Candy Floss Kisses

Posted: March 28, 2013 in MiB Hates Us All, The Great Writing Competition-of-sorts

[THURSDAY – THE EIGHTH DAY AND THE THIRD PIECE, BECAUSE WHY NOT?]

[Ok, this piece has been long overdue, but I actually kinda sorta have a legitimate reason, of sorts, for its delay. Firstly, the Internet has been out since the weekend because MWEB’s Seacom cable off the coast of Egypt has been damaged, proving once and for all that the radicals in the Middle East have finally figured out how to hit the West where it hurts most – by cutting off their daily supply of Transformer erotica. Also, some sheikh needs to donate them a fucking compass, because we live in the South, not the West, assholes. 

Secondly, some human paraquat has been stealing my pieces word for word, clause for clause, phrase for sinful phrase, and posting it on a blog under someone else’s name, because the Internet is a place where douche-dickery can run wild. This is a complicated case with a lotta ins, a lotta outs, a lotta what-have-you’s, and so the competition has been placed on a hiatus in the meantime while I find out who has been stealing my stuff and show them that the pen really is mightier than the sword by stabbing them in the jugular with a Bic. And then going back on that age-old adage by perhaps kneecapping them with a katana, depending on how I feel.

Finally, this piece’s title takes the cake for being more gay than that ginger guy from Modern Family going down on Elton John in a public toilet in London, because my best friend is a closet sadist and enjoys torturing me in such fashions. Also, the protagonist of this piece had to be a female. Viva la vagina!]

“This”, thought Detective Daphne Flower as she surveyed the corpse, “is a fucking messy dilemma.” She ambled nonchalantly around the chalk outline of the body that lay before her, taking careful note to not tread in any of the blood with her expensive-looking stilettoes. She decided to enunciate her finding to the room at large. “This”, she remarked aloud, with the air of one who knows her business, “is a fucking messy dilemma.”

And indeed it was.

The victim lay spread-eagled beneath her, arms and legs splayed at odd angles. A thin rivulet of blood trickled out of the edge of her mouth into a gradually increasing pool of clotting crimson. The victim was dressed – or undressed, rather – in cheap lingerie and what appeared to be seven different shades of glitter. Daphne glared down at the deceased’s enormous breasts for several seconds, then made a firm decision that they were implants and that her breasts were bigger, because this is my story and if I have to write from the perspective of a woman there will be at least two instances of boob-competition.

Daphne examined the curvaceous body from above and noted that the victim seemed to have perished in a very painful, albeit quick manner – her face was contorted and frozen into an eerie expression that seemed to be half-grin-half-grimace. “Ouch”, she thought. Daphne prided herself upon what she considered to be her honed powers of deduction and piercing insight, as well as her other many powerful detective skills – indeed, she thought herself to be one of the best detectives that ever detected. She wasn’t.

She was alerted from her musings by the arrival of her assistant, an up-and-coming, very ambitious and considerably more intelligent individual by the unusual name of Perkins Popinjay. Daphne stared at Perkins in disdain – she intensely disliked Perkins’ name – (What the fuck kind of a name is Perkins Popinjay anyway? she often wondered whilst lying in bed late at night) – and therefore by proxy, hated Perkins. Perkins hated Daphne and thought she was a snobbish cunt, and so there was a healthy balance and rivalry that existed between the two.

“Alright, Bitchtits, what do you have for me? Victim’s name?”

Popinjay glared at her and teetered on the verge of telling her to shove a seagull up her snatch, but composed himself and then answered:

“The victim’s name is Candy Floss Kisses – her alias, I mean and that’s what we can gather so far. She was a stripper working for the Willy Wanker Factory.”

“Candy Floss Kisses? What, was Tina McFucktits taken? These strippers and their fake breasts and man-stealing tendencies and all the fucked up sexual shit they do. Seriously, watermelons are for eating. I tell you, Popinjay, they’re a scourge on society.”

Popinjay stared at her, speechless. When he eventually managed to speak, he could barely mask his utter indignation.

“She was someone’s daughter.”

“Not mine, sweetheart.”

Popinjay gave up on trying to evoke any emotion out of this frigid excuse for a human being and proceeded on with the details.

“Judging by the lack of bruising and stab wounds, it appears that the cause of death was not by blunt trauma or a sharp object, nor by any known firearm. In fact, all the evidence seems to point to poison. The unusually high levels of tetrodoxin in the victim’s blood is indicative of poison derived from the venom of an rare African snake commonly known as the Devil’s Kiss.”

“Aha!” Daphne exclaimed. “So you could say that Candy Floss here was…” – she reached down to her collar to pull out her sunglasses, then remembered that she had left them in the police car, and so forced Popinjay to run back to the car and retrieve them for her, after which she put them on dramatically and finished – “kissed to death.”

Somewhere in the back of her mind a loud YEEEEEEEEAAAAAHHH!!! played out in the background.

Popinjay allowed her a full ten seconds to enjoy this fantasy whilst he caught his breath before interrupting loudly by clearing his throat. Daphne emerged hazily, still daydreaming somewhat of ginger-haired law officers with names out of Shakespeare.

“Do we have any witnesses?” she asked.

“Yes, a few, including the owner of this fine establishment, Mr Willy Wanker himself.”

“Well, lead me to our first witness, Hoppingay, and let me instruct you in the art of interrogation.”

—x-x-x—

The first witness proved uncooperative after Detective Daphne threw a steaming mug of coffee in his face as she felt that the witness had lied directly to her about her first question – “What is your name?” – despite the witness screaming “Did you really think my real name was fucking Willy Wanker?!?” no less than thrice.

“You see, Perkins, no mercy should be shown unto the criminal!” she roared triumphantly, as the witness was rushed out of the makeshift interrogation room by the emergency staff on hand. She then ordered Perkins to bring her another cup of joe and sat down opposite the second witness, another stripper named Lorna Lickitup, eying her menacingly. Lorna had bigger breasts than Daphne and so Daphne held her in contempt and ordered her immediate arrest for deliberately withholding information from the police. When Popinjay returned and told her that she couldn’t do such a thing as an officer of the law, Daphne told him to suck a fat one, and then decided to give up on the case and detecting in general, just as I’ve decided to give up writing this piece. She walked out the door just as it began to rain.

“But why?” asked Perkins Popinjay, staring after her as she walked slowly off into the sunset.

She paused, the rain dripping down her long, luscious locks. She didn’t turn around.

“Because at the end of the day, Popinjay, she’s just another dead stripper poisoned from the venomous glands of a rare African reptile. In her last moments, what fleeting thoughts passed her mind? Reflections of redemption? Salvation? We’ll never know. At the end of the day, she’s just a dead nobody amongst an ocean of dead nobodies. And nobody gives a fuck about a nobody. Not even the nobodies. Such is the tale of Candy Floss Kisses.”

And so she left, never to be seen again, leaving Perkins – who was happier than a man who had just been serviced for free at the Willy Wanker Factory – in her wake.

[So that’s that. You may say that it’s misogynistic and an insult to females the world over, but I assure you, I love women. I have all their albums. I don’t know if and when the next piece will be up – I still have an asshole plagiarist to decapitate, and I don’t know how long that may take/how messy that may be. I may even hold a writing competition that’s open to the public and that will feature the winning pieces on the blog in the near future, if enough interest is shown. Until then, it’s been a slice]

© 2012-2013 mibhatesusall.com All Rights Reserved

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s