Fiction and Poetry 3am Magazine Contact Links Submission Guidelines
Literature
Arts
Politics
Nonfiction
Music

 
   
 
 


IDENTITY CRISIS

by

Landon Dixon



I shoved her fat tits together. They were slimy with sweat. I flapped my tongue across her huge nipples, bit down hard on them. She whimpered and spread her doughy legs. I swallowed my puke. I straddled her face, used my knees to squeeze her marshmallow cheeks together until she gaped like a fish. “Gimme head!” I commanded. She obeyed.

I tried to think of shit that turned me on, would get me off. I didn’t look down at the over-ripe bitch between my legs – she was a tool, nothing more. I pictured a big-breasted bodybuilder chick going down on me. My body spasmed and I came. Cum flooded her mouth and she gagged. I made her lick me clean.

By morning, the whining had started.

“But why can’t we see each other again? Now that-”

“Don’t be fucking retarded!” I shot her a disgusted look. “I got a reputation to maintain.”

She started to blubber, braying like a fucking jackass. Big tears, drops of mercury, rolling down her puffy face, splattering the kitchen table. “You’re so mean to me,” she retched.

I felt the tension ratchet up inside my body, my mind. She was a stupid, ugly, clinging bitch. She was brain-fucked if she thought she could hitch onto my life with a truck load of puss tears. I spat coffee back into my cup, said: “You got a fucking job to go to, or what?”

She stared at me, snot running out of her nose and into her mouth. Her eyes were sow’s eyes, buried in pale folds of fat. She swore at me, then buried her boiled face in her fleshy arms and sobbed; big, fat, wet-fart sobs that fired my anger to a white-hot rage. The rubber band holding my head together snapped. I scooped a bread knife off the table and buried it in the side of her neck, to the hilt. I twisted the blade around savagely, then pulled it out.

Her head shot up and she blinked at me with slaughterhouse eyes. “W-what are you doing!?” she wailed, crimson blood gushing out of the hole in her neck - stupid to the end.

“The world a favor, baby,” I said. I stood up, walked around behind her. She vaguely tried to plug the leak in her fat neck with her thick fingers, putting on one last show of helplessness. I cut her throat. Tore her neck open so wide and so deep that her head almost fell off.

There was a ton of blood, but I expected that. It was a messy, thankless job, but someday I knew I’d be rewarded. This flabby, weak-willed bitch wasn’t the first and she wouldn’t be the last. There were plenty as pitiful as she.

I dragged her flaccid body into the bathroom and rolled her into the tub. Her head lolled around and her neck was a second bloody mouth. Just what a complaining fucker like her needed – a second mouth. I closed the shower curtain, cleaned up the bathroom, the hallway, and the kitchen, and took off for the office. I’d dismember and dispose of the whale when I got back from work. Pick up some pizza, crack open some beer, and make it a night.



I nodded a contemptuous good morning to the broken-down hags in the typing pool. Blew my nose to keep the dried-up pussy smell out. They were nattering to each other, as usual – like cattle in a holding pen. About their fucking useless children or grandchildren. As if shitting out babies was the greatest accomplishment known to Man. Any brain-dead mammal with a twat could shit out a baby. And when that graveyard of pedestrian dreams wasn’t polluting the air with talk of their bastard kids, they were barking about their imaginary illnesses. Most of their health problems were pure bullshit – filling the void left by hope. Life, as they told it, had been tough on them, and only them – unplanned pregnancies, divorces, uncaring men, blah, blah, blah. Pathetic, whining, self-centered, used up assholes. The only thing that worked was their mouths. The crumbling fuckers weren’t worth the sweat you’d use butchering them like nags at a glue factory.

I made it to my office and was about to shut the door when my boss walked in.

“How’s it going, Johnson?” he asked. Brisk, professional.

“Not bad, Mr. Vaughn. Yourself?”

“Got those cost figures for me?”

I nodded. “Sure do. Right here.” I handed him the file.

He walked out.

