The Horror Library - The Best in Horror Fiction

Frankenf*ck
By R.J. Cavender

Just getting a piece. A piece of ass. Some piece of mind.
A taste. A touch. A feel. A fuck. Just another Friday night.

Smoky interior. Some small dirty bar. Anytown, USA.
Another girl, another night. Another chance to make things right.

The perfect woman waits at home.
But, it doesn't keep me from coming here. I know these places well.
Bad music. Bad lighting. Bad people. Bad decisions. I never leave alone.

Just getting a piece.
Faded from the chemical stink of one too many nights spinning my mind.
The sticky smell of drug-laced sweat.
The sweet perfume of unfamiliar genitalia and warm, freshly spilt blood.

I've got the perfect woman at home.
It doesn't keep me from my playtime, though.
She's always there when I return.
She doesn't say a word. I don't know if she ever will.

The whole is often more than the sum of its parts.
The proof is in the pudding.
Puzzles are distractions , always with that one last missing piece.
It gives us something to search for.

Always searching.
Always waiting.
Always wanting.
Always taking.
With forever and a lifetime to go.

She's waiting for me at home.

Every girl I fuck has the same face.
Not one, but many more. Slamming and grinding on some dirty floor.
With some indiscriminate whore.
I try not to look. I can't look away.
Each time the faces always change.
First she's a blonde, then brunette, then a redhead.
Short hair, long hair. Small. Medium. Large.

I have been inside girls of every variation.

Just a collection at first.

It grew.

Unknown to me, what it was forming into.

Just a piece of ass.
Keeping an eye out. A find. A feel. A fuck. Then forget.
Keeping a leg up. A shoulder to cry on.
An ear to bend. Eyes on the prize.
Two left feet.

People live and people die. Some heal. Others kill, and that's just a simple fact.
Some are made to follow blindly. Some people are just built to react.
Don't you wish you could take your favorite parts from your favorite people, and simply start from scratch?

I've got the perfect woman at home.
She doesn't say a word.
She just sits in a corner where I've propped her up and stares at the world through milky white eyes.
She's gorgeous, even with all of her stitches and bruised skin.

She'll speak my name soon.

Cry out in pain, too.

Her mouth will open. She'll breathe in.

I've got the perfect woman at home.

She's almost done.

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