If you enjoyed this, please send money.Carl White's Mattress Planet was a popular place. Not mega popular mind you, but popular enough that people knew it, and maybe even thought about it every once in a while. It wasn't a place you glanced over, unless you didn't need a mattress. Most people needed a mattress at the worst of times, and they weren't every-day purchases, but people had an idea of where they needed to go if they needed a mattress--Carl White's Mattress Planet. Carl was a nice guy. He wore nice navy suits with baby blue (or sky blue, as he called it) dress shirts underneath, and a regular, toxic green tie. His sandy blond hair had gone gray with age, and his firm smile had grown withered, but he was still Carl. Fucking Carl.
For his son's 8th birthday, he promised him a party with a balloon castle. One of the big bouncy ones that were like a low-quality maze, but with high-quality moon jumping action. But Carl couldn't afford a balloon castle. The RGB Super Fun Factory on the edge of town had fallen off the Earth, leaving Carl with no real options. It wasn't like there was a second balloon castle rental place in town. He eyed his feet, looked up into the mirror, and farted through his lips.
"Well, uhhh, hmm..."
Fucking right there, bounce castle emporium. Carl pointed a finger at himself in the mirror, like Carl, you goddamn genius. Carl White's Mattress Planet. Three days later a crowd of eight year old boys, each more hideously dressed than the last, filed their way into Carl White's Mattress Planet.
"Take off your goddamn shoes," Carl shouted. He did paperwork while the kids jumped around on his mattresses. He quietly remarked to himself that this is fucking gay.
"Mr. White, watch!“ some weird kid screamed. Carl looked up from his desk just in time to see two boys take a flying leap and slam into each other in mid air. One fell to the floor and landed on his knees. Rug burn from the rub rug. He pissed his pants and started crying. The other boy, not so fortunately, twisted through the air and broke his neck off a table, falling limp to the floor. He shit his pants, but no tears came to his eyes. Instead, blood ran from under his eyelids and mixed with a dislodged pile of puke that had blown up from inside the child's throat.
"Shit, fuck, shit, ass, fuck, dick, stick a dick, fuck a bitch, cock sucker, hot action," Mr. White screamed. He frantically dialed 911, his finger running over the buttons like a hand-cheetah, so cat-blisteringly finger-fucked that the police could barely hear a word he stuttered. He fumbled the receiver in between hands, gulping down a ball of saliva the size of a water balloon, sweat pouring into his mouth and down his cheeks, only to steam up out from under his hot collar. "Kid's dead. Carl White's Mattress Planet."
"Technically, only an MD can pronounce a child dead," the officer replied.
"You are a fuck sock."
The boy, who had been wearing a blue shirt with a pair of scissors on it, lay motionless on the floor. His father was the first to arrive, and, with a mind-blowing show of caution, he scooped his boy up into his arms. The child's limp body hung in his father's warm grasp. But that didn’t matter, because the kid was fucking dead. The father, Mr. Weston, tears running from his eyes, looked up at Carl and bit his lip.
"My son is fucking dead because you were too fucking goddamn stupid to move a fucking table."
"Fuck you," Mr. White shouted, wagging his still-sore finger. "You're a dick."
"No, fuck you Carl. You fucking double cock fuck and sucker."
Carl was stunned into silence. It was the worst insult anyone had ever conceived. He practically shit himself with anger, a blood vessel popping right above his eye, sending a thin turd log out from his forehead and onto the ground. I just shit out my face. That’s amazing.
"At least my son isn't fucking dead," Carl shouted, a shower of spit raining through the air.
"Oh yeah, you dumb dick?" Mr. Weston, father of the dead boy, grabbed his blood-soaked child by the split-bone in his foot. The limp carcass swung back and forth aimlessly and out of control, rising and falling with Mr. Weston’s shocked breaths. Swinging his own dead son over his shoulder, he lumbered across the room and to Mr. White's son, Jake. "Jake, I hope you like being dead as much as my son does."
Jake felt slim white shards of his own skull recede into the depths of his lumpy brain as a demon-possessed Mr. Weston smashed him across the face with the face of another dead boy. He could taste puke--and not just his own--as it mixed with raw puss farting like a white-juice cocktail out the back of his undulating throat.
"Nooooooo, you worthless fuck!" Mr. White screamed, drawing a gun from a desk drawer in his office. He shivered with horror as he bumble-fucked his way across the room, his shoes practically shaking off his feet. "We're not even fathers any more you prick wasting fuck dumper. I'm going to fuck your ass with this gun."
Mr. White took the barrel of the gun and lubricated it with his mouth, thrusting it back and forth between his lips the way he often did with his wife‘s cock. He ran across the room in a zig zag pattern, a pattern known to confuse child killers, and threw his arm through the air, missing Mr. Weston by an inch and a half. Mr. Weston knuckled Mr. White in his fat side, Mr. White taking just enough time to suck in another breath before launching his clenched fist through the air again. Then he pistol-whipped a distraught Mr. Weston, child murderer, across the face. Streaks of gun-metal grey cut into Mr. Weston’s flesh, chunks of gore partitioning themselves from the old man’s face like wet chunks of roast beef.
"I hope you enjoy cold steel in your asshole." From the corner of the store, where most of the kids had either crowded around the front window or escaped out the side door, four children started crying almost simultaneously, their whimpering faces so sad even Mr. White, in his fearless, enraged state, couldn't bear to look. So he turned away. "Asshole fuck, asshole fuck!"
Mr. White fucked the other father with a gun.
"NOW NOBODY WINS YOU PIECE OF DICK! I HOPE YOU DROWN IN A SEA OF DIARRHEA PISSED OUT A SHIVERING CLICK COCKING ASS FART!”
Mr. Weston’s asshole shot bloody diarrhea.
“I HOPE YOU LIKE THAT SHIT ON YOUR HANDS YOU DICK!”
“YOU KNOW WHAT?” Mr. White screamed. “I DON’T. BUT I BET YOU DON’T LIKE THIS GUN UP YOUR FUCKING ASS EITHER, NOW LICK MY EYEBALLS FULL OF DICKS!”