Stop squirming!
He yelled,
landing the right jab atop her nostrils.
Fists molding to flesh.
Splattering her face into pixie dust, sugar dust, the kind you licked from plastic straws during childhood summers.
She attempted to lick the mess, to clean the slate, to —
The man, Roger Cardinals, planted another fist along her rib cage, fishing the woman’s torso for additional sweets, Swedish chocolates, grandma’s cookies.
The whole shabang.
Twisted titties in fisted shirts,
The man went for the kill.
Suffocating the woman with one hand, and smashing her skull against concrete imperfections, draining brain fluid into anthill larva colonies.
My god, he thought…
My god…
What, she asked, Why did you stop?
I’m sorry, you bitch, thumbing the woman’s cornea’s into strawberry preserves.
Peanut butter and fluff.
My god, he thought.
Removing his trousers, the man ejaculated poppy seeds and pissed Listerine, washed his hands.
And dumped the corpse behind his neighbor’s gardening shed, underneath the Sakura tree, adjacent vacant hoes and littering shovels, amidst the leach stained pond, and the spiders with thirty-three legs.
My god, he thought.
And ordered an uber.
THE BADBOOB 