Bilf plotted.
He dreamt up murderous schemes. Falling pianos and anvils, pitfalls and traps. Running Vonce's body through a grid of chicken wire. Cutting the car breaks. The bus breaks. The life breaks.
He conjured bird attacks, dog attacks, piranha attacks. Bombs, explosions. He fantasized about the white heat of the fire he would cause, seeing Vonce's final second in slow motion as the force of the blast tore off his skin like a rotten apple sliding out of a peel. He imagined catching an extremity as it flew through the air, hollowing it out, coating it in shellac and then using it as a cup.
He imagined a sniper's bullet hitting Vonce's head in history class. The class where they'd first fallen in love. Vonce's dumb stupid handsome face exploding with all this brains and feelings.
He cooked up some real mean stuff for Vonce's trenchant junk. Clamps. Caustic lubes, vaginae dentatae. Guillotine-like traps. Thousands of biting ants. Slowly cooking his weiner with a magnifying a magnifying glass.
Just really abusing it.
Oh! And sticking stuff in the dickhole. Definitely that, too.
Bilf thought of all this because it gave him pleasure. None of it would happen, though.
Vonce would die at Bilf's hands but it would be intimate. Personal.
Simple.
No comments:
Post a Comment