I watched him stride down the hallway. I smiled. There was a guy who knew what the fuck he wanted and took it. No excuses. Get the job done. Trent Vaughn was my kind of people. He was one of the reasons I kept working at Trinergy. The other was money. He was a gruff, tough guy, with a square jaw and a square attitude. He had a rock-hard body, and rumor had it among the coffee break bitches that he was hung like a horse. I think he liked me, but I didn’t push it. Not yet. You’ve got to be careful about these kinds of things.

“Hi.”

It was Louise, the invisible secretary; whenever I needed her she disappeared. She rushed to her desk, two minutes late.

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” she moaned, “but the traffic was really bad around the daycare this morning.”

She looked at me nervously and I gave her the stone-face. She smiled timidly. She was a tall, spare, tit-less woman – an ironing board with teeth. “Have I shown you my oldest daughter’s new school picture?” She fumbled around in her giant purse, wasting my time. “I think it’s her best-”

I turned my back, slammed the door in her face. I had better things to do than spew false flattery about some metal-mouth, acne-riddled, teen cocksucker. I sat down, counted to ten, picked up the phone, and dialled her number. She had to run back to her desk to get it; she had already drifted away in search of coffee and some other slob to bore with her children.

“Hello,” she finally responded, out of breath.

“I left a report on your desk last night, long after you had gone home. It has to be typed up right away.”

“Yes, okay. I’ll get-”

I hung up. I spun around in my chair and stared out the window. I pictured Trent Vaughn naked. I slipped a hand down my pants.

I slammed the bitch against the wall, shoved my tongue down her throat. Her name was Veronica, or Victoria, or some fucking civilized name like that. I called her ho. She had hair, eyes, a nose and a mouth, and tits that stuck out into tomorrow. I had dragged her out of a fuck bar and back to my place. I hadn’t decided if she’d live or die – it might depend on how hard I came.

She moaned something about ‘slowing down’. I slapped her. Her face was caked in make-up like an open-casket corpse. I told her to suck my tongue. She shut up and obeyed. Her blowjob lips pumped my tongue like it was her pimp’s cock. I grabbed her tits and squeezed. I could feel the plastic bags. False fucking advertising. I spat in her face.

“Carrying some baggage, huh ho?” I sneered.

“Fuck off,” she said quietly, her head bowed.

“Whore!” I cuffed her another one alongside the head, shoved my hand in her panties. I felt cock. I pulled my hand out like it had touched flame. “Goddamn weirdo!” I screamed. “Fucking tranny!” I slugged him in the gut with everything I had.

He doubled over, sucking air.

“You fucked up piece of shit!” I was cold with fury. I grabbed him around the neck, shoved him hard against the wall. With the booze buzz faded, and the lust going out of me like the tide, I could see the masculinity in his made-up face. I vomited all over the front of his leather dress. “Fucking female impersonator!” I rasped.

He fumbled around in his purse, pulled out a gun, and shot me in the stomach. I stumbled backwards, shell-shocked. He shot me again, just over my right breast. I fell over, hit the floor hard with my head.

“How’d you like it now, ho!?” he hissed, standing over me. I could see the outline of his cock, swollen in his panties. He shoved the gun between his tits, hitched up his dress, pulled out his dick, and started jerking off. I couldn’t do a thing. I couldn’t move. I was helpless. I was fading in and out of consciousness, blood leaking out of my chest and stomach, soaking my blouse. I felt hot cum splash onto my face. Lots of it.

He groaned, pulled up his panties. He spilled my purse on the floor, snatched my bankroll. He shoved some fingers up my pussy and roughly dug around. It felt like he was ripping me apart. I screamed. I cried.

“Stop whining, bitch! You know you like it,” he whispered fiercely.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dixon pounds out fiction in all genres. Big guy, sense of humor. Writing credits include: Blue Murder Magazine, Handheldcrime, Judas e-zine, Heist, and Another Realm.




home | buzzwords
fiction and poetry | literature | arts | politica | music | nonfiction
| offers | contact | guidelines | advertise | webmasters
Copyright © 2005, 3 AM Magazine. All Rights Reserved.