[Peppy]

Audience: Adult. Story contains explicit language and sexual content.

Author's Note: The flow of the story will be screwed up. I wrote it a long time ago and picked it up to finish it. Also, it was inspired by Rant by Nancy A. Collins and Bad Guy Hats by David J. Schow.

The Meaning of Life

I somewhat picked the man at random from a group of faggots. I spotted him in the café where I usually drank my favourite flavoured coffee: Peaches and Cream. They seated themselves on a table for four and they began talking and laughing and smiling at each other. Frankly, if I had a chance to kill them, I would do it. The one who caught my eye constantly flirted with a brown-haired male sitting next to him. It was sickening to see them scoping out for ass.

I vomited in my mouth, but I downed it with my coffee.

I always hated fags, but I never showed it. I didn‘t want people to think of me as an asshole. No, I wouldn‘t want that. They made me angry and bitter inside, dirty almost.

I got angry when I saw them but I retained my content composure, sipping on my coffee as if it were a regular day. The rage came from the fact that males (and females) are attracted to their own gender. Faggotry should be controlled and kept private. It’s disgusting to think about their dicks in another man’s body either from fellatio or buggery. They make me sick!

I watched them as they drank their coffees and ate their desserts. I followed them when they left the coffee shop. When they parted on a street unknown to me, I stalked the flirtatious man who disgusted me the most. I followed him home—just in case I had to know for future references.

***

I stared at him and couldn’t figure out why. Could I have been fascinated with him? No, of course not; I’m not a faggot.

After a week of planning, I fag-napped the flirtatious man. His name was Vincent, born and raised in Kitchener, Ontario. He was twenty years old. I got my information from his wallet (and seventy-three dollars).

He released a muffled moan as he stirred on the cold cement floor, but he did not wake up. I examined the shoe laces I used to tie him up with for the hundredth time to make sure he had no way of escaping my presence. I wrapped the shoe laces so tightly that the veins on his extremities were swollen and prominent. The moment he wakes up, I’m going to kill him with a scalpel, just like what Jack the Ripper used to kill the prostitutes in the streets.

Speaking of prostitutes…

On rare occasions I’d have sex with a whore. I usually fucked whores to get rid of the stress I received on a weekly basis. I wasn’t paranoid on catching HIV because I’m not afraid of death. So, I’d pick up a whore on Head St. and there would be a variety of persons to choose from, such as trannies, androgynous men, and fat and emaciated sluts. I went with a fat whore because the emaciated sluts disgusted me with their loose skin. My whore had shadow bag eyes, thick long black hair, and a nice soft and sluttish voice. “What can I do for you?” I took her to a dilapidated motel, swimming pool and all, and got us a room. I kissed her immediately when the door closed behind us. Her mouth tasted like vomit and cigarette ash.

“What position do you want to do?” she asked after I finished kissing her.

She undressed, taking off her tight leather dress. She reached for the zipper in the back and pulled it down. She slid the scraps off her shoulders in a sexy fashion while biting her bottom lip gently. Her dress slipped down, passing her tits, passing her well-fed stomach, and passing her hips and cunt. She was wearing no panty. My dick swelled in my pants.

“Doggy-style. I want see your big round ass,” I said.

I began undressing until I was completely naked.

“I want to tell you right now,” she said, pointing her fat finger at me, “I don’t do anal sex.”

“Fine by me. My wife’s cunt is losing its elasticity. Your cunt must be better,” I snickered.

She crawled on the bed, on all fours, like a cat. She even purred like a cat. Meow! She looked over her shoulder as I came up from behind her, my dick hardening and swelling when I came closer and closer. I spat on my dick—my natural lubricant—readying myself for penetration and violation of her pussy.

The accumulated rage I received from the faggots in the café finally erupted. I tried to suppress it, but it got the best of me. So much for my content composure. I forced my dick into her anal sphincter. She screamed. I immediately grabbed her by the wrists and stretched her hands forward so I could pin her down onto her stomach. My legs pinned her kicking legs. She yelled, “Stop it!” I didn’t listen; I didn’t want to listen. “Stop it!” Our bodies clapped into each other when I pounded against her ass.

