I I wouldn’t call this a love story. This isn’t that heartwarming tale of boy meets girl, boy fucks girl, lives happily ever after. This is nowhere near what you might call a “feel good” story. This isn’t for the weak of heart.
I 	 	I wouldn’t call this a love story. This isn’t that heartwarming tale of boy meets girl, boy fucks girl, lives happily ever after. This is nowhere near what you might call a “feel good” story. This isn’t for the weak of heart. serial killer stories

anon Stories From Unregistered Users
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Innocent Minds

I I wouldn’t call this a love story. This isn’t that heartwarming tale of boy meets girl, boy fucks girl, lives happily ever after. This is nowhere near what you might call a “feel good” story. This isn’t for the weak of heart.

This story isn’t meant for someone with ideals, hopes, and dreams. So, if you have any notion that this world we live in could be called “Wonderful” or “beautiful” then this story isn’t for you. Turn away now; live in your perfect little dream, untouched by reality… If you are one of the few who can stomach it. Then get ready for one hell of a ride.

I'm listening to this bitch crying and showing me all these books, and magazines about butt-fucking, pegging, stories of other middle aged women just like her. If you can, picture the coffee table like this: magazines flipped open to pictures of men slamming their asses on another guy’s dick. Dudes jerking each other off, there cock still shiny with the stink of asshole and lube. No condoms, bare dick in ass, Gonorrhea in AIDS, shit on shit. Herpes on Syphilis. This is what it looks like to me, long story short, it’s something most people hope to never see

What it looks like to her I don't want to know. I'm reassuring her "No, miss, your husband is not gay." She's crying so much I can barely make out what she says. I'm saying "Yes, I'm positive, it’s not just because he thinks I'm unattractive." I'm trying to sound honest, trying to sound reassuring. Trying to sound like I give a shit.

I'm listening to her talk about how maybe if she wore a strap-on and shove it deep, deep, deeper in his ass to make him cum, hands free, when something catches my eye. A shiny little object nestled safely between her Fake tits, so full of silicone and pushed up so high they could be a scarf. A necklace, leaning over, as a child leans over the side of the Grand Canyon. An intricately made rose of gold and Diamonds. Each petal its own distinct shape, as if each one was hand carved by a different person, the Diamonds spiraling, forever, into the center. The necklace clearly shows the whores wealth.

I look up, still talking between a flurry of sobs and sticky, wet snot dripping down her nose, dripping into her mouth every time she opens it. I look down, diamonds.... formed at high pressures at depths of eighty-seven to one hundred and eighteen in what you would call the mantle of this Earth. Taking one billion to three billion years to form. Essentially carbon smashed together so tight and for so long it creates one of the most beautiful things we have.

Destruction, it's the only thing that creates any good in this world. We spend our entire lives trying to preserve ourselves, the people and objects around us when really we should be finding ways of destroying the shit and using it create something truly wonderful, something truly perfect. This rose, this necklace. Something made by ancient hands, something that no mortal should be allowed to own. The beginning, and the end. The Alpha, and the Omega. This, made by the source of creation.... And this bitch has it one a pedestal of silicone and SPF 50

"Are you even listening?" She nudges my shoulder, annoyed. The look on her face tells me I don't have to mention I haven't listened to a word. "I'm not a marriage counselor miss, I can just tell you your husband is dedicated to you, and only you." I try to sound honest, make her believe me, make her feel safe. Me: Her Savior.

"Fine, the money will be in your account at five o clock sharp. Have a nice day." She practically shoves me out the door. I get in my Duster, the paint nearly all gone, the car only having small cow spots on the hood and trunk. My engine shudders and fills this rich ass neighborhood with a thick black smoke. As I drive away people stare, already getting their cell phones. Calling the cops, thinking I'm here to rob them, to put a gun in their kids mouth, to fuck there husband. Wouldn't be the first time.

