I was given a voodoo doll in New Orleans. An unfuckinggodly piece of work it is, too. And it was intended for a perfectly wretched son of a bitch. I’ve been biding my time, but work commenced today.
I needed a bit of the actual flesh of this individual, even at the molecular level, to make this work. Well, this misformed freak has a head of hair like an alpaca. Weedwhackers won’t keep that shit tamed.
And so it was an easy task, while he was engaged in other work, to don the latex gloves, and sweep his desk. Scored a dozen hairs, as well as some disgusting shit that appeared to be fleshrot, or some similar form of skin shed. I placed it under the microscope in hopes of detecting necrotizing fasciitus,flesh-eating bacteria, but was sorely disappointed.
Not to worry. I had the hair. If I couldn’t waste this fucker on the short dime, I still had my gameplan intact.
And so I inserted that alpaca hair (again, wearing latex gloves) into the scalp of this voodoo doll. Now it gets dicey. You have to follow procedure in a situation like this. You can’t spit the rum into the pentangle after you behead the chicken, and you can’t ejaculate into the headless chicken’s gullet before you jam the hatpins into the doll. It’s all about protocol. Sure, you’ll have a great orgasm, but this is work, not play.
So I think I have it right. Did the deal. With any luck this pathetic cocksucker’s right eyelid will be twitching tomorrow, and by Thursday he will suffer the great ignominy of elephantiasis of the testicles.
I can’t let him die. Not yet. Pain is the great equalizer, someone (me?) once said. And so, rum spew, beheading, come, stick. For at least three weeks. And then, as the last gasps wheeze from his lungs, I will allow him the great dignity of watching his house burn down as he expires, like an ancient library card.
Then I’m going to Disney World.
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7 Comments
I’m not exactly sure why, but I think I’ll just stay on your good side. Can I hold anything for you while you work?
Damnit, until I got down to where I could see who wrote the post, I thought sure as shit, Yabu had finally had a stroke of genius and was plottin’ the demise of one “Vman”… but then, after seein’ the writin’ and all the 5$ words, I said to myself, self, who else BUT Vman wrote that shit.
Ahh, I just knew you’d put the little gem to good use…!
Well, after you are done being sinister…come on down to my end of the world (Central Florida). However, you must promise to not take pieces of me and do dirty things with them.
Let me know if it works. Then I’ll go make a voodoo doll of my own. heh
Not into voodoo. I practice Santaria. A devotee of Chango. Chango is the Orisha of thunder, the drums and dance. He is a Warrior King, and we salute him by saying “Cabio sile Chango” when thunder is heard.
His number is 6.
His colors are red and white.
Offerings to Chango include: green bananas, hot cornmeal and okra, and red apples.
His symbol is a double-headed axe.
Chango enjoys aged rum and a fine Cubano cigar now and again. A fine roasted game hen presented to him will gain his favor.
I once selected the finest orange and presented it to Chango. I held it before his altar and called it by the name of my enemy. I cursed the orange and kicked it under my bed. Two days later, in court, my enemy crumbled in defeat before my eyes.
Never, ever mess with me and Chango!
Frank…I owe you man…I owe you!!!