–casey prick twitch–
There’s no pleasure on Casey’s face as he urinates on my face, only a smirk. My cock spasms and discharges twice.
I drop to my hands and knees to lap like a dog the urine pooled into the plastic.
I discharge again.
Casey grabs me by the hair and swivels my face upward. Casey pauses, amalgamating all his drainage and saliva, then spits on my face. He then pushes me to the ground.
“You stupid ditz!”
I am more or less kneeling now. Casey takes his pea shooter off the nearby table and rests it on the top of my head. “You’re a fucking dog. A worthless animal!”
Casey pulls the trigger, a smile on his face, and I make my final discharge.
I swing the aluminum bat down to the base of her spine and am met with a resounding crack that fills the room. There’s an almost tonal echo of it in my ears and it takes 15 seconds or so for the overwhelming sound to dissipate to the point where I can hear again my own giggles. I rush out of the room in excitement, not wanting to ruin the heavenly situation I’ve found myself in. I pace around room to room, foyer to dining room to living room and back again, in hopes that jogging myself will in turn jog my brain and allow me to blossom something worthy. After a few revolutions of my home, I realize that the poor thing could be dead and a sense of dread washes over me. I run as quickly as I can to my bedroom where she’s still laying unmoved, dorsal up on my bedroom floor and I prod at her with the bat that’s still in my hand ( to my surprise, I never even put it down! ) and she makes a slight twitch and a cool wave of relief showers me. Exiting the room, and even more determined to make the next few minutes, hours, days worth it, I sit down into a leather recliner in front of a window and begin to think.
I take a pot and fill it with water, a pinch of salt, and a few cups of rotini which I purchased at an Italian speciality store last week when Julie took me out on a date ( a grocery shopping date, what a dolt! ). Normally, I would worry that my child might expire, but I’m convinced that my rotini will be finished before that awfulality happens, as I’ve cooked rotini in what feels like only a blink on my convection cooktop. As I wait for the pasta to cook, I flip on my stereo and play my favorite Sufjan Stevens album: The Age of Adz and hum along to the tracks.
I walk to the bedroom and dump the pot of pasta, boiling, starchy water, all of it onto her. She lets out a gasp, a scream, and in that moment I grow worried about the chance of my neighbors or an outside passing visitor on their way out hearing her, so I quickly take the bat and smash her head with as much force as I can muster until her head cracks open and blood and brain slop out. I fall to my knees, tearful, and swish the blood and food together, intermingling bits of brain with my hands, with the pasta, with my joyful sobs. I then take the mush and bring it up to my mouth and eat like a baby, smearing my entire face with organ, blood, and pasta alike.