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Jazz at the End of the Night


Jazz at the End of the Night


© 2017 Weasel

All Rights Reserved

WZL Productions

Front cover art by Joseph Chou

Cover design and Illustrations by Tabsley

Foreword by Thurston Howl

Edited by Lulynne Streeter, Hollering Woman Press

Edited by Thurston Howl, Thurston Howl Publications

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book, or use of characters in this book, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without expressed written permission from the author / publisher, except for review and educational purposes.

Table of Contents

Dear J.


Hollow Like the Moon

I Burned the Bridges to Heaven

The Days Run Away

Last Night of Winter

Ordinary Pleasures


The Moon Also Burns

The Violence in Finding Heaven

The Needle and the Departed


Other Titles by Weasel


Y’all Muthafucka’s Need Jesus

Ashes to Burn

The Hell Inside

a warm place to self-destruct


Cigarette Burns

We Live for Half-Moons


a warm place to self-destruct


Poetry is Dead


To Arronn, who keeps me in check most of the time and for dealing with my bullshit. To Dr. Michael Woodson, for being a great teacher and for allowing me a spot or two on your radio program, Living Art. To Chris Wise who has given me a fuckton of new ideas throughout this whole process. To Tabsley who illustrated this book. To Lulynne Streeter and Thurston Howl who tore these pages apart (AKA edited the book). To the writers at the Pearland Writers Group for listening to the rough material. To Ken Jones for being a beast and an epic degenerate poet. To Mary Margarette Carlisle who has kicked my ass more than a few times on the page. To David E. Cowen for sharing some knowledge and advice with me. To Z.M. Wise who I’ve had the pleasure of sharing the stage with and for being a good friend in crazy fuckin’ times, man. And to anyone who picks up this book!

I Burned the Bridges to Heaven was published in Seven Deadly Sins, January 2017, Thurston Howl Publications

The Needle and the Departed was published in SPECIES: Wolves, August 2017, Thurston Howl Publications

Blur was published in INFURNO, Thurston Howl Publications

A version of The Days Run Away was published in 1942Journal

Dear J.

Love is a sickening drug—an addictive drug. The lover is like the drunk. When the drunk sinks down into the abyss of the drink, he becomes the entertainment of the party. People look down on him for being the drunk, they laugh at him, push him off as the ordinary. The drunk relinquishes control of himself, giving it directly to others, and he becomes the doll waiting to be played with. But it soothes—makes him forget for a moment that he is just human; plastic, molded. He forgets the job he hates, his friends, family, the bill collector who has called his phone—every fucking thing in his life.

Love is like this. The moment you become the lover, you forget the world. It fizzles away in the background, and it is aesthetically draining. Though the high is the best thing in the universe—and I do mean that love is the best thing in the universe—it is also destructive. It leads you down paths of saintly destruction. Your mind becomes addicted to one person. It focuses on them. You can’t get them out, can’t get them out for a second, and when they are around you, it is like dopamine exploding inside you. Like when the drunk takes the first gulp. But that is the broken part inside all of us.

I was in love, am in love—dreadfully fucking in love; one too many times in love. And I can’t escape it because I want it. Like I want nicotine. Like I want sex. Like I want—to drink. I wouldn’t trade what I have for anything else, though there was a time when I would trade anything for you. I was fortunate when you were an addiction that faded. You can tell when certain people enter your life that they present dangerous paths. Even if they’re the good guy. You did nothing wrong. You worked. Never lit up a crack pipe, and I doubt you ever saw one. You were clean. Yet there was something there, leading us both to a path of something deviously inevitable. And if I were to relinquish control like the drunk to his peers, I don’t know what my end would be. But I know you would be persuasive.

Love is as much a destruction to the body as most other addictive substances. You go mad for love. Your brain ejaculates fireworks when you’re in love. Just imagine Roman candles firing off in your skull every time your lover kissed you on your cheek, told you that you are the world to them.

