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| Jack the Ripper |
Anyway, the story I'm about to tell you bothers me more than others. I think it might be because I really enjoyed bombing her vaginal factory with my piss missiles. She was quite a woman. She knew when where and how to cram the ran cram van. Christ. The only thing that ever really bugged my cream-filled muffin-nugget, was that she was overpriced, and her breath smelled like the rotting anus of a deceased malaria victim (and hot hot garbage.) I'm almost positive she drank diarrhea or something equally rancid.
Anyway, I remember it like it was today. I'm hanging with this dickhead, Randy Hornmeer, reall pile of shit. I mean the guy was an absolute dong sniff. We were in White Chapel, you know, pussy footing about. I had been at the Drown' Trout for the last three days, having some pints and shitting myself, you know as I normally would at any given week. My pants were caked, I mean CAKED with feces. I had consumed enough ale for forty elephants and was in a constant state of urination-town. The keep, an old pal, was leaning over the bar for near the entire time, complaining about his leakage. The bastard just wouldn't shut up. "My leak'g been rly tkn theee tol' on me mate!" I mean the motherfucker was in my face with this shit for hours, over and over again, frequency, color, amounts - the fuck was really getting graphic on me. And this whole time, the whole fucking time he's drooling over me about his leakage, I'm looking for my comb, searching in vain for my comb you know I hadn't showered in weeks and my hair was as greasy as a Mexican crack. So you know I'm checking my pockets over and over again you know but I keep looking back up at the keep you know so as not to be rude and every now and then I add in a little "Uh huh" you know to make it seem that I'm listening. He's just telling me again and again how bad his ass reeks and how it drives away his children in horror and how his beloved rat dog won't sit on his lap and this and that and SHUT THE FUCK UP!!! Well I couldn't take it, I cut him off with a waive and said I had to get some air. I had to get away from him but you know I really wanted that sweet cooze. I went into the loo and pulled Randy from the shitter, the dunce was actually submerged in the toilet up to his shoulders in what looked to be the most painful ass squirt frosting bowl filler I'd ever seen. So I wrest him from the muck and he looks like he's dunked his head in german chocolate. I couldn't handle it and I barfed up about six pints right on the poor loon. Actually, it did wash off some of the human gunk funk, which alleviated the hellishness somewhat. So there we are, two drunken fools looking for our overcoats at eleven forty five on a Sunday night in the nasty bowels of the asshole of England. This is September 30th, 1888.
I fell out of the pub first and onto the slimy cobbles, Randy and his shit mask not far behind. The blubbering bonehead slipped on his own stool and fell right on top of me, cracking one of my ribs, I just know it. That pissed me off something awful and I rained blows upon him until he fell asleep in his own waste. I kinda shivered there in the dark, vomit all down my trousers and this bobby farts up to me, swinging this god damn sun of a lantern in my fucking face. I looked up at him from my bed of ass and spilled, "Dude, seriously, get that god forsaken light out of my face before I strip that robe from you and use it to wipe your sperm off of my chest in about fifteen minutes, you fucking tit-mouse!" "What'r ya doin' 'ere?" he says as if he didn't hear me. I ignored the pompous bimbo and tried to pick myself up using the railing along the pub wall. Then this prick has the nerve to touch me. I mean the fag actually TOUCHED ME. That threw me into the red. "Listen you COCKSUCK!! No one, and I MEAN NO ONE touches me unless it's ME DOING THE TOUCHING!!" So I grab the lantern and chucked it like fuckin' Tessa Sanderson. It flew, I swear, fifty, sixty feet out into the night, lighting up the walls of the alleys as it passed. I think that as it went by I spied some dark n' dainty cuss of a piece of shit sneaking around in the shadows...but I'll never know for sure. The lantern landed in a shower of sparks and flame, exploding on the cobblestones like a burning flower, pieces of glass and shit flying all about. The constable goes running after it, and I'm positive he's crying, "WHY'D YOU DO THAT?? OH PLEASE IT'S TOO DARK!!" Fucking pansy. Anyway, with the boob in blue scurrying away after his toy lamp, my mind runs back to the dick hole in the dark and I'm about to go seek him out for a real long lubed log rammin' fest when Randy grabs me by the knickers, pulling them down to my ankles exposing my real nasty tarantula. Just then, she walks by. I'll never forget her look. At the corner of Berner and some other fucking shit street, Long Liz stopped to stare at my one-eyed devil horn. She screamed in terror and I screamed back that she knew "WHAT TIME IT [IS]!" She went to run, arms flailing, and there I am like a cartoon shuffling along after her, my pants around my ankles and my arms out, vomit all over my shirt and shit in my seat. I loved Liz. She was the reason for the season. But something about my crank pole always terrified her. I think, in my heart, my pene ween killed her. I didn't slice her throat, but I drove her away. Well with my pants as they were and the state I was in, I couldn't keep up. I watched that red rose on her jacket disappear into the alley and all of Liz with it. Sure I searched for a bit, but couldn't catch her.
The next morning I woke up in a gutter. Don't worry, I mean I ended up in the toilet most nights. My pants were still down. There was no sight of Randy. I laid there and wept for a minute, because my ass hurt so bad. I felt a dried something on my forehead. I prayed it was human semen, but it wasn't - dried blood and my own at that. Ugh. What a night. I stumbled my way back to the pub, not bothering to pull up my britches. Little buggers playing with sticks in the alley laughed and pointed. I spat at them. Oh wait I gotta tell you this part! It was amazing. I spat at them right, but when I did it turned into this enormous spray of mucus and blood and....you guess it! GIZZ!! Haha I was so elated that I'd gotten lucky before I passed out that I jumped to click my heels, but in doing so forgot my pants were around my feet and fell on my pock-marked face right in a mountain of melting horse crap. Jesus. Well that's when I saw the tard selling papers. "GHASTLY MURDER IN THE EAST END" and my heart just sank, because I knew...I knew it was Liz. I crawled over to the boy and told him in gibberish that if he didn't give me the paper, I'd make sure his parents screamed at his decapitated head when I produced it from a McDonald's Happy Meal box while completely nude on Mother's Day. Well that didn't do the trick, so I just took one.
Liz.
Her throat had been cut from ear to motherloving ear. No more boom boom for that baby-san. Fuck me. I laid in the horse cream for hours, just bawling my brains out, rolling around like a bottle in the wind, rolling back and forth in that gelatinous hill of horse feces, caking myself even further and further and further and nastier and more putrid than ever and hell after a while it started to get fun and I began giggling and laughing and OH MY GOD I WAS HAVING SO MUCH FUN I FORGOT WHAT I WAS EVEN DOI