“Do you like this? Do you like this?” I said over and over again.

Her moist asshole became moister. I was amazed and thought it could not be possible. Maybe her shit helped? My dick slid in and out smoothly, and I liked it far better than all the cunts I’ve fucked throughout my life. I humped her faster and faster until I ejaculated into her. I pulled my dick out and noticed there was blood all over my dick and shit on the tip of it. At least I figured out what made asshole more lubricated. I looked down at her ass and saw blood between the crack of her ass flowing steadily onto the blanket underneath her.

I quickly got off the bed by the repulsion of her blood. The whore remained still on the bed from the traumatic stress I gave her. I grabbed a corner blanket of the bed and wiped my dick of her muck—not entirely “clean” because I felt like there were germs, viruses and diseases eating away at my member. I dressed up, threw hundred dollar bills on the carpeted floor and left. I felt a little guilty for the way I treated her, but I couldn‘t figure out why.

Why did I feel sorry for her?

“Lie on your stomach,” a voice said in my head.

“SHUT UP!” I screamed. “SHUT THE HELL UP!”

I ran away from the motel, got into my car and drove home as fast as I could.

***

Vincent appeared younger than his age. His boyish face, aside from his femininity, betrayed the acceleration of time. There were no creases, smile lines or eye lines on his face. If I had to guess, and if I never met him, I’d assume his age to be sixteen.

Sixteen…

I met a boy who killed himself at the age of sixteen. I was thirteen when I heard the good news. I was glad that he killed himself, didn’t care much about him. I hated him for the innocence he took away from me and the shame he put on me.

Two year before his fortunate death, we were best friends of sorts. I didn’t consider it weird that he was a fourteen year old hanging out with an eleven year old kid. He was more like a big brother to me.

He was friendless because he was a faggot. He wore tight-fitting and colourful clothing. His walk was done in a strutting way--a palm up in the air and an ass that swayed in a hypnotic motion. When he talked, his voice was very soft and girly. The people in my little town didn’t appreciate his mannerism; they began to shun him, saying he was “unnatural,” “contagious,” and “a disease spewing, cum drinker.”

(I hate my hometown. Thank god I live in the city now!)

Nonetheless, we were best friends. He let me read his Superman and Batman comics. We explored abandoned homes and buildings in our town. We watched horror and action movies together at his house. Once we even watched porno movies!

One day he came over to my house. I was watching my Saturday morning cartoons, eating my bowl of cereal on the floor. I was dressed in my sky-blue pajamas.

The doorbell, but I didn’t answer. I just continued to stare at the television screen. Whoever it is, he or she will just come in of their own accord.

I heard the door opening and slamming. I screamed, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me - Billy,” a voice responded.

Billy was the faggot’s name. I tried to forget his name but it’s stuck on me like glue. He came into the living room and sat next to me on the floor. He was wearing a Superman t-shirt and carrying a backpack.

“What are you watching?” Billy said.

“Loony Toons,” I said, scooping up a spoonful of cereal into my mouth.

“Where’s your mom?”

“She’s passed out in her room.”

I took a peek into her room earlier that morning. My mom was naked, legs spread apart and a pussy covered in semen. The sight was repulsive.

“Don’t go into the room for her cigarettes,” I warned. “Her rooms smells like vodka and unwashed ass. Also, her new boyfriend did some damage.”

Billy only smiled.

Mentioning our families was a taboo subject between us. We barely talked about them. All I knew about him was that he had a workaholic father who failed to give him acknowledgement. He was emotionally neglected and forgotten. All he knew about me was that I came from a broken home. But he didn’t know my mother was a slut, having a new boyfriend every week.

Billy pulled off his backpack off and unzipped it and drew out a Batman comic.

About fifteen minutes, he put his comic book down and said, “Let’s go to your room.”

I should have said no. Someone in my miserable life should have taught me to say no. But I didn’t.

