Necrophilia - A Love Story

Usually she bought nickelbags of weed
that freckle-faced girl
maybe 18 at most
lived 'round the corner
from his ground floor apt

had no idea how she found him
but he couldn't take his mind off her
those wavy dirty blond curls
sweet smell of her shampoo
way the bottom tips of her asscheeks
peeked outta her hot pants

infatuated
though he wasn't in love
never thought he knew
what love was

gradually he moved up
from spots of weed
to big bags of black tar heroin
but he held onto his favorite customer

one muggy afternoon
she came by
hair in pigtails
noticed a different shade in his drawer
got real curious

first he played it off
didn't want her involved
perhaps due to their decade (or more) age difference
he felt protective
but she insisted
so he sold her the first bag of a new batch
showed her how to shoot it up
offered her a free needle and his couch

flame met spoon
syringe punctured skin
blood mixed with syrupy contents
from the burnt spoon's mouth
her eyeballs rolled white
eyelids clamped shut
she melted silently into the couch
motionless

he figured she'd passed out
plucked the needle from her arm
went back to playing Xbox

'bout a half hour later
she still lay like a rock
was turning kinda blue

he poked at her idle thighs a couple times
nothing
then seized her arms and shook her
no response
felt at her neck
no pulse
panic overtook him
his heart raced
he ran around the room
grabbed a beer, threw it over her
still nothing

he sat back down to the couch
buried his face in his hands and broke into tears
thought he'd go to jail
get assraped by white supremacists
he remembered all the episodes of “Oz” he'd watched

he was scared shitless

so he decided to bring her body to the canal later that night
figured it'd get eaten pretty quick by 'gators

picking her up in his arms
he brought her to his bedroom
and laid her on the bed
didn't want any other customer who might come by to see her

later that night
after smoking weed and drinking all day
he went back to his bedroom to fetch her
was about to chuck her into his duffel bag
and drag her to the canal
but, as he gazed at her,
lying so peacefully
in a Jesus Christ pose
he just couldn't do it
he couldn't let such a thing of beauty
be ripped apart by 'gators

lying down next to her
he ran his hand around
on her bare midriff
which was only lukewarm
slowly he inched up further
caressing her perky young tits
which jiggled at his touch

instantly he sprouted an erection
and twisted down his sweatpants/boxers
and pulled off her hot pants and pink frilly panties
peering in wonder at her barely hairy purplish cunt

he hovered above her like an apparition
spread her legs, angled himself between them
then stuck his cock up inside her

she felt kind of cold
but much better than his hand

he took a few strokes
her tightness caused him to cum quick
he pulled out and lay back
blacked out soon after

when he awoke the next morning
to the air conditioner's clunky hum
something stunk
like the worst stink he'd ever smelled
like 20X worse than a skunk
it was her

a surge of vomit tapped at the back of his throat
he was about to stuff her slightly bloated body
into his duffel bag
but still couldn't do it

her angelic face
her legs spread eagle
the magic of her nearly bald cunt
mesmerized him

so he kept her for a few more days
masking the smell as best he could

late at night he cuddled with her
told her his secrets
kissed her frigid tongue
poured hot olive oil in her pussy to warm it up
and fucked her every morning and night
until skin started to peel off her bones

finally, he knew he had to let her go
so he stuffed her into that duffel bag
and brought her on down to the bowels of Sarasota
to the 'gators

they made quick work of her
chomping up every bit of that soft little body
like a National Geographic special

and as he stood at the edge of the canal
watching them devour her
his eyes got watery
and for the very first time
he thought he knew
what love was

Down On The Tarmac by: A. Razor

The sunset was beautiful, dropping down behind the clouds and fog bank just out past the Farallones as I watched from that part of the California coast line I had come to know so well in my lifetime. The thought that I was never going to see it again was hard to digest right then. I was torn inside over my plans to leave this place and never return, if I could help it. The main reason this was so discomforting, was because I was the only person that knew what my true intention would be when I boarded the plane the following morning. I had decided it would be the only way I stood a chance in making it out of here and getting a head start on what was quickly becoming an imploding existence. I had to make my move now, or face the consequences of a lifetime of crime. It had come to this, as I always knew it might, and now that I was faced with the prospect of leaving my homeland and never returning, living the rest of my life as an expatriate fugitive, I was finding it difficult to embrace this fate without an amplified internal pain and anguish.

