“You fucking ass, I fucking hate you.”
They were riding in his car when she told him she fucking hated him. She did hate him, especially now that they were riding in his car and he was grinning that fucking asshole grin of his, all she wanted to do was grab a cleaver and claw his face to shreds but he was driving and if she did that he’d have a fucking wreck and probably kill them both so fuck it.
“Fuck I fucking hate you.”
She hated him even more because she couldn’t kill him but they were on the way home and maybe she could kill him then, maybe she could use that butcher knife and kill him in that clichéd way, his blood splattered all over a fucking wall or some shit, his blood splattered all over her face and hands and bared breasts after he fucked her.
“You fucking sick motherfucker, I fucking hate you so fucking much I could fucking kill you.”
He just kept grinning and driving and soon they got home.
She let him fuck her but she hated him, she hated his dick in her, but she let him fuck her good because she knew he would stay and pay her bills and get her the good shit. Fucking him was her ticket through it all, but she could still get off killing him, using that butcher knife in the kitchen the way she wanted to use it. No, she wouldn’t cut his dick off, wouldn’t even threaten it, that was really clichéd, no, she would stick the point at his throat and just ram it the fuck in like he rammed his dick in her hate-filled cunt.
When they woke up the next morning he was gone and there was no blood in the bed and the knife was still in the kitchen drawer. She looked around the house but he wasn’t there. His car was gone and she waited days before he came back.
“You ok, baby?” he asked as she opened the door for him.
“I’m fucking excellent,” she said, the knife vertical behind her back.
It took her a month, it seemed, to wash all the blood away.
By Jeff Callico
Hey, I know that chick.