Had the pile of mattresses not been there outside, stacked on top of each other, we wouldn't have ever wanted to remember the night. I remember the pills that kept us awake. The pills that pointed our direction to the mattresses for hours on. Well, it was a long night, fucking murderous and slow, and we were glued to the couch of a hotel room where we've imaginatively and creatively slayed ourselves. There was brain smeared on the door of the freezer, a head in the oven, an orphan drowned in the tub, and me, swinging by the neck inside the closet, in front of the sink mirror. Smiling. Probably.
For story line purposes, I'll have the creep as the antagonist, the blood and cum sucking creep, guzzling beer and whatever was left of the breathable air in that puny room. When the rest of the party scudded on out the door, the creep, I swear, inhaled the air around the orphan with his feet 8 inches apart and his mouth salivating. On the couch, a three dimensional glare reflected on all four walls of the room. The head pulled something from under the couch. Gracefully and gleefully, she pulled out a semi-automatic Remington 1100, given to us by God himself. A gift, he said. Or at least it was a holy enough moment to feel like God. We discussed who should cock and who should shoot. Or if the cocker should also be the shooter. Or if we should all just pass it around. And all the while, the creep shared stories to make himself hard. Conclusively, we stood up and the head cocked it. She turned to me and handed me the gun then innocently flashed me a grin. A gleaming one. Avec plaisir, I took it in my hands, pointed at the creep who paid no mind to the end (although protesting arrogantly through a slur of his incessant mouth), I pulled back the trigger. I shrugged my shoulders at the sound of a bang followed by a thud. None of us looked around or moved a second after. Just standing, patiently, with relief, then a sigh. The splattered brain walked up to the lifeless creep and motioned the head to examine. Synchronously, they grabbed him by the wrists and ankles, walked him to the window, counted 1, 2, 3, 4, swinging, and tossed the filth out the window and down just missing a perfectly trimmed, square bush. The orphan sound asleep, we rested.
But in the morning, as the good would have it, the head in the oven and I walked down the stairs to the pile of stained, filthy mattresses to knock the sun down with us. We left the orphan passed out on the queen-sized mattress and the splattered brain on the couch. They drooled while our eyes dilated to a morning peek. Eventually, the orphan awoke and joined us on top of the mattresses. We discussed how we are most likely sitting on dried up semen. Most likely.