It was the eve of the first day of July, in 2004; the last of June had been too severe inside my head and I was trying to keep moving through it as best I could. I had been trying to do damage control on my life since early in the morning on March 22, when I had been arrested in Marin County for a multitude of offenses and was released on bail the next day. I had been trying to mount a defense to the charges, which could bring about a possible three strikes conviction, and continue to make enough money to keep my life and my business moving forward. I had retained a renowned Attorney-at-Law to help with my defense, but even his prognostics were that I would do 10 years before parole would be allowed on a 20-year sentence. It was a difficult outcome to accept. I had done it to myself. I had been sloppy and distracted on the night in question. I got caught slipping, as they say. I had made the selling of contraband, first and foremost the products of the Cannabis plant, but along the way every other mind-altering substance imaginable, my number one achievement in life. I had started slow, as a kid in San Bernardino, CA, and worked my way up, on my terms, taking every opportunity that felt right, by my guidelines, until it had taken me all over the world and been about the only thing I had to show for a whole lifetime. It was a lifetime that seemed about to be over, either in a last stand, on a lonely prison yard or, if I could pull off one last escape and vanish, into another existence. Anyway it was sliced, life, as I had known it, was over. I could go no further as myself, except to certain death. Ten years in prison meant a commitment to put in the work necessary to make it there. I had been in before for briefer periods and I knew what would be required of me. I would either be killed for the slightest mistake, or I would have to kill and assure that my stay was permanent to survive. I was going to walk away from my life and who I was and the world I knew just to be able to survive without going to prison. It was steep consequences, but I had cheated death and life in prison for a long time; my path had become finite, I was certain this was the end of the road. Fleeing now and living life on the run forever was my only chance, my last chance, at any hope for any kind of freedom. I knew it was a slim chance, which was why it had to be executed with the utmost discipline possible.

I drove back to my humble compound on the sea cliff above Drake’s Bay, north of the Golden Gate, to begin my last preparations without tipping off anyone as to my intentions. I had made plans to go to Las Vegas for the 4th of July weekend, where I would meet with an old associate who had obtained a new identity and a fake Canadian passport that would get me passage anywhere I needed to go. I planned on driving from Vegas down through Arizona and into Mexico with the paperwork and flying out of Mexico to Amsterdam, where I had some cash reserves and the opportunity to slip into a new ID and even deeper into obscurity.

None of it would matter if I did not make it to the airport in the morning and slip onto the plane for Vegas undetected and without raising the suspicions of my friends, family and colleagues as well. No one could know so there would be no chance of any information being given to any questions that authorities might ask that would help them trace my movements. I would not only be skipping out on the indictment of charges, but a substantial bail amount that had no real collateral. I knew that taking flight would lead to bounty hunters that would want to collect the quarter-million as well as the State automatically filing conspiracy charges on top of the current indictment. This would also interest the Feds, who had previously had me in their grasp, and enable them to launch a RICO investigation that they could easily make stick in my absence. Once I was on the plane to Vegas I was violating every agreement with the court and the bail bondsmen. There was no going back, as I would be an international fugitive the moment the plane taxied. The only thing in my favor was that I would be the first to know, the only one to know, at least, until I failed to appear in court that Tuesday in the space age courthouse of Marin County designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.

I had come to hate that building and all it symbolized to me. It was haunting my nightmares along with all the ghosts of friends and enemies who had not escaped the fate that had set upon me. I was tormented those last few days up until now and I had given to remedy the torment in my usual, familiar fashion. A mixture of weed wrapped in tobacco leaf, cognac, cocaine, heroin to steady my nerves. I chewed family size bottles of Tums every couple of days. I couldn’t sleep well, and waking anxiety was too much, so I needed to go from one state of intoxication to the next to keep up the front that I was doing what I had to do to get by. I downplayed as much as possible, if I was too uncomfortable I went for the next thing that would work. Needless to say, packing was difficult under those circumstances.

