[WARNING: MATURE CONTENT]
[Stone Cold Revenge, done in three parts, is the sequel to kat’s Norma the Bitch.]
Norma was still a bitch: a god-awful, razor-tongued, snooty-nosed bitch, a fact she had concealed from everyone in town for years; everyone, that is, except Huey, Dewey, Louie, and Squinch, her late husbands. Each husband was late for love but early to the grave, rotting away in the family plot at Cherry Creek Cemetery. The first three, all but forgotten, except for the nicknames attached to them by Squinch, who, unlike the pussy-whipped trio that rested side-by-side, lies in a grave centered above them that’s fenced in with ornate ironwork and marked with an imposing marble headstone.
Squinch earned prominence in the family plot on the day he found his long-buried manhood, which, ironically, was also the day of his death. A day that began like every other day, with him wishing his wife would drop dead—with one exception: it was the day Squinch planned on initiating the drop.
After a decade of degradation crammed into a year of marriage, it was Norma who provided the method he would use to kill her. When she fawned all over a Chihuahua at a dinner party, showing it more love than she’d shown him in their entire relationship, he bought her one. The rat-dog would take the blame for her falling down the stairs and breaking her scrawny neck. The neck he’d often dreamed of strangling, and would have if he could’ve figured how to get away with it.
Unfortunately, for Squinch, even the simplest plans go awry. Norma didn’t take the fall, he did. After tripping over the damn dog he ricocheted down the stairs like a pinball, ringing up a terminal TILT by cracking his skull. But at the most inopportune time, since his masculine move and subsequent fight for survival ignited animal attraction between he and Norma, and she responded like a bitch in heat. In fact, they were about to move the confrontation from atop the stairs to atop the sheets—with Squinch in the alpha role for the first time—when the rat-dog caused him to lose his balance. And for as long as he un-lives he’ll never forget it, for the dead are plagued with memories of their death.
Two years have passed since that fateful day, and Squinch and the pussy-whipped trio have kept up with Norma’s life through her visits. She tends the graves the first Sunday of each month. Today was her day to visit.
The internet has nothing on the ethereal-net. A split-second after Norma turned onto Cemetery Drive every resident spirit—those who failed to go into the light—knew a breather was on the grounds.
Huey, Dewey, and Louie, who had been pacing back and forth in eager anticipation, immediately lay prone atop their graves.
“I say pink.”
“I say white.”
“Uh uh… striped.”
Squinch, sitting cross-legged atop the four foot high marble headstone, shook his head at their nerdy antics. The same stupid game they played each visit, and they never guessed right. Obviously, the Law of Averages only applies to the living.
The staccato beat of Norma’s stilettos, black open-toed Christian Louboutin’s, were heard long before she came into view wearing a simple smoke-grey dress, a Dior with no frills, black lambskin gloves, wide hat with lace trim, and designer sunglasses by Cartier. And the rat-dog yipped and yapped with its head sticking out of a Gucci shoulder bag.
Following her routine, Norma entered the family plot, placed her bag on a bench near the entrance, sat and removed her shoes, grabbed a hand-broom from under the bench, and walked barefoot to the graves. She always started with the three side-by-side graves, which didn’t bother Squinch in the least, since she spent about ten seconds at each. Without saying a word she’d step on the grave, squat—completely oblivious to the bug-eyed spirit looking up her dress and getting so turned on his ectoplasm began to boil—brush off the small grave marker, and then step to the next grave until all three were done.
Norma spent the next thirty-minutes beautifying Squinch’s gravesite, and catching him up on all the town gossip and news. For the remainder of her visit, which could last over an hour, she’d relive the incident that made her fall in love and lust with Squinch, then masturbate facing the headstone while telling him all the things she wished she could do to him… or better yet, the things he forced her to do, and finish off by taking her repeatedly like a wild animal until she screamed with equally wild abandon. She then removed her panties—today they’re black—laid them on the grave where she imagined his face rested, kissed his headstone, and said, “Good-bye.”
Unfortunately, it always ends on a sour note. When Norma puts on her shoes she lets the rat-dog out of the bag to tinkle, and it always lifts its leg on Squinch’s grave. He’s the only dead husband it knew—and it’s a mutual hatred.
“Damn!“ said Norma, as she reached in her bag. “Almost forgot.”
The downturned ears of the pussy-whipped trio perked up. Two years they’ve listened and watched Squinch receive royal treatment and sexy mementoes during each visit, without so much as a “how do you do” coming their way, and they craved any form of acknowledgement just to verify they’d ever existed. But as in life, now in death, their hopes were dashed.
Norma pulled an odd looking necklace from her handbag and stood beside Squinch’s headstone.
“On my trip to South America last month,” said Norma, “a witch doctor of some sort or another gave me this talisman-amulet-fetish-type-thing-a-ma-jiggy.” She squatted and dug a small hole with the amulet, so she wouldn’t mess up her nails, then placed the object in it.