I still smoke. That was the one thing you hated about me. When we ate at the roach-infested Chinese restaurant, you were testing me. Asking questions that determined if I would be the perfect boyfriend for you. My thoughts on children. Sex before marriage vs. after. Marriage. You drew Valentine’s Day pictures and emailed them to me. You wanted to cuddle during horror films, during our walks in the snow, and when we slept together. And I was so close to being the drunk. Then, we drifted. We drifted away from whatever inevitable thing waited, and I let you fade with the rest of time. I would have shouted on rooftops if I wasn’t afraid of heights—of falling—of free-falling into the vast void that is time. But, time doesn’t stand still for anyone. It doesn’t fuck around. It doesn’t heal, but it fades.

I got the invitation to your wedding. I’m happy to see you’ve found someone. I’ve found someone as well. The path we are drifting around on is strenuous, but worth it. I can’t go to your wedding. I don’t have money for a gift, so my congratulations will have to be enough. Don’t kill yourself out there. I’ve done that more times than I remember, and it’s a bitch when you don’t see the light at the end.




The first words Weasel ever said to me were, “Hello, I'm assuming this is the correct editor I submit this too.” This was the introduction to a query to publish his novella We Live for Half-Moons. Despite the glaring error in his first sentence that made me wince, the prose of his letter and his excerpt were music to my ears. Seeing how vividly he could render a man going through depression in the middle of an alleyway was like an orchestral accompaniment to the break of day.

The more I read into his characters’ lives--seeing them struggle with things within and outside of their control--the more invested I became in their futures. I yearned to know what happened to the haunted Derrick--whose spots stain him on the outside and the inside--and the hopeless and defeated Ely--who sought purpose outside of serving others. Even though I never voiced that desire to Weasel, he more than provided with the volume you hold in your hands.

Since that first query, I have had the utmost pleasure to work with Weasel on a number of projects. His short stories have appeared in a number of Thurston Howl Publications’ volumes, including Seven Deadly Sins, SPECIES: Wolves, and Infurno. And as you can probably tell from the names of those anthologies, Weasel is by no means afraid of the dark. My own stories have been published in his house’s anthologies, too: Passing Through, Civilized Beasts, and Typewriter Emergencies. As publishers, the two of us have helped each other out tremendously over the past couple of years, yet I still feel I owe him plenty.

So, when he asked me to be a proofreader and editor of his newest work of fiction, I happily agreed, not quite knowing what I was getting into. Jazz at the End of the Night is a dark and dismal tale of what happens to the characters after the events of We Live for Half-Moons. One does not have to have read Half-Moons to understand this book, but those who want to know what led these characters to such roads of desperation and sorrow might check out the previous volume. But now, in this work, you will see his characters go through harrowing lengths to find some measure of contentment in this equally harrowing world. What do you do when you catch your partner cheating on you? What do you do when the guy who’s giving you a ride turns out to have ulterior motives? What can you do when even the person you love has given up just as much as you have? And the biggest question of all: when you’re sent to whatever lies beyond this life--whether it’s heaven, hell, or something else entirely--what shape will the moon in the sky take?

I said earlier that Weasel’s words were like a prelude to the dawn, but no, just as he himself says, his words are truly the jazz at the end of the night. Fix yourself a cold drink. Have a smoke. Put a warm body close to yours. And as you read, let your mind wander. You just might hear that devil’s sax, serenading you in the background.

Thurston Howl

Editor-in-chief of Thurston Howl Publications

Hollow like the Moon

January 1, 2017


This will never reach you, but I got nothing else. I still smell your scent in my home. Each time I climb into my bed, it’s there, like it’s cemented into the fabric of my covers and each time I wash them it never goes away. Little Lab Mouse, you never really left, did you? But your body is gone. I wish I knew what you were up to, nowadays. I keep hopin’ that you stopped sucking dick for a living, but if you haven’t, I get it. Finding peace in life isn’t as easy as we want it to be. I’m still reaching out for some kind of peace, but I’ve yet to find what will soothe my heart. I think I’m close.

