Entry: If It Bleeds by Avarice Slain

If it Bleeds
by Avarice Slain


Stainer felt the urge to fuck old hags…the older the better, that’s why he got a job at the town’s undertakers. Only…when the stiffs began to share that same facial smirk he knew it was time to punch out for good. It was as if they knew. Them cold slabs of decaying meat with them three pleasure holes just inviting a guy to show it one last ride to Semen City apparently knew more than they were saying.

He moved on to take old Hemple’s job as postman, walking the morning round just under two hours. Only…when he began to peer through the town’s winders, mostly the bedroom ones, the round stretched out till dinnertime. Time made his face familiar enough for the lonely housewives to strike up conversations. Firstly they were boring niceties about the weather and if he enjoyed the job. Within a month he was sharing the beds of three women. One liked to scratch his back raw. The blonde enjoyed golden showers and Cherry Lips preferred to be the man. He’d tried it out but it wasn’t for him. Made his numbers two’s runnier than a pierced colostomy bag. She must’ve pushed too far anyways cause it affected his stride…so he jacked it all in, the job and the women.

Got himself a mean lookin’ hound from Turin’s Car Wreckin’ joint. Alvin Turin’s dog had made three ugly sons of a bitch and two even uglier bitches of a bitch. Stainer picked the ugliest. The way it licked everything clean were good times. Only…when the mean bastard grew and got itself a sense of right n wrong, thick gravy didn’t cut it no more. Armed with half a length and one ball he found enough strength to end Licker’s life.

Wasn’t it a kick that Cherry Lips was a nurse? He always thought the outfit was just for fun. She’d come by on nights when everything was quiet and close the door to the room. Armed with her strap-on and a palm full of jelly he guessed it was just an itch she needed to scratch. When her fun came to an end, she tied the weapon down along her inner thigh, strapped it good and tight as if she thought it might bolt free at the most inopportune time and poke some sick kid in the eye. She usually walked out without saying a word. Stainer signed himself out.

With a trailer full of nada and a dead dog festering its dead stink from a shallow grave, Stainer made the decision to steer clear of anything that bled between the legs from now on. He would return to his earlier passion of humpin’ Grannies. Thing was, the stick insect that ran the undertakers refused to give him a sniff of work, not even as a very casual casual. Plan B came into effect. With Tilton Cemetery only a pleasant ten-minute hobble away, he chose a full moon to seek out his calling. Armed with a spade and a bottle of water, for digging can bring up a mighty thirst, Stainer sought out a fairly recent grave. He worked hard through the silent night, stopping occasionally to take a slurp and to listen to the breeze dancing with the autumn leaves.

The hollow clunk made him smile, he wiped over the medium priced coffin lid enough to grasp the handle and open the top half up to the dark sky. Marveling over the still taut skin he ran a finger across slightly parted lips and probed within to feel the texture of the tongue.

I knew he’d return to me. After the good time I gave him in the mortuary it wasn’t unreasonable to assume he’d be back for more. He managed to slide down alongside me in the coffin and soon enough his hands were everywhere. Funny how he froze when I smiled and how limp he went when I closed the lid back down. Even if we were discovered at dawn, it’d give me plenty of time to show him how much emotion I can still bring to the party.

If it bleeds…too bad.