And so the story is told from long ago about poor Becky and Sam. This young couple fell

in love in the heart of downtown Chicago while sharing some turkey and ham.

Theirs was a love affair that quickly took flight. A romance seemingly written in the stars

until Becky met her end that fateful night when Sam came home from the bars.

He was off his meds, drunk, he was hearing voices urging him to slice and to kill. He

packed some of her remains in the floor joists and the rest he ate until full.

Becky tasted sweet; she was tender and ripe; ever so succulent in a brown sugar glaze.

Sam patted his belly and let out a belch as he pulled out his pipe to puff on some purple

haze.

Soon he drifted off in a cannabis snooze, fantasizing broiled tripe. Licking his lips and

caressing his sweet muse he was soon shockingly aroused by one sight.

There suspended above him, sweet Becky flew drenched in dripping blood. There were

holes that were her eyes burning so bright she was cackling and shrieking out loud:

“You may have eaten my lungs; you may have ingested my liver, but tonight you will get

your prize. Sam tonight is the night, the deadliest night for you too will end your own

life.”

Gagging was Sam from the surprise of his life but he still tried dismissing her with a

shrug. But then he burped, and burped and burped and belched spitting out first his

severed tongue.

Then one by one, followed by each tooth, then his empty jaw…

“It is time for repentance!” declared the dead girl; as his eyes bounced and rolled all

across the floor.

Her form dematerialized into a misty white swirl as the cloud filled the room like smoke.

Sam gagged and flailed as he inhaled her, swarming was she as he lost his toes…

Soon Sam was dead; his was form torn asunder, bite sized, medium and in extra large

chunks. The room looked like the inside of a blender as Becky’s laugh was heard above

the plunks.

And there in the middle was a tube of skin, open too was his throat all cleared;

Sam could not laugh or even manage a burp anymore.

By Joseph J. Patchen

josephjpatchen.weebly.com