I’ve tried moving on, but I still dream of you when the stars are burnt out of the sky. Images of you strung out in Lorenzo’s house haunt me. My cigs can’t calm me no more, when the visions return. I’ve taken way too many drinks; my body is shutting down. At least it feels that way. I can’t breathe at night anymore. The moment I close my eyes, I can feel my heart stop, and I bolt up for air. My peace was you, Ely, and I wish it could have been different for us. But who’d want a beaten-down Dalmatian like me, right?

I don’t think I’ll ever know what Nick wanted, but when I saved you—when I murdered Lorenzo and left his carcass on the floor, it was like Nick’s ghost was laid to rest. He doesn’t haunt these walls. I don’t hear him linger around in the darkness. The dead have finally reached the other side, at least that is what I hope. And though I don’t see him, I see you, Ely. You’ve become the new ghost in my home. I still find your fur in small corners. I can’t get your scent out of my carpets. I can’t get you out! I can’t get you out—but I’m not sure I want to.

When you left, it was like the world was splitting apart again; like back when I put Nick in the ground. I loved that goddamn fox. I’d have done anything for him, just like I did everything for you. You absolved me in some ways. I was no longer the long-lost sinner, when you found the hell inside of me.

Ely, my spots still burn for you, but I know you’ll never accept them. My heart is simply a crescent moon now that you’ve left me. It keeps telling me it’ll grow whole again, but I don’t think my body can wait much longer. I’m dying, Little Lab Mouse. Death is only two feet away, staring me down, but I haven’t found the right art to die yet. When the end comes, what shall I say? Will I see Nick? Will I see his slender, broken body waiting for me in the ether? Or will I see you? I can only pray that you’re alive out there, Little Lab Mouse. The abyss is so dark around me, nowadays. The last hooker I brought to my home couldn’t absolve me; he only made the chasm stronger. He lacked warmth, already dead inside. His life was drained out, and he was only a hole taking money. He wasn’t you, Ely. He wasn’t you.

I don’t know what else to say now. I just hope this world hasn’t broken you down yet. Don’t let your heart empty itself. Don’t become like me—ready to die.



January 10, 2017


I had a dream last night. I don’t dream that much anymore; the alcohol takes care of that. I had a dream about the time we first met. Do you remember how it was raining that night? The money I slid your way because you were leery of me? Even in my dreams you haunt me.

I don’t really know how to live anymore. I went to the grocery store, and there’s people everywhere, and I don’t want to be near them. I don’t want to see them. I just want to get my shit and leave, but I can’t because of all these kids, and these goddamn carts, and the girl scouts, and every single fucking thing that can hit you, does. And you don’t know what’s going on. You don’t know. You just listen to pieces and when you’re hit, hope to god you’re able-minded enough to comply or answer.

I always wander in, like a deer staring at all those lights. Terrified, but mesmerized at the fact that there’s all these people. And they’re terrifying! They truly are! Ely, what is wrong with people? Why are there so many of them? Who fucked them all into existence? I can’t go back, but I’m gonna need groceries one day!

Yesterday, a lady tried to karate chop me out of existence. Said I was in front of the bananas and she needed them. The bitch needed bananas! Then, she asked me what price, and I snarled at her and told her to get lost. I don’t fuckin’ work there. Who fuckin’ hires an alcoholic to stock bananas?

I don’t understand it at all. Then, there’s the gas station. You know there’s this hooker up there doin’ all sorts of weird erotic pelvic thrusts that she calls exercises. Don’t look like that to me, but whatever.

I can’t take the people anymore. I’m starting to become agoraphobic. Anything dealing with the shit outside my home is closing in on me, and I feel like I can’t escape, but what am I escaping from? The sun? The people? I dunno.