Candi had been staying at my place on Venice Beach, CA when I had been pinched by the Sheriff with a trunk full of drugs and a loaded weapon back in March. She had come back to Marin County and helped coordinate the bail with my friends and spent time with me while I was going to court appearances and talking to lawyers. I think she sensed something was a bit awkward about my sudden plan to go to Vegas for the weekend right before a court date, but I was not the most stable person to judge, mostly by design, to begin with. She was going along with helping me pack and agreed to drive me to the airport. I figured she was getting a car out of it and she would probably get something out of my business associates, so it wouldn’t be all bad for her. I reasoned it all out as best I could and was clumsily trying to decide what I would take for the trip to Vegas. I had some very excellent MDMA that I would want to do with the girls that were picking me up at McCarran Airport. They were going to have coke and hop at the room they had reserved at the MGM Grand, but I didn’t want to be without at any point, so I was bringing an eight-ball of blow and 3 grams of tar to make sure I always had something and never had to wait on anything. The idea of waiting or going without was unacceptable to me: I had seen this happen to many others and the results were never positive.

I had been making my own hashish for some time and recently had been using a technique called “bubble bag” using cold water, ice and several layers of mesh screens that produce a high quality hash that was more akin to chunks of compressed kif. This was like the champagne of cannabis products and I wanted to take the last two grams of my best batch with me to smoke in Mexico, after I crossed the border. It was some sentimental consolation prize I had sold myself on. I hid the MDMA and the hash in the bag I was going to check. I picked out some clothes and packed them as well. I picked out what I would wear to the airport, making sure the shorts had cargo pockets that I could fit a half ounce of weed in. I knew all I had to do was stay in line and be patient as it moved along so as to not attract attention and I could carry the coke, heroin and weed on my person. The hype kit I would hide in a metal sunglasses case that I would put through the x-ray with my cell phone, belt buckle, change, pen, lighter and keys all right next to it. The hype kit was just a couple of cotton swabs, bent spoon and 2 syringes. Laid on its side it would not look any different than wire rimmed sunglasses. I proceeded to spend most of the night in a bathrobe and thick socks, listening to music, taking showers after sex with Candi, looking at pictures of loved ones and then watching porn on the big screen. I had a couple of anxiety attacks while dwelling on the idea that my ex-wife might see me in Vegas, which was a complete delusion, but I still had to make heroin-heavy speed balls each time to combat the anxiety. I couldn’t let Candi know there was anything too out of the ordinary. It was like Moses trying to pretend to be Mohammed at a Jesus party.

At 5:30 am, Candi and I got into the shower the last time and by 6:00 am I was packed into the car with her and ready to go. We drove out of town and along the edge of the placid lagoon while it was still dark, with the slight aurora of dawn’s first trickle above the mountains silhouette. I was trying to keep my concentration as best I could as I drove up the winding mountain road. The drive was hard to do and I couldn’t climax getting road head as we drove over the mountain. “It’s just the drugs, baby, it’s not you.” I told her. At the 7-11 on the other side, before we got on the freeway, I let her take the wheel and I conceded to the passenger seat. One last stop in the gas station bathroom at Tam Junction, before the freeway entrance was upon me, to get one last fix in Marin County. I had to so I could stay calm on the ride to the airport. I had one full syringe for my airport arrival. I would not be able to fix again until I got onto the Southwest jet plane headed for Las Vegas at 9:15 am. As we drove over the bridge I suppressed every emotion I was feeling and just sat motionless. I looked out the passenger window at the San Francisco Bay one last time as we drove over the Richmond Bridge. The sun was just coming up and the currents in the water were like deep slashes into obsidian flesh; they moved and undulated like some mating of psychedelic snakes rolling through a pool of oil. It was sadly beautiful. I had to not feel it at all; I had to act as if I would be back Monday. I would be in Vegas by noon if everything went as planned. Then, hopefully, I would be in Mexico by Monday night, never to return again, forever and ever.

