GOOD BOY

YOU'RE ALL BABY EATERS

[cannibrat-blog]

dismemberings:

           It’s eight in the fucking morning and Gene wants to die when he            wakes up to drool on his pillow and knocking on the door of his            apartment, loud, incessant. His mouth tastes like shit. He paws            his glasses off the cluttered nightstand and shrugs on a t-shirt            as he lumbers to the door. The vain attempt at flattening out            his comb-over is hopeless and it sticks up anyway, equal parts            comical and pathetic. 

           He half-expects to be yelled at in Spanglish by one of his bitch            neighbors for the smell of death and piss and weed that still            emanates from his end of the hallway. Instead he’s greeted by            Everett, grinning, mildly perturbing. As soon as he’s unlatched            the door’s chain and opened it, the kid throws his arms around            Schrader’s gut, suffocating. As always he is pretty unsure how            to respond to this beyond his best paternal hair-ruffle and a flat            grunt: “do you have any idea how fucking early it is?”

           With that he retreats back to the couch, picking a wedgie out             of his ass-crack.

          “Long time no see, huh? Where’d you go man? I was expecting             to see your face printed on the side of a milk carton or whatever.             Missing or some shit.”

     The suitcase is abandoned in the doorway while Everett scurries in and      sits claustrophobically close to Gene, his knees pulled up beneath his      backside and his hands on his chest. He pulls out chest hair brutally in      greeting, as is religion to him.

     “Was I gone that long?” Everett muses, sinking back into the cushions.      He thinks about it, and comes up with a white timeline of nothing. Just      the same old, same old. He tracks his steps along main streets lined       with burger joints, remembers getting a new bike (but he can’t remember      where he’s put it) and remembers finding a new friend.

     Jenna was twelve and had a hammock and her skin was matted with red      criss-crosses and her insides dripped through the gaps of the hammock      after day two of childhood play. 

     “My neck’s got a crook in it,” he announces, and lifts his foot to put the      bottom of it on Gene’s beard after he’s abandoned mud-caked sneakers.      “What have you been up to, fatty?”

[cannibrat-blog]

@dismemberings

     The cab brings him to the apartment complex after a long argument on      where his parents may be. He’d shedded dry skin from his chapped lip on      the seats, and he’d pressed his bare feet to the windshield, leaving ghost      marks of his soles on it, white smears of condensation.

     He’d sprinted out with his backpack in hand and his cap on his head when      the driver demanded recompense. Still barefoot, the concrete of the complex      burnt his feet and he shrieked. After he’d hopped the wrought-iron fence, all      small-framed and monkeyish, the driver abandoned this chase and found      better things to do. 

     Now Everett raps on the door. He hasn’t seen Gene for about a month, or      maybe a little over a month, and he has no explanation to where he’s even      spent his time. So he just grins and throws his arms around Gene hard      when his faux-father opens the door, groggy, because it’s eight AM.

     “Gene!” he yells, the hat with the Confederate flag on it tipping back when      he buries his face in Gene’s stomach, skinny arms slung around his middle.      “I missed you!”

[cannibrat-blog]

OPEN.

      Motus animi continuus--unending and spastic and incessant movement--at your feet, this child tugging on your shirt, untucking it, twisting the fabric in his fists. Stepping on your heels, tugging at your fingers. He’s too old for this. A few months past thirteen and he’s maintaining this immaturity and closeness incomparable to anything but someone under nine, maybe.

       But then, he’s also twenty-seven, and it’s hard to maintain the natural progression of age. Sometimes staying starlet young melds your personality into any age under fifteen--the idiosyncrasies dissipate. You’re just young. He looks up under a rotten trucker cap with the Confederate flag ironed onto it.

       He dimples his cheek with a finger. “If you don’t stop ignoring me, I’ll kill myself.”

[cannibrat-blog]

thegrimsoldier:

She cocks her eyebrows with a smirk, a face that says duh, you fucking shouldn’t have. She wasn’t worried. She’s stronger and more powerful than she looks. Perks of being a supernatural creature. But she doesn’t mind looking weak. It gives her more of a reason to hurt horny disgusting men who think they can take everything they want.  “Eaten alive?” ironic, considering she’s dead. “I can take care of myself, I think.” she knows. “Unless you wanna take care of me, if you’re so worried?” Maybe it will be fun to have a guy around who points guns at people for her.

