Willie Smith
TOY SUICIDE
I shot up the dirt. Made ‘em dance. Shot the big guy up with smack. Dug him smiling die. Made the little one dig the grave, pitch in the corpse. Blasted for kicks the digger. Pitched him in myself. Commandeered a dumptruck. Covered the hole with pitchblende.
Marched the rump off to camp. To disinfect the filthiest, gassed the lower ranks. None of whom – barfing, writhing, screaming – survived. Stripped the brass. Shot their – to deter any misconduct – balls off. Blew a pitch pipe. Ordered all officers into the mess.
Forcefed the bleeding eunuchs blood pudding compounded from dead enlisted men and shot-off privates. Showered the lot’s wounds with salt. When the general demanded tabasco I drew a burpgun. Peppered the 5-star to mincemeat that served for dessert.
A bird colonel bitched at the taste, the general having been a particular asshole. For gustatory guts, I pinned a purple on his left nipple; but for insubordination twisted both the bird’s nips off. Did for cherries in the Manhattans I built from tritium rye with sweet alpha particle port.
“Any port in a storm!” howled the major in a minor key, till a Glock slug locked his trap.
To amuse those on the base left alive, and to treble my own fun, I broke each plastic captain in a rat trap. Disappeared one rubber lieutenant in a vat of sulfuric; torched the other five. When the smoldering mess ran under the table gooily into the loo, I burst into tears laughing. Flushed in my face the commode.
Regained, hacking burnt rubber, spitting fingers and toes, control.
Gulped dayglo Manhattan dregs. Flipped over a shoulder the shot glass. Muttered a – firing clips into the holocaust – prayer to Ares.
Pocketed sidearm.
Secured a cord. Mounted a chair. Lynched myself from a beam of the collapsing-in-flame construction; mad as hell at the breakage from the outbreak of Mutual Assured Destruction.
Willie Smith videos can be found at YouTube
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TOY SUICIDE
I shot up the dirt. Made ‘em dance. Shot the big guy up with smack. Dug him smiling die. Made the little one dig the grave, pitch in the corpse. Blasted for kicks the digger. Pitched him in myself. Commandeered a dumptruck. Covered the hole with pitchblende.
Marched the rump off to camp. To disinfect the filthiest, gassed the lower ranks. None of whom – barfing, writhing, screaming – survived. Stripped the brass. Shot their – to deter any misconduct – balls off. Blew a pitch pipe. Ordered all officers into the mess.
Forcefed the bleeding eunuchs blood pudding compounded from dead enlisted men and shot-off privates. Showered the lot’s wounds with salt. When the general demanded tabasco I drew a burpgun. Peppered the 5-star to mincemeat that served for dessert.
A bird colonel bitched at the taste, the general having been a particular asshole. For gustatory guts, I pinned a purple on his left nipple; but for insubordination twisted both the bird’s nips off. Did for cherries in the Manhattans I built from tritium rye with sweet alpha particle port.
“Any port in a storm!” howled the major in a minor key, till a Glock slug locked his trap.
To amuse those on the base left alive, and to treble my own fun, I broke each plastic captain in a rat trap. Disappeared one rubber lieutenant in a vat of sulfuric; torched the other five. When the smoldering mess ran under the table gooily into the loo, I burst into tears laughing. Flushed in my face the commode.
Regained, hacking burnt rubber, spitting fingers and toes, control.
Gulped dayglo Manhattan dregs. Flipped over a shoulder the shot glass. Muttered a – firing clips into the holocaust – prayer to Ares.
Pocketed sidearm.
Secured a cord. Mounted a chair. Lynched myself from a beam of the collapsing-in-flame construction; mad as hell at the breakage from the outbreak of Mutual Assured Destruction.
Willie Smith videos can be found at YouTube
posted by mark young at 3:31 PM
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