When I drive alone, I can only think of how easy it would be to drive off into a river somewhere. They’d find my body at some point, but in death you don’t have to deal with the fear. Death is the outcome, and slowly I’m inching toward it. I’m killing myself slowly with the booze, the cigs, and everything else, but I’m just preparing my body for the big boom. The giant send-off into the ether, into the final black tunnel that you’ll never find the end of. Because when you’re dead, there is no end. You’ve met it when you stop breathing, and anything after is just a loop. Just one big fuckin’ loop.

Is it cathartic to write these letters? Ely, you don’t even know how I’m living anymore. You’re out there somewhere, living whatever fuck-all dream you want to live. You don’t know how the floor breaks apart from under me as the panic sets in, how many earthquakes I’ve fought after you left. I’m a selfish guy, Little Lab Mouse. You already know that. Maybe you got away from me at the right time. Maybe I’m finally reaching the end of my cycle, and there’s nothing else for me in this life.

In all this, I still haven’t felt like a Roman candle, burning up the stars in the sinner’s morning sky. You ought to know what that looks like; of how dark it is at three o’clock in the morning. I just want to feel that. Just once, but you can’t burn when you’re already burnt out before the fire’s lit.


January 23, 2017


I don’t write to you every day. Maybe that’s a good thing. Your soul doesn’t need to hear from me that often. Not anymore. I don’t have the money to pay you anyway. I’ve found someone. This world has an uncanny ability to place people in our lives at the strangest moments. When I last wrote you, I was about ready to kill myself. I had the gun ready, practicing the method of placing it against my head or in my mouth; imagining how the brain matter and skull fragments would dance in the air and scatter between floor and walls. There was a ringing in my ears that got louder with each pull of the empty trigger. Bang! Bang! I’d imagine the bullet scraping through flesh and bone and my life leaving me—and it was bliss!

Then, Steven found me…he’s a bat, Ely. An all-white bat with some black on his wings and a few brown splotches on his face. Not the skinniest dude in the world, but not the fattest either. I was purchasing a packet of cigs, and he slid me a carton on the house. He knew my brand, Little Lab Mouse. Silhouettes. They have this mild clove taste to them, and it’s damn near impossible to find.

I didn’t know what I’d do with him, but he asked me out for dinner, so I obliged, thinking he was looking for a quick Grindr hook-up. You know the young kids these days. Get on an app, like a pic, and bang in an alleyway somewhere. I’ve had my fair share of alleyways. So, he took me to dinner. Young kid—had to be early twenties. I still haven’t asked his age. As long as he’s legal, I don’t care if he don’t care.

I thought I scared him on our first one. Quiet, awkward me sitting in front of this social dude. He had stories on everything you could imagine. Customers, other fucks—the kid had a past. We all have one, but it’s not as interesting as others. As I finished the meal, he slid his hand onto mine and just smiled, the way Nick used to smile at me.

It was surreal. It wasn’t movie-romantic. We ate at a diner, the kind with the grease splattered all over the countertops and windows. One of the waitresses was gettin’ her rocks off with a trucker out back. Bitch moaned so loud the joint cleared rather quickly. When you gotta fuck, you gotta fuck, and she wasn’t apologetic about it. That’s the kind of style I like in folks. It was just us there in this run-down, piece of shit joint and all I could say was “check please.” I couldn’t utter anything else. The kid didn’t care though. If it were me, sitting across from me, I’d think I was some kind of fuckin’ serial killer. But he didn’t.

I took him back to my place—cluttered dump that it was. He didn’t seem to mind, but I felt ashamed. Clothes, cigarettes, whiskey bottles all thrown about. The gun left on the computer keyboard. I’m sure it smelled to him, but nothing phased him. Surreal. We didn’t fuck that night. I had the urge, and I’m sure he was feeling the same, but the tools didn’t work down there. So, we sprawled ourselves on the mattress in the nude and just slept. Just fuckin’ slept. It was like he knew there was something wrong with me; it was like he saw some kind of answer and said to himself, “Yes, this is the worthless fuck I’ve been looking for.” He could have so much better out there, yet he never left my side. He just made breakfast in the morning and set up another date.