     Everett stands to his full four-foot-five and arches his neck back to peer up at her, eyes slanted as if sun is streaming into his face despite the fact they’re standing under a blanket of stars. The warm night is infused with the smell of apricot trees and gunpowder.

     “Sure, I’ll take care of you,” Everett decides, tapping two fingers against his temple in a lazy salute. “I got real good aim.” He says that as if he wasn’t pointing the barrel of his handgun at her breasts a minute ago.

[cannibrat-blog]

has anyone read perfume by patrick suskind because

why does he ejaculate all over the plants :(

[cannibrat-blog]

I love you so much. I wish I could be you.                                                  But you are what you eat!

                                                                                                 coming to a dashboard near you.

[cannibrat-blog]

nursingyou:

Robin grabbed his messenger bag that was full to the brim with books, pens and his box of medical supplies. Mostly bandages, plasters, sterile wipes, safety pins, latex gloves and various other dressings. It wasn’t mandatory to carry a first aid kit around, in fact, Robin could be the only student that does. He liked to be prepared. He liked to help. He felt as if he needed to help.

With a slight nod of the nod, Robin glanced up at the grey, grumbling sky that was slowly beginning to spit. His nose crunched up like a toddler who’s just tired a lemon slice for the first time. With his sleeve, he wiped the fat rain drop from his nose and smiled over at the boy. 

“You want to tell father where you are going before we leave, no?” He didn’t just want to whisk the boy away without his parent knowing nothing about it.  Isn’t that every parent’s worst nightmare? Looking away for two seconds and when your attention finally returns to your kid after staring at the young girl with the booty shorts on, he’s skipping into the sunset on the arm of some  stranger that claims to be a Doctor? Sounds pretty terrifying, right?

“I no live too far from here. My car is parked around corner.” Robin pointed  towards the car park across the soon-to-be wet, slippery grass. 

Robin pulled the hood of his jacket of his head, and his sleeves over his hands. The grey sky wasn’t just spitting, but starting to blow. The trees were slowly  beginning to shake in the distance. “Here,” Robin untangled his navy scarf from around his neck and handed over to the boy, “Keep warm. You no want a cold on top of infection, eh?” 

Robin could be a little over bearing at times, but it was all in good nature…                       or was it something a little more sinister?

    “He won’t care,” Everett shrugged, taking the scarf and wrapping it about his     face, tugged up over his nose like some desert wanderer. He peered to     the threshold of the RV one last time, watched his dad snore away, the     pink flesh of his jowls vibrating under the vibrations, infomercial light playing     dully over his face, and then slammed the door shut.

    He followed the nurse in training and slid into the passenger’s seat of his     four-door, out-dated model of a Toyota Corolla. It was like the staple of     college students doing their best.

    “What’s your name?” he asked, hands tucked beneath his thin thighs, eyeing     the water droplets that gently come down against the windshield. He watched     them slide down at different rates, cheering for certain droplets in the race. He     watched the cool and uniform buildings flit by, signs coming on as the evening     took on the dark grey of a stormy evening. Pink sign for Dunkin’ Donuts, then     white sign for LING’S CHINESE, then the blue glow of a video store. The     street lights presented their soft golden glow. As they drove along Everett     chatted vaguely about how he got his scar.

    He fell into conversation easily. Perhaps he had the face of the inviting and sweet.

    When they approached his complex, he looked at Robin and squinted. “You better     not be a total freakin’ creep who’s gonna tranquilize me and eat my insides.”     That was his job, after all. He ducked under the hallway partition leading to      Robin’s room and shielded himself from the downpour. “If you do that, I’d be      like, super pissed off at you.”

    He poked him hard beneath his ribs with three fingers outstretched. A playful     warning. And also rather annoying. 

[songs4lyf]

Visit Original Link

The Who - Pinball Wizard

[cannibrat-blog]

thegrimsoldier:

She laughs, wide smile turning into a small smirk as he points the gun at her. What would happen? She’d get shot, heal, continue. She’d also probably get off on it, intense pain is such an intimate thing. She steps closer to the gun. “An’ why’s that?”

     He lowers the gun. He admires her brashness and offers a matching smile, less malicious. It’s the easy smile of the innocent. “I shouldn’ta pointed that at you,” he decides, tilting his head. He scratches his temple with the barrel of the gun.

