The Slob

The silver-haired youthful man sat at the bar drinking a dirty martini. The stunning twenty-something-year-old of model caliber beside him seemed to enjoy his jokes so much that she didn’t notice the small amount of mysterious white powder that had just dissolved in her Manhattan.

She drank it down in two gulps, and a short while later, the silver-haired man asked her to join him outside for a cigarette. She obliged him and they exited the tavern but not before he slyly slipped a crisp Benjamin under the coaster for the bartender.

Once outside, the girl began to get dizzy. It wasn’t hard for him to get her in the car, she was all but a puppet at this stage. Young putty for him to mold in whatever manner he saw fit. She ended up sprawled out in the backseat without asking a question.

They drove for a decent chunk of time before reaching an old dead-end road. The area was a far cry from the city life they were previously immersed in. The wavy trees around them swayed in the wind and the darkness amongst their dancing branches created a profound sense of isolation. But even if it were light out, the street sign was too faded to read…

When they pulled up to the farm, the girl was completely unconscious and drooling on herself. The silver-haired man parked close to the barn and turned off the engine. He beeped the horn twice and waited. Growing impatient he exited his vehicle and headed for the barn. Once he entered, he didn’t seem shocked by any of the repulsions sprayed within it. The mounds and mounds of murdered folks and bubbling vats filled with their fatty tissues seemed like another day at the office for him.

He rounded his way by the colossal drum of defilement and into the canning area. His calm and collected demeanor completely shifted when his line of vision happened upon a rather immense head that was plopped down on the dirt floor. The Slob’s decapitated cranium sat still oozing with the bone driven up into his skull, yet apparently, he was still unmistakable. The silver-haired man reacted immediately, running back to his car in a full sprint.

He picked up the girl and carried her back to the barn and tossed her on the ground. He removed a pistol from his inside pocket and fired a single round into the woman’s forehead. The hit was direct and everything came out of the back of her, leaving her jolting in a puddle of herself. He then looked around manically for a short time before stumbling upon what he was looking for—a gasoline canister.

He dumped its contents all over the bodies in the barn and on the structure itself before working his way back to the girl he’d just splattered. He poured a few liters of gas on her before exiting the barn, maintaining his dashing pace.

Next, he approached the front door of the house and shot the handle off to gain entry. He then left equally copious amounts of the accelerant within the entrance of the disgusting murder house. Once the gas canister had gone dry, he tossed it into the entrance.

He extracted a matchbox from his pocket and popped a Camel between his lips. He promptly struck the red-tipped flammable head against the wall and lit a cigarette in the doorway. Once he inhaled a mighty cloud of tobacco into his lungs, he dropped the still flickering fire stick onto the floor. It ignited the liquid quickly, only taking seconds to race up the filthy rug on the stairs.

He bolted back to the barn while pulling in the last few drags. It might have been the fastest cigarette of his entire life. As a haze of smoke exited his body, he flicked the cancer stick at the gas-drenched dead girl and watched her pale body become instantly overrun with flames.

They danced up onto the wooden walls of the barn and eventually latched onto the countless other bodies. Keeping his pace, he made his way back out to the car and peeled out. As he sped down the dirt driveway, he watched the budding blaze he’d initiated intensifying in the rearview. He lit another smoke and then stomped the accelerator to the floor.