Vengance Is Mine.

Vengeance Is Mine.

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 

up for display. 

Then suddenly  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 i

n 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. 

Hell hath No Fury