     “Everyone here’s horny as hell,” he says, “Or violent. And you’re pretty. And a female. A pretty female who doesn’t look like she owns a Wal-Mart. You’re gonna get eaten aliiiive.”

[the-next-level]

A kiss is the beginning of cannibalism.

Georges Bataille: Erotism: Death and Sensuality (via the-next-level)

[cannibrat-blog]

dismemberings:

          “Same thing that happened to Mr. ‘Don’t smoke pot.’ He died,”            says Gene. He guzzles the rest of his can of beer way too fast            and doesn’t even bother to look to Everett until he’s already            rounding the dirty glass coffee table and obstructing the filmy            television screen.

          “You wanna meet Mr. ‘Get the fuck outta the way of my TV’, bud?”

           Gene shifts to the side like it’s a lot of effort, like he’s old and            perpetually baked and lethargic, and he tilts his head as if he            might be able to see the screen better. Lo and behold he’s still            missing The Price Is Right. From his angle, the crooked antenna            on top of the television set look more like they’re atop Everett’s            head and it might have entertained him but he’s pissed. He lets            out a groan, seemingly almost pained by the thought of prying            his eyes off Bob Barker and peeling himself off the couch and            going outside.

          “…You wanna go to the mall,” he drawls.

           Down the side of the dirty couch cushions, Gene finds more old            cigarette butts, a Dorito, and the TV remote. He shuts the TV off            and the screen flickers and goes dark. He misses the hollow            blaring applause already.

          “Go find me a shirt that smells vaguely clean.”

    The mall is an excuse for Everett to eye people and deem them      suitable if paired with something decadent and fried. But it’s also     an excuse to mouth at an ice cream cone he’s begged Gene to     get him like it’s phallic and make eye contact with relatively hand-     some dudes with mustaches and high pants. It’s the eighties.

    He doesn’t care if Gene’s uncomfortable but when his kicks to Eve’s     ankles turn into his toes being crushed underfoot with his monster     foot, he whines and ‘knocks it the fuck off,’ in Gene’s mature vocab.     He eats the ice cream like a normal boy and starts scouting for     women instead of making half the male population of Ocean Breeze     Mills Mall perpetually uncomfortable.

    “That one,” he points at some woman in her mid-forties (same as     Gene!) with bouffant blonde hair and turquoise jewelry lugging     along two kids in both of her carefully manicured hands. He thinks     Gene will like her. She’s not obese and she’s relatively attractive.     And she probably uses about as much hairspray as Gene. He     wonders whether or not that’ll appeal to or disturb Gene.

    “It’d be kinda hot, right?” he decides, wiping his mouth of frothy     ice cream with the back of his arm. “She has kids, so it’d be like     you’re hurting them, too. I don’t know. I don’t know what fat dudes     like you get off on.”

    He stabs Gene in his fleshy side with the tips of his finger and laughs     manically as he jerks back, pulling his tropical-print shirt out of Eve’s     reach. “Come on. You’re dressed to the nines. Go get her, hot shot.”

[cannibrat-blog]

thegrimsoldier:

She snorts. “No, it means jus’ ‘cause I have no gun doesn’t mean I have no weapon.”

    “You should stay safe,” he says, toting his own handgun. It’s a revolver. The gunmetal glints in the overhead sun. He points the barrel at her chest. It’s not loaded, but it’s still a concerning gesture. “You got titties, after all. Never safe to have around grown ups.”

[cannibrat-blog]

dagummed:

        “LAWDY, I, uh——— I dunno, man, ‘e looks kinda gnarly.”  Dallas cautions, taking a few steps away from the mutt. And ANOTHER few steps, when the suggestion is made to put the thing down. 

                  “If it bites me I’ma get you t’pay my rabies bills.”

    “Bite you?” he said, incredulous, squeezing its snout with his hands in a rather disturbing gesture. He stare at its black eyes with all the empathy of a pet rock. It whimpered. He tilted his head and watched it squirm uncomfortably, its yellow fur pressed up against Everett’s palms.

     “It can’t bite you, I’m muzzling it, you big baby,” he grinned at him. “C’mere Dallas, it won’t hurt you.”

