[Offensive Story] Tits and Bullets [PART ONE]

[I wrote this a long time ago on a challenge. We were supposed to try to create something off the cuff, regardless of  politics. This was supposed to help us create characters who weren't carbon copies of ourselves. Clearly, I'm not like this guy but it's interesting I found his voice easily, huh? Anyways! Not sure if I ever had anything planned with this... but I had some fun writing it]



The first thing I noticed were her tits.

Perhaps that isn't romantic or charming or, hell, even witty. However, it was the truth.  My eyes fell over the way they seemed to strain against the fabric of what I could only hope to be something red and lacy. Something easy enough to unhook or edible enough to chew off. Possibly  a size or two too small or perhaps just right- I don't know. I'm not really an expert on bras or their sizes. Truth be told, if you asked me what size bras came in,  I would answer "mouthful, handful, or cock wrap".  The point of it all was that her breasts were the first thing I saw.

Noted.

Observed.

They had a bounce to them, a sort of rhythm that could inspire a musical number that would be both true and insulting at the same time. The music would take a shit on the feminist movement, reducing years of fighting for respect to a bug on the glass ceiling that they've grown accustomed to citing. The song wouldn't sing praise about skill or practices that this woman was capable of or talents she might possess. It was simply a ballad of lust that most Neanderthals would 'hoot' and 'holler' towards around their frat boys as they took sips from their 'brewskis' and 'buds'- saying snapping lines such as "This buds for you" or "it's miller times" while they drank away all respect and replaced it with faux-respect that they used to hide their mediocrity in life and in the sack.

Her tits inspired poets and bards to creates a tale of two ginormous apples hanging from the Tree of Sin. Two apples meant to taunt men into looking but not touching. Warning men to fantasize but not react. Eyes only. Hands off. They weren’t meant for reality but man, wouldn’t it be wild if they were? These tits were poetic. These tits were sinful. These tits, in the words of my father’s generation, were ‘gnarly’ or ‘rad’ or possibly ‘hip to the square’.

These tits were the first things I noticed about the girl. The second thing was her gun.

That early part about me admitting to knowing next to nil about bras? I know even less about guns. However, I knew enough to know that if you applied said gun to said forehead it created said piss in my pants.

“Hand over your wallet.” Fantasy-Tits stated with a sort of grace that was more Southern Bell than Brooklyn thug. It was playful even with a pistol pressed to my forehead and piss dribbling down my leg. A paradox of observation and emotion. Sort of like getting kicked in the balls by Shirley Temple. It’s painful and bizarre but holy shit, it’s Shirley Temple. You couldn’t be angry or pissed or even peeved. You’d be in pain, sure, but you would be choking on kittens and shitting rainbows at the cuteness.

I imagine that if my life was a porno, I would have said something about having a massive wad for her, pulled out a thirteen incher, and introduced her shirt to the alley’s floor and her breasts to my penis. If my life was a porno, I would have been fucking the shit out of her tits in the middle of a studio surrounded by a half rate director and his motley crew of dregs instead of the make-shift “Red Light District” of Williamsburg, Nebraska. If my life was a porno, she would have been screaming my name until I heard “cut” and even then I would give an extra thrust so she’d know she was special to me. Instead, however, the only thing being said was her asking for my wallet.

Sadly, my life isn’t a porno. She took my wallet, steadies her pistol, and fires into my head. I counted one shot but what the fuck do I know? I was a corpse the second I hit the ground. No flash of my past. No sudden insights or puzzle pieces coming together. I didn’t even get a fucking angle or white light. All I got was a darkness followed by nothingness.

Jokes on her, though. I had sex with her about a million times in my head before she shot me. How does she like them apples?