Can I Gag You With A Fork?

It starts in a basement. Mold green paint chips off the walls all over the fucking place. A pair of feet enter the frame, which is to say a doorway, and a cat enters from off-screen to rub against the feet and then meow and walk away.

“Can I gag you with a fork?” He grins like the Joker. Just lying there, squinting up at him through cat litter and tears, you can feel your cock stiffening. You try not to let this distract you by shutting your eyes tight, stuffing your hands over your ears, and shouting for someone to help. He walks over and slaps you.

“Are you fucking nuts? This has always been about both of us! And what if someone actually did hear your insane cries for help, what then? To find you here, drugged and covered in my dried shit and cum, cat turds smeared all over you, litter sprinkled on top like a peanut covered Sundae...yes it's beautiful, we both know that, but they would never understand. Aren't I right, Kevy?”

Kevy doesn't, maybe can't, respond, just nods his head and smears cat litter across his lips.

“That's a good boy.”

Kneeling like a frog, he pats Kevy on the head.

Standing, “Right. So. Let's get the fun underway, shall we?”

A cat meows and brushes against a leg.

***

It's shot in a medium reversal of him dragging Kevy's body across the work bench.

“Murphmydjj...I...mmlove you,” Kevy mumbles through the fresh cat shit that's been stuffed in his mouth.

Brushing tools to the sides of the table in a clamorous swoop, he cackles and says, “I know you do, Kevy. That's why we trust each other for this.”

He hoists Kevy's naked body, which is covered with multiple species' shit, ejaculate, piss, and vomit, onto the table, then pulls Kevy back down, so half of Kevy's body is hanging off, limp but feet kicking in merriment or desperation, he couldn't say if he cared.

Then he gets really close to Kevy's face. Kevy sees his angelic blue eyes and shoulder-length blond hair and thinks he looks as close to God, aka Kurt Cobain, as anyone ever could. Staring into the face of an angel, Kevy feels cold hands around his face that register as warm, and he lifts Kevy's head into position on the edge of the table.

To picture the position, picture what people sometimes call “curbstomping.” Now picture the exact opposite of that.

Kevy's face is bent back, with the top of his jaw nailed to the top of the table and the bottom of his jaw is stretched way open, showing his no tonsils all the way down the tube of his throat. It's nailed to the side of the table.

You feel this as the first day you got braces as a kid, how much that hurt. You feel this as little crucifixions all up and down your rows of teeth. You feel this as your neck about to snap.

Then he picks up the fork. He walks over to you with it slowly at first, doing a little dance like in Reservoir Dogs. You try speaking, but this just causes your tongue to freak out in all directions and, not wanting to die yet, you stop.

The first mark comes suddenly. He lunges at you unexpectedly and reaches deep, deep down inside your throat. He stabs the fork into your distended throat without restraint and you throw up blood and bile all over his hand. You taste blood and things you've never tasted before. It tastes like the blood coming from the puncture wound in your throat is flowing upwards.

And it is a puncture wound: you can feel, hear, air whistling in and out of your throat and you know he's broken through. Over the next hour he takes his time battering your throat, making holes in it, playing with your endless blood and vomit, until there just seems to be endless blood.

A cat meows and brushes against a leg.

Bill Frasier

“Hey aren't you Bill Frasier?”

It's a gray 7-11 at nobody knows what time.  Gray.  Flicking fluorescent lights give the place a slowed down strobe effect.  Gray everywhere.  Bill Frasier pictures the gray as crude and all-encompassing, like he's a victim in a poorly shot snuff film.

Outside, a naked body is sprawled on the hood of a car, split open from neck to vagina.  The ribs have been snapped into pieces and most of what was once housed inside is gone.  The flesh on the outside of the gash that used to be a woman's body has been nailed hastily to the hood of the car, the tops of nails bashed in at weird angles.

A man whistles and walks past, fumbling for a Camel Light.

Bill Frasier stands at a 7-11 counter trying to open a candy bar. When he hears the voice behind him he starts, then focuses his attention back on the candy bar.

“Yes, yes I am.”

“Hey, yeah, Billy! Remember me, Robbie Schwanker?”

Bill looks down, fumbling with his candy bar wrapper, avoiding eye contact, trapped at the convenient store counter.

“Uh, yeah, Robbie. Hi.” Pause. “How have you been?”

“Oh, you know, you know. I'm a regional manager over at Pep Boys now!”

“That's great, Robbie,” Bill says, sounding dead inside.

“Yeah...Jesus, man, I haven't seen you since Senior year! What have you been up to?"

Bill stops twisting the wrapper, looks at Robbie's gray eyes, eyes that thankfully recall to Bill no memory of who this person was, and he says, “Nothing. I haven't been up to anything.”

Bill dimly realizes that he has Robbie at a loss but he couldn't care less about this faux pas. Robbie tries a different tactic.

“So, what about Jeanie Blew? I remember you two having a real heavy thing going. Man, what happened? Everyone thought you guys were going to get married!”

“We did,” says Bill, and the look on his face prompts an “I'm sorry” from Robbie.

“Don't be,” says Bill, his voice now perking up, him starting to eat his candy bar. “It was just one of those things.”

“Didn't work out?”

“Nope.” Bill tosses a square of the chocolate into his mouth and masticates loudly.

There's a pause, and then Robbie lowers his voice to say, “So I guess you got divorced?”

“Oh no,” Bill says, appearing totally at ease now, pushing the last of the candy bar into his mouth.

“No?”

“Nope. I killed her.”