My job is: You could almost call me a detective, with enough imagination. These middle aged women, that could have been pretty, one day, lost in time, they pay me to try to screw their husbands. They find a gay porno mag, or he's wearing a pair of boxers they’ve never seen before, they call me. I try to get their hubby in bed, and tell them if he is gay. You would be surprised at how many are right.

These dumb housewives pay me tens of hundreds of thousandths of dollars to fuck their men. These idiot husbands pay twice the amount to not tell their wife. Me, lying to him, lying to her, lying to each other. This is how I make a living, if you could call it living.

Even after this, I will still see him next week at the same gay dive bar, picking up another guy, another detective, another savior. I'll see him at the same hotel getting continental breakfast, smiling and laughing with the same dude he shit and pissed all over last night, the same guy who put his dick in his ass, then shoved it in his mouth, making it hot with the stink of shit. No joke, these guys do this. Depraved, fucked lunatics tearing each other apart, then going home to their wives the next day smelling like shame and condoms.

Please understand, I am not gay. This is just the best way I could figure to make this kind of money this quick. Just, pop a couple of those little blue pills and make sure you watch a lot of porn first. After the first couple times, its cake, until those balls slap your taint, that place between the balls and asshole, or your chin you can almost forget it's a guy sometimes. And if you saw the money I get paid, you would do it to.

To get started, just make a nice looking business card, black with gold border and white lettering so when it's on the table it looks cut out. Make it short, and simple. Go with something like "Is someone you love out for long periods of time? Do they Seem withdrawn? Seek Help, Seek Safety, Seek Assurance." Then, your number. The real trick is in placement. Go to salons, plastic surgeons, sex shops, dive bars. Anywhere she will go when her marriage is in the shitter.

I'm almost at the gas station and I see them sitting there on the corner. Terry and Kristen, My associates. Terry, a living giant, Built like a tank. His arms so massive your fingers wouldn’t touch when you tried to hug his bicep. With his long, thick golden hair and obsessive compulsive need to wear white he is the epidemy of Jesus fucking Christ. Pulling up, his head blocks out the sun as he stands up, making a halo around him. He winks, I flip him off.

Kristen still sitting down until I get right on top of her, trying not to stand for too long. Kristen could have been a sweet, charming girl, maybe a Realtor or owns her own business. Through the years of abuse she has become a surely, cigar smoking, whiskey drinking bad bitch. The Bonnie to my Clyde. 5'2" 90 pound tiny little thing she is, she still scares even the biggest men.

As she stand up her long, black hair falls down, stretching, reaching its fingers out to wrap around that perfect, Tea-cup ass. Her tits, staring up at me, begging to feel my hot spunk cover them, so big her tiny frame barely supports her. weapons, slowly killing me, slowly killing her. Her dark red lipstick, accenting those perfect lips with that perfect pout that will never wash away. As her green eyes sparkle in the sun, deep seas of antifreeze. Her eyes, showing a softer, sweeter something, deep down inside her. Maybe never to be found, lost somewhere in the midst of time.

Kristen: My Goddess. Pulling in, Terry hops in before I can even stop. He drops all his weight at once, slamming my car down on the chassis. He's saying something, asking me how it went, but I don’t care. I take in all of Kristen at once, Making sure not to miss a detail, not to miss a step. She takes her time getting in, doing a slow sexy cat walk, making sure I see what I'm missing. This is how I see it.

"Let's get the fuck out of here." Words from an angel, my Goddess. We're driving down the freeway at 100 miles per hour, and Terry is in the backseat asking if I left his card for the lady with the fag husband. Of course I did, fucking idiot. As this goes on, all I can think about is that fucking rose, that fucking masterpiece. My Mona Lisa. I can see the years of hurt in it, the years of suffering. Passed down from generation to generation, couple to couple. The eighth wonder of the world...

"Pull over, I need to puke" My darling Kristen, I think she's pregnant. Morning sickness, the result of increased hormones in the body during pregnancy. Either that or Norovirus, a highly contagious disease caused by contaminated food. I highly doubt that, seeing as how neither I nor Terry are sick.

