Warning, this is extremely graphic, sadistically psychotic horror fiction. Come on read it…you know you want to.

Sleepwalking at a blistering pace – a mind of concrete, a body of clay – metallic sparks shattered from my feet like grinding wheels on iron. Or was I really there? I had been awake seventeen days on a heart throttling meth bender. The onyx sky devoid of light – no stars, no moon, no anything. The night felt dead. I thought I was being followed by some back alley thug, meth addict or caffeine amped street whore. Ahead in the distance, the luminescent nimbus of emerald green – a twenty-four hour Starbucks, just what the doctor ordered.

Starbucks

As I drew near my destination – in the corner of my periphery – I saw a girl’s dead body behind an industrial dumpster. I approached with extreme caution. I leaned in and was stricken by her beauty, the most scorching hot Asian goddess I had ever seen – a Starbuck’s waitress in  a tiny green plaid mini-skirt. Blinded by sickening perversion, I placed my hand on her calf to see if she was alive. Oh my, what delicately silken epidermis.

“You scared the shit out of me girl!” I jumped out of skin in shock – she sat up and touched my face with her tender hand.

In exotic far east vociferation, she said, “Hello cowboy…trying to feel up a dead girl? You must be my three o’ clock. It’s 3:30 am, you’re late. What’s your name?”

“What?” I asked in perplexity.

She replied, “My boy Darnell sent you? Come inside the coffee shop until my 5:30 am break, I’ll be in need of your services – my itch will be perniciously vicious.”

“I thought you were dead…at first.”

She smiled, “Hehe…you perverted sicko American man! I’m not dead. I snort big line of killer meth and pass out…have big head rush.”

She held my hand as we walked in Starbucks – I had already fallen in love with her. She stopped short as our bodies grazed closely. Her lips plumped blood red, her eyes crystalline umber as she warmly whispered, almost kissing me, “What is your name?”

“I am Bobby.”

She retorted, “I am Noklek Kamchana Katsongrits, from Bangkok. Noklek mean little bird…gonna fly away…hehe. Just call me Nok. Your gun is poking me.”

I confidently boasted, “That’s not a gun.”

MMO Blogfest

Two uber-geek bloggers sat in the booth across from mine – wired on espresso – frenetically typing on their Mac laptops. One was this skinny black guy wearing a sky blue Twitter t-shirt, a skyscraper high triangular carved afro and neon purple tennis shoes with glow-in-the-dark orange laces. The other was a corpulent fat body with grotesque yellow teeth, a jet black mohawk, blond goatee, pale skin and sporting a shirt with “Master MMO Blogger” scripted on the front. He looked like he had been raised in a sunless dungeon of blogging hell. He looked at me and said, “Looking at something Ponchy? See this?” he pointed at the insignia on his shirt, “Master MMO blogger…that’s make money online my friend.”

I shot a wicked stare of nuclear despisement through his skull and said, “Who gives a fuck.”

He said, “That’s a negative attitude you have there. If you want to get rich blogging, you need positivity and keyword mastery! I have 107 blogs…saturating my niche. I fucking own my keywords dude. If you google money…my blog pops up first. I practically invented SEO. I make $150,000.00 per hour through Adsense. I am God. Name’s Newton “Niche” Nelson, my friend is Tyrell “Twitdawg” Wallace.”

I said, “I’m Bobby. Hey Twitdawg, any relation to Marsellus Wallace?”

He furrowed his thickened brow, “Never heard of him. Could you sit somewhere else? We’re like…blogging dude. People like you don’t even know what a blog is. Burn! Hahaha…eat our Internet dust you out of touch loser….go crawl in a hole and die from mediocrity. Where’s that Chinese waitress…I need an espresso,” he snapped his fingers, “Hündin!”

The gorgeous Nok gracefully sailed across the floor, her swaggering hips hypnotic, her perfection scintillating. She said, “Hündin means bitch.”

Twitdawg rudely blasted, “I know bitch…now get us an espresso…hahaha. Make sure you use an Italian grind…and make damn sure the top layer of creamy froth is dark beige. I didn’t like the shade of our last batch, it was more of a roasted sienna. I want it beige…and creamy, I like it creamy.”

The Lab-Kitchen

The words come with me gently rolled from Nok’s raspberry lips – I was mystified in drunken stupefaction. Her aroma was of iced jasmine as she held her body against mine – long cherry fingernails danced beneath my shirt as we kissed – long, slow and moist. She said, “This is our lab-kitchen, where the secret ingredients are prepared.”

I was mortified by what I saw – a putrified chemical factory stinking of ammonia and acid – a low tech meth lab encrusted in sickening filth.

Coffee Shop Meth Lab

The Meth Cook Dr. Dizzle

She said, “Bobby meet Dr. Dizzle, our cook.”

A repugnantly sore infested meth addict with ghastly blisters – partially dissolved teeth ornamented by decay and stench said, “I’m Dizzle, master cook foshizzle,” and held his unclean, trembling hand out to shake mine.

I twitched, almost retching, “Forgive me if I don’t shake hands. I’m Bobby.”

The Meth Cook Dr. Dizzle

Nok prepared two espressos on the inelegant counter, mixing in several clandestine substances – sweetly smiling at me while stirring. The meth cook held a razor sharp Gransfors Scandinavian Forest axe in his hands and said, “If those MMO bloggers give you any hassle…just holler,” and tossed me a huge bag of crystal, “that’s the shizznitt.”

