Here comes the sun! Doo doo doo doo.

   Summer! Yay! Put on your shirts and shorts, slap on some sunscreen and step outside! Then promptly retreat back inside again. At least that seems to be what a lot of people I know are doing. It's like it's too hot and sunny. Oh come on, yer pansies. I think it's lovely. I mean even me, the festering hermit that rarely escapes the dark hovel of a room I reside in, has been out. A lot actually. But now I've come back inside, with the express purpose of blessing this blog with a fresh post. A little story in fact. Guess what the theme is!

    The subject of our tale is one Coont Stoord, a sorry sap of a man. The warmth and beauty of summer is the bane of his existence, so much so that he hangs a wreath of dead plants and animals on his door when June comes around - in preparation for the coming months. Today we find Coont sitting by his window, curtain parted slightly to allow him to glare menacingly out at the children skipping and playing in the street below.
      'Little shits' he thinks to himself as he grips a cushion with the force of a vice. Eventually the children's fun becomes too much for him and he launches his clammy fist through the window, shattering both the glass and the bones in his pitiful hand. He lets out a pathetic moan as his floppy hand sloshes to and fro, the commotion causes the children to turn towards the window. The eyes of curious children upon Coont singe him slightly, so he hisses and backs away from the broken pane.

   As night falls the sun is replaced by a crescent moon. A cool breeze passes into Coont's room through the opening he failed to repair, much to his relief. He sighs blissfully as the sound of silence fills his flaky ears. The pure calm of the situation causes him to slip a hand down his belly and into his damp underwear. But his mind flashes back to the summer of 1999.

    Coont stood in a clean, shiny room, surrounded by his peers. The teacher lifted her hands and, as if raising tortured souls from perdition, told the kids to go out and play, because it was such a beautiful day. Coont leapt to his feet, clasped his then-chubby hand around that of the girl next to him and waddled outside. A couple of children dove into the sandpit, some went to the swings, and many played tag in the field. However, Coont had other plans - he took the girl he was with to a spot shaded by a great oak tree and sat her down next to him.
      "Bertha, have you ever had a kiss before?" he asked the girl, his face a bright red. She giggled.
      "No, how do you do a kiss?" she responded.
      "Well, I think it's like this" Coont said as he pulled his face towards her, his lips puckered. Alas, before they could make contact with Bertha's, she darted away and covered her nose.
      "Ew, you smell funny!" her face was scrunched up in disgust. A few seconds passed and she erupted into a violent fit of vomiting. The sick sprayed all over Coont, filling his shirt and coating his face. This caught the attention of all the other kids in the vicinity, who surrounded Coont. They all pointed and laughed at him as he lay squirming in the pool of vomit that had accumulated around him. He burst into tears as Bertha ran off.

    In the present day, Coont's eyes water as the memory strikes him again. He never saw Bertha again after that day, she had moved schools to escape bullying. Coont, however, did not. By the end of the summer he had no friends and had adopted the nickname 'Sicky Pants'. Just goes to show how very witty and mature primary school children are. Coont draws a knife from beneath his pillow and holds it against his neck, the tears flowing at this point. But he withstands the temptations and instead brings the knife down to his arm, carving a crucifix into it despite having no religious beliefs. His ears flicker as he hears the door to his room open.
     "Mister, your front door wasn't locked and I heard you crying so I came in to give you these" it is a little boy holding a box of cookies. The boy is slightly chubby and has a bright, red face - reminding Coont of his childhood self. Coont sniffs and lets out a few more tears. Then he twirls the knife in his hand, catching the blade in his palm, raises it above his head and throws it towards the boy. It plants itself square in the middle of the boy's forehead, the force knocking him backwards. He lets out a splutter before toppling backwards, coughing blood as his head strