Urgent, massive cuck having a homicidal meltdown all because he placed a ho before bros! Not joking. Easter Sunday, while kids were hunting for eggs, this cold ass pussy was hunting for headshots because some bitch named Joy Lane gave another dude head.
Jokes aside, Joy Lane is a stripper name and a brother should put much stock in a broad that was given a stage name at birth. Not blaming Joy Lane, either. Bitches gotta get paid and brothas want to get laid! The only person here to blame if the fucking scum of life named Stevie Stephenson. What kind of awful name is that? Terrible, just god awful.
Stevie finds out that his girl don’t wanna play with his limp dick, and he then goes around killing motherfuckers in the street WHILE on Facebook LIVE! The murderous fragile snowflake made sure to make time to update his Facebook after every murder, answer phone calls from concerned friends, and even told a coworker he might no make it to work!
Who the Hell goes on a shooting spree over relationship issues? It’s happened before, I’m thinking of Virginia Tech, and it’ll happen again because these pussies don’t give two fucks about others. These selfish ass cocksuckers will kill you or your loved ones because their life isn’t going well for them. What a fucking sad state of affairs, a fucking pathetic reality.
Worst part is, this isn’t over. First, it’s been a day and the viral social media motherfucker is still out on the run. Where’s the fucking NSA? Wiretap this ass clown and make him deep throat a twelve gauge! Second, there will be copycats that see this as the new way to get fifteen seconds. What happened to using pent up aggression for starting a band, throwing down beats, raping? If your a talentless hack and violently psycho, then do the world and just self inflect.
Stevie Stephenson would be a better place had he just killed himself istead of killing over a dozen random people! Never thought I would make a post that would advocate for suicide, but here it is. Is this wrong, really? If Stevie had blown himself away, then those other dudes would be alive, right?
Little Sally pushed and shoved her way through a pack of toddlers that aggressively fought for the same target: the blotch of purple that poked through the blades of grass. She grasped a handful of Blonde-y Locks’ hair and tugged without mercy. The girl’s scream was followed by a retaliatory elbow that failed to strike pay dirt. Sally reached out for little Timmy and planted an open palm in his face. His jaw crashed down and clenched the fat of Sally’s palm. She powered through the pain and forced his head back with a violent push.
Little Timmy fell backwards and hit his head, but she did not seem to care. Her tiny black shoes stomped into the dirt and kicked up grass as she raced past the others. She wedged through the pig-nosed, pudgy twins with a sharp elbow, and knocked the wind out of them. The fat little piggies grabbed their sides in agony, but their cries only seemed to empower Sally. Like a raging bull, she plowed right into the legs of a girl twice her size. The girl flipped backwards and busted her ass. Sally closed in on her target. She reached out with a greedy little hand and nabbed that plastic egg from its grassy cradle.
She pushed on the egg to crack it open when all of a sudden a shadow loomed over her. Her black hair fluttered in the wind as she dared to look up at a towering figure draped in tattered robes. Long, mangled, greasy hair flowed from his scalp. A thick unkempt beard swallowed his jawline.
“Jesus?” The word escaped her mouth, while a foul odor crept up on her. “Ugh, Jesus, you need a bath!”
The other kids, Blonde-y Locks, Timmy, Piggie Twins, and the tall girl, gathered around Sally and took turns vocalizing their disgust at the horrid, stomach-retching odor. “Whoa, is that Jesus?” they asked, except for the tall girl. She stood with her arms crossed and said, “You’re all idiots! There is no way that guy is Jesus.”
“He has the hair of Jesus,” said Blonde-y Locks.
“He has the beard of Jesus,” said Timmy.
“He has the robe of Jesus,” said the Piggie Twins.
The tall girl shook her head. “He’s not Jesus. He’s a bum.”
“What about his hands?” asked Sally. “They have holes in each of them. Just like that naked man on the cross.” She poked a finger through the hole in his hand, and a sudden surge of excitement washed over her. “This is Jesus, you guys! We found Jesus!”
The figure did not even acknowledge her. He stared at the horizon with a dark gaze, as if locked on to specific target. Little Sally tugged on his dirty robes. “Are you okay, Jesus?”
He bent his neck forward to look at her and as he did maggots fell from his hair. “Eewww, gross! Jesus, you might need to go see a doctor,” said Sally, while the other kids ran away scared.
He stared at her and sluggishly opened his mouth. A stream of green vapor escaped from the orifice. “My flesh. My Blood.”
“Come on, Jesus. Let’s get you a bath,” said Sally. She grabbed the figure’s hand and dragged him. He was stubborn, but his legs eventually found momentum as little Sally ran out from the behind the foliage and towards the church.
The screams and cries of children fighting over plastic eggs wasn’t enough to distract the gathering of pastel sweaters and summer dresses from conversing over hors d’oeuvres and tea. But the awful stench that suddenly fell upon them penetrated through their vainglorious space and won their attention. The smell of a rotting, bloated carcass invaded with such dominance that some knelt in pain, while others vomited. Those that had enough composure fixated their abhorrence at little Sally and the figure.
“What in God’s name is that thing?” asked the reverend.
“Hey, everybody, guess who I found?” asked Sally, as she approached the apprehensive crowd. “It’s Jesus, and he could really use a bath.”
The congregation erupted in whispers, while the reverend attempted to ease their concerns. He approached Sally and the figure. “This is not Jesus. This is a homeless man.”
“No, it really is Jesus. Look, his hands have those holes in them,” exclaimed Sally.
The reverend stepped closer to the figure and inspected his hands as if searching for the slightest flaw. “Bah, just some sick trick. That’s all this is. Just some sick trick. I was going to offer a bath for this unfortunate man, but I see he’s more interested in playing sick jokes.” The reverend studied the dirt and cracks of the figure’s face. His eyes followed him like a predator. The reverend frowned with judgment. “Nothing but a sick joke.”
