Arthur Graham

Mother’s Day

Norman Mailer once said that “Writing books is the closest men ever come to childbearing.” Huh, and here I was thinking the closest we ever came was taking a massive shit. Same thing for some, I guess.

I close my laptop and set it on the table in front of me, nodding to the barista behind the counter as I rise to collect my things. It is Mother’s Day, incidentally, and I’m off to mail a card that’s going to be late enough already as is.

I’ve almost made it to my car outside before I’m accosted by a pair of young women, ostensibly in their early twenties, though looking physically much older. Judging from their stringy hair, sickly pallor, and just generally disheveled appearance, these gals have clearly made some poor life choices.

“Excuse me, sir,” one of them begins. “My sister and I are stranded, and we’re trying to get bus fare… do you think maybe you could help us out?”

The talker isn’t much to look at, but her sister is all right, at least in a snaggletoothed meth head kind of way.

“You girls mothers?” I ask, looking them both up and down.

They glance confusedly at each other. “Huh?”

“Never mind,” I say. “You must at least havea mother, right?”

“Ummm, sure, mister… do you have any spare change? Anything helps.”

“I think I can probably do you better than that on Mother’s Day,” I say, digging out my wallet and leafing through the bills. “How’d you girls like to make a quick $20?”

They look quickly at each other, then back at me in disbelief.

“$20 each?!”

“No, you get to split it.”

They shoot each other another quick glance.

“Yeah, sure!” they reply in near unison.

“Get in the car.”

I’ve been living in this town for years now, and if there was one thing I’d learned, it’s this: No one gives head like a meth head, if only because they’re always either completely cranked or just desperate to get there, all whiplash and drool as both a means and an end to the next hit. It is a simple fact of commerce that these people will do just about anything to get themselves fixed, and I am but an innocent bystander to the economic realities of that whole situation.

If it hadn’t been me, it would’ve been some other perv they’d landed.

When the older sister finally comes up for air, I grab the younger one by the hair and really let her tonsils have it.

“Your mother would be sooooproud,” I say to her as she chokes the whole thing down.

I’m so into fucking her throat that I don’t even notice the knife coming up against my own.

I feel the exquisite sting of air as my neck opens up to the outside world, spilling my blood down my shirt.

My murderer rifles through my pockets while her sister obliviously continues her task, blowing me as if her own life depended on it.

I thought that was awfully nice of them, finishing me off in both ways.

Honestly, I don’t know how I’m even able to keep any blood in my cock with how much of it I’ve lost by this point, but at any rate, somehow I always knew it would end like this.

Finally, I blow my load and die.

My last thoughts are naturally with my mother.

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