“He swore it had some kind of magical ability to reunite lost loves.” She positioned her rear-end over the hole. “Spray it with my juices and bury it is all he said was needed.” She urinated, grabbed her discarded panties, dabbed herself dry, and tossed them back on the ground.
“I know the chances are worse than hitting the lotto—but I had to try,” she said. “I’ll never forget how wet I got when I saw you wanted to fuck me as much as you wanted to kill me; and I’d give anything, even my life, to be taken by a real man like you, to be fucked and spanked until I couldn’t walk straight—especially with your prolonged need to punish me.”
Three years of reasons now, bitch, thought Squinch, as he watched her depart.
“Black,” said Huey.
“Like her heart and soul,” said Dewey.
“I wish she’d piss on my grave,” said Louie.
Ignoring the trio, Squinch used one of his ghostly powers to extract the amulet from the ground and levitate it up to his waiting hand.
Very interesting, he thought, as he gazed at it intently, then motioned for the discarded panties to rise to his other hand. And he inhaled the intoxicating aroma from her masturbatory release without taking his eyes off the tribal-looking talisman.
“I got a peek at her pussy,” said Huey.
“No fair!” said Dewey. “Squinch gets all her affection, you get to see her pussy, and I get nothing.”
“She could piss on me anytime,” said Louie.
“She really a natural blonde?” said Dewey.
“All-natural,” said Huey. “Like nature, with morning dew.”
“Wow!” said Dewey. “I’m getting a woody.”
“He’s lying,” said Squinch. “And you three together couldn’t come up with an inch of wood.”
“I ain’t lying,” said Huey. “Got a good look when she squatted to pee.”
“You need specter spectacles,” said Squinch. “Cuz’ her snatch is waxed as bare as a baby’s behind, and always has been.”
“Why lie to your only friends?” said Dewey.
Huey sat in the corner of his plot, knees to chest, facing away with his chin down.
“She can pee on me,” said Louie.
“Shut up!” said his plot mates.
“Y’all shut up!” said Squinch. “I’m trying to think.”
The trio slowly began to descend into their graves.
They stopped and looked at Squinch.
Looking dejected, Huey and Louie disappeared into the ground. And Dewey knew better then to speak out of turn. In the two years Squinch had been here his dominance had increased many-fold.
The amulet held Squinch’s attention.
“Ain’t there an old witch doctor buried here?”
“A medicine man,” said Dewey. “From a local tribe, extinct long ago.”
Contact was made, invitation was given, and late that night Squinch found himself visiting Konywickwick by his unmarked and forgotten grave by the north wall of the cemetery. The tribal elder’s scattered remains have lain deep below the wall since the old Indian burial ground was bulldozed to make room for the commercialization of “Rest in Peace,” though he must rest in pieces.
Before Squinch was allowed into the inner-sanctum to see the medicine man he had to make his way through a pride of hellcats the size of buffalos, all eying him as if he was next on the menu. He was then sniffed over by the two largest; they looked like a cross between a saber-tooth and a cougar on steroids, and made the hellhounds he’d seen look like runts of the litter.
After the introductions, Squinch asked about the amulet. He dropped it in Konywickwick’s proffered palm and observed the ancient one pawing the talisman with great interest. And he wondered how long you had to be dead to look as weather-beaten and leathery as the old Indian.
“Lady not tell you whole truth.”
“Fetish works two ways, one good for you, one bad.”
“When make water on talisman your spirit become like water, and you flow into living body.”
“My body becomes alive?”
“No,” said the elder. “She choose body your spirit flow into, but it no good for you.”
“Why no good?”
“Her water is discard, disrespectful, and she choose body, so you be puppet.”
“Puppet?” said Squinch. “You mean a boy-toy?”
The old spirit nodded.
“I hope that ain’t the good news.”
“Make switch,” said the elder. “Use passion discharge on talisman.”
“Her fluid of lust,” said the elder. “Only need little dab, then you choose the body, so you in control.”
The old spirit nodded again.
As Squinch turned to leave, the sight of the hellcats elicit a crafty grin from ear-to-ear.
Upon returning to the family plot and viewing the trio hovering above his grave, with their noses pressed into the discarded panties, Squinch got the final piece to his diabolical plan.
“Instead of having to share, boys,” said Squinch. “How would you each like a pair of your own?”
Their eyes bulged out, and they practically panted like lap dogs at the mere mention of the possibility. “Yes, yes!” the three squealed.
“Go to the caretaker’s hut and bring back every pair of Norma’s panties that old drunken fart has collected from my grave,” said Squinch. “And get back here quick, we’ve got other preparations to make.” His malicious grin returned.
The trio took off like bats out of hell; that is, if bats out of hell cackled and bickered like stooges.
[Be sure to catch Parts 2 & 3, Friday & Saturday, in order to see the sweet revenge.]