The figure raised his arms and spread them out like Jesus on the cross. His mouth opened to release a low guttural moan. “My flesh. My blood.”
Some among the crowd knelt down like a slave in servitude, while others were frozen with fear.
The reverend turned his back on the figure and spoke to the congregation. “Don’t listen to this man. He clearly needs help, but he is not Jesus Christ.”
“My flesh. My blood. I want it back,” said the figure.
The Reverend looked at the figure and forced a smile. “Too bad for you, you missed communion. Why don’t you come back again next Sunday? You know, after you clean up and all.”
“My flesh,” grunted the figure. He grabbed the reverend’s head and chomped down on his face. His yellow teeth tore through his fleshy nose. “Jesus! What are you doing?” cried Sally.
“My blood,” said the figure, as he drank the blood as it gushed in thick rivulets from the reverend’s mutilated face.
The reverend screamed in agony, but the figure did not seem to care. He wrapped his dirt crusted fingers around the reverend’s jaw, pried it apart and devoured the slithering tongue.
“My words,” said the figure.
“Jesus, you can’t go around killing people,” said Sally.
Engrossed with sudden panic, members of the congregation fled to the shelter of the church, while others retreated to their cars. The figure pointed at a man dressed in pink pastel and khaki as he neared a silver BMW. Without warning, a bolt of lightning crashed down from the heavens and the man exploded like a blood bag hit with a sledgehammer. The onlookers stopped in their tracks and bolted towards the church.
“It’s not killing. It’s Judgment,” said Zombie Jesus.
The figure ascended the steps of the church and ripped the wooden door off its hinges. People hunched over in fear, while those towards the end of the hall tried to sneak away. He crossed the threshold, grabbed the closest arm, and tore it right from its socket. He raised the severed limb above his head, and drank as the blood poured into his mouth. He then flung the dangling limb around in a circular motion and released it at the crowd.
The people tried to flee, but the space of the hall was too narrow, and the crowd was too dense. They began pushing and shoving as they fought frantically for their lives, and while doing so the monstrosity severely maimed another victim. The urgency was too great and the momentum too strong, the congregation trampled over their own without any regard for safety. Little Timmy was floored and stomped over like putty. An elderly woman with a walker was thrown aside and bulldozed like dirt. The Piggie Twins were knocked unconscious and someone hurled them towards the Zombie Jesus as if it would buy them time. But Zombie Jesus passed the Pudgy Twins as they cried on the floor. He ripped into the man’s chest with his hands, pulled out a beating heart and chomped on it like a juicy grapefruit.
“Jesus, stop,” yelled Little Sally, as she trailed behind. But Zombie Jesus did not stop. His rage and strength only seemed to grow with each and every victim. One at a time, Zombie Jesus slaughtered the people as he made his way to the altar where a trio of survivors huddled together, begging him for mercy. Hot tears rolled down from their pleading eyes. Words of servitude poured out from their beseeching mouths, while they threw themselves at his feet.
“Jesus, please don’t kill them,” cried Sally.
“I won’t.” Zombie Jesus slit his wrist with his fingernails and asked them to drink, and like obedient slaves, they did without any hesitation. Each one took their turn to drink from his wound. The first survivor to drink the blood of Zombie Christ convulsed and defecated herself.
“Jesus, I thought you said you wouldn’t kill them,” cried Sally.
“I did not kill her. Her sins did,” he said.
Zombie Jesus brought his wrist to the other survivor and told him to drink. The second survivor did as he was told and experienced a violent implosion that shot a stream of hot blood out from every orifice.
“Jesus Christ,” yelled Sally. “What are you doing to these people?”
Zombie Jesus walked over to the third and last survivor. She tried to squirm away, but he grabbed her by her face and placed his bloody wrist above her mouth. The third survivor, though very reluctant, opened her mouth and swallowed a mouthful of HIS blood. He smiled at her while waiting. A minute went by and Zombie Jesus marked her forehead with a bloody cross.
“Jesus, you’re scaring me,” cried Sally.
Zombie Jesus knelt before Sally and placed a bloody finger on her forehead. “Don’t be scared, child. I’m taking back what is mine, and my followers shall join me.” He marked her forehead with a bloody cross and watched as her eyes went completely white.
It’s Saturday before Easter, and I’m assigned the task of turning a rust bucket of a grill into a fucking somewhat sanitary meat cooking machine!
This gill hasn’t been used in ages. The last time meat was on this baby was back when I had to get a bit creative on disposing a body. Only kidding NSA, only kidding.
No, but seriously, this grill is a rust bucket. So what do I do? I YouTube some tips: soap, water, vinegar and a lot of scrubbing. Good thing my arm gets plenty of practice. Okay, I chill it with the puns.
To give an idea of how old this grill is and how unused it has become, frogs are about to get smoked out from their home!
The other thing I do, as a writer, is zone out on this and that. I got to thinking about crematorium workers and the daunting task of cleaning the burn chambers. I suppose the chore is more of a annoyance than daunting. I also suppose that it becomes so routine that the workers don’t even think about the fact that their cleaning human or animal ash. They probably think about it for the first few times, but that conversation must get old fast. Wouldn’t be surprised if the worker cleans the chamber and then chomps down on a Taco Bell burrito with unwashed hands. The guy, assuming it’s a dude, probably wanks on his man meat with ashy hands while fantasizing about the woman, dude, or dog they just recently scorched.
Gross, I know. But it would make for an interesting character. I may never use this guy or chick, but I would think that the character would be so unique and creepy that even as a background he or she would standout.
Think about that. Cleaning this rust bucket of a grill served twould purposes!
Now for the sponsor plug. Bud Light. It’s what I had left in the fridge!
