Johnny Clusterfuck was a 7 foot tall, 350 pound human-pitbull hybrid with a glass left eye and a scrotal sac filled with battery acid.
Betty thought she could handle the big lug, but she thought wrong, epically wrong. One cross word and the circuit was closed and it was on: He all frothy and deadly, she in a shimmery iceblue evening gown that hugged her every curve in the exact same way everyone in the bar wished they could.
It would have been over much more quickly if he’d just gone for her directly, but the hydraulically assisted freak had to try and show off, mowing down the other patrons with an utter lack of grace that was simply appalling to her.
She waited for him to cool down. Waited. Waited. Finally, set up a ten count and when the tenth victim, a kindly woman who gave generously of herself to others, especially when she was drunk, was torn in half with a vicious roundhouse kick, Betty took a lovely step forward.
Her left arm extended in a movement so utterly perfect that you half expected the blue bird of happiness to land on her ring finger and sing a couple bars from Ode to Joy. A red spot bloomed on the inside of her wrist, extended to a line, opened to a wound. From it, a thin stream of blood flowed to the floor, collecting to a small, perfectly circular pool. Her arm continued it’s arc, a symphony of grace and divine purpose, bringing the stigmata to her mouth where she sealed it with a kiss.
Such was the glory of her attack that the room had gone silent and still in its wake. Johnny Clusterfuck stood there, transfixed, tears streaming down his right cheek from the sheer beauty of it all, not watching the pool of blood as it started flowing across the floor, straight at him like a water snake through the bayou.
He continued to not notice that the blood had reached him, continuing up his leg, leaving a faint red trail in it’s wake. She met his eyes at last, smiled warmly, and asked, “What is it about boys like you that girls like me find so attractive?”
Johnny Clusterfuck’s left eye twitched a stirring rendition of “The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner” in morse code.
“Wrong answer.”
The galoot shook his head like a dog shaking off water, coming back to the rancid stew of negative reinforcement and poorly repressed trauma that passed for his senses. For the first time, he felt the line of blood that had made it’s way up his rippled torso and wrapped itself around the knot of muscle between his head and shoulders that passed for his neck. With a great force of effort, he raised both his hands up to try and do something about it but there was a slippery denseness to it that kept him from getting a grip on it, unable to pry it away from his skin. His face was a mask of confusion.
She winked at him. No morse code. Just a wink.
The blood tightened it’s grip. His eyes bugged out, fingers clawing great furrows in his skin but not affecting the blood at all. The bar was so quiet, you could hear the bones of his neck pop.
Johnny Clusterfuck dropped, first to his knees, then fell to the side, never taking his eyes from hers. She returned his stare with a look that bordered on the maternal as he shat himself and shed the coil.
From the reactions of the people in the bar, you would’ve thought she’d gone and won the Superbowl.
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