Which story do you want to read first?

  • Thrill Kill

    Votes: 4 50.0%
  • Getting in the Gang

    Votes: 3 37.5%
  • Target

    Votes: 1 12.5%

  • Total voters


Forum Newcomer
Dec 21, 2010
Seattle, WA
STORY #1 - Thrill Kill

I am a shoulder devil, disguised as a nice guy. I play nice on the surface, but I'm always pushing you, subtly, to make mischief, to be bad. Because it entertains me. I think I might have gone too far this time, but I doubt it. Everything happens for a reason, and that reason is larger than I could ever be. I'm just an agent of fate. David Prickett's time was just up.

I'd met their crew outside a bar taking a smoke break. I love smoking more for the people it brings me into contact with than for the actual act itself. If I had to generalize the kind of people I met this way with one word it would be: trash. These kids oozed it from every pore. Half of them were unemployed, collecting food stamps, living with their parents. Nice guys don't get me wrong, but definitely trash.

Trab was easiest to befriend. His real name was Bart, but no 21-year old would ever go by that name. Instead of going the usual middle-name route, he just re-spelled his first name backwards. Short brown hair covered a squared off head with a solid gap between his two front teeth. When I first went to talk to him, he had just walked off his job and was unsure how to handle all the free time. Idle hands.

Once I met the rest of his group, I knew this was my opportunity to take my game to the next level. There are assaults, robberies, and countless misdemeanors out there I can take credit for. I get a kick out of it, the adrenaline rush without the risk of performing the crime myself. The manipulation itself is such an artform, too. But I'd never gotten anyone to kill someone else. Not yet.


STORY #2 - Getting in the Gang

"You do it, or you ain't gettin' in." Pablo looked hard at Erik, the newest initiate of the Southside gang. "What the fuck's it to you, some Gringo get what he deserve?" Pablo took a hit off his cigarette. Jorge and Miguel stood behind him, smoking as well, but keeping quiet.

"I dunno, bro." Erik replied, trying not to sound uncertain. He hoped it came across as just apathetic. "We really have to kill some guy? What'd he ever do to us?"

"Not 'we', 'Rik. YOU. You gotsta do this. You gotsta prove yourself, you know what I'm sayin'?" Pablo handed Erik the knife. It was a big hefty thing, but probably one just from your run of the mill kitchen cutlery set. The blade was about 10" long, about 2" wide, with a solid wood grip. Erik wondered whose kitchen it had been swiped from. Wondered if it would find its way back there after tonight. Erik nodded to Pablo in response and handed back the blade.

"Now," Pablo continued, taking another drag. "You wants to get one with a thin neck, 'kay? You don't wants to be hacking on the guy all night, you just want to be all, swipe swipe," he made slicing motions with his hand. "get his head off and have it be done."

"Got it..." Erik said. "So what now?"

"Watch," replied Pablo. "We watch."


STORY #3 - Target

The garbage truck woke Chris a full hour before his alarm clock went off. He knew it was going to be a shitty day already. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, tucked his morning boner back into his boxers, and reached for his pack of cigarettes. He wasn't supposed to smoke in his apartment, but by now it was his morning routine. The place was a shit-hole anyway, and he had long ago lost hope of ever getting his deposit back. He put his head in his hands as smoke billowed over his head. Fuck. Another day.

He stood up and took at look at himself in the mirror, clad only in his boxers. Hairy. It had been a while since he'd done any grooming. He made a mental note to do something about that. Just over six foot tall, decently defined upper body. Short brown hair, piercing green eyes. Strong jaw. He had no problems getting pussy. He was just tired of hearing them complain about his hairy chest. At least they loved his dick. The head poked out from the right boxer leg. Damn morning wood just would not go away. He would have to take care of that in the shower.

He turned the water as hot as it would go and let it course over him as his hands went to his rock hard dick. Despite many other admirable attributes, it was the feature of which he was most proud. A thick eight-point-two inches. And for real, he liked to tell himself-- measured from the top, none of that bullshit measuring from the bottom some other guys did to get a bigger number. He was in a hurry, flicked his thumb over the head and grasped the base tight as he shot a cursory load up onto the wall. He didn't savor the feeling-- how was he to know it would be the last orgasm he'd ever have? He didn't even take 15 seconds to rinse his cum off the wall.


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