kid, Jim Jones in nineteen-seventy-fucking-eight when he was in seventh grade and the sporadic tweaks and torments suddenly found focus, day in day out. Hey if it ain’t wacko Jim Jones! Who brought the jug of Kool-Aid today and how shall we pounce and trounce our little four-eyed wacko freak? The bastardly ratfucks, Jenkin and Bart and Sarno, they were the ringleaders, the ones that barked orders to hold him down, the ones that slugged him when he squealed, that kicked him and poured that sweet sticky red shit all over his face, into his nose and mouth so he felt he’d drown in it, his neck and scalp dripping with it, the pitcher’s brutal lip knocking at his teeth. And the busty girl-fucks, the behind-handers who hid their laughs behind their cupped fingers, stood to one side, with their moundy pair of eye-achers harnessed up to torment the kickers and pourers and their tight little curvy butts hugged tight by their jeans, such a taunting swiveling packet of do-it-to-me in the face of his humiliation. They could’ve called a halt to it. The girl-fucks had that power. They could’ve said something, they could’ve purred some sympathy and had the pussycravers lay off; instead they’d held back and put a palm to their broad smiles and stood just so, so that no one could miss the little wiggle of their boobies-n-butts. He hadn’t missed it, not through his teary screaming, the choking and sputtering as the cold red liquid splashed in his face and trickled down his neck and drenched his shirt. The behind-handers chose to let his torment go on, day after day, watching, getting off on it, his first inkling of what they were truly about on this planet.
And his mother, that fat jowly bitch who insisted her boy go to school come hell or high water, had been part of the whole charade. He hadn’t seen it then, but he’d known in his gut all along and it came clear over the years. He saw her fucking Toon-erville-Trolley body blundering about, coming at him again and again. You will go to school, you will go to school No wonder Dad had skedaddled. She was the powerhouse behind his torment, had been all along; and when finally that fat chowderhound croaked, all the hatred she’d spewed over him, all that squinty-eyed loathing that made his mom the
linchpin of the behind-handers—every bit of it went out of her body into theirs, into the whole sad insidious race of them, with their boobies-n-butts, with their eye-achers, with their baby-holes, with their smiles covered up behind their hands while all the while they did their pretend stuff about being caring and kind.
April, filthy-mouthed but redundant April, had strong horsey legs. When she revived and saw her state, she gave him a stinging wallop across his cheek with one knee. Her flats he’d removed and was caressing her feet when she did it. He scuttled back, felt his nose. No break, no blood. Just puffy warmth, trauma in the middle of his face. It’d recede. She was working up steam, spewing a limited store of venom, alternating wild kicks his way with pretty torso twists to test the ropes. They held, of course. Into the jeaned flurry of flesh he stepped, arm in tight around her butt to keep some control, close up to bridle and love the power of her thighs. Her nips were near. Jugs jiggled in resistance. Where his right hand bobbled to catch zipper, struggle it down, her womanheat lay. Slit-fuzz in service to new baby-birthings, let a fucker in, poot a fucker out, deceptively cute, would turn out inevitably to be a kicker or pourer or a grinning wiggling do-nothing cuntcubator.
She’d be the one. They were all in cahoots, the girl gigglers. A secret network, planetwide. This April would help him tap into it, would screech his message into their conniving skulls with such force that they’d stop giggling and sober up and weld their thighs together forever. Born no more. Clear the pipeline. Let ’em age and dwindle and die, the earth purified at last.
When he
And his mother, that fat jowly bitch who insisted her boy go to school come hell or high water, had been part of the whole charade. He hadn’t seen it then, but he’d known in his gut all along and it came clear over the years. He saw her fucking Toon-erville-Trolley body blundering about, coming at him again and again. You will go to school, you will go to school No wonder Dad had skedaddled. She was the powerhouse behind his torment, had been all along; and when finally that fat chowderhound croaked, all the hatred she’d spewed over him, all that squinty-eyed loathing that made his mom the
linchpin of the behind-handers—every bit of it went out of her body into theirs, into the whole sad insidious race of them, with their boobies-n-butts, with their eye-achers, with their baby-holes, with their smiles covered up behind their hands while all the while they did their pretend stuff about being caring and kind.
April, filthy-mouthed but redundant April, had strong horsey legs. When she revived and saw her state, she gave him a stinging wallop across his cheek with one knee. Her flats he’d removed and was caressing her feet when she did it. He scuttled back, felt his nose. No break, no blood. Just puffy warmth, trauma in the middle of his face. It’d recede. She was working up steam, spewing a limited store of venom, alternating wild kicks his way with pretty torso twists to test the ropes. They held, of course. Into the jeaned flurry of flesh he stepped, arm in tight around her butt to keep some control, close up to bridle and love the power of her thighs. Her nips were near. Jugs jiggled in resistance. Where his right hand bobbled to catch zipper, struggle it down, her womanheat lay. Slit-fuzz in service to new baby-birthings, let a fucker in, poot a fucker out, deceptively cute, would turn out inevitably to be a kicker or pourer or a grinning wiggling do-nothing cuntcubator.
She’d be the one. They were all in cahoots, the girl gigglers. A secret network, planetwide. This April would help him tap into it, would screech his message into their conniving skulls with such force that they’d stop giggling and sober up and weld their thighs together forever. Born no more. Clear the pipeline. Let ’em age and dwindle and die, the earth purified at last.
When he
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