol and my dick. I bitch-slapped the Arab owner between the eyes, knocking his funky-assed turban off. Blood dribbled over his name tag, which read Kelly. His real name was Kolbir and he hated Americans. Fucking Arabs should never fuck with the Irish. I wanted some action from the whore, but the fucking parrot flew down and landed on my Johnson. It was stiletto and Thanksgiving time for the birdie.

There was another woman in the store. She was blonde and wearing a suit, carrying an alligator briefcase. Her body was hidden, but well endowed. I motioned her over near the cash register. She took a package of lubricated cinnamon condoms from her case. This babe was ready. I took the blonde standing up and then she sucked and sucked, until I felt myself exploding and I put the.357 in her ear and pulled the trigger. Her brains splattered all over my nuts.

I drank half a bottle of tequila, then had the Mexican wash me. Her pussy farted as I fucked her in the wine aisle. She kicked and broke seven bottles of burgundy, as I rammed it up her tight frijoles packed ass. She pleaded and sucked hard, as I slipped the stiletto between her ribs.

I called Jesus. We carted out all the liquor and the bodies. Jesus got his jollies, with the Arab. The money was piss poor. Next time, I hope the beer is colder. I don’t want to sue for false advertising.