Wrath White: Like Porno for Psychos

To Mom

DEADITE PRESS BOOKS BY WRATH JAMES WHITE

The Book of a Thousand Sins

Population Zero

His Pain

Sex and Slaughter

Like Peyote for Pimps

Joy

Kids

Feeding Time

Rottweiler

Nothing Better to Do

House Cleaning

Fatter

The Strange Lusts of Hypocrits

After the Cure

Make Love to Me

How can you say I do not love you

merely because I am destructive

in the expression of my love?

I love you

as only the starving wolf

can love the wounded deer

with an obsessive adoration

like physical hunger.

It is to adore them forever

uninterrupted

that I would pinch off your eyelids

to never be denied the spectacle

of your wondrous eyes.

It is to never see your lovely smile

deceased from your face

that I would pull up the corners

of your full red lips

and pin them to your cheeks.

It is so your voluptuous breasts

would never succumb to age or gravity

that I would bind them in piano wire

and anchor them to your throat.

And so you would never forget

the sensation of my mouth

wet hot against the joining of your thighs

and I

never to forget the taste

that I would cannibalize your sex

savage your labia and clitoris

with my teeth

chew up into your ovaries.

And how could mere malice

or cowardly misogyny

explain such an act?

Only love can rationalize this madness

this passion

which even now brings the taste of your sex

melting on my tongue like a sweet confection

to my tastebuds

and tears of the most profound joy

to my adoring eyes.

Cocoa’s face was covered in livid purple bruises. Her front teeth had been completely shattered and her nose was smeared across her face as if she’d gone twelve rounds with a heavyweight. Her neck bore the marks of ligature strangulation. The finger saw the perpetrator used to murder her was still embedded in her esophagus. A hideous gaping wound yawned open beneath her chin like a blood-soaked second smile. The serrated wire had cut straight through to her vertebrae, nearly decapitating her. Coagulated blood formed a tremendous pool all around her. Her tank top and miniskirt had been pulled up and her bra and panties were missing. One of her breasts looked like it had been chewed up. If G hadn’t paid for it himself, he’d never have been able to tell that her clothes were once white. G turned his head as shivers began to raise goosebumps all over his skin. That’s all he could stand to look at. The rest of the damage was just too horrible. He shoved the picture across the table, back toward the detective.

“This is the second ho you’ve lost this week, Tyson. Is this how you protect your girls?”

“Pimpin’ ain’t easy,” hissed the leather-clad, platinum and diamond bejeweled pimp in a voice that was low and raspy from too much alcohol and weed. It was one of those universally excepted truisms of the game, so self-evident as to hardly merit repeating. Tyson Price (better known as G-Town Slim) first heard the age-old axiom from the lips of his father. He would mutter it everyday in an exhausted sigh as he collapsed onto the lambskin leather couch and rolled himself a joint after kicking G’s mother out of the house to work the Boulevard for tricks. When G’s mother was murdered by a trick who gave her AIDS back in ’83, he remembers hearing his dad mutter those same words over her grave before sliding into the back of his block-long Lincoln Town Car with his new ho and disappearing from G’s life forever. G was only eight years old then. Almost two decades later, he was a mirror image of his dad.

G-town Slim wore a full-length leather coat, a silk Armani shirt, and tight Hugo Boss jeans with a pair of snakeskin boots. His neck, ears, and wrist were iced with a sparkling platinum necklace hung with a six-inch crucifix, 2 Karat diamond earrings, and a diamond encrusted platinum Rolex from Jacob the jeweler. He made this detective’s monthly salary in one night on the streets. Still, he wished he could have traded places with him at that moment.

The cop shoved the photo back at him, grabbing him by his soft brown dreadlocks and forcing his head down onto the table, rubbing his face into the photo, forcing him to look closer at the ruin done to Cocoa’s privates. Her vagina had been completely eaten away. Her murderer chewed away all her labia and clitoris leaving one ragged hole. He had completely cannibalized her sex. G-town threw up all over the desk.

Pimpin’ ain’t easy. Some days however, were worse than others.

The detectives let Tyson go. Apparently regurgitation wasn’t the common response of sex murderers when confronted with evidence of their crimes. Selena, one of G’s main money-makers, picked him up at the station in his money green Mercedes E-class. She immediately began chattering on about a new ultra slim smart-phone she wanted that did everything but suck dick and give handjobs. When her incessant squawking grew too much for him to tolerate, he quiteted her with a slap. The silence immediately rushed in and began to work his nerves even worse than Selena’s high-pitched whine. There were too many questions coiled like serpents within the quiet, waiting to strike and constrict. He could feel his lungs slowly crushing beneath their weight.

He turned on the radio and blasted a frenetic hip-hop tune with indecipherable lyrics spit out like machine gun fire in an exaggerated southern drawl. It didn’t help. He could still see Cocoa’s battered and vandalized corpse in his mind, competing with the memory of her head banging against the roof of the Mercedes as he’d given her a little something to remember him by last night before putting her out on the stroll. He wasn’t concerned about his semen showing up inside her during the autopsy. He always used a condom. Besides, he never denied that she was his ho. It would be no surprise that he would have fucked her, but fucking a girl was a far cry from doing to her what he had seen in those pictures.

G-town felt himself slipping into a depression as he recalled the image of his beautiful Cocoa, with her platinum blonde hair and smooth milk chocolate skin, ripped open and looted of her most valuable parts. Her lovely breasts with the big perky nipples like Hershey Kisses were still fresh in his mind, how they’d tasted the night before and how they’d appeared in that photo with one of the nipples bitten off. He reached under the seat and grabbed the bottle of French La Bleue, an imported French Absinthe, that he’d acquired a habit for at the last Player’s Ball in New Orleans. Almost choking, he took a long swig from the bottle and grimaced as the fiery green liquid burned its way down his throat. Then he lit up his “special” joint, a marijuana cigarette mixed with opium leaves. The same pimp who turned him onto La Bleue had turned him out on opium and weed. It was a high that made you never want to land.