The car was getting close to the Oakland International Airport terminal, so I pulled out my last syringe. The Southwest Terminal was the last one on the right. I knew, from experience, that if she pulled past the Terminal, there was an area just to the right that she could pull over and I could fix real quick, then bounce out of the car and into the line for baggage check. The line was out the door. It was very crowded with people this morning. There was a huge amount of security as well. The terror alert was high that weekend. I was locked into what I was doing, no turning back now. I kissed Candi good-bye without giving away that something was different from all the airport turnarounds she had previously dropped me off on. I rushed over to the line with the bags and was grateful the sun was up high enough to warrant sunglasses. The line snaked around and was full of impatient and cranky people. It was a good cover for me, at least, or so I hoped. I made it through and then checked the bags and received my gate number. I recognized it as one of the farthest gates on the concourse. I proceeded over to the security check line to gain access to the concourse and all of the gates for boarding. As I approached the x-ray scan I placed all my metal items into the plastic bin and waited to be instructed to slide it into the machine. I then slowly walked through the metal detectors and was waived on. I picked up my bin as it came down the rolling wheels and put all my effects back together. It had been such an excruciatingly long period of time since I even considered going into the bathroom to do a shot. I looked at the clock and knew that my plane was boarding. I would have to do my next shot at altitude on the way to Las Vegas in the tiny mile high lavatory. I was planning on that anyway.

I walked a brisk pace to the gate where my plane was boarding and presented my boarding pass. The girl looked at me for a brief moment and then went to scan the bar code on the boarding pass. As she did so, I looked down into the gangway that led onto the jet and I could see the inside of the plane through the portal that I would soon be walking into for my final escape. I turned back to the girl who had just scanned the pass and I began to notice a change in her demeanor as she looked up at me with an instantly quixotic look and then looked down as she scanned it again. On the second scan I noticed that the beep was significantly different than the other beeps coming from other scanners around us. I looked into the changing expression on her face and was about to ask her what was wrong went I noticed that she began to slowly shrink away as everything began to go into slow motion. I could feel adrenaline hit my bloodstream. Time was moving in fractions of seconds. I was assessing the moment, I had to not panic, but I could feel a surge of blood and clarity. The next fraction I realized that this was not anger at her inability, but that my perception had picked up something behind me. The next moment I realized her reaction confirmed it. I instinctively spun on my heel to confront whatever was closing in behind me. The butt of an M-16A4 caught me in the chest as I made the turn into it. The slow motion almost stopped completely as everything went dim. The shock of pain and the sudden loss of air was so intense, I did not notice that I had crumpled onto the carpet until a moment later when I could finally take my first gasp for air. The shooting pain in my right wrist and both ankles was evidence that I was being stood on with boots. I could not move, anyway. I was done in and was like a rag doll in the hands that grabbed at me as commands were yelled at me. I could not make out the words. I was limp, unable to move anything. I could see the spiral grooves of the muzzle closest to my head. They disappeared up into the barrel that elongated into a man in desert fatigues and a black beret. “Don’t you fucking move a finger!” was what he seemed to say. I just laid there staring up at him as manacles were being ratcheted to my wrists and ankles. It finally hit me. I was caught. It was over, but how? I was reeling in my head. This could not be real. How did they know? Then I remembered the girl moments before. The boarding pass wouldn’t scan. They had made me from a distance somehow. Then the thought hit me just as the Homeland Security officer told me I had violated the Patriot Act and that I was a “detainee” of the U.S. Military.

I was hoisted up in the chains and forced to march in the chains back down the long concourse I had just come down to get to the final departure point. I began to realize I was in the kind of trouble you never get out of. It was game over, no escape, no more hope. I was done in at last. They paraded me past all the 4th of July passengers who moved out of the way of my military entourage and I met the judgment in their stare with a beaten look that just seemed to draw more contempt. I saw parents draw their children closer; I saw the fear in the children’s eyes as they clutched at their parents’ bodies. I looked back up at the faces of the parents and adults. They would have easily started their Independence Day weekend with a lynching right there in the airport. I was trying to march, overwhelmed inside with a building shame that was beginning to drown out the physical pain. I thought of what a failure I had been as a parent up until then. These children all had eyes like my own children had. I felt the emotions of my own inequities hit me with a landslide. I was captured in an airport in a way that I would not or could not escape. I had failed every lie I told to get that far. I was not going to make it, so it all became a lie in that moment. Every promise I had ever made to anyone, even to myself, was undone and made into a lie. I was unable to cope with the feeling, but I could not let them see me cry, not now, not like this. I had to keep something for myself to hold onto. I was losing everything. I had lost; I was lost.

