Monster Fucker

I had sex with a monster because I'm monster curious. I don't often find a monster that does it for me, but when I do, of course it turns out to be a nightmare. Some say it always does, and it always will, but I don't believe it, because, well, I'm a monster fucker! That's just the way I see it, naturally. I convince myself that the next monster will be different—that the next time I go monster, it will turn out less of a nightmare and more how I daydream. But I guess only the kind of people who can fall in love with monsters will be able to know what I mean. It's uncontrollable.

But this time the nightmare included a half-monster half-me baby. I woke up to find it howling in a cardboard box that was left on my doorstep with a note attached to it that read "This is your problem!" It wasn't signed, but the half-monster part was a dead giveaway.

I found it there, and as a reflex, I kicked it. I couldn't believe it. I KICKED IT! I kicked the shit out of it and the box exploded like a hornet's nest! What have I done? I'm a monster! A MONSTER!

The box hit the back fence and fell to the ground. It was quiet, dead quiet, for about three seconds, then the screaming began, and my blood curdled, and my hair stood on end—each and every hair on my body stood up and grew in gobs, covered my toes, and burrowed themselves into the ground, deep down, pulling off my skin. It ripped my skin off in pieces and chucks. I screamed until my cheeks were pulled off, then gargled at the top of my lungs!

I fell to the ground a bloody mess of muscle and exposed nerve endings. Everything felt, all at once, like ice cold daggers and volcano heat. My monster baby crawled out of the box, over to where my ear would have been, and whispered, "That's what you get when you fuck with the monster inside!" Then he spit something wet into my ear-hole, stood up, and vanished.

COMMENTARY: I was curious what would result while writing and feeling feverish-sick. It appears a dark place would make sense of these sore muscle aches.