Blood wet pickles slide over Ronaldo’s body as a heavy torrent tumbles down from above.  Giggling schoolgirls in pretty pink bows and nudity make the experience even less than normally pleasant… bruised testicles… bruised ego.  The gag and rope which bind his wrists are tight, biting into his flesh and cheeks.
Mother Fuck President’s Day!
Do I have your attention?
Does anyone ever really have anyone’s attention?
The shiny head of his engorged penis parts her soft pink lips ever so gently and she tightens her grip on the headboard.   Her wetness gives no resistance granting easy access.  But he stops, halfway in and he slides his cock out, holding it mere atoms from the slit.  She grabs his shoulder with her nails and digs in deep; arching her hips towards his shaft, she catches the barest tip with her vagina before it slips out and he backs away again.  Her pussy aches to be fucked.  Her pussy needs to be fucked.
“Fuck me!”
How do I find my way out… out of this muck?
Mawkishly I must.
‘Mawkish’ = excellent word.
The little bird chases the big bird through the air.  They swoop high then low, loop de loop and arcedly round about flittering this way and that, the pursued frantic in its efforts to escape its quick and agile predator.  What the big bird fails to see with its huge wings is that if it simply flies in a straight line as high and fast as its appendages will carry it, the little bird will fall fast in its wake.  But utter blind terror leads it to pursue evasive maneuvers which ultimately exhaust the poor creature’s reserves… And that very night the blood of the big bird stains the beak of the little…
…wet as a pickle.
And in the end as ever it was in the beginning it is all filler. Everything, all things known and not… all filler.  From the moment your father squirts in your mother’s guts and she shits you out until the exact speck of time you rot and die… alone… in a bed.
All filler.
Ooooh, I have a chaff-ed taint.
Ooooh, I have a chaff-ed taint.
Ooooh, I have a chaff-ed taint.
Early in the mor-ning!
Professor Summer turns his back to the class and grabs the peach chalk.  Its cool powdery solidity feels good in his hand.
“O.K., today we are going to broach the subject of ethical philosophy.”  His fingers created the letters
“Professor!”  It is her.
He turns to see the girl, third left, row two, with her hand raised high in the air.
“Are we to assume that if there is ethical philosophy that there is such a thing as unethical philosophy?”
Smart girl… mawkish, but smart.
“Yes.  I will definitely be discussing the differences if you just give me a moment.”
She shrinks a little at the reproach but he is beyond caring.  That girl has been the bane ((B-A-N-E)) of his existence since day one.  He never should have boned her.  He turns back to the board.
((-L    P-H-I-L-O-S-O-P-H-Y))
Not for nothing does the text confuse.  An idea is like a virus, complete in its consumption.  Anything less is but a notion.  It is very important to make the distinction between ideas and notions.  It is important because I say it is important.  And the saying makes it thus.
The Whisperers have always been here, walking among us… unseen… barely heard.  They shape us.  They shape the way we think.  They whisper… in our ears as we sleep, in our hearts as we dream, in our souls as we lament.  They place the what-not in our where-to-for.  Neither malevolent nor kind, the whisperers exist.  They exist because they know and this knowing brings the bearer of the knowledge the need to manifest its existence.  All it takes is one word… one seed.
Tricks with time.
Slapping the innocent with the meat of the guilty I wait.
She doodles in her notebook, the girl third left, row two.  She makes the edges of her letters sharp, drawn out and shadowy like blades.  She draws blood on them, dripping down the page.  There is nothing ethical about what is running through her brain.  He stands up there, all prim and proper.  To him she is just another toy… a clueless tart to tease.  And what exactly are the ethics of revenge?
All is fair in…
In order for a story to be present you must present a situation, create a conflict, and resolve the conflict by the use of negative or positive stimuli.  This they know.  This they present.  What then?  A girl wants a boy.  She wants more than he can give.  The boy extracts all which he desires from the encounter and thinks on her no more.  Such is always the way…
So what then?
They whisper.
As he sleeps they whisper.
Naked under the covers, he sweats through the night… cowering in fear at that which he hears.  He isn’t sure he really hears anything at all.  It is soft, ever so faint, a notion half caught between wake and sleep… a notion presented with crystal clarity.  And yet, without proper context it makes no sense at all.  What could it mean, the words bouncing in his head… digging their way into his brain with their razor sharp talons…rendering him helpless in their wake.
((shhh…fuck your mother…shhh))
A thousand times so…
Maybe, just maybe the voices will shut up long enough for us to see this through.  The voices are, must be, on purpose.  They serve the purposeful and deceitful design of purest distractive intent.  ‘Don’t let him finish,’ they say in their subtle fucked up way.  If you let him finish then bad things will happen, and while this may indeed be true finish I must.
That which is known must be revealed.
So what then?
It is called a blossom… an asshole so thoroughly fucked as to be more out than in – usually in the course of fisting.  Such a blossom, surrounded by the soft white blood stained ass of a sixty year old woman is raised in the air.  There are sobs and inarticulate noises filtered by the pillow… noises more primal than present.  The sounds coming from under the muffled padding are screams once known but now forgotten by most… and better for the forgetting.  She is not aware of the sounds she is making and even though it is over her body continues to bleat these horrible tones.
For her it will never be over.
Looking inside.
Would you take my hand and let me take you on a guided tour?  Would you dare?
He cups his hands under the flowing hole and allows cold water to fill them.
Wet eyes looking in the mirror.  They do not recognize the face.  Mere days before the same eyes had seen the face of a happy man… before the whispers.  Night after night the whispers came.
((shhh…fuck your mother…shhh))
((shhh…fuck your mother…shhh))
A notion.
An idea.
A concept.
((shhh…fuck your mother…shhh))
Something so horrible as to be impossible.  A concept so alien to the Professor as to be unutterable.  And yet…
At the bequest of the barely uttered…
He holds his face in his hands and weeps.  Even though it is freshly splashed, Mr. Summer’s face feels moist anew with the taste of shameful salt.
There is a theory, an idea, a notion, that anything thought could and can in fact occur.  Otherwise, the thinking could not be.  One man’s thought is another man’s reality.  A thought is just a window… a window into that other where, that other when… when once upon a time…
There is a theory.
The girl, third left, row two, can hear him snoring between his whimpers above her current resting place.  Three nights.
Three nights is all.
She rolls out from under the bed and rises with caution.  He sleeps with his covers completely tucked in, a baby in the womb.  His body rests in a defensive ball.  There is fresh sweat on his forehead.  She leans down, placing her lips closer to his ears.
((shhh…kill yourself…shhh))
Professor Summer cries in his sleep.
She walks over to the window.  The campus looks lovely from way up here.  It sprawls at her feet like some grand Lego play set.  The girl, third left, row two, opens the window and takes a deep breath of night air.  She looks back at the sleeping man and blows him a kiss.
She flies out the window.
((shhh…the words sit on the shelf waiting to be read.  They know nor care not the mind of the reader.  They only know that they will be read, and that in the reading there will be life… in the reading there will be…shhh))
I sigh.