Lady Gaga's Donkey Punch

Lady Gaga had finished a three hour set at Madison Square Garden and was kicking back with her entourage at The Boom Boom Room, of one of New York City’s most exclusive clubs.

Near her sat a group of Wall Street, hedge fund types. That sort of greed driven, slicked back hair asshole wasn’t usually her type, but there was this one guy amongst them who instantly caught her eye.

He looked like a younger, more handsome version of Gordon Gecko from the 1980’s flick “Wall Street,” with the same haircut, Armani suit (though of a more recent fashion), and overall air of arrogance about him, but for some reason, perhaps the copious amount of alcohol she'd consumed, she couldn’t look away from him.

Pretty soon, Lady Gaga was dancing with her friends, mostly women and homosexuals, and before she knew it, they were engaged in a full blown conga line, which began to snare up the entirety of the club's patrons.

As they danced through the club, Lady Gaga noticed that in back of her, holding her hips, was the hedge fund asshole she’d been eyeing earlier.

“Hey there!” He shouted into her ear, over Britney Spear’s “I Wanna Go,” which was thumping from the club’s sound system.

At first Gaga ignored him, playing coy.

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?!” He shouted into her ear again, as the conga line passed by the bar.

Being famous meant everything to Lady Gaga; hell, she’d even titled her record “The Fame,” and this Wall Street asshole not knowing who she was pissed her off even more than the mere fact that he was a Wall Street asshole.

Incensed, she broke out of the conga line, spun around, and got in his face.

“You don’t who I am?” She angrily screamed over the music, when, ironically enough, the DJ started playing her song “Judas.”

“Nope, sorry. But you look familiar.” He replied, stone-faced.

“I’m Lady Gaga!” She screamed, even more pissed off.

“Wait, the singer?” He replied, with a smile. “That’s where I know you from. Of course I’ve heard of you… Sorry, though, other than when I’m at a club, I don’t listen pop. I’m into mostly classical, Chopin, Bach, that sort of thing.”

Suddenly Lady Gaga felt like a bitch for getting so upset. She was actually intrigued to meet a man with refined taste and kind of optimistically thought that maybe he wasn’t just another player jerk trying to nail her so he could brag to his friends about how “he fucked Lady Gaga.”



“It’s okay. I’m sorry for snapping at you…” Lady Gaga said, blushing slightly.

“No worries. How about I buy you a drink and we reconcile, ‘Lady Gaga’?” The stranger asked, his smile widening, revealing perfectly aligned, sparkly white teeth that glistened under the club’s flashing lights.

“Mmm… Okay, but call me ‘Steph.’” She replied, becoming increasingly enraptured by his devilishly good looks.

They ducked around and cut through the conga line, went up to the bar, and downed what turned out to be an endless array of shots. Gaga didn’t remember much after that, other than her and the stranger dancing for a while, and next thing she could recall, they were drunkenly falling into his plush, luxury hotel room at the Waldorf Astoria.

Entering the room, he flicked on the TV to the Golf Channel, which upset Gaga, but before she had a chance to protest, he grabbed her by the arms and stuck his tongue down her throat, aggressively kissing her.

They French-kissed for a few minutes, and then the stranger tore off her high-riding black leather miniskirt and rainbow colored feathery halter top. Gaga unhooked and let loose the black lace bra she’d been wearing underneath and the stranger ripped down her matching black thong and threw it across the room.



The stranger again took her by the arms and tossed her to the large, king sized bed. He disrobed out of his Armani suit in almost military-like precision, slipped off his navy blue boxer briefs and dove onto the bed.

Grabbing Gaga for a third time by the arms, he flipped her over, and she instantly rose up to all fours, knowing what was coming.

And like an earthquake, it hit her. The stranger viciously injected his hard, well-endowed cock, not into her vagina as she expected, but straight into her anal orifice with no lubrication whatsoever (and no condom, either).

Gaga screamed out in a mixture of pain and pleasure as he entered her. Furiously beginning to ram his cock up her ass as hard as he could, he pushed her head down into the pillows to muffle her screams, which had become louder and louder.

