It's A Wonderful Death
Oooh! Time for my annual festive pearoast!

ENJOY!

My many fans will no doubt recall that, in one of my incarnations, I once held a senior position in a large corporation. They will also remember that I once had to tell someone that they were going to be made redundant, just before Christmas. Here are the details:

www.b3ta.com/questions/sayingtheunsayable/post1830292

Now for the sequel. A heart-warming tale of Yuletide love and goodwill. Read on, gentle cunts, read on, and prepare to be entered by the true Spirit of Christmas.

The date: Christmas eve, a month or so after I sacked Bill (not his real name. Which was John). The scene: a cold, frosty urban winter’s evening. A chill wind is howling around the concrete and glass canyons of Plutus Park. Above, a deep black sky with a shining canopy of twinkling stars, that neither know nor care about the antics of the creatures moving about the face of the Earth like the blind, helpless worms that they are. Below, the icy passageways empty save for a crisp packet being blown down the cavernous concourse between the gigantic edifices of Babdastard Bank and Ultracaust plc.

But what is this? In the vast coldness and cold vastness, hearken! Voices, voices merry with merriment! A woman laughs, the sound a tinkle of Bacardi being poured over iced gold. Her male companion (me) joins in, a chuckling avuncular baritone so charming that Prince Charming himself would pooh his pants upon hearing it. Hearken! And viddy well: down the corporate canyon between Babdastard Bank and Ultracaust plc, people, happy festive people, well-wrapped against the winter chill, stepping quickly, their expensive shoes striking the frosty paving-slabs with precision and confidence, the sound echoing efficiently around the concrete enclave. Four people; two couples: myself, my then consort, the sexy Stephanie, and two of our friends, David and Samantha. We are making our way through Plutus Park to a fancy restaurant sited on the far side thereof; we have just spent a merry hour in the pub, and are well refreshed and looking forward to a slap-up Christmas grill. We – me, Stephanie, David and Samantha – could not be happier. It’s Christmas eve, we are with the people we love, we are about to deeply indulge in sensual pleasures (and I’m not just talking about food, you know!), we are bollocking bastard rich, and we fear nothing. Ha!

As I walk beside her I gaze down into Stephanie’s face. Her cheeks are reddened by the cold air, and her dark eyes gleam like the stars in the heavens above. I give her gloved hand a squeeze. She squeezes back and I imagine that hand (sans glove) around my erect penis, wanking it slowly yet determinedly and lovingly until it shoots out pumping great squirts of creamy jizz. I kiss her, my tongue exploring the inside of her mouth which feels excitingly hot against the cold winter air. We then walk on, catching up with David and Samantha, who are also holding hands, and also thinking about having sex with each other. Of course, by now I am nursing a prodigious erection.

As we draw level with our friends, a sad, croaky, hoarse voice rends the air. ‘Spare change?’

My erection melts away like an icicle dipped in hot tomato soup. I stop. I turn and look down.

There, huddled against the wall of Ultracaust plc, is a pathetic, shivering figure, pale and stubbly, shrouded in stinking rags. Its eyes stare up at us, hope gleaming within their reddened, hollow sockets. ‘Spare change?’ repeats the creature again.

My first instinct is to destroy. To stamp, to smash, to rid Plutus Park of this fucking lump of shit. How dare this abject, wretched turd, this worthless, hopeless failure, have the temerity to address us, its superiors? How dare this foetid smear of whore’s cuntbutter dare to puncture our jolly Christmas mood? And fuck ‘goodwill to all men.’ This is not a man; it is a worm. A worm to be crushed underfoot, scraped against the kerb, washed away by the rain and forgotten forever.

We have all stopped and are all staring down at this putrid germ, all thinking the same thing. But then I recognise the figure shivering within its foul coverings of piss stinking rags.

‘Bill?’

The human-shaped object attempts a smile; it is ghastly and wretched, and I clench my fists, wanting only to punch the cunt’s teeth in. ‘Yes, Sir,’ gurgles the thing. ‘It’s Bill. Remember me?’

‘Oh Bill,’ I purr in my best Bond villain voice. ‘How could I ever forget you?’ I then turn to my dear friends, David and Samantha, and my gorgeous Stephanie, who all appear as gigantic gold-plated gods next to this grovelling, base insect. ‘Do go on,’ I say. ‘I’ll deal with this.’

I hunker down next to the creature. I am trying not to burst out laughing. ‘Well, Bill, how’s things?’

Bill looks up at me with fear in his eyes, eyes which, to my disgust, emit hot little tears which steam gently in the Christmas Eve chill. His broken, wretched face then folds and creases and a choking sob is emitted from between his cracked, flaking lips. I am about to stand and start administering the kicking when the miserable being seems to master itself, and speaks:

‘Well, after losing my job, things went downhill. I started drinking heavily, spending all my redundancy money on alcohol. I began losing my temper and beating my wife and children. She kicked me out, and I was going to move back in with my parents, but they both died in a car smash. I begged my wife to let me move back in with her, and she relented. Then my children got abducted, raped and butchered by paedoes. My drinking and violent mood swings got worse, and I started using prostitutes. My wife found out and kicked me out again, but let me back in when she discovered she was pregnant. Then I found out that I had caught HIV off of a prostitute and passed it on to my wife. When I told her she had a miscarriage and killed herself. I then started drinking more and more and I now have cirrhosis of the liver and full-blown AIDS.’

I really have to struggle hard not to burst into laughter. ‘Oh well,’ I manage to say. ‘Never mind. It’s Christmas.’

