Pineal Discharge

Short stories. Unrelated scenes of violence and bizarre vignettes.
Some(most) of these stories contain graphic violence,sexual content and drug use. Also , lots of fucking language and shit. So yeah , viewer discretion is advised? Not for children. Unless you're one of THOSE children.
Yeah , you know who you are.


Wait...what?

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28. Revenge of the Praying Mantis

So, picture this.

 

The establishment is a little sushi bar in a small motel. Bob's waiting for THE GROOM. He's wearing a strong cologne. THE GROOM shows up. He frowns at Bob and takes a seat next to him, making sure that Bob realizes how pissed he is. "You know?" He says. "I should beat the fuck out of you for what you did. You've been my best friend for eight years. How the fuck could you do that to me?!" At this point in the conversation, THE GROOM'S turned on his stool to face Bob. "How long have you two been at it?"

Bob lets the silence crystallize in the air before answering. "Well, actually...we've been 'at it' longer than you two have known each other. Remember, I was the one that introduced you." Bob puts a hand on THE GROOM's shoulder. Bob looks into his eyes and projects a layer of false sympathy and affection. "I've been waiting for the right time to tell you this..."

Twenty minutes later, Bob and THE GROOM are in a room. Like two sweaty, feral beasts, they writhe about on the bed in liquid motion. Thrusting heat. Clawing, groping, scratching. Covers drenched in lust. Smells of exotic hormones and sperm. Flickering lights. Flesh pumping flesh. Veins filling with blood, the glans penis played with and massaged. Release. Orgasm. Trail of white flecks on the bed and floor, like the trail of blood from a bullet wound. Eyes close. Sleep descends like a thick, sticky blanket.

 

Morning brings foreboding premonitions. THE GROOM is shaving while deeply contemplating the weight of last night's events. Bob is standing just outside the bathroom door with the alarm clock from the night stand, waiting for THE GROOM to step outside. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE GROOM's dead. He's leaking brains through a crack in the back of his skull, staining the already stained carpet of the motel room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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