|BIG BOUNCING BREASTS MADE ME A SERIAL KILLER (standard:humor, 1056 words)|
|Author: Danny Zil||Added: May 05 2009||Views/Reads: 2428/1067||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|This guy's work happens to be taking care of dead people....and he happens to like contributing a few bodies himself!|
BIG BOUNCING BREASTS MADE ME A SERIAL KILLER I know my Grandmother's lips are sealed because it was me who sewed the fucking things together! “You won't be talking to the Police about me now,” I told her as I patiently inserted the stitches. “In fact you won't be talking to anybody - not through these lips anyway!” Christ it was like trying to sew two thin dead worms together. Still, I had stopped her from talking. After I had stopped her from breathing. “Heart attack,” old Doc Peabody had declared, fumbling with his stethoscope and trying to hide his bourbon-fumed breath. I nodded in agreement. Of course it was a heart attack. I scared the old bastard to death. “You'll be taking care of her youself?” slurred the Doc, scribbling the Death Certificate. Ah yes, the family business - embalming, dressing and burying dead people. “It will be a privilege,” I told him, dabbing at convenient crocodile tears. A privilege to know my secret's going to the grave with her. “Fambly tradition, eh?” muttered the Doc. “Leave her in your capble hans then,” he slurred on, departing in a bourbon cloud and bumping into the door as he left. That was six months ago. Now just fat Uncle Buxton and his grotesque wife Grace to take care of and the business is mine. And I need it badly. Not just for the money but mainly to allow me to pursue my ‘hobby' which I didn't take up till later in life. Isn't it strange what turns a man into a serial killer? In my case it was the big bouncing breasts of the teenager who lived opposite. Of course she would never be interested in a bald guy like me who wore spectacles. Well, not when she was alive anyway. She was brought to our funeral parlor late one night after a hit and run accident broke her neck. I couldn't believe my luck. When everyone left, I laid her out on the couch in the morgue. All stark naked. With those big firm breasts still jutting up like pink-tipped melons. The big firm breasts I had long fantasised about getting my hands on. I suspect Grandmother must have heard me ‘getting to know' her. I ‘got to know' her for quite some time into the night. Until she turned cold on me. She was never quite the same after that - Grandmother, that is. The looks started the next day. Then the comments. Then dark mutterings about the Police. Then I knew she had to go. Which was when bloated Buxton and grotesque Grace arrived. To stay. And then Grandmother's Will was changed. To them. Which was when I knew they all had to go. Lazy fat Uncle Buxton. He didn't rise till mid-day then he lay around stuffing his face and watching tv. His appallingly ugly wife Grace. Equally as fat. If ever a woman was inaptly named it was her. The two of them constantly bickering at me. Constantly criticizing. Constantly complaining. About me who did all the work. How I grew to hate the fat bastards. And then the whispers started about replacing me. Get the job done cheaper. Rent out my room. Seems they had plans for the business which didn't include me. Well I had plans for the business which most assuredly didn't include them! Which led me, a couple of weeks ago, to start constructing the hand trap for Aunt Grace. She had complained of mice in the kitchen and instructed me to do something about it. So I decided it was now time to get rid of her and Buxton and stop all the complaining. Click here to read the rest of this story (53 more lines)
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