After only a couple minutes she could feel his pre-cum seeping into her anus. She was about to tell him to pull out, not wanting him to cum inside her, when… it happened. Just as she was turning her head around to yell at him, she saw his arm cock back, and before she could even formulate words, she felt a blunt force strike the back of her head.

She’d been donkey punched. Donkey punched so hard the trauma had almost instantly knocked her unconscious, and right before she blacked out, she felt the stranger's cum squirting wildly up into her rectal passageway.

She awoke the next morning to the sight of the hedge fund asshole sitting on the edge of the bed, in a white bathrobe, eating breakfast from a room service tray and watching the Golf Channel.

She groggily stumbled up off the bed, with both her head and anus writhing in a stinging pain, and she noticed that the stranger just ignored her, not saying a word or even looking at her.

Spotting her Gucci handbag nearby, she rifled through it, and pulled out her mace.

First, though, she went into the bathroom to piss, washed up her ass a bit (which was bleeding slightly and dripping semen) and immediately upon coming out, sprayed the hedge fund asshole down with the mace, and proceeded to rip the thin plasma TV off the wall and bashed him over the head with it a couple times.

His body went limp and she’d thought she’d killed him, but she could hear him still breathing and saw him occasionally twitching a bit, so she decided to up the ante, and unsheathed the large black dildo she always carried in her handbag.

Gaga hiked up the stranger’s bathrobe over his backside and forcibly shoved the dildo up into his ass. Doing so awakened him, and he began to cry and mumble. After a couple minutes of sodomizing him, Gaga reached back and punched him in the back of his already bloodied head, delivering a cathartic, retaliatory donkey punch in revenge for the donkey punch she’d received from him the night before.

The stranger then started convulsing, like he was having an epileptic fit, and white foam and pinkish vomit chunk type projectiles shot from his mouth, landing all over the white carpet. A couple seconds later his body went totally motionless. Gaga stepped back, waited a second, and approached him cautiously, put her hand to his neck, and could feel no pulse.

All of a sudden, her rage over being donkey punched wore off, and it dawned on her what'd happened, what she’d done.

She felt terribly guilty, her eyes welling up with tears, and she wished she’d just sprayed him with mace or got a bodyguard to kick his ass. But, somehow, perhaps due to her Mediterranean blood, she quickly came to terms with it.

The fucking bastard got what he deserved, she thought. How many other women had he done this to? What type of STD might I have caught off him? she thought, as she felt his semen still seeping from her asshole.

Fuck this piece of shit, she told herself.

Then, a fitting idea came to her head about how to cover up the scene and further humiliate him; she’d make the whole thing appear like a repressed gay suicide.

So she went back to the bathroom, washed the blood from her hands, got dressed, and went around the room, wiping off everything she’d touched, erasing any fingerprint evidence, and she pulled out a Cher CD from her handbag, stuffed it in the room's Bose system, and cranked up "If I Could Turn Back Time" to an ear-splitting volume and set it on constant loop.

Breaking into hysterical laughter, she dragged the stranger’s naked, bloody, lifeless body to the balcony, stood him up, and shoved him over the railing.

The last thing she saw of him was his backside, with the big black dildo still sticking out of his pale, hairy ass, as he soared down to the pavement, his arms and legs outstretched in the wind like the letter X…

Benoit Arnaud Duval is a psycho child molestor and is not associated with The Meth Lab in any way

We hate him and hope he fucking dies.

What are the signs that a Crystal Meth lab may be present?

The following, often in combination with each other, may indicate the presence of a Crystal Meth lab:

Curtains always drawn, windows covered with aluminum foil or "blacked" on private residences, garages, sheds, or other structures

Evidence of chemical waste or dumping

Excessive amounts of trash, particularly chemical, coffee filters or pieces of cloth that are stained red, and duct tape rolls

Extensive security measures or attempts to ensure privacy (no trespassing or beware of dog signs, fences, large trees or shrubs)

Frequent visitors, particularly at unusual times

Secretive or unfriendly occupants

Unusual odors (ether, ammonia, acetone, or other chemicals)

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