Revellian

WARNING:  Psycho-Peeper contains sexually explicit scenes, extreme violence, and gore (and all those things society deems unfit for public consumption)

She has chocolate moon-shredded eyes, glowing spectral orbs ripped by cinnamon filaments which crawl inward from indigo brimmed irises into black-pooled pupils. I see my reflection in them but her glance shifts past me, though I did warmly smile, to the boneheaded redneck with an IQ of sixty or less because he just parked his candy apple red BMW by the bar entrance. You can see it there in all its expensive glory. Yes I’d like to blast it into a heap of worthless scrap metal with a sledge hammer while he stares in fear. Yes I’d like to pulverize his skull into blood-pulp and urinate on the remainder of his quivering carcass. Yes I’d like to kill his entire family, all his friends, his pets, and burn his entire existence into smoldering ash—but all in due time.

And to think her obviously discordant mind failed to register my presence. I’m her neighbor but she doesn’t know it. She’s never once glanced at me until tonight and as she walked by grazing my arm, our warm flesh touching, my penis hardened as I caught a whiff of her delectable breeze: Calvin Klein’s Obsession for women. I could smell her sweet fissure. I could taste it, her sexual stench wrapping my face in pinkness.

Oh yes, I have fucked her a thousand times—in my mind—and when I say one thousand I mean precisely one thousand, for I have notated each sexual fantasy in my diary in explicit detail. And here she is, the love of my meaningless life, suckling saliva from the diseased bacterial infected mouth of one dunderhead idiot, their lips locked in passionate kiss after only five minutes of meeting him. To him she’s a one night sex-romp, to me, she’s my reason for living. Any normal person to discern the malignancy of this situation would surely take my side.

How dare she ignore me.

How dare she not notice my psychic need for her.

How dare she not feel my honest love.

I am the one who secretly peered into her bedroom window at 3 A.M. watching her disrobe. I’m the one who studied her naked body through unwashed glass every night for over a year. I have a right to be filled with explosive rage do I not? This isn’t about wanting to kill. It’s about loving her. And I do love her. We’ve been to Paris, Rome, the Virgin Islands. We’ve made love in the cramped bathroom stalls on transcontinental flights, fucking her doggie-style with her face crushed into tiny metallic sinks or grease smudged plexiglass shrouded mirrors. But only in my imagination did these sensual acts occur. I’ve reached my breaking point. My father told me as a child to take from life what you want. Those who wait or wish are left behind in a dust storm of forgotten dreams.

And I don’t even know her name.

I toss back a thirteenth triple-shot of Maker’s Mark Kentucky Straight bourbon and the dimwitted redneck goes to the bathroom to piss. I pull a plastic baggie filled with methamphetamine from my pocket and dump a thick pile on my lonely table. I drape a hundred dollar bill across it, cupping my left hand fingers around it to keep the precious shards from blasting outward as I drag a Bic lighter across it, shattering the pile into white crush. I roll the bill into a makeshift straw and madly snort over a gram of incendiary chemical into my left nostril. Three young girls glower at me in disbelief as I rabidly thunder a gaze of violence, their heads spinning away in fear. I pocket my drugs and approach her. I’m brave. Brazen. Without qualms.

“Hello.”

She glances back with a vacuous stare, “Oh hey . . . I’m not interested, my boyfriend will be back in a second.”

“I’m Tom, Tom Peep, I live next door to you.”

“I’m Stephanie. It’s nice to meet you but you’d better go. My boyfriend will beat the fuck out of you.”

Her boyfriend? He could beat the fuck out of me? Oh that putrid bitch. I want to tell her how I’ve watched her all year long. How I’ve jerked off standing outside her window as she lay in bed masturbating. How I knew she was wearing jet-black thongs and one breast had a larger nipple than the other. I am quite sure it would get her wet, wouldn’t it? My dick is throbbing in muscled rigidity almost ripping through my jeans. I can smell her vagina. Two powerful hands plop on my shoulders from behind and slam me to the floor, my skull bouncing off concrete.

“Get the fuck away from her,” the redneck grumbles as he stomps his heel onto my fingers, braiding them into crippled snag. Sure he is stronger than me, but death will come his way. They storm to the door, his hand creeping up the crack of her delicious blue-jean sheathed ass, on his way to trimville.

I follow them a safe distance behind, my skull writhing in complex waves of agony as anger surmounts in my blackened heart. And they go to her house. Perfect. I can watch to protect her as I’m certain she would want me to do. I know she’s afraid and secretly desires me. How could she not?

psycho peeper

They’re in her bedroom passionately kissing and groping each other’s genitalia as I ignite my Deph82006 portable mobile cell phone GSM signal jammer to prevent any and all outgoing calls. And I don’t have to worry about a landline; I’ve thoroughly inspected the wiring on her home and know for a fact her cell is the only phone she has. She has his pants around his ankles, her wet tongue twirling around his chaffed scrotum, obviously too drunk to discern her own stupid actions. But no worries. I am here now and wearing my psycho tool belt complete with hammer, pliers, superglue, blowtorch and several other readily accessible implements.

I hear maddening howls of pleasure bellow through brick as I watch him wildly fuck her. That piece of human shit, defiling the woman of my dreams without my permission. How dare he disrespect me. I cock my arm and slam a slab of granite through her bedroom window. They leap from vile sex, their eyes popping from bewildered sockets. He is afraid to peer outside, instead attempting to call the police, but his phone doesn’t work. He frenetically paces in circles, his ignoramus mind unable to process the ordeal. She tries her phone but her frail hands shiver so violently she cannot steady her fingers enough to peck the keypad. He gyrates in twisted conniption while she screams, “Are you just gonna stand there or do something?”