I said, “Sure.”

We went into my room. My posters of Iron Maiden and Metallica hung on the walls. Clean and soiled clothing were propped all over the floor.

Billy closed the door behind him.

“What do you--” I couldn’t finished the sentence. What I saw shocked me: Billy was pulling down his pants down. His penis was erect and throbbing for attention. His late puberty left him hairless and small.

“Put your pants down,” he commanded.

“W-w-why?” I stuttered.

“Do you remember when we watched my dad’s porno collection? It’s kind of like that. It’s going to feel good for the both of us.”

I did remember. The girl would always scream out in pleasure. Just last night, my mother did the same thing.

He came over me, kneeled in front of me and pulled my pants down. I felt my scrotum and penis shrivelling in me from embarrassment.

“Lie on your stomach,” he ordered.

I listened to him. I put myself on the bed, readying myself for what was to come. With his hands, he spread my butt cheeks and inserted his dick in me. He was on top of me, his breath hot on the nape of my neck.

His dick didn’t hurt me. It was small but large enough for me to feel. He thrusted in and out. “Do you like this? Do you like this?” he repeated. I found it quite…pleasurable. I hate to admit that the sexual act was pleasurable; it makes me feel dirty and shameful. I fucken hate myself. I fucken hate him. I fucken hate faggots.

He released a moan when he finished humping my ass. His face was sweaty.

“Get up,” he said. I got up. Next, he lied down on the bed. “It’s your turn now.”

I stared down at Vincent. But when I saw him, he looked a lot like Billy.

***

Vincent was awake!

He released a groan. He squeezed his eyes hard, obviously feeling the pain from the injury on his head. I had to knock him out to drag him to where we are now. I waited in his apartment, in the dark corner of the un-masculine kitchen, holding his own stirring pan. I can still smell the floral scent of his home. When he came home, I struck fast. He didn’t expect it; he didn‘t even sense me; he was humming a “I’m-in-love” tune, probably from the guy in the café, when I hit him hard on the head. The poor butt-fucker fell like a rag doll.

I’ll say this: it was no easy task dragging him out in a hockey bag. He was a heavy mother fucker. I got weird looks from occupants who lived in the building as they came home from work, but I don’t think they were at all suspicious. I hope they weren’t, at least.

“Hello, Vincent,” I said.

He looked up at me as he blinked several time to get rid of his blurred vision. I stood over him like a god. He squirmed and wriggled like a maggot, pulling and straining to break free from the shoelaces on his wrists and ankles. But it was no use.

“Don’t bother trying to break free,” I taunted. “You’re only here for one reason: you‘re here to die. I‘m the one who is going to kill you. Look at me, I'm your last link to life.”

He struggled to talk through the duct tape over his mouth. But no audible words came out.

“Are you trying to say something?” I questioned. He nodded frantically, beads of sweat falling from his forehead. “Since this is your last moment of living, I’m going to let you talk. I better not hear any cliché bullshit out of your mouth, like ‘Please, let me go. I won’t tell anyone about this.’ Do you understand?”

I bent down and ripped the duct tape off.

“Why are you doing this?” Vincent pleaded.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I said. “You’re a faggot. Everyone thinks like me, but they’re afraid of being called as a homophobic. There are things in life which shouldn’t be accepted. HOMOSEXUALITY SHOULD NOT BE ACCEPTED! YOU SHOULD BE ALL DEAD!”

“I…I don’t want... to…die,” he sobbed, tears streaked down the side of his face, mingling with his sweat. His eyes were filled with desperation.

A desperation I’ve seen before.

During my junior year in high school, I saw Billy for the last time. We were no longer friends since we had sex together. I could not look at him the same way as I used to. I’m sure he felt the same way, too.

I was standing at the entrance of my school. My anti-social behaviour deteriorated ever since the homosexual act. I didn’t want people to know what I did. I was afraid if someone knew me, they’d think I was a faggot. Being called a faggot was not something I wanted.