And in all this chaos. In all this confusion—you were gone.


February 1, 2017


Steven works at the Cum-N-Go. Stupid fuckin’ name for a gas station. The owners didn’t think that through, but they still get people. I used to drive, but now I walk everywhere. I get so drunk, I had to stop driving, but with him, the alcohol fizzles out of my spots, and it’s like I’m clean again. He has red eyes. They’re fierce, and when he gets mad, they glow. We’ve only had a couple arguments, but he’s so fuckin’ cute when they glow. People are afraid of bats biting the shit outta them, but he wouldn’t do that. He’s too reserved.

I lost my job after you left, but my retirement was enough to live off of, so I’m just pinchin’ pennies and eatin’ rice and beans for the most part. I don’t know if I’ll ever be sane enough to work again. Maybe I don’t need to work. It only strengthened the stress of my home life, and you know how that went. You heard all my confessions—all my sins.

My cigs taste better when he’s around. We’ve not been dating long—can you believe I said dating? I can’t, but I did. He’s not a trick; he’s real. I can hold onto him, and hopefully he’ll stick around.

He likes to read. Fantasy shit. The dragon fighters and the knights in shining armor cliché bullshit. And I love it. He’s been makin’ me dinner these past couple weeks. He’s cleaned my house…he’s taken care of me…and I don’t know how to respond to it all. I’m so used to filth and grime, and he’s not at all grimy. He’s as pure as Nick; I need to stop comparing him to the fox, but there’s not many out there who’ll do any of this for me.

What is it with young kids trying to fix the monsters inside of the bitter and the old. Granted, I’m not tied to a walker, but I’ve past the point in life where happiness is a thing. When you’re in your twenties, you can ride the tail of bliss for a decade before declining down into the harsh reality that there’s nothing more than what you have right now. And if what you have at that moment is a miserable pile of shit, there’s not a lot you can do to fix it. You’re stuck with it. Stuck with dead-end jobs and social media distractions, so focused on faking life. Then one day, the lie smacks you right-the-fuck down, and you look at your hands because they’ve built everything you’re sitting on. And when you plummet, you won’t know how much cushion you’ll have when you fall.

I still drink. I’m cutting back. Every minute without alcohol is like a minute in hell. I can hear satellites mingling with the stars. I’m more aware. More alert. I can’t fucking stand it—then he arrives, and it all quiets down. The world stops.


February 13, 2017


He asked me if I ever wanted to die. I told him…all the time. I told him I killed a man once; about you, about Nick, about everything. I couldn’t read anything on his face, his muscles were relaxed, as if this was all something he had heard before. Maybe I mentioned it while drunk, I dunno.

I told him that before he and I got together, I was constructing the art of my death. You can’t just die. You have to go out with some style, and I lacked the imagination to do that. So I outlined it like a novel. Showed him all the steps I had planned and where I thought all the pieces would land when I pulled the trigger.

All he could say was that the art of death is like growing a backbone. Only the weak ones give out so early. But is that really the case? We all know that we’re gonna die. We just don’t know how the crash will happen. We don’t know how our last breath will actually escape us. We only know that we’re two feet away from it, and that we have to travel really light when we cross.

He said, “When you go looking for death, the end gets farther, and farther away. If you want it now, you have to kill the art and let the angel come to you first.” Then, he said I wasn’t going to die any time soon; that I still got some fight in me.


February 14, 2017


Steven says I taste like whiskey and cigarettes.

I tell him he tastes like clichés and dick.

So he lit up and took a long drag, blowing the smoke in my face. All I could see was a ball of white move down my body until he got to my cock. He stuffed it in his mouth so quick, I didn’t have time to process it. There’s not been a lot of attention down there lately, but goddamn does that kid have a mouth.

He says in other countries the orgasm is synonymous with death. It’s called the little death because we lose a piece of ourselves each time it happens. It’s poetic, and all I can respond with is a hard cock waiting for round two. I’m on the line of poetry and savage, and the latter takes control more often than it needs to.