Pandemonium in Starbucks

I sat back down in my booth and dumped the huge bag of pearlescent methamphetamine on the charcoal-black table top. I scooped it into my palms as the MMO master bloogers stared in disbelief. Newton asked, “Oh my God…what is that?

Handful of Meth

I dunked my face into the gargantuan pile, snorting like a Hoover vacuum. Soul scorching pain torched my nostrils – an inferno of tortuous agony riving chunks of tissue from my tender nasal fossae – spalling epithelial cells – a geyser of purplish blood squirted like rain across the chemical snow. Blood tears painfully secreted from my lachrymal ducts as I cried in anguish.

Nok screamed, “No Bobby…don’t snort too much, you could die from that. That’s 100% pure pink champagne aka pink ice. That ain’t no crackerjack bullshit.” She turned to the perplexed bloggers and said, “Here’s your espressos…I hope the frothy cream is beige enough for you…hehe.”

They smacked their espresso cups together and said, “Here’s to making money online,” and downed their triple shots of dizzle doused java. Twitdawg said, “Yeech…that was bitter…ewww. Beige creamy espresso, let’s research that key phrase and start a new niche phenomenon.”

I said, “I have a blog…Revellian dot com”

They both fulminated in laughter. Newton said, “Revellian Dot Com? Bwahhahaha! I’ve seen that crap…I actually blocked you on Twitter because you suck so bad. Look, a real blogger makes greenage…rakes in the cash. You gotta get your keywords, your anchor text, reduce the size of your home page below 100 kb, tweak your title tags, get some fucking strategy buddy! Get some branding going on! You’re not a blogger, you’re a disgrace.”

Nok stripped down to her tiny bra and panties and began rubbing moisturizing lotion on her tender thighs. She crawled on top of me and began nibbling on my ear lobe. She looked at the bloggers and said, “I put five grams of meth in each of your espressos. You’ll probably die in a few minutes…you stupid punks. Hey Dr. Dizzle..bring your axe out here!”

Twitdawg ran to the bathroom screaming in bloodcurdling fear. Newton hopped up, “Dude, my heart is beating like a jackhammer,” and began sobbing in a conniption fit, “why did you poison us you vulgar skank?”

Nok tenderly folded her icy tongue into my mouth swirling it around my lips – my heart stomping my ribcage – the potent stimulant slithering through my aorta – her soft hands kneading lust from my pores. she sensually groaned, “Don’t let him talk to me like that my lover.”

I was catatonic with insanity while the meth cook stormed forward – razors of fire riveting my skull as the humongous axe sliced though the air chopping Newton’s cranium in halves – his brain plopped onto the cold floor and spattered into what looked like blood sodden shrimp – cerebral blood noodles. The speed wired Dr. Drizzle eviscerated, chopped, diced, sliced and annhialted Newton into neatly formed sections – meth laced blood slobbered the walls – fine crimson mist vaporized the room in gaseous hemoglobin.

Nok violently gnawed my tender ear lobe, tearing a serrated cleft in my head – she ground a handful of meth into my eyes and viciously screamed, “Die you piece of shit!”

I lifted her above my head and slammed her frail body head first onto the stony floor. She crumpled like a weakened baby deer. As Dr. Drizzle charged me with his axe, I pulled out my Desert Eagle .50 caliber hand cannon. I squeezed off one round into his abdomen. His upper torso fell from his still running hips and legs like a Pez dispenser. His legless upper body miraculously landed upright – his arms flailing in frenzy – his legs drunkenly running like a decapitated chicken into the wall. He said, “Give me one more line of meth before I die…please.”

Nok opened her eyes – her twisted head sat crookedly on her severely broken neck, “I thought you didn’t have a gun.”

I smiled and said, “I lied,” and blew her skull into one thousand bone slivers. The entire room was painted in blood – my masterpiece of psychoses – my Rembrandt of hatred. I jacked my knee high, clipping my own collar bone and savagely stomp kicked the doctor in the face – his pre-dissolved skull splattered apart. My kick was ferocious, but it was the years of meth abuse that had digested his facial bones. It was like stomping into a huge bowl of Fruity Pebbles – chunks of brain matter and torn flesh had shot in my mouth.

Twitdawg stood before me – his eyes opened in miles almost popping from their sockets. I asked, “Does my blog suck?” with the gun barrel pointed at his head.

“No Bobby…you have the best blog I’ve ever seen and I promise to read it every day. Please don’t kill me. I’ll add you as a friend on Twitter and Facebook too.”

“Chill out Twitdawg,” I said while chewing fleshy pieces of Nok – my human fig newton, “I hate that freaking name…I’ll call you Tyrell. Now help me burn this place to the ground.”

We walked into the darkness as a violent firestorm of hellish flame exploded across the horizon. I stayed wide awake for an additional 19 days and nights – or so my therapist tells me.

• All I could think while writing this was if I went too far for a blog horror story. Did I?
• This story is absolutely fallacious, made up, untrue, perfidious, recreant and treacherously sadistic psycho-horror fiction written by Bobby Revell.
• All names and places are falsified fiction.
• I’ve never even been in a Starbucks and after writing this, probably never will.
• Meth is a horrible drug and I do not condone its use nor recommend anyone try it as it will destroy your life.
• Tyrell “Twitdawg” Wallace currently resides in an insane asylum where he lives as a vegetable and refuses to drink coffee.

Tags: coffee, horror, psychoses, starbucks, transgressional fiction