Breaking The Bleedy Egg
by Jason Windham

   Nancy's clothes were expensive, though a bit threadbare, old gifts from Neil. (that asshole!) She wore a sweater by Mizahi and a windowpane skirt, over those she wore an unseasonable Arctic shell-coat.

   Her eyes followed the straight lines and right angles of grocery aisles, her amethyst earrings sparkled in the spastic yellow of sterile headache lights. She threw boxes of Twinkies into her cart, then debated between Ho-Ho's and Ding Dongs, settling finally on neither, but on a Family-Sized box of Cup Cakes. Her choice of weenies, of course, was a
no-brainer. Though she loved the name Ball Parkers, she never got those, but always chose the cheapest brands, the red ones with the dodgy white spots. She smiled, looking forward to leaving a few of them lying around on the apartment furniture and underfoot, giving them ample time to sweat and grow gamey.

   " Jamming weenies... zucchinis.... cucumbers and bananas."
   "Spongy and Chochy Fuck-Snack-Cunt-Food."
   "It's not enough. I need something that bleeds."

   At the meat display, she fingered rib steaks, pinched blood from porterhouses and t-bones. She wadded ground chuck into sloppy balls and laughed, then mashed the balls flat and tore them apart through their protective plastics.

   "This shit ain't no good!" she complained, assailing a yellow-haired kid in a name tag. "Don't you got nothing good?"

   "What?"

   His face looked stupid to her.

   "Don't you got any guts? Fucking pig's blood? Fucking shit, y'know? Don't you got?"

   "What?"

   His stupid face again.

   "Never mind!" She rolled her eyes dramatically, " I got to go now, or shit on your floor. Heh! You would like that though, seeing a bitch shit? Your girlfriend ever shit in your mouth?"

   "I... I..."

   She pushed her cart to the back of the store, left it, walked into the Employee-Only Area.

   "Hello?", she called, going through swinging, streaked, metal doors.

   There was no one there.

   She dragged her feet across a ribbed rubber matt, bored. On a back wall, a posterboard held statutory notices. "Greg W.... Late! Anna T... showed-up drunk! Cinka G... insubordination! Heh-heh! Fucks!"

   She pulled the shift schedule down, tore it up, threw it into a dirty green wheelie-bin.

   Passing a row of lockers, she jiggled each door.

   In the bathroom, the toilet water was the color of weak lemonade. She pulled her panties down, found herself moist and pushed her fingers into her folds. She hiked her skirt then, plopped onto a cold seat. She pulled the fuck-cakes from her coat, crammed them into her cunt and ass, and moaned.

   On her way out, she opened Brian W's locker and dropped mashed shit and chocolate into the pockets of his hanging wool coat.

   "Little prick, see! You like that! See!" She had to teach him. She smiled smugly, wiped her hands off on all of his things.

   The check-out girl was cute, all red pigtails and freckles. Nancy patted a victimized boneless chuck and snickered, pretending that all women shared in her secrets, "I guess you know what I've got in mind! Be sure to tell Turd-Boy goodbye for me."

   The skinny Wendy's Look-Alike frowned, confused. She smelled at the air and noticed filthy nails. "OH GOD!", she said.

   On the way home, Nancy fingered her mess. She thought about things that had happened long ago. Spaghetti party, lots of sauce, and only 13 years old. It was a game, and no using your hands! That was the first time that she had ever fooled around. He had been rough, and what she would later recognize as kinky, but she had liked him fine.

   She turned the ribeyes in the skillet, turned up the heat, seasoned with salt. She thought about Neil, husband #1. She had really loved him. He hadn't understood anything, but he had always bought her the best toys. Then there was Johnen, that dumpy fuck and husband #2! He was a slob, and a wretch, and everything about her new shitty-ass apartment reminded her of him. Stupid ass! Why did she get with him? She laughed then, thinking of the half-chewed chili-dog kisses that she used to steal from boys at ball games. That was why, why she had married Johnen! She hadn't needed to make-up stuff with him. It was a relief when he used to accept her. No more cheesy dinner seductions, no more playing the molester while her man was trying to cook. God! Neil was really the worst, worst than Johnen, because Neil, realizing that his wife was different, played lame honey and whip-creme games to please her. That Lawrence of Arabia crap had always left her cold, and hating herself.

