Vengance Is Mine.
Vengeance Is Mine.
©-MFB III All rights denied!!
Sitting in the park at dusk,
high heels pinching my wide feet,
my dress slightly wadded and lumpy
beneath my padded derriere.
My bra like a strait jacket
its protrusions grazing my
untrained arms at every move.
The wig sweaty and hot,
the musk of my perfume sticky sweet,
wanting so badly to
adjust a non-public area,
but it would not be ladylike.
Two hours pass in purgatory
hard slats stretched
under a much harder slut,
posing in a nap-like state,
a wo-mannequin propped for display.
Then the bushes crackle,
just to the left of my clip-on earring.
Long manicured, bright red fingertips
reach for the hidden 44 magnum,
slipping its thick barrel between
the juncture of my damn tight stockings.
The moment draws near,
then a grimy, overly hairy hand
clamps over my painted lips,
as the scum-bucket behind me whispers,
"Don't scream, Don't move, or I'll cut ya."
I freeze in my sweat-stained costume,
as he works his way around me,
and allow him to take my right hand,
and place it on his swollen need.
It was just becoming
a large part of his night
under his grease stained jeans.
His right hand holds a knife
loosely against my neck,
as he commands me to unzip him,
His eyes close in ecstasy
as I grip him tight through the cloth,
my disgust curling in my gut,
vomit rising like a barometer
in my dry throat.
Then quickly my 44 magnum rises,
like the smoothly oiled shaft
of a machine recently turned on,
and it explodes, crotch level
into his suddenly shriveling manhood.
He collapses with a scream
of sheer agony as I quickly
kick off my high heels
and drive one into his left eye.
Then I dash for my car,
noting that no one else is around,
in this place that's lately
been labeled "Predator Park."
I drive to the cemetery
where my wife's remains remain,
brutally raped just months ago
while jogging in that park,
and then sadly, she committed suicide.
I bury the gun
deep in the fresh dirt
of her recent grave...
smoothing it over carefully,
and planting several geraniums over top.
Then it's home,
to a sleep that has long eluded me,
after washing off the stench
of a maggot squashed and
burning my female accouterments
in the wood stove of my den.
Next week I'll prepare again,
for some more poetic justice,
in the freshly painted face
of a woman being scorned.
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