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| The Assassination of King George I of Greece |
God damned gyro juice from the cunt on the beach. This asshole slept in his shop, that's why I call him a cunt. Never wore a shirt neither. Smelled like mothballs and farm animals.
ANYway, we're going to town on aLEJANDRO, beating him something awful with pipes I'd wrested from my shit rat apartment on Corfu. I preferred the tongue tearer, which was pretty brutal. It was like an oversized pair of scissors, perfect for SCHRIPPING out that nasty lil muscle girls just seem to hate. My tongue always looks like an odd mutant, like a slug and a bit of dog turd mixed together and then salted and then blown up with a fucking hand grenade.
Unfortunately, I'd left my tongue tearer in the toilet where I'd dropped it during a fuck binge with Irish, Downs teens the weekend prior. The Greeks loved the real fucked up shit, like locking an unlucky sonofabitch in a dark room, tied up in a wooden barrel and neck deep in water. Then they'd overfeed them and douse their faces with honey and milk. After a few days, the poor bastard would be swimming in their own shit, maggots and flies literally eating them alive. I loved these sessions though, cuz I'd creep in there and read from Clifford the Big Red Dog. Nude, flatulent, horny. In whispers, I'd get real elaborate with my gesticulations and I could hear the victim struggling in waste, crying. Then I'd blow my poisoned load all over their face and the flies would go apeshit. That intense "bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" noise filling the room. I'd drop a deuce into their barrel and sneak back out not long after.
So WHAT. aLEJANDRO had murdered the king. Guess I should have said this earlier. George I was a fucktard anyway, but his policies were reasonable. His son was a gargantuan turd, which I suppose poisoned my eyes. I plundered and pilfered heavily during the First Balkan, while Georgie was jerking the longpole in Denmark. But when he rode victorious into Thessaloniki, those patchy DONG STARGS, the Venizelos, and his period stained crown prince of a cocksucking son, I had to drop the routine. That's how I got this job. The Hellenic Gendarmerie. Bunch of assholes, really. They gave no shit about anyone and were basically militarized. So when the Balkan shitfest sputtered out, they were recruiting. It was a shit job, but all I had to do was suck the pecker sucker's bean lodge and go through this three day course and I was inspector titrot fuckface by the end of the week. TGIF you bozos.
This is the evening of May 6th, 1913.
It was a Thursday when aLEJANDRO dropped George with a single bullet through the heart. He was drunk, but so was I. I remember I was drooling over these two small kids on the beach. Those god damned igneous beach rocks that looked like Powder's testicles. I'd been on lle almost the entire weekend and was out for some DOLMAS and franks. The children were crying, as I'd produced my shriveled pecker and was slurping pickle juice from a used condom. This breathless mush brain almost tackled me some point thereafter, trying with all his might to tell me about the assassination. I remember thinking, "Finally, a fucking job." He looking confused when I vomited on his elvin high heels, though this mattered not, for I was already on my way to the god damned palace.
The Gendies were already going hard on aLEJANDRO. He was nude from the waist down. I charged in so hard I spilled my coffee all over the attendant douche bag mother fucker. I wasn't too sore about this, however, because you see I'd ganked an apple martini from this Italian psycho faggot that lived in my building, and dumped it in my morning coffee. It tasted like apple dog shit. Well after the coffee incident, I righted myself, apologized and began my interrogation. The others, who lovingly referred to me as "the specialist", were gawking and stupid. I threatened them with my peenwang and they backed off. aLEJANDRO just sat there, bound to a chair and shivering. I started out smooth by asking where he was from. We talked, albeit idly, about his time in New York City. He talked about his take on politics. We talked a lot about that. He seemed stuck on that shit. How governments were bad and all this shit. Jesus, after a while I noticed I was salivating and had leaked a little in the shorts, so I barged into the conversation with an alarming, "I AM THE ANGEL, APOLLYON, AND YOU KNOW WHAT I EAT? SOCIALISTS, YOU DREAMY EYED COCKSUCKER!!"
This was, needless to say, somewhat startling for Mr. Alexandros Schinas, the retarded anarchist from
Volos. Here I was, butting into our pleasantries with this incredible statement of origin, meaning and power. The Gendies at my back retreated swiftly into the hall, their shuffling the only sound now. With a nod, the lights went out and aLEJANDRO began to cry. I undressed slowly, taking care not to brush him too harshly with my baleen man fur. In the darkness there, our mutual quivering was the closest thing to love that I'd come to in a thousand centuries. You see, I loved aLEJANDRO. He was the new light, the new order. But I had a job to do. "Now, it's all over," I whispered, as I collected the light from the room and pushed it into his chest. Shortly thereafter, he began to scream. I lifted his naked body over my head, him screaming the whole time, and chucked him out the window of our little three story office building. He fell to the cobbled streets of Thessaloniki and ultimately, to his death. I remember leaning out the shards of window to see peasants staring at the body and back up at me. "WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT YOU LITTLE PILES OF PINK SHIT?" I hollered. They went scurrying.
I quit the Gendarmerie not long after that night, having murdered my light for a king I never knew. In the coming months, my lifestyle changed dramatically. I turned to the drink. By the end of the year, I found myself coming to in a Paris motel room; Henry Miller, naked on the floor before my throbbing wand of shit.