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[Astronomy Reference] Something Vampire Whatever


By the time Beth found the science room, class was just about to start. She hurried in and looked around for a vacant seat. Then she saw him. Still wicked sexy. Still wicked pale. Still licking his lips. Around and around. He was like a machine. Matt Finley.
A Timbaland beat kicked up inside Beth’s pussy and she had to bite her lip to keep from having an orgasm right then and there.
She sat down on the stool beside him and turned to introduce herself. “Hi.” she said, remembering to talk with her mouth, but emote with her jugs.
But what’s this?
Matt “sex blaster” Finley looked at her with a frozen smolder of sheer nauseated disdain. It was the look that the Pope would give to his hypothetical protestant equivalent. It was the look her dad gave the staff at Chili’s that time that the waiter accidentally brought him a virgin Margarita. It was the look that NBC Dateline’s Chris Hansen gives to caught predators.
The Timbaland beat stumbled and halted. It was immediately replaced by the song the guy with bad credit sings in the seafood restaurant in the commercial. Her loins deflated.
Matt’s entire smooth, chiseled body was vibrating with the force of his revulsion. He looked like he might puke. And then puke again. And then again. And then just keep puking and puking until people were screaming and jostling each other and trying to get out of the room but they can’t because they’re waist deep in puke and then someone one pulls the fire alarm and someone else gets so freaked they pee their pants so now there’s pee in the puke and everyone’s like “stay away from the warm spots!” but every spot’s warm. Until the room fills up and everyone drowns and finally the windows shatter and the puke bursts out and pours down into the parking lot, making room for the additional puke that Matt’s still puking.
“What’s wrong?” Beth asked with her cans
“I’m gonna puke.” Matt intoned in a voice that could sublimate lead, before dashing out of the room and jumping, like, 200 feet in the nearest sequoia redwood and puking onto a baby bear.
Needless to say, Beth was totally bummed. She felt like a caught predator feels after being looked at by Chris Hansen.
After the heart mushing disappointment of Cock Ranger Matt Finley’s abrupt, barfy departure, the day dragged on like an aging transvestite (rimshot). All Beth could think about was how horrible she must smell, reasoning that a person who smelled good wouldn’t turn a hot guy into a hurl machine just by sitting next to him. Unless said good smelling person had tiny, inexpressive hooters, which Beth certainly did not. Shaking her rack for reassurance, Beth drove home with a dark emotional cloud over her mind and an even darker emotional cloud over her heart and still even darker actual meteorological clouds in the sky above her and above them, Space. Which is blacker than Don Cheadle driving a black Honda Civic into a black hole. Totally, completely black.
When Beth got back to her dad’s house, she ran straight up to her room and texted sad faces and NLOLs to her mom. Then she cried into her webcam and charged middle-aged men with depression fetishes $50 a piece to watch her on video iChat. And some of them were like, “Oh yeah, baby. Sob. mmm. Did your dog die, baby? Did you just get back from your grandma’s funeral? Ugh!” and others were like, “Ugh. Ugh. Yeah. ohhh. Did you get a D on a math test. Ugh.” But none of them understood that her pain was her own, while her tears belonged to a man. And that man’s screen name was Weep4Me365 and he paid $200 for them.
At 6 o’clock, her dad shouted for her to come down for dinner. “I made you my favorite!” he coughed.
Dinner was beer in a pie tin with eight strips of beef jerky and some croutons. “There’s fork food, there’s spoon food, and then there’s this!” her father choked out joyfully as he slurped down the crapulent amalgam.
“This food looks how I smell.” Beth said, folding her arms across her chest and pouting.
“It kinda sounds like you, too.” her dad belched, sucking a stray tendon of meat into his mouth and then wiping his fingers off in his hair.
“I hate it here.” Beth whined, upping her pout to level 13, just two clicks shy of maximum power.
Her dad countered with a level 14 fart and grunted. “Yeah. Sometimes I wish my whole body was just a giant mouth with a huge beer in it.”
“Whatever!” Beth said, her pout now burying the needle into the red zone on the gauge, causing the glass cover on the indicator to shatter and pressurized steam to come shrieking out of the valves.
She left the kitchen and went back up to her room to nurture her snit. She pictured her pain as a rhinoceros and her life as a silo full of rhinoceros food, and she wept as the rhinoceros ate more and more food, getting fatter and fatter until even its horn was fat. then she pictured Matt Finley surfing down on a rainbow and eating the rhinoceros in three horrific, gory bites, except, instead of his whole body getting fat, all of the weight went into his dick and they fucked liked cheetahs, locked in mortal combat, each one desperately slashing and clawing, trying to remove the other’s soul through its skin.


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