Why They Killed-- Part 8


Posted by NL on August 09, 2004 at 12:28:52:

Why They Killed-- 8

Why oh why did I kill? It could have been three parts disappointment and one of enthusiasm, a mix proving deadly, although, who would ever have suspected? My readings have always been extensive and an ardent devotee of the cultus of H.G. Wells I have always been-- that delightful bantam cock, and cocksman! Little bandy legs, great bushy mustaches-- BOUF!-- and a bulging cranium full of scientific wizardry. But one autumn evening as that dainty delight of my life Poinsettia Princeps (for I, I, am none other than Bluzzzobllooozzoh "Taco" Princeps III-- altogether pronounced very quickly and in one great expulsion of breath like the "ch" in "yacht", although you may call me Bob), sat with me in our parlor and read together, her with her nose buried in Joseph Conrad's Secret Agent and me with my nose buried in Mr. Wells's Tono-Bungay, it suddenly came to me that my hero and intellectual light was a homosexual, and as proof I offer this, from Tono-Bungay: "...my own queer love experiences...". Remarkable I had never noticed before. Tono-BunGAY! Of course! I turned to my gentle Poinsettia. Poinsettia, I said. Yes, she said. Poinsettia, I said-- I said that, just in that precise manner: Poinsettia, I said. Yes, Bob, she said, what is it Bob, she asked me-- you see, she asked me what was it-- she asked me that! I had undertaken to tell her, you see, and so, I continued: Poinsettia, I said, that Mr. Wells, I admire, nay, admired so much...? Yes, Bob, she said, and she asked, what is it about that Mr. Wells? She continued to ask me! Did I have any choice but to continue to tell her? I couldn't. I resorted to a sort of courtly euphuism, and said, that Mr. Wells, you know, I have learned just now, like a dawn of light and a rending of the veil, that that Mr. Wells, well, he really was not of our sort, and I shall cease to admire him. There, I said that, in just so many words, and I'll give my delicate Poinsettia credit for enduring for a full fraction of a second before she became quite insensible and swooned, falling forward and pitching head first upon the faux Persian carpet, rolling bum over headbone and landing stretched out flat on her back with her legs outspread and her skirt hiked up to her thighs. Her glasses had fallen off too.

Now I have to admit that my gentle Poinsettia had never been what you call a great lay. Fucking her was all too much like attempting to fuck a stick of firewood-- rigid, you see, legs involuntarily clamped together, teeth clenched, fists clenched. Perhaps she might say, spare me this disgrace, this disgusting animal rut! For God's sake do not torture me in this way! Do not degrade me thusly with your filthy bestial lust! Murthering hawg! Pigdawg forsaken of God! Oh, Satan! Foul destroyer! And on and on. Kinda took the wind out of my sails, quite. Ejaculated on her kneecap once and never did hear the end of it. Scrub, scrub, scrub, and disinfectant and bandages-- ours was a life of the mind you see, and we were much the better for it. What scraps of manly ambition I may have had wilted and died almost entirely in Poinsettia's ice box, and so much the better, I say, to be UNcontaminated as most poor humans are contaminated, with subhuman impulses. With my retiring nature and her trust fund income, we were certainly well matched.

And yet I must confess, I had a secret ambition to be something like a Hell's Angel with an IQ above 150. Or merely an ordinary man of parts, swilling strong ale in a pub with a variety of manly men, some of whom might well have had naughty war stories to trade, and what I would have given to be merely comfortable in human company. But that royal blood must have its due-- that highly refined and utterly untainted blood. Yes. we Princeps can trace our lineage all the way back to King David, in one form or another. And then the fact that we are not in fact human but the next step in human evolution, the next step toward the superrace, but not a coarse and vulgar superrace such as those aryan nazis contemplated, NO!, but a superrace of great sensibility and refinement, as far from the vulgar as a strong man may throw a stone! Someday from my loins, I was sure, If I could ever manage to mate with my gentle Poinsettia, a being would emerge who would wield the IRON HANKY OF DISCIPLINE!

Why was it then, that the sight of my sweet Poinsettia's unconscious form aroused me? I had never contemplated fucking her while she slept, and I had never contemplated slipping her a micky and fucking her while she slumbered in heavy, drugged, sleep. It's because there was something different this time! I watched her meagre boozums, and I watched and watched! You would have thought me mad! But no! I was only fascinated by the stillness, and the unexpected and unaccustomed sense of being alone in the room. I lifted her skirt. I pulled it up, up about her hips, and pulled down her modest and sensible woolen undergarments-- completely off they came! If my modest Poinsettia had been alive, if she had been alive, I say, nothing would have prevented her from screaming Be off! Begone Satan! She was dead! DEAD! What can I tell you? I fucked her fore. I fucked her aft. I fucked her tootsieroll tract. I pumped cum into her dead and gaping mouth! I smeared spunkum all over her tits and her face and her belly and her thighs! I put my hands on her face and pulled the skin this way and that-- you are so funny Poinsettia. Funny face! I shall call you my Funny face, sweet girl! I grabbed the poker from the fireplace and smashed her skull again and again! I smashed her face flat! Her eyes popped out of their sockets! Her teeth scattered about the room and I smiled and chuckled and never loved her more-- my sweet funny face!

I have no regrets. I feel that I have spared my gentle Poinsettia from the many defilements and insults the world, that gross body, offers to all of us. She has been spared that plate of shit. One quick shock, and all was over for her. Best of all, I mated with her at last! My seed has been sown, and though my gentle Poinsettia may rot in the ground, I am quite confident that the life I have engendered within her will prove too strong for the grave. I am quite content to wait here in bondage for the inevitable advent of my son, my great and mighty SON! who, with weapons far fiercer than the IRON HANDKERCHIEF OF DISCIPLINE will redeem me from any sins I may have committed! Pray for rain!