The school bus approached and stopped in front of the entrance. When the students stepped out of the bus, I saw Billy. He was trying to untangle a piece of gum out of his hair. He was always being bullied. The gum in the hair was mild compared to the beatings and ridicules he received on a daily basis. He quit school for a year to get away from it all, but he came back to try to get his diploma. Now he was truly friendless; he had no one in the entire world. He fucked it up with me and I'm glad I'm not his friend anymore. Who wants to be friend with a faggot anyway?

He gazed at the entrance. He stopped walking and stood perfectly still. He saw me. I saw him, too.

From my point of view, I saw the school bully approaching Billy. I could have warned him, but I wanted him to suffer.

“Hey!” the bully yelled from behind Billy. Before Billy could react, the bully pushed him down hard. He fell, hitting his knees and scraping the palm of his hands on the cement sidewalk.

“Don’t block my way, faggot,” the bully said. He walked away laughing.

He looked up at me. His eyes were filled with desperation. Instead of helping him, I turned and walked into the school. Before he was completely out of my view, I saw a piece of him die. A very important piece.

“Please, let me go,” Vincent pleaded.

I snapped out of my thoughts.

“What did I say about cliché bullshit?” I said.

I smiled broadly. I was waiting for him to slip up.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Please!”

I pulled out my scalpel from the back pocket of my jeans. He tried yelling, but I ignored what he had to say.

Goodbye, Vincent, I thought. You’ll be butt fucking devils from now on.

I kneeled down to him. He talked through his clenched teeth and stayed perfectly still as I pressed the blade on his jugular. In one swift movement, I slit his throat open. His gushed blood out of his wound. It was such a beautiful sight.

In his eyes, his desperation dispersed. I saw a piece of him die, a very important piece: hope

[RENA HANDS]

Why not show more immediate action…If I had my chance, I would have murdered them then. (Or something similar.)

You are certain that these homosexuals (and how do you know they were gay?) were ‘scoping out for ass?’

Were they just drinking ‘coffee?’ No lattés or mocha whatevers?

You could have started with the beating of Vincent, refer back to the coffee color to his dark brown hair and how it disgusted you to see the free flowing lock and how he and his friends just went about their coffee meet. The red spewing blood and how its deep rich color matches the fierce emotions deep within bursting to burn out.

I suggest using small more visual words; the whore was thin, thinner than a mopping stick with her breasts well if you can call those two pimples breasts, sagged. (Or something similar.)

Emaciated is fine once, but use other same meaning words.

Possibly show why the motel was so ‘dilapidated?’

Would a prostitute really ask after a kiss for a ‘position,’ why not during the lip pecks. How involved were these ‘kisses?’

The ‘sex scene’ is a bit too much and vague too. Do you read erotic literature? Or romance novels?
Again, I think you are using more words than necessary to describe this situation of sexual intercourse. Just state that you came inside her.

I am not certain if I cold believe that an 11 year old boy didn’t’ try and run away from his 14 year old friend.

When you write shoe laces or shoelaces, be consistent with which look you are using.

My anti-social behavior deteriorated…use smaller more simple words.

You use ‘bully’ too much, perhaps describe this fiend/monster who is beating the crap out of Billy? Also, be a bit more graphic about the assault?

Where did you get a scalpel? When did you write this story? Without knowing the history of this write, I really don’t want to say more. I just suggest asking an editor then seeing what he or she thinks. I will rate the idea 3/5!

[Peppy]

I knew I should have wrote something about the scalpel. Those things are hard to get. I shall consider what you said, maybe even spruce it up a bit since there still is an audience out there.

I'll answer a few things from your comments. You're probably going to consider me a sicko but I wrote it to scare my English teacher, but a friend of mine said I shouldn't. I shouldn't because I might be a psychopath. A little, maybe. I never read an erotic or romance novel. I should though, get more experience on how I can write it. Hmmmmm...

[Alex]

i thought it was well written. I like how you had the character revert back to something from his past every time he saw something that reminded him of specific incidents that help to tie in the reasoning of why he hates them to such a degree.