When I cum the second time, I understand the art of death. I understand the poetry behind blowing your brains out. When he leaves for home, I lock the gun up and wait for the ether to find me.


February 20, 2017

Little Lab Mouse,

Can you handle one last confession? You don’t owe me the luxury, but I need someone. I’m smoking a pack of Silhouettes as I write this.

I killed a man last night. Just like I killed Lorenzo, the pimp who took my Nick away. The pimp who tried to take you, too. This guy was not as fierce as the wolf.

I was walking to the gas station to see Steven. I try to see him as often as I can. I don’t want to lose him, and I’m afraid I will one day. When I got to the pumps, there was this guy, hoodie swept over his head, but I could see his snout. He was a canine of some kind. By his black and brown fur, I could only assume he was a Labrador. His fur wasn’t as thick as a German shepherd. This skinny fuckwad had a pistol pointed at my bat, but he wasn’t shaking. His arm was steady. Steven stood behind the counter motionless, hands held high. The kid didn’t know what to do, and when he didn’t move, the asshole shot him. Bang! Goddamn bullet went right through the kid, the blood sprinkled out, and the robber opened the register and grabbed what he could.

When he bolted from the door, he saw me. I stared him down, rage pouring out of my spots, just like it poured out when I killed the wolf. The world was nothing around me; I only saw him. When he started to run, I chased him down. We got a few blocks up a bad street. When I caught up to him, I tackled the bitch. His gun fell a few feet away from us, and I started to slam his head into the concrete. The dog kicked me in the stomach and was able to flip around, but I wasn’t getting off of him. I dove in and sunk my teeth into his neck, ripping out bits of flesh and fur. His screams were just music to me. I drove my fists into his face over, and over, and over while he screamed “stop.” I wasn’t going to stop. Underneath the full moon, I demolished this guy, and when he finally went limp, I broke his neck.

I left his body on the sidewalk. The street was empty, so there were no witnesses. It was time for me to become the ghost. I jetted back to the station, and the police were already there. I didn’t care what I looked like, when they put him on the stretcher, I ran to him. Told them he was my boyfriend, and they let me ride in the ambulance with him. When I grabbed his hand, he looked at me, blood pouring from his shoulder. All he said was, “You’re bleeding…” I only laughed. The poor kid’s bleeding out, and he’s worried about a little blood on my chin.

The EMS folks said it wasn’t deadly, but they let him rest in the hospital overnight. I didn’t leave him. I slept in a chair next to his bed. It’s hard to sleep in hospitals when the nurses come in and out every goddamn hour. Even more so when you can’t smoke. There’s too many ghosts in those places. The nurses whisper about them too much.

The police do shoddy work. They never planned on catching the guy. Gas station robberies happen all too often. There’s probably a stack of them on their desk that are unsolved. No news of the body I left either, but I expect to hear the local stations mention it briefly.

When I took him home, he didn’t leave my side. With what little strength he had, he clutched onto me and I to him. I don’t want to lose him, Ely. I lost two too many already, and a third would only push me deep into the ether. I don’t think he’s leaving me anytime soon though. I guess I’ll deal with it, if it happens. For now, I can finally put your ghost to rest, and if you’re alive, I hope you’re safe. This is my last confession to you. You’ve seen the ugly in me so many times, I don’t think this is any different for you, Ely.


February 29, 2017


They say if you’re ever feeling lonely, to look at the moon. We all share the same moon in this world. We see it empty. We see it grow full. We’re all connected that way. She was always hollow inside—always half-full, because I promised her I would one day grow full. But I can’t grow full. I can’t pull my heart strings up to keep the veiny beast in check. I can’t grab at anything to make my path less rocky. I can only fall deeper into the ether; deeper until I reach the end, and I’m finally at the edge of all darkness. I’m finally reaching the end.

Steven was partially right when he said to let the angel come to you. I gave up finding the right art for my death and just let life sort the mess out, and I couldn’t have fucked up any worse than I have right now.