   In the bathtub, she slapped a raw sirloin steak against her cunt, ground it against her clit. She had saved the grease from her cooking, it glistened down her breasts, still warm. She gasped, rolled from side to side, squished hotdog weenies into a red mushy paste beneath her. She gorged on the cupcakes, then jammed more weenies inside of herself. Mashed Twinkes into her asshole. Smeared the crumbling and sweet remains across her breasts and face. She came hard, chewing with stained teeth upon molested and innocent meat.

   When the doorbell rang, she thought that it might be Johnen, she had changed the locks, but since regretted it. She toweled haphazardly and frowned at the usual mess she had made of the tub. There would certainly be yet another blocked drain and somehow she had yet again forgotten the Plumber's Helper.

   At the front door she found Steve-o, she tried not to acknowledge her disappointment. Had it been Johnen, she would have been able to smile at him, light cigarettes, burn the heads off of Gummi Bears while he begged her back. It would have been nice, or so she had thought.

   Steve-O stood there, in her doorway with his dollar-store flannel jacket hanging loosely over his underwear-shirt, camera-case in hand. "So what-up? What-up?"

   "Nothing."

   She hated him. He was more proof of her decline. (Always spirally downwards since Neil-- that motherfucker, that self-righteous puke!)

   "Come in." she said. She loathed herself for that.

   "I thought we might get something going tonight!", he laughed, resting his camera case on a end table, "You do need money, right?"

   "Oh yeah..." she managed a mutter, her eyes scanning her non-palatial surroundings.

   "I thought so..." he gave a jagged shard of a laugh, "Still haven't heard from Johnen?"

   "No."

   "Well, I wouldn't worry about him. You can do better!"

   She wasn't listening. Her thoughts raced, "What will it be tonight? Scat? Piss? Throw-up on the wall? Beat up, beat down, simulated rape, or just a straight fuck in the ass?"

   He worked with his camera, smiled at her, adjusted the bulge in his pants. She thought that the little man behind the curtain looked harder than usual, bigger, somehow she didn't like the idea of that. "I got to piss," he said. She was glad to see him go for the bathroom.

   "What the fuck?", he came back, zipping up his fly. "What have you been doing in there?"

   "Nothing."

   He looked at her scornfully, as if judging. His reaction seemed laughable to her, but she couldn't find it funny.

   "Nothing?" he echoed. "Nothing?"

   "Playing." she conceded.

   "Oh man! You making tapes for someone else? On your own?" His voice lost all signs of humor.

   "I was just playing, I'm into it." she confessed. "I want to show you something."

   She went into her bedroom, he followed. From a desk drawer she pulled out several Polaroids and handed them over, commenting. "This is a nice one, ten weenies in my mouth, ten in my cunt. Here's some meat lingerie poses, I made all that myself, do you like it? It felt wonderful. I'm thinking of doing more of a gown next time. Heh, this one is funny, that's a corndog!"

   He put the pictures down onto the desktop, gave her a slight grin.

   "You like it?" she smiled devilishly, rubbing against him. "If I had a big dick like you, I think that I'd stick it in a meatloaf, fuck up some mash potatoes."

   He gave a small grunt, she flicked her tongue onto his ear, whispering.

   "When you stick your fingers inside of me, I always think of Vienna Sausages."

   She went to his dick, rubbing it through his jeans.

   "You know... Jonen left me because I liked to marinate his steaks. He said that I went too far, but what's a little pussy blood? In the end, he was just like Neil. You don't think that I go too far, do you, baby?"

   He laughed then, a big laugh. A with-tears laugh. She slapped at him but he batted her arm away. "You fuckin' retarded!" he grinned widely.

   "It's not funny!" she screamed, "This is me! This is my center! All that I think about! It's not funny, look at the shit you do!"

   "Yep," he shook his head, then lifted the photo of twenty weenies, "but you got to admit, this is kind of funny!"

     A familiar hatred filled her gut, it felt like a stomach hemorrhage.

   "It's funny, I guess." she cried, wiping away a surge of quick, hot tears, "It's funny like a piano falling on your head!
She felt like she had when she was in middle school, when she had been caught in a stall with a toothbrush. She felt like she had when she was in high school, when her "best friend" found her masturbating with Oscar Myer. She felt like she had when she had been stupid enough to tell her husbands about her kinks.

   Those bastards! She had only wanted to give them opportunities to know her, to accept her, to satisfy her. All she ever needed was to be forced to gorge, for a dick to ramrod food down her gullet, to be fucked in the ass while being near-drowned in bowls of meat-heavy pasta dishes. Was that really so much to ask? But then again, how could she have ever expected a honey-on-the-nipples prude like Neil to understand her desires? Or for a pussy-hungry, just-want-to-bust-a-nut-caveman like Johnen?

