She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXXVI)


The following is one of many installments for a story designed specifically for my blog.  While it does step out of my usual genre, there are some things still not suitable for a younger audience.  Violent/Graphic descriptions, strong language and sexual situations may be found through different sections.  Each entry will tell a small portion of the story during different times and may not directly follow the one prior to it.  

This story follows the direct interactions, as well as the deteriorating thoughts of a young man who is struggling not only with the relationships he has with those around him, but with the relationship he has with himself as well.

Finally, all work is strictly fiction and does not reflect the views of the author.  Any resemblance to actual person(s) is only a coincidence.

If this isn’t your cup of tea, then avoid these excerpts and hopefully I’ll see you around my other posts and webseries!


“Billy!  Get the hell in here NOW!”

B.J.’s father was drunk.  He was always drunk, and tonight would be no different.  He had come home from work early with a case of Old Deerwalker, a cheap beer common to the area.  This had been just after sundown and there was now a respectable pyramid of empty cans forming on the coffee table.

“Damn it Robert!  I told you to call me B.J.,” the young man retorted.

This brought on a fit of derisive laughter from the elder Jameson, whom had never approved of nicknames, which lasted until it had stolen his breath.  He was doubled over and gasping for air when B.J. entered the small living room.  His father sat on the only piece of furniture they had, a shit brown recliner which had seen its better share of days.  By the looks of it, its best days were long gone.

“Okay, Bee-Jay,” he slowly enunciated.  “What’s that supposed to stand for; Blow Job?  Are you a faggot, boy?  You been giving that Tommy feller hummers in his truck, have you?”

Robert stood up slowly, grasping onto the arm of the recliner to steady himself as he did and he locked eyes with his son.  His own stared down at the young man with a look of cruel contempt, as if he had already made up his mind to the answer.

“Damn it, do we have to do this tonight,” B.J. questioned in exasperation.

“I ain’t having no queers in my house,” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips with each slurred word.

“I’ve told you that I’m not like that!  I’ve banged my share of girls,” he argued, somewhat lamely.

Robert Peppers wasn’t going to have it, his mind was indeed, already made up.  He led with his right arm, and though he was very intoxicated, his reflexes were still fast enough to catch B.J. off his guard.  His fist connected solidly beneath the left eye socket, turning his son’s head violently to the right and causing it to rebound off of the wall.  It didn’t take more than one punch to get the effect he was looking for, the younger man was already slumping to the floor.

“Goddamn pussy-faggot,” he spat vehemently.  “I’ll show you what hap-”

His words were suddenly halted by a sharp pain in his right side.  At first, it felt like he had been stung by a wasp, and for the second time in several minutes he found himself at a loss for breath.  His eyes widened, however, when the pain suddenly amplified. Whatever had stung him suddenly turned inside of him!  Slowly, he looked down as a bloodied hand yanked a long blade from between his ribs.

“But, you said to leave it in…” a weakened voice protested from beyond his vision.

“We’ll be fine,” the same voice answered, but this time more willfully.  And he wasn’t sure, but he thought he detected a foreign accent to it this time?  He looked up, his intoxicated body turning towards his unknown attacker, but not fast enough.  A line of fire drew itself across his neck, cutting deep enough to several both of his jugular veins. He felt the strength drain from his legs and he watched helplessly as the floor rushed up to greet him.  It was the last thing he ever saw, but not the last thing he heard.

Robert Peppers sped into Hell only minutes before his son, whose death he experienced through his ears as his brain slowly died from oxygen deprivation.

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