Terry, that lucky bastard, getting her knocked up. Kid’s probably going to come out retarded, Terry isn’t the brightest shit out there. If only they had never met, then it might be different. It could have been me that has been with her for two years. He doesn’t deserve the image of beauty she holds. He doesn’t deserve, her kind, loving arms around him. He doesn’t deserve any of it, I do. It should have been me…

Waiting for my angel to return from the bathroom, Terry is getting a call. By the voice I can tell it’s the old hag with the rose, apparently now knowing I lied to her. He's telling her yes, he can get her the house; yes he can make sure the asshole suffers. Terry: Her Savior He hangs up, "She asked if I can help sue you." Fuck, that dumb bitch, I don’t say this out loud, I ask what he told her.

"You heard everything I said, man." Not really, but I don't tell him that. He lets out a sigh, "I told her I couldn't help, and no I don't know any lawyers that can." I hope that’s what he really said. I listen to this shit less and less. Block it out, so half the time he could lie to me and I would be none the wiser. Cue my pain, my suffering, every demon I ever feared making her way back. That slow, sexy cat walk. She could have easily been a model.

"You heard everything I said, man." Not really, but I don't tell him that. He lets out a sigh, "I told her I couldn't help, and no I don't know any lawyers that can." I hope that’s what he really said. I listen to this shit less and less. Block it out, so half the time he could lie to me and I would be none the wiser. Cue my pain, my suffering, every demon I ever feared making her way back. That slow, sexy cat walk. She could have easily been a model.

It's not far down the road that we make it home. Just 15 minutes of shit talk in Shit Company. The radio doesn't work in the car, so most rides are long and silent. The kind of silence you get when why you look so familiar. When people ask if you are an actor and you have to tell them "No, I am on the top ten most wanted list though." That kind of silence. The kind of silence that makes you think you’ve gone deaf, the kind of silence that stops time, frozen, making you wonder if it will ever restart. This silence, screaming out to no one in particular, just wanting to be heard, wanting to be known. This is the kind of silence we deal with everyday.

Silence is Golden. Where we live is: you could call it a home, with enough imagination. A condemned building they call it, unfit to live in. Not like I would call this living. Arriving at the hotel, the grass is so tall you only see a small steeple like shape, the roof, poking out the top, the parts that haven’t caved in yet. Somewhere between burnt, rotted, and eaten, thousands of maggots and termites infest the place. Somedays, when the wind doesn’t blow you can hear them scratching away; crawling over each other, white, almost clear, see through you might call it. Slowly, they digest the only semblance of a home we have. Constantly destroying, rebuilding.

With the amount of damage, there’s no real way to tell where one room ends and one begins. The windows, blown out from explosions, fires, or from kids, I don't know. The left over ash flies through the air creating a thick fog. The kind of thick fog that makes you think only of death. The kind of fog that burns your eyes, making them water more and more, blinding you. Entering your lungs, expanding, absorbing, slowly killing you. Everything about this shithole is death. Death, our only friend.

We live in the room with COCKSUCKER written on the front door, not quite crooked. The R is smaller than the rest because whatever dumbass kid didn't have enough room. Walking in, the stink is strong enough to peel paint, thick with the stench of rot and decay. Some rooms still have old rancid food in the fridge, growing thick and furry with mold.

Some rooms, that stench could boil blood. The aroma of rot, decay, the stink of something that’s been dead longer than you’ve been alive. The smell of your nose hair melting, that bad of a smell. You might walk in and faint, a complete shock to your system. Wake up an hour later and rats are chewing off your fingertips, cock roaches already making you their new home. Trust me, these things can happen, but these rats are a good way of removing fingerprints.