At these words Bill’s face cracks completely and he lets out a howling wail of deep soul-crushing woe. It is the sound of a tiny thing completely at the end of its tether, the sound of profound and inescapable despair.

I decide that I have to do something.

‘Hey, hey, hey!’ I say, putting my arm around the quivering mass of useless flesh and bones. ‘Don’t be like that! Tell you what – you can come and stay at my house for Christmas. Tonight you can have a nice long hot bath and get into some cosy clean clothes, and then have a slap-up Christmas Eve supper. I’ll put you up in the spare room – it’s very cosy and the bedsheets have just been changed. And then tomorrow – Christmas Day! – I’ll make sure you have the best Christmas you’ve ever had!’

The wretch gazes up at me, a dim gleam of hope igniting in his poor little eyes. ‘Really?’

I chuckle good-naturedly. ‘Yes! In fact you can stay with me for as long as it takes to sort yourself out. And in the New Year I’ll take you to see my doctor friend, who will be able to cure your liver disease and AIDS.’

A shadow of doubt passes across Bill’s grimy, tear-streaked face. ‘Really?’

‘No, not really, you stupid fucking cunt.’ I stand up and kick him in the face. He yelps as blood courses freely from his now broken nose.

‘You feculent speck of stinking excrement!’ I spit. ‘Did you REALLY FUCKING THINK I WOULD HAVE A PIECE OF SHIT LIKE YOU IN MY HOUSE? AT CHRISTMAS? OR AT ANY FUCKING TIME?’ I bellow.

Bill blubbers and howls and tries to mop up the bloody, snotty mess that used to be its face.

‘You are a worthless, useless, hopeless waste,’ I explain. ‘You are a sad, sorry little turd, waiting only for the flush. WELL HERE COMES THE FLUSH!’ I reach down and box his ears, knowing well how much it will hurt in the cold air of this frosty Christmas eve. I then kick him several times in the stomach, and consider pissing on him, but my erection would make it difficult to urinate. Instead I spit on him. ‘I hate you, I gob on you, FUCK you!’

It’s high time I left this mess and returned to my loving friends. I start to walk away, but hesitate. I can’t leave this unfinished.

I turn back to the snivelling, sorry wreckage of the thing that used to be Bill. ‘I can’t allow you to remain here,’ I inform it. ‘Spoiling the frontage of the Ultracaust building like this! What if one of the shareholders sees? Come on!’

I haul the thing to its feet – it feels like a sack of spuds – and shove it along the concourse. ‘Now FUCK OFF!’

Bill obeys mutely and begins to stagger away. He seems to be finding it difficult to walk, so, in a show of Christmas goodwill, I offer him my arm. We walk together for a while, Bill silent, me humming Christmas carols, until Bill mumbles that he is tired, so very tired, and needs to rest.

We come to a halt in the middle of a bridge over the railway, and Bill leans heavily on the stone parapet. In the distance, I can see a train approaching, and I come to a decision.

‘Would you like to die now, Bill; or would you prefer to wait for the complications of AIDS or cirrhosis to kick in?’

Bill says nothing. He merely stares into the night, shivering, his breath misting the festive air.

‘Only, the latter option would involve a protracted, painful, ugly and undignified death, during which you would have ample time to think back over the catastrophic failure of your miserable existence. Best to end it all now, quickly, and relatively painlessly.’

Still Bill says nothing. The train draws nearer. From some nearby hostelry, the merry strains of Mariah Carey’s festive hit ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ can be clearly discerned.

‘So, Bill, which is it to be? Quick death now, or horrible long-drawn-out death later? Hurry up and decide, the train’s almost here.’

Bill mumbles something, but I can’t quite make out what it is. ‘Sorry?’

A whisper issues from the beaten lump, a whisper colder than the depths of winter. ‘Death now.’

The train is getting closer, closer. ‘Death now, what?’

The whisper comes again. ‘Death now, please.’

Closer and closer. ‘Death now, please what?’

Bill turns to look at me. There is nothing in his eyes. No fear, no hate, no pain, no broken heart, nothing. They are empty of life. He is already dead. ‘Death now, please, Sir.’

‘Okey dokey.’ I grab him round the middle and with one big heave pitch him over the parapet. Just in time! There’s a sort of wet crackling thump, and the air is rent with the piercing shriek of the train’s brakes. I sigh. A messy delay for all those poor passengers, but something to talk about over their Christmas eve suppers.

I walk away, and catch up with my friends David and Samantha, and my gorgeous lover Stephanie. We go on to have a lovely evening, and later, I fuck Stephanie, and spray my semen all over her face, hair and tits.

Merry Christmas, everyone! And a happy and prosperous New Year.
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Sat 19 Dec 2015, 12:15, 9 replies)

manolith touched a dog on the bumhole

(AEthelfrith of Bernicia, Sat 19 Dec 2015, 15:06, closed)

This excrement is allowed?
The GIFs are irritating but don't take up as much room as this.
(Me, I'm not... in any way intoxicated, Sat 19 Dec 2015, 16:06, closed)

what the shitting Christ is this about?

( $$ ✅, Sat 19 Dec 2015, 16:25, closed)

Read it and find out
sweeetie!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Sat 19 Dec 2015, 16:29, closed)

Oh I get it
This is now a fanfic forum. No wait you forgot to add My Little Pony.
Amateur...
Cannot write fanfic without MLP crossover.
(Captain Ignorant what does this button do..., Sun 20 Dec 2015, 5:54, closed)

I'm late.
I only arrived at the end of the post. Did i miss anything?
(andythepieman Is surfing the waves of indifference on, Sun 20 Dec 2015, 7:01, closed)