And yes, the poor fool to prove his masculinity worthwhile finally decides to go see who is outside, still naked and holding a baseball bat. He leaps from around the corner; his eyes meet mine and trace down to me zipping up my jeans. An arctic chill blisters his spine as he comprehends my presence and I am shocked his brain actually works.

“What the fuck are you doing out here?” he growls.

“Jerking off.”

His in-need-of-trimming eye brows burrow into his Cro-Magnon skull, “What?”

“What’s her name?” I ask, “You don’t even know her name do you?”

He clutches the bat and winds it upward behind him like a baseball player, lunges clumsily towards me thinking he had the upper hand earlier in the bar. Little does he know, I simply allowed him to slam me to the floor, to deceive him into a false sense of confidence. As he swings the bat inaccurately towards my cranium with his fearful eyes pinched closed, I don’t step away as expected; instead, I step forward into the vicious blow, close enough to hug him and out of range of the twirling bat, stabbing the zygomatic region of his skull to the outside of his right eye with the cap of a steel hammer. Bone shatters in a sickening crunch but he is not beaten unconscious as my blow is swift and deep, not debilitating. Before he can blink I slice his dick from tip to base, re-sheath my blade and stand there calm as if bored . . . yawning. He drops his bat but before charging me looks down and his dick is peeled like a scarlet banana, chunks of coagulating blood pasting his thighs. Two razor cleaved cock flaps hang above his testicles, loose veins dangle spurting blood and thickened juices. His face scrunched in wrinkled terror as I whip my erect penis out staring at a horrified Stephanie staring out the window.

“I’ll be there in a second honey,” I blast as he freaks out in a psychotic frenzy.

I ferociously stomp my calcified knuckles into his solar plexus; he vomits a stream of pre-digested veal Parmesan across my face. Instead of allowing him the pleasure of causing me discomfort, I scoop a stringy glob of puke strewn atop my collar bone divot and eat it; amazingly, it’s still warm and quite tasty. He twitches in delirium, confused, fearful, and fingers his crackled cheek attempting to self-comprehend why he is afraid of me. I quick draw my heavy-duty pliers and power-snatch the thick ridge of cartilage atop his nose. I squeeze hard enough to hear crunching—like children eating tacos—and drag the limping punk into her home and into her bedroom where she shivers in a pool of cold sweat. Two running video cameras on tripods sit in two corners of the room to catch all the action.

“Don’t be afraid of this guy Stephanie,” I say to comfort her and instill confidence in me, “I’ll protect you.”

While clenching pliers around his nose with my left hand, I slam my bony knuckles precisely in his fractured cheek, pounding his skull over and over and over until my arm cramps from totalitarian exhaustion. He collapses to his knees but I hold him upright by his nose, continuing to blister his face into bloody burger, the morbid tones of snapping bone bursting through the house. He slips onto the carpet lying flat on his back and the interlocking teeth of piers pop together, shearing his nose completely off. I suck the morbid gristle from my tool to clean its jaws and begin gnawing meat from his throat, snatching his sterno-cleido-mastoideus muscle, shearing it from the mastoid process beneath his ear. I meticulously place the piers around one of his molars—he’s too withered to fight back—and squeeze the handles with all my might . . . sckrunchhkapopp! I giggle and rip my clothes off exposing my majestic body as I’m certain Stephanie is ready for sweltering hot sex.

“What do you want from me lady?” asks Stephanie.

“I’m not a lady, my name is Tom.”

“You have tits! You’re wearing a strap-on dildo!”

“Oh no Stephanie sugar, I am all man, a pseudo-hermaphroditic man,” I reply beaming in heartfelt joy.”

I slice the unconscious red-neck’s belly open—crimson lipped gouge to his innards—and pull his intestines out, licking the mucous glazed organ and smearing rancid ichor across my beautiful face. I peel his scrotum like a rotted tangerine and eat his cold unsalted testicles as keeping them cool is the natural function of the scrotum pouch. I approach her, my hand sliding feverishly up and down my neoprene penis.

“Make love to me Stephanie,” I say wrapping his apparently still working intestines around my body draped across my erect nipples as I feel a lump of digested food slither beneath the pinkish membrane. She fidgets and squirms her naked body, lying on her back with legs spread, into the corner. There’s no place to run. No more places to squirm. She stomps at me and spits in my face but I wrestle her under submission and pin her legs aside. She vomits, glistening egg splattering from her nostrils, foamy drool frothing from her delectable lips as I slide my fourteen inch cock in her asshole, our bodies entangled in his purplish-warm intestines, ravaging her tender pink anus whilst repugnant excrement glissades from the raped orifice. I pull out and grind it deep in her vagina. She yelps like a helpless little girl and smiles.

“Oh Tommy honey, this is the best one yet . . . I love you sugar-dumpling. Fuck the shit out of me.”

“I love you too Stephanie.”

We peel the still breathing red-neck’s bowels open with a claw hammer, exfoliating his sweetbreads, and I chop his breastbone dead center with an ax. Stephanie pries his ribs apart with a hooked rusty crowbar as a fetid plume of fragrant steam is released. We plop inside his blood drenched body-pocket worming our naked bodies betwixt his inner soup, bathing inside him. We slide across each other, licking and sucking each other’s sexual organs, making rabid love as god intended up to do. After spine buckling, toe wrenching orgasms, we lie in his cold crevasse as I drink her pristine kisses. Stephanie grins and says, “At least men are good for something.”

This is one of 23 short stories I wrote during my blogging break. I actually wrote this on July 6th, 2009 after a vicious argument about politics with a bisexual feminazi. This woman was extraordinarily beautiful. She shot me down in flame though my attempt was without flaw. Unfortunately, I failed in my quest but managed to release my tension in an extremely vile short story; which is why I wrote it. There’s a motive behind everything.