This is our own, personal hell. The mold killing all within a 2 mile radius, including us. This lonely, forgotten place. This nothing special, piece of shit hotel slowly dying with us. The fire damage mixing with the wood rot mixing with the water damage mixing with the termites, this creates a color somewhere between baby shit brown and dark, thick, heavy blood. Picture period blood, not normal period blood, deep, dark miscarriage blood. The kind of red that means broken dreams and broken homes. That heavy glop of blood, something semi-hard in the center, that kind of blood, when, in that moment, your whole world dies.

Picture this: A crate, flipped upside down for the table. This crate almost being the same color as the walls, just not as dark, seeing as how it has no fire damage. We don’t own chairs, so we sit in the piles of roaches that gather on the floors. We ripped up the carpet, it was so black with filth, swimming with, I don’t know, I just know it was more deadly than the thick fog we breathe in, so, we ripped it up, tossed it in the field, and kept with concrete. If you can, picture the worst thing you can imagine. Now, picture that same scene with unborn babies being slaughtered, virgin daughters being raped and tortured, Fathers forced to watch. If you can, picture all this and you will have an idea of where we live, if you can call it that.

All day I'm not listening to a word either of them says, all I think about is that pendant, that rose. I need it, with that, nothing could stop me. An ancient artifact, some lost power, forgotten by time. She's going to be divorced soon, I just have to bide my time, let her lose anyone and everyone that would worry about her. Should only take a week or two, this to me, feels like years, but I have to play it smart this time. Play it safe. Patience is a virtue. It’s how we got here in the first place, me being what I am. What some might call a monster, a devil.

There’s this quote by that crazy fuck, The Night Stalker. You know, that guy that ran around breaking into people’s homes, burglarizing, raping, and killing. It was mid eighties, if I remember correctly. The quote is something like this; “We’ve all got the power in our hands to kill, but most people are afraid to use it. The ones who aren’t afraid, control life itself.” I fucking love that. He was an intelligent little prick… I control life itself.

Waking up the next morning, I hear a banging on the door, people are yelling outside. One of them is Terry. Who is banging on the door, I don't know. Nobody should know where we are at. I hear yelling, I just want to go back to bed, I hear yelling and all I see is that God damn rose, My Sistine Chapel. The yelling, indistinguishable, I see lights in the background. Flashing light, casting the shadows of Terry, and whoever he is yelling at on my wall. The wall they are behind is only 3 foot high, but laying down I can’t see over it.

My rose, made by King Midas himself, is all I see, all I feel, all I know and I just want everyone to go away. I just want silence. I want darkness. I want that gold pendant, covered in light, covered in hot, thick red, blood pouring, flooding, cleansing all this filth and grime and sin. My redemption. A crack through the sky louder than anything, loud as thunder pulls me back into reality. A deafening noise making my ears want to bleed. After it fades, echoes into the empty nothingness, a ringing stays, letting me know I have permanent damage from the thunder sound. Before I can regain my senses, another crack echoes, fading slowly, leaving this residue, that ringing in my ear. As if the sky itself were opening up, as if God himself was violently ripping everything we know and love to shreds. That is, if God existed.

Even before Terry busts through the wall like it’s made out of cardboard I already know what’s coming. Even before I hear the police radio, I can already see how fucked I am. The lights, the thunder, opening up the sky, it all makes sense now. What he did, I don’t know, it doesn’t matter anyway. Terry burst through; leaving what was left of the eastern wall in my room a pile of dust, nothing left. Like it matters now, I know we have to leave even before he tells me to get up and pack my shit. Kristen, it sounds like she is half crying, half puking in the other room. Terry has a war paint streak of bright red blood across his face, across his chest and I can’t find the words, I can’t collect my thoughts, like it matters now. "They were going to take you away, I shot them.” He’s telling me this in the car, as I drive fast, faster than this piece of shit car can handle. I tell him to give me the gun. The one he killed the cop with. He does.