[cannibrat-blog]

cuttingxedge:

    Something was different. Within the youth’s face something signaled that something just wasn’t what it appeared to be—the eyes. It was the eyes. Patrick never held actual certainty to how children operated but, being encircled at this moment he felt as though he was becoming prey. Patrick didn’t like it. It left restless thoughts creeping in the back of his mind. This would not do. In his mind he was never to be the prey but the predator. Of course, seeing Everett cease to walk brought on the most awesome wave of relief. Charmed, Patrick placed a large palm on his shoulder as if to ensure he wouldn’t creep around anymore. Soccer dad. The title was so funny he forgot to laugh. And by funny he meant insulting. Perhaps the boy’s weapon of choice were words. For all Patrick knew, Everett may’ve been an impoverished boy that was potentially wise, a bit ahead of his time, and excellent in tearing people down with just a little wordplay. How unique. Patrick stressed with no sincerity whatsoever. “I’ve always preferred being on the rare side.” Rare, hard to find, special. He didn’t need to know how everything in Patrick’s life held a boring element, how every face and every voice began blurring together into the most uninteresting mess. “I’m twenty-six years old.” He threw in for a better measure, strained humor laying in his voice. He was twenty-seven years old. But the snot-nosed bra–bastard didn’t deserve to be aware of this, either. Soccer Dad. One who lived in the silent, sleepy suburbs, perhaps even packed lunches in plastic baggies. And the contents of his BMW? It would have been filthy. Patrick couldn’t put the idea behind him.

    Sure, Patrick may have inlaid his preference with the metaphorical, but Everett agreed rather literally. Patrick would be good rare. He was fit and thin and in his prime--a ripe twenty-six. Wasn’t that when the male physique peaked or something? Everett knew that if he went easy on the eyes he did so in the stomach. God, he was hungry.

     Searching through his backpack (an American flag is ironed onto it), Everett retrieves a bag of hard lemon candy and shoves on in his mouth, tucking it between his teeth and jaw to burn there like it’s Copenhagen. It’s to curb thoughts of well-prepared ribeye and chozio and sage and spicy mayonnaise, thoughts of creme fraiche and roast and pulled pork and hot barbecue.

     He was always so hungry.

     “So you’re unmarried,” he began, rocking back on his dirty converse. He held up fingers for demonstration--a facsimile of a kindergarten teacher he’d never had in an attempt to convince people that he had, indeed, attended an elementary school, for real. “You got no kids. You’re rich and you’re well-versed and intelligent.”

     He squinted at him. Bachelor. Sure, he got that. He didn’t really know whether or not to mess with him. There was a practiced intensity to him. As if he was sewn with good intentions that expired two years before. The rotten wafting smell was there, making him stiff, but he wasn’t about to maintain that goodness. He seemed dangerous. Or uptight. Or immoral. 

     Or perhaps simply indifferent. He could work with that.

     “Okay, well, I’m Everett,” he introduced with a smile, “Do you want to have sex with me?”

[cannibrat-blog]

blackbcck:

         ❛ NICE ?? ❜ he huffed, neck arcing in the opposite direction where a short puff of smoke was released. ❛ i only gave ya one ‘cause ya wouldn’t FUCKIN’ shut up. ❜

    “You’re a real sweetheart,” he decides, rocking his chair back on its two back legs. He stops it quickly. Pink doesn’t seem the type who’d refrain from sweeping his leg beneath the chair. He blows out a puff of white smoke and watches it twist into nothing. “Do you think I’m gonna shut up now?”

[cannibrat-blog]

lcnelybcy:

“maybe if i fuckin’ deck you again, you’ll remember.”

it could be possible this was another kid, completely unknown to him, but the attitude and mannerisms made him sure it was that kid. 

“ashton. lemme try and guess yours. idiot, brat, little bitch.” always one to hold a grudge. “don’t pull that little kid shit with me, you tiny freak.”

    “You must have given me a concussion, because you’re not that important     to me,” decides Everett, his face turning into that cruel, smug smile he uses     to entice both pedophiles and fists.

    “You ever hear kids at the playground calling each other ‘gay’ because they’re     dumb and never got sex ed from their Christian parents?” he says this in the     way a reminiscent adult might. “That’s kind of what you sound like. You should     stop being an angry Republican and learn to stop verbally abusing little kids,     you heinous fucking mongoloid, because, ASHTON, my name is EVERETT     JASPER VALENTINIS-LUI, and there is NOTHING I CANNOT DO!”

[cannibrat-blog]

what if i played narrator from fight club