Alessandra Francesca D’Olivera plugs her left nostril with outstretched pinky embellished with sharply honed viridian nail and blows a fluttering whip of blood-yolk which twirls like injured dragonfly sticking to a gold-brimmed replica of Claude Monet’s gorgeous 1915 painting Nympheas as the maddened crush of spectators stand in disgusted awe of her dead-eye-dick incisiveness; the tavern interior splattered in gambooge-yellow while the jagged-toothed Antonio Jacopo Terranova sits quietly in a darkened nook, his face shaded wicked by the twisted flicker of curled candle flame, shadows trickling along deeply engraved facial fissures and wax-crimped mustache edging thinly pleated upper lip.
The glint of her succulent beauty threads his hungry gaze as his 279.4 mm penis coils stiff as buckram steel almost shredding the thin layer of gaberdine cloaking the gargantuan vessel and separating it from the whiskey flavored tavern smog. Alessandra peregrinates her cream-skinned thighs and delicate feet swathed in fluorescent lime-green nine inch stilettos towards his smoky cubbyhole and leans over his splintered poplar wood table, her mouthwatering eraser-head nipples obtruding micro-thin scarlet silk sleeveless top, breasts rotund and scrumptious.
“What’s a gluttonous fiend like you doing in place like this?” she asks plopping her nectarous ass on the ragged wooden bench, the words I FUCK FOR GLASS EYES tattooed in sapphire letters across her shoulder.
“Awaiting a gorgeous juice drizzling strumpet like you to extinguish my unquenchable animalistic sexual desires,” he replies.
With a fourteenth century Italian renaissance silver spoon he gently plucks the glass eye glossed with hand-painted webs of bloodshot from his freshly lubricated occipital pocket as it drops into waiting palm, cupped and warm. She clutches it betwixt segmented peach-fleshed fingers and folds it into plump-wet-strawberry lips, sucking it like a peeled kumquat.
“Oh god what a turn on, you have me so rigidly concupiscent, I want to thunder-fuck the rain out of your sugared flesh pit and make you bellow screaming cries across the blackened graveyards of my sadistic mind,” he says.
She swallows his glass eye washing it down with Wild Turkey 101 and says, “You’ll have to forage through my excrement to get it back tomorrow.”
As he winces a glare of deviance, she leans in and French-kisses his eyeless gutter, glistening tongue flutter suckling skull-snotted butter—her hands carving Michelangelo upon his hair-matted chest. Though horny over her intra-occipital tongue ingression, he glances at the Monet which is spattered with thirteen globs of snot, twelve of which are dried as cement, sending cold chills up his spine.
“The 1915 Nympheas is my favorite painting by Monet. May I ask why you spat your mucid nasal goop upon it?” he asks standing up and whipping out his colossal cock which extends like a riveted iron bar, “lift your skirt my dear harlot, I need your wet crevice to warm my lonely pikestaff.”
“I have not but one hole, but perhaps you’ll like it anyway,” she replies lifting her snow-pearled skirt, her behemoth mushroom headed anaconda breaking free of the gray duct tape adhering it to her shaved belly and protrudes a monumental 340.7 mm, “mine is 61.3 mm bigger than yours, so pull your pants down and we can take turns big boy.”
Shocked by his own ineptitude, inability to perceive her maleness and the repugnance of her man-anus; his heart explodes in a violent constriction of tortuous pain—a muffled crunch—breast bone cracked by jack-hammered heart-attack as he collapses dead from homophobia with a deceptively brilliant smile.
Three hours later, the cheap glass eye’s thin lacquered coating dissolves in Alessandra’s acidic stomach and bursts open—not glass at all but rock-candy; strychnine loaded Trojan horse—and she dies suffocating in her own puke.
The Monet still hangs, sheathed in a crust of dust but has never been used as a handkerchief-snot-rag again. A wrought-iron-lattice framed portrait of a brilliantly smiling one-eyed Antonio Jacopo Terranova hangs beside it, where it is still admired by whiskey guzzling vagabonds who hold him in the highest of regard.