thejanitor413
Radio Bob Approved
she was sweeter than sunday choirs,
The door swung open, for a moment, all the purple and blue hues and light, the disco sound and aesthetic, escaped through the cracked door - slipping into the raining, almost thundering air, sacred and terrible. Bright colors clashing with the city's brown, and gray palette. As if to prophesize all who come's misery. Collective company suffering in it, there was nothing for them here but that filling feeling of suffering, and the idle pleasures of terrible sin to temporarily escape it.
Her arm was wrapped 'round him, she couldn't stand on her own, and he couldn't go on his. He looked down to her hung head as he carried her in his unloving arms. His heart was a shape that can't be held. "Move, cocksuckers!" a passer-by so gently hurled. The suited man kept on, his damsel in distress with him.
You could smell the drink on her, less on him - his were a strong stench of cigarettes and an amalgamation of other horrid scents, blood, spit, flesh and what-have you. The man's suit was dirtied, dried blood in it's crevices. They weren't her's.
His arms became heavy, his legs too, one so much so he began dragging it, his shoulder popped and his jaw jolts about - maybe it's excitement. Or his heart of stone eating him alive. Take my heart of stone. The man's eyes were bloodshot, looking about emptied city streets, a few Dominican boys walk by, then a few Albanians, and then a few-- So on, so forth. Each time, his head cracks around, you hear the bones move and mash together.
He gets to his door. Going just down the hall. He's heavy - a man hears and steps out his door. "Yo', Prokhor? Eh, what the fuck-" he presses on. "Boss needs to-- Where teh' fock' are ju' gon'? Is... Yew' good?" another Russian, obviously mobster-type, questions as the man passes. Heads turn and go his opposite direction.
He gets to his room.
They get to his room.
The man is coated in his own blood, he keeps scratching, and -- biting. His own flesh exposed, spit leaks from his locked open jaw, and his eyes roll around in their sockets. His skin peels and turns pale.
She lays there helpless to him, and he makes her part of him.
The screaming is tireless, horrid, phones call.
Satan had stole a piece of her soul. And come for all of his.
"Did you hear?"
"What?"
"Russian Gangster cannibalized some drunk girl he brought home from the bar - whole city's talking. Third cannibal case this week, spreading like the plague."
"What?"
"Russian Gangster cannibalized some drunk girl he brought home from the bar - whole city's talking. Third cannibal case this week, spreading like the plague."