Dark Web Suicide Cunt

I’d just come home from the morgue.

I’ve been setting my shoes on fire and running through traffic again.

I shot my charred, pumped-up kicks, like a Knicks basketball, into a roving robot dumpster. Then I delivered the ransom note, along with my keys, to the police, via carrier pigeon drone.

Climbing the fire escape, I punched in the window to my floor and crept in…

Cackling, I crawled on my belly, jumped up and kicked open the door to my apartment. Once inside, I spotted a crinkled-up baby blue maxi pad on the parquet floor.

Purling steam, it was lying smack-dab in a puddle of cherry red blood.

Being a single guy, living alone, I can say for sure that it was not mine.

The window was open too, and I’m guessing that however it got there, it came from whoever or whatever had opened the window. I seem to remember my apartment not having windows, either…

So I slipped out of my gorilla suit. Got naked and turned on the TV using my Ouija board app.

All that night, I didn’t dare touch the maxi pad. I just let it lay on the parquet.

Not that I could avoid it, though. I live in a shoebox-size studio apartment. So I tiptoed, danced, and circled it, nervous it might come to life, like little legs, arms or wings or things suddenly sprouting out. The maxi pad flying all about, like a drone, in kamikaze circles, stinging worse than a hornet and shooting laser death beams.

Panic-stricken, my dick thickened, and I dove into my mattress made of butt-shaped cushions. Then I clammed up and cowered under my Dallas Cowboys blanket, shaking in horror and praying for God.

And God said no, through silence. And the maxi pad did nothing. It remained in place. It didn’t sing or tap-dance, either and I spent most of the night in bed, in a fetal position, attempting to move the maxi pad via telekinesis. Occasionally, I’d poke my head up, cautiously, from under the covers, and see if the maxi pad was still there. And it was.

It was like me and the maxi pad were twin corpses.

But when I woke up in the morning, the maxi pad had vanished. The window was gone too.

Today I jumped off the roof of a burning skyscraper wearing a jetpack.

And when I hurried home from the morgue, I was wondering what would be in my apartment this time. And I received quite the shock, when I pulled open the plywood over my door, which squeaked as it’d never done before, sounding more as if it were a cat in heat.

In my apartment, I saw a punk rock girl, seated on my floor, where the maxi pad was last night. She was cross-legged, in a Buddha pose, and it turned out that it was her making those cat in heat sounds. Her meowing so high-pitched that I couldn’t believe it’d come from a human.

Her head was spinning in 360-degree circles. Until it wasn’t. Then she fused her gaze to mine, curled her thin lips into a heart-shaped smile, and shrieked at me in a voice that sounded sped up, “I want to be a bitch to you.”

There was a bloody kitchen knife lying next to her left knee. So who was I to refuse…

Punk rock girl was pale as a pain pill and frail, fucking rail thin. She had a small head and slithery green snakes for hair, like Medusa. Her unblinking fox eyes were the fucking size of golf balls. With no pupils. Her eyes white as sugar. And she had heavy rouge eyeshadow the color of roses, slathered in hefty heaps, almost melting into her skull.

A matching pair of parallel, apple size, black pentagrams were crudely tattooed on her cheeks and a 3-centimeter inverted crucifix with an upside-down Jesus stick figure had been tatted into the center of her forehead.

I could see her smile dissolve into a frown and then her blackened lips started shivering. I keep my house hot and humid, at about 90 degrees, so this was odd.

But she was shivering. Hard. So fucking hard it was rattling her metal face. Her face full of more piercings than I’d ever seen. Her eyebrows, lips, ears, cheeks, nose, stabbed and hooked and carved into a solar system of sparkly metal hoops, beads and studs.

Hot damn, I liked her duds…

Punk rock girl wore a skimpy jet-black miniskirt, with no panties, and I could see her bald cunt. Her cunt had no slit and looked as if it were the tip of Joe Rogan’s head.

She wore no bra either, and I could see her big round tits and stiff and thick pointy pink nipples sticking out from underneath her tight tattered black and white striped Jeffrey Dahmer fan club t-shirt.

I wanted to tell her my uncle dated Dahmer’s mother, back in high school.

But I somehow thought, intuited, that punk rock girl already knew this.

Punk rock girl refused my invitation to supper. She then levitated up to the ceiling, clung and crawled on it, like an insect. “I want to be a bitch to you,” she reiterated, this time in a softer, damn near sultry coo. “Please, let me be a bitch…”

Punk rock girl stayed glued to the ceiling and whispered Sylvia Plath poetry to me via telepathy as I ate spaghetti and watched the news from Hong Kong. When I was washing the dishes, she wailed, hysterically, that I couldn’t flush the toilet anymore. No matter what. Don’t flush the toilet. Just put the lid down.

Just put the FUCKING lid down!

Okay, who am I to refuse.

I killed that night clutching punk rock girl’s kitchen knife, mimicking throat-slashing motions and fencing maneuvers. Punk rock girl mumbled, from the ceiling, if it was possible to extract a kidney using a kitchen knife, or with telekinesis, and I prognosticated that someone had probably done it. If not here, like in Cambodia. Or Austria. A Nazi doctor or a dude who was in the Khmer Rouge or some shit.

Flitting an eye up to the ceiling, I stuck my tongue out at the purring punk rock girl, whose body was vibrating and spinning in circles like a ceiling fan.

I woke up early next morning, screaming myself hoarse. Of course, I wasn’t sure if I’d been dreaming, but I’d been picturing punk rock girl shrunk to the size of a Lilliputian. She was naked, with a reflector helmet, ready to go caving up into my urethra. “You’re fucking evil!” I bellowed, as I bounced out of bed, ducked into a defensive crouch, and jerked my genitals through my legs, petrified the punk rock girl was preparing to pounce.

But she was gone. No trace of her.

My “Macarena” alarm tone blaring, I wiped away crocodile tears and concentrated on the coronavirus, poison gas attacks, fetus soup and shark fin restaurants.

Walking backwards, into the bathroom, I pirouetted and preemptively peered at the toilet, which was speckled with blood and smelled of vomit. A neon green cobra splashed up from out of the bowl, hissed and flicked its forked tongue and flared its hood. Then it dove into the piss-yellow water, sloshed, and slipped down the drain.

All the same, I still did my business, and, out of respect for punk rock girl’s wishes, I didn’t flush and simply put down the lid.

I did a headstand and walked on my hands, emerging from the bathroom to spot a bloody kidney, warm and slick and flopping like a baby seal on the floor. I flipped to my feet, then scooped the kidney up, cradled it in my arms as if it were a baby. I sang it a French lullaby, snapped a selfie with it, and tenderly bundled the kidney into my Dallas Cowboys blanket and fed it to the freezer. Then I placed an ad on Amazon.

After I washed up, in the kitchen sink, I zipped on my gorilla suit, and kicked open my door, and ran, as fast as I could, to the morgue, blasting Enya in my earbuds.

When I got to the morgue, I found our first client of the day, on a metal slab, her face in a painted death smile. Her gray eyes were open wide and looked like shucked oysters.

“Green hair, a real weirdo,” sang Gucci, from behind the computer…

“The cops said she cut out her kidney and bled to death during a Dark Web livestream…”