Vincent Van Bro

Leslie Small, contributor

I love bitches, and for a skinny ginger like me the quickest way into a broad’s pantaloons was with a paint brush. Metaphorically, of course; I wasn’t hacking my way in there or anything.Those brushes are expensive! But you tell some silly chicken she’d look dope immortalized forever in oil as a tribute to her eternal hotness in ways that only your genius mind can imagine, those panties will drop fast enough to injure you. I called them “inkwells,” as they were always willing to let me dip my quill, yet soon I grew weary of the ease with which I was able to bed these skanks. Sure, they were damaged souls, but they lacked the necessary life experiences that make a woman truly amazing in the sack. Naturally I frequented professional whores like any boss man would — that would always be part of my boning repertoire — but I desired more.

When I first started bedding widows I was amazed at how awesome it was, like having an affair you’re certain you won’t be caught during. Not to mention, these broads had fully-furnished homes; no more alleyways or cat houses, just sweet featherbeds and fresh baked bread. Plus they usually had kids to do all the manual labor, which left me more time to knock wooden shoes. Life was good. I just never considered they’d get so attached; I let them know I was “married to my art, and you’re the mistress to my passion” and all that horseshit, so I thought I had covered my bases. But bitches be cray.

T’was a brisk afternoon, and I was headed to my favorite brothel for a bit of the old in & out, hoping they’d have a batch of fresh poon for me to chose from. The world was my sex oyster. I noticed a commotion and looked up to a stranger running towards me.

“This is for Mary!!! SHE LOVED YOU!” He screeched, brandishing a smallish but potentially-lethal knife.

As my assailant slashed at the air my mind raced. Who the fuck is Mary? Wait, I thought her husband was dead! Did he just cut my head?

He indeed had, confirmed as I felt the sticky human sap pouring down my neck and pooling at my clavicle. I could feel something dangling on my jaw and slapping under my face; reaching up, I tore off the last bit of meat holding it on and came face to face with my ear. WTF? Enraged, I unsheathed my own knife and plunged it deep into the man’s chest, and with a death rattle he muttered, “You fucked over my sister… I fucked up your face.”

So now I’m holding a dead man in one hand and my ear in the other, and in broad daylight, no less! You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me! I dragged his body into an alley, covered it in hay, and staggered down the street to reevaluate some of my life’s choices. I happened upon the brothel, where I was greeted by a familiar sex worker — I couldn’t recall her name, but I could paint her ass from memory. I pressed into her palm the bloody remains of my ear, said not a word and barged into the cat-house. There she bandaged my “self-inflicted” wound and made vigorous love to me, an experience that was heightened by my blood loss.

The hooker assumed I was the most eccentric romantic she had ever encountered. I chilled on the widow tip for a while, and never actually figured out who Mary was, nor was I ever accused of murdering that ear slicing bastard. My hearing still intact, and a fresh batch of inkwells to delve into, I was no worse for wear. In fact, I was knocking more clogs than ever. Bitches love artists. The one thing I forgot about was my propensity to have my earlobes nibbled.

 

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