   "People never want to know me." she whispered, "So it's hard for me to laugh."

   Steve-O shrugged, unimpressed. "If you are going to cry, please save it for the camera. It makes for authenticity, people love tears, you know."

   She knew about his gun, "Rape stuff." she grimaced, "How come we can't do the stuff that I like? Why does it always have to be about you beating my ass? I'm tired of being disappointed!"

   He had reached the end of his patience. He picked her photos from the desk, threw them to the floor, "This shit is stupid! Now let's go!" He had his gun out, waved her towards the living room with it.

   "No." she crossed her arms defiantly.

   "What?"

   "No. Shoot me! For real, shoot me."

   He dragged his hand across his mouth, rubbed the barrel of the gun against his brow. "Look bitch, I guess you know that this is how you make your rent! Now come on! Stop fuckin' around!"

   Her vision went blurry with tears, her mouth turned lopsided and tragic. "I'm not going to do anything but what I want to do." she said.

   He stood for a moment, uncertain, then exploded with disgust and anger, "I ain't gonna fuck with you! I ain't no nigger porn-flinger! I am a professional!"

   She went for his gun. Her attack was sudden and fierce.

   "It's loaded!" he screamed, battling to keep it from her, but it was too late. She stole the weapon from his grip, and turned it on him.

   She gasped and whispered hoarsly, struggling to find her voice, "I know it's loaded. That's why I told you to shoot me, stupid fuck! What I don't know is why is it loaded."

   He hid behind his hands, afraid to look up, making fear noises. She brought the gun closer to his face.

   "Why don't you tell me why it is loaded? Is it because you get off on it? Is it because you get off on all the shit that you do to me?"

   He couldn't speak, the cold anger he saw in her eyes where like those of a mocking Death Angel. "Dunnnnnn....", he began and trailed off... "Don't kill me! Don't kill me, bitch!" he failed to enunciate.

   "Everyone always thought that I was fucking funny!" she hissed, "I was THE WEENIE GIRL for Christ's sake! THE WEENIE GIRL! Heh! The goddamn weenie girl! Yep, that was me, The Weenie Girl, imagine that! I heard that every school had one, but I never found another Weenie Girl. That would have been nice though, I guess we could have played with each other's weenies. But no. It's never been easy."

   She paced and screamed, waving the gun, working herself up further. Steve-O began to plead, "Nancy, you know... I mean, shit, you know that I love you! And I really do want to see that weenie action!"

   She ignored him, pontificating, taking on strange and more reflective tones, "Little things always give you away, that's just the way it is for a food molester. It's hard to hide, I mean, I masturbate with food! My parents know, they've always known, hard to live that down. My dad was a butcher, they called him "The Black Pudding Man". That's like Haggis, you know. A specialty of his. Maybe he fucks food too, I've always wondered. I always wanted to get to some of that Black Pudding Haggis, but I never did. I did make out with an Ox Tongue though, I frenched it and ate it. I
wanted to lick some bull balls too, but I never got that either. Life has just brimmed with disappointments!"

   Steve-O didn't know what to say, she was going to kill him, of that he was certain. "You aren't going to kill me, are you?" he asked her anyway.

   "Does this answer your question?" she said, putting the gun into her own mouth, pulling the trigger.

   It wasn't like she had thought it would be.

   She found herself lying in a very wet Western-Style Omelette. Chunks from the back of her head stuck to her cheek. It really was just like an omelette she thought, and so much better than what she was going to do. There came flashes of light in the darkness and then only darkness. Soon she could no longer remember her notions of blowing a gut-spilling hole into Steve-O and sucking the shit and the blood from his bulging ropes of intestines. Offering him some. This was better she had thought, because it was nothing more than a suicide. A fitting death for a Weenie Girl, not shocking, a natural end for someone too fucked-up to ever be loved or to keep a husband.

   "I didn't eat his guts." she thought, "I could have been a "Tales From The Crypt", but I wasn't."

©2002 Jason Windham

Jason Windham: born 1970 New Orleans, LA. He is given to dark moods and is shackled to a pen or a keyboard. Besides his brother and his mom and dad, he rarely keeps company with others. Often by nine p.m. he can be found
sleeping in his nest in the spooky house that he lives in. In Jason Windham there is a demon which never sleeps and which can't be completely drugged away, this demon makes him write sour things. Here's hoping that Jason gets
better, or that his compulsions make him famous.