In the short moments I’ve had here, I was able to grab a little piece of heaven. When he wrapped his wings around me in bed, I could see the moon growing full inside. I could feel myself being put together in all the right places, but when the last bit of glass was glued into the empty spot, I had to shatter. There was nothing to keep me in place. Nothing to keep the pieces together. I thought it would be him, but I was wrong. I thought it would be you, and I was wrong.

I killed him. He is lying on my mattress with a bullet-hole in his skull. I didn’t mean to kill him. I didn’t want him to leave me so soon. Not like you, Ely. I wanted him to stick around more; I wanted to stay in heaven for just a bit longer, but the universe brought me here. If it hadn’t, I wouldn’t be writing this one last letter to you. I hope whoever finds these mails them off to you, Little Lab Mouse, but I doubt they’ll know who you are.

Steven was the last greatest thing I had in life, and now he is gone. Every time we had sex, we had to make it crazy. He liked it when I punched him. He liked it when I tied him down and treated him like a slut. He wasn’t a slut to me, but he wanted to be one. I bruised him up real bad some nights, but he only begged for more, more, more.

I fucked him with plastic bags duct-taped around his head. I got him to the edge of consciousness before slapping him around and resuscitating him over, and over. I burned my cigs out on his body. The marks are still on his thighs and balls. He cried so loud, but he said to keep going. Don’t stop. He never used the safe word. He just wanted to feel all of pain I could give him, and I provided it.

Last night was a crescent moon. Steven came home and slid my boxers off and didn’t wait. He got me hard and hopped his tight little ass on. It always amazed me how he could take the knot; how easy it would just plop right in, even with so little lube. He didn’t use regular lube, just his mouth, and took it all in. But last night was different. He kept his hands behind his back, as if I had tied them already, but he was not bound. I leaned up for a kiss and slid my hand along his arms. That’s when I felt it. He held my .45 behind his back, and when my fingers slid along the cold, steel barrel, everything stood still. The bat said nothing, just brought his hand forward and stuffed the gun into my mouth. In a cool, sly tone, he whispered as he started bucking his hips, “Let’s play a game, babe. It’ll be fun.”

My heart became double-bass pedals on the world’s fastest metal song. Machine gun beats ramming around underneath my rib cage. I didn’t know what would happen when he pulled that trigger. I thought of punching him off of me, but at the same time I wondered what the end would look like when it came. His breath grew faster, heavier, while his hips stayed in rhythm. I didn’t want it to end so quickly. He stayed at a slow pace to prolong every peculiar moment we were sharing. “Do you love me?” he whispered, and all I could do was shake my head. Yes. Yes, I did love him. I do love him, but how far can you go for love? Was this the point where I had to stop?

His finger snapped the trigger—all that could be heard was a click, and the music of my heart slowed down into the eye of the hurricane. Steven handed me the weapon, guided my hands, and had me place it into his mouth. He moaned violently when he felt the steel press far into his throat. His cock bounced with each movement of his hips. He goaded me into pulling the trigger. I didn’t want to do it, but my finger grazed it. Click. He was safe.

The turns happened repeatedly. Click. Click. Click.


I shot every drop of my cum into his ass. Though I was having the best fuckin’ orgasm of my life, I watched as the bullet shattered his skull. Blood, brain, and fragments scattered all over the mattress and walls. And when the bullet left him, his body went limp. His large frame fell down onto me, and it wasn’t much longer, when the body relieved itself of all his waste.

I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. Every single trace of emotion left me. Panic was crawling faster and faster toward me. My paradise was gone! Is gone! I killed him!

But I loved him…

I loved him as I loved you. As I loved Nick. You three were my addictions, and I just can’t do this without any of you, spirits of this universe. So I’m writing this, filthy fuckin’ cock and body. I’m writing this to you, Ely, because I don’t know what else to do. Angel death has finally made her way to me. She is finally calling me, and I best go out with style.

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(Pages 1-19 show above.)