“You’re going the wrong way.” Terry is yelling at me from the backseat, while half a dozen cops are on my ass and I just know there’s more on the way. Kristen is in the front asking where we are going and I need some quit. I need my rose. I try to sound honest, I try to reassure them. Trust me, believe me. I don’t tell them where we are going. This is when she says it. What none of us want to hear right now, what none of us want to think about. “I’m pregnant.” This is the moment Time stops. Maybe just for a second, maybe for eternity, I don’t know. I knew she was, but it still hits you differently hearing out loud. The look on Terry’s face says he had no clue. Go figure. Terry starts to tear up, he’s looking at me, looking at Kristen, and he can’t hold it back. Full on sobbing in my backseat, he’s saying something about how we can make this better, how we can fix this. We can’t.

“What are we going to do?” Kristen’s voice is light cutting through the darkness, crisp, clear; I’ve never heard her sound like this before. She’s scared, and I’m not going to tell her what we are going to do yet, so I just tell her to trust me. The look on her face says she knows better, and now she’s crying. We are driving I don’t know how fast, my speedometer broke and I can’t lose the cops. They are yelling in my ear to pull over, and I have these assholes crying in my other ear and I just need some peace and quiet. I just need this heap to make it another ten miles and all I can hope for is silence. The kind of silence you hear right after you kill a fifteen year old kid, the silence when his mother sees the man who killed her baby that she raised. The kind of silence that comes with death, with a funeral. That kind of silence is all I need right now My tires squealing into her driveway and Terry is asking all kinds of questions as I’m telling him to just shut the fuck up. Just put on his seatbelt. The look on his face tells me he is confused, unsure of where we are, what we are doing here. The look on Kristen’s tell me she isn’t She’s just staring at the old bitch in the window, hell blazing in her eyes. We get closer, closer to the brick house, this testament to man’s stupidity. This proof that nothing lasts forever. And before you can blink, before you can think, your body seizes with the impact. My car shooting through this house like I’m the big bad fucking wolf. This rich bitch is screaming and Kristen’s screaming and I just need some quiet, So I shoot, making that thunderous crack though time, through space, heard for the rest of time.

Terry only falls to his knees, so I let off another echo, and he drops flat on his face. The red blood pooling out around him, consuming everything, leaving its mark. Kristen’s fists are hitting my chest, my face, the woman’s voice is hitting my eardrums, my brain and I just can’t help myself sometimes. I’m what some might call a monster, a waste of something beautiful. If you can call me that. This quote by this guy I once knew, you might know him. They called him The Boston Strangler. He killed thirteen women; he wasn’t even arrested for that. Imprisoned for a series of rapes in the end. The quote is this; “I did this not as a sex act… but out of hate for her. I don’t mean out of hate for her in particular, really I mean out of hate for women.” I hear the helicopter circling, the pigs are outside yelling for me to come up with my hand up, and all I see is that gold rose. All I hear is it calling, begging for me to save it. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. I lunge at the worn out old hag and bite hard. I bite so hard on her throat my teeth clack together, and then the copper taste of her blood. Her esophagus pinched shut, she doesn’t even get a chance to yell before I rip it out, letting myself be bathed in her hot blood spurting out of her neck. In the pile of flesh, pinched between my teeth, rinsed clean by her blood hissing like steam, it’s there, I find my prize. Kristen is silent, staring at me, her jaw slightly drooping to her left side. Gazing in awe at her Hero, her Savior. I don’t even have to tell her to run, she bolts out the back door, and all I need is for her to not stop, it’s me these pigs want. Her, and her baby… They’ll be safe. They’ll be better off without me. Looking in the mirror, my prize, resting on my chest, still and perfect. The red, and gold mixing, the diamonds forever shining through, unhindered. The whore’s breasts resting on the hardwood, still and perfect, he hot blood still dripping down my chin, down my chest. In this moment I am forever, I am Shining with all my glory, and it’s a bright new day. And I’m not going back to prison, not this time. There's only one way out of this. Deep down, somewhere dark, hidden away from the world, I knew this is how it would end. And Kristen For the record You’ll never know this but… I’m truly, deeply sorry, but this was the only way to get you out of here alive. My Angel. My Goddess. My Savior.

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