Old Joe
They thought they’d tamed him. They guessed he was saddle-broke.
He took the first motherfucker with the smashed neck of a wine bottle, the godawful jagged edges slashing the bastard’s face, taking out an eye in the process, before raking open the jugular. Old asshole deserved it, farting the night away like a humanoid skunk, day after day.
Second one bought it with a biro, jammed hard into the ear canal, busting his hearing aid nice and good, so the fuckstick didn’t whine and whistle no more.
Third sucker choked on a domino. It was probably about the tenth one that old Joe rammed down his gullet that did the trick.
Latest one–the old prick had had an indecent fetish for housework–had fizzled and jiggled when his vacuum cleaner had somehow ended up in the bathtub with him.
Now old Joe has a new neighbor in the sheltered housing apartment block. This cat’s-turd plays his fucking violin into the godless hours.
As the superintendent mops old Joe’s brow, she pities the poor guy for his wretched paralyzed state. Still, she guesses he’s so doped up on drugs and shit that he just doesn’t register which planet he’s lying on. Probably best, as the cops are having zero success catching the psycho who’s taking out the residents, one by one…
If she would look just a little closer, she might see that flash in his eye. Just a little. But she doesn’t. Never does. And she turns away, oblivious as he clenches his hands into tightly balled fists.
And a smile ghosts his lips. Shit–she has a great ass!
As she closes the door, and the kingshit next door fiddles on, old Joe thinks of a hundred ways of rubbing somebody out with a violin bow. Within half an hour, the string player will have sawn his last tune.
Old Joe grins. Wide and toothy. And he raises himself up, stretching copiously, all pretense gone–the saddle thrown off one more time.