Psycho Killer: Robert D SNAPS vs. Paul S BLOOD
Gross Prelude:
Run a finger along your desk and find that sick dust.
Look at your finger. There's little bits of hair and ancient flakes of dead skin.
Lick your finger. You won't, 'cos yer a wuss.
Gross Story:
Let me tell you about a man I know. He's from Georgia. He lives near Atlanta, or at least that's what he tells me. He may or may not take care of his parents, his musical tastes might be obscure, and his sexual preference decidedly gravitates towards women.
In reality, he's a creepshow. Watch him and you'll see the bearded woman dance through his bedroom, the geek snap a neck off in his kitchen, and the quad bury his head in a bowl full of sand at the doorway.
What's creepiest about the grandmaster is his willingness to clip unsuspecting womens' hair.
He'll seduce a woman at his local bar. Humbert Humbert's I think it's called. He'll feed her some chardonnay, give her some smooth talk, and eventually pork her brains out. The best part is that he makes sure she comes. If she can't come, he'll fuck her 'til at least 5:30 am, whereupon he'll go to the kitchen and find a razor and some shears, return to find his partner asleep, and cut all her hair off.
Gross Addendum:
Let me tell you about me.
Once I was having sex with a sultry Jewess. Her breasts were large but her face was cute and her body was incredible.
I fucked her to sleep. As she dozed off, her pussy got much drier. It hurt me a little, and I got angry.
Her vagina felt like sandpaper. Like sharkskin. Obviously, I was incensed.
I punched her sleeping body in the face until I couldn't see her big Jewish nose anymore, and then afterwards I fucked her broken jaw. The bones and teeth hurt a little, but the blood was a good enough lubricant, and I felt like coming at least twice. I have to admit, even though it's pretty funny, that I put my penis in her sinus cavity: all of those layers of thin bone were painful and pleasurable at once. I felt like I was reading a Nabokov novel.
After a while I came in her face (her sinuses to be exact), and decided that even though she was a rich heiress, she was doomed to an unexplicable fate.
She was obviously still alive, and each time she reached for the telephone I either punched her in her carpals or alternatively blow-torched them. It was pretty wierd. Could you imagine a half-dead princess trying to get the phone? I mean, come on! She was half dead.
Eventually I ripped her clit off with pair of pliers, sewed her cunt closed with an old needle and some green thread, and cracked her skull open with an old rotary telephone.
The next day I awoke next to her rotting corpse and thought "How tactless! You reek!"
The End:
Smell your finger, cut your lovers' hair off, or affectionately pork a corpse. Which would you rather? Choose!
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Perhaps on instinct, perhaps from memory, she makes a futile dash for the front door, crying out. Though the chardonnay has dulled her reflexes, the Scotch I've drunk has sharpened mine, and effortlessly I'm leaping in front of her, blocking her escape, knocking her unconscious with four blows to the head from the nail gun. I drag her back into the living room, laying her across the floor over a white Voilacutro cotten sheet, and then I stretch her arms out, placing her hands flat on thick wooden boards, palms up, and nail three fingers on each hand, at random, to the wood by their tips. This causes her to regain consciousness and she starts screaming. After I've sprayed Mace into her eyes, mouth, into her nostrils, I place a camel hair coat from Ralph Lauren over her head, which drowns out the screams, sort of. I keep shooting nails into her hands until they're both covered--nails bunched together, twisted over each other in places, making it impossible for her to try and sit up. I have to remove her shoes, which slightly disappoints me, but she's kicking at the floor violently, leaving black scuff marks on the stained white oak. During this period I keep shouting 'You bitch' at her and then my voice drops to a raspy whisper and into her ear I drool the line 'You fucking cunt.'" Bret Easton Ellis - American Psycho - 245.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Call me crazy, but the idea of porking corpses is only half-gay. Is everyone retarded? Edit this shit OUT." --Eds
Paul S. Blood.
Run a finger along your desk and find that sick dust.
Look at your finger. There's little bits of hair and ancient flakes of dead skin.
Lick your finger. You won't, 'cos yer a wuss.
Gross Story:
Let me tell you about a man I know. He's from Georgia. He lives near Atlanta, or at least that's what he tells me. He may or may not take care of his parents, his musical tastes might be obscure, and his sexual preference decidedly gravitates towards women.
In reality, he's a creepshow. Watch him and you'll see the bearded woman dance through his bedroom, the geek snap a neck off in his kitchen, and the quad bury his head in a bowl full of sand at the doorway.
What's creepiest about the grandmaster is his willingness to clip unsuspecting womens' hair.
He'll seduce a woman at his local bar. Humbert Humbert's I think it's called. He'll feed her some chardonnay, give her some smooth talk, and eventually pork her brains out. The best part is that he makes sure she comes. If she can't come, he'll fuck her 'til at least 5:30 am, whereupon he'll go to the kitchen and find a razor and some shears, return to find his partner asleep, and cut all her hair off.