(Order the book)

D.B Tarplay is not quite right. If he wants to do something, instead of sitting around and whining about it, he gets up off his ass and he does it. D.B.Tarpley has stolen an army recruiter’s car. D.B.Tarpley led police on a high-speed car chase through four counties and two roadblocks — crashing into the third doing 135mph. D.B.Tarpley has robbed a bank. D.B.Tarpley has recorded an album. D.B.Tarpley has acted in six plays. D.B.Tarpley has made three movies and two documentaries. D.B. Tarpley has written three screenplays and over a hundred short stories. Still, D.B.Tarpley is not quite right. Lick the Razor collects 15 of D.B.Tarpley’s most gut-wrenching tales: splatterpunk to the core. D.B.Tarpley currently lives in an undisclosed parcel of godforsaken America with his equally godforsaken dog Che’vato and his godforsaken love slave Barnabus
Reproduced with the permission of Germinal Press and D.B. Tarpley.
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10.01.2014 Nashville. Tennessee

D.B. TARPLEY “Cranial blisters in the pursuit of provolone”
4 votes, 4.50 avg. rating (90% score)

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[2] Comments
  1. Thank you and I always welcome any and all critiques, but when the characters speak they do have quotation marks. Anything else is the author speaking to the reader, kind of breaking that 4th wall. I know it is confusing but for this story it is a technique I decided to stick with. Thanks again for reading and again I am always open to criticism. I am glad you enjoyed it.

  2. Hoooooollllllyyyyyyy Shit!!! I wasn’t expecting that! I don’t know what I expecting but I can say you shook my core WTF!!?? Now that I picked my eyeballs up and unclinched my ass(lol) I can say this was educational, scary,controversial, intense and fucked up at the same damn time and I LOVED IT! But I hope that bitch from “The girl, third left, row two” don’t come and visit me after reading this lol…no seriously…lol I’m a little freaked.

    Small critique though: When your characters speak, you should use “” quotation marks throughout the whole book because it makes it easier to follow.

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