Gross Addendum:
Let me tell you about me.
Once I was having sex with a sultry Jewess. Her breasts were large but her face was cute and her body was incredible.
I fucked her to sleep. As she dozed off, her pussy got much drier. It hurt me a little, and I got angry.
Her vagina felt like sandpaper. Like sharkskin. Obviously, I was incensed.
I punched her sleeping body in the face until I couldn't see her big Jewish nose anymore, and then afterwards I fucked her broken jaw. The bones and teeth hurt a little, but the blood was a good enough lubricant, and I felt like coming at least twice. I have to admit, even though it's pretty funny, that I put my penis in her sinus cavity: all of those layers of thin bone were painful and pleasurable at once. I felt like I was reading a Nabokov novel.
After a while I came in her face (her sinuses to be exact), and decided that even though she was a rich heiress, she was doomed to an unexplicable fate.
She was obviously still alive, and each time she reached for the telephone I either punched her in her carpals or alternatively blow-torched them. It was pretty wierd. Could you imagine a half-dead princess trying to get the phone? I mean, come on! She was half dead.
Eventually I ripped her clit off with pair of pliers, sewed her cunt closed with an old needle and some green thread, and cracked her skull open with an old rotary telephone.
The next day I awoke next to her rotting corpse and thought "How tactless! You reek!"
The End:
Smell your finger, cut your lovers' hair off, or affectionately pork a corpse. Which would you rather? Choose!
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Perhaps on instinct, perhaps from memory, she makes a futile dash for the front door, crying out. Though the chardonnay has dulled her reflexes, the Scotch I've drunk has sharpened mine, and effortlessly I'm leaping in front of her, blocking her escape, knocking her unconscious with four blows to the head from the nail gun. I drag her back into the living room, laying her across the floor over a white Voilacutro cotten sheet, and then I stretch her arms out, placing her hands flat on thick wooden boards, palms up, and nail three fingers on each hand, at random, to the wood by their tips. This causes her to regain consciousness and she starts screaming. After I've sprayed Mace into her eyes, mouth, into her nostrils, I place a camel hair coat from Ralph Lauren over her head, which drowns out the screams, sort of. I keep shooting nails into her hands until they're both covered--nails bunched together, twisted over each other in places, making it impossible for her to try and sit up. I have to remove her shoes, which slightly disappoints me, but she's kicking at the floor violently, leaving black scuff marks on the stained white oak. During this period I keep shouting 'You bitch' at her and then my voice drops to a raspy whisper and into her ear I drool the line 'You fucking cunt.'" Bret Easton Ellis - American Psycho - 245.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Call me crazy, but the idea of porking corpses is only half-gay. Is everyone retarded? Edit this shit OUT." --Eds
Paul S. Blood.
posted by Esoteric Clique at 12:48 AM
5 Comments:
"I punched her sleeping body in the face until I couldn't see her big Jewish nose anymore, and then afterwards I fucked her broken jaw. The bones and teeth hurt a little, but the blood was a good enough lubricant, and I felt like coming at least twice. I have to admit, even though it's pretty funny, that I put my penis in her sinus cavity: all of those layers of thin bone were painful and pleasurable at once. I felt like I was reading a Nabokov novel."
OK Paul you have bestest me. I have always known that was true. You have a truly remarkable mind and I will always want more.
Is Nabokov really good? I have never read him and have always thought that perhaps I should, but I am not one for translations. I the one for who all the nuances make pretty.
And then just for you – with his left hand, the one without the wart on its thumb, he reached for the glass, the glass with the magick elixir, he reach for another shot, he reached for the vodka. But then there was a moment of pause, a moment where the angels sang, a moment where he had to, do something, had to be like a king, had to, had to pee……..
I still suspect that of the trine there is only one. To good for three to be together.
Bullshit. This isn't "regionalism".
Nabokov wrote in English.
As for Audrey, you never answered "which would you rather?"
SNAPS! There are three! Blood, Mint, and Rose. Blood is from Florida! Mint is from Ontario! Rose is from Ontario! The three met in undergraduate school in Nova Scotia. Mint and Rose knew each other from before: they went to prom together, though they weren't lovers. Mint and Blood met on the first day of university, at a backyard "beer and pizza party" organized by the college - the topic of discussion was the Gainesville band Hot Water Music. Blood and Rose were almost in love but the planets shifted and a Ninja Warrior that was born at a commune on Vancouver Island snuck in and intervened. There used to be a photograph in Rose's old house that showed Mint and Rose both at a peer's birthday party...the catch is, that in that photo: "THEY WERE SIX YEARS OLD!" Mint came to visit Blood in Florida last summer during the Olympics, and then together the two drove through Savannah, DC, Brooklyn, Montreal, and St. Leonards New Brunswick all the way back to Halifax, NS. Rose wanted to come but she was too busy dating a musician in Toronto. Have faith: there is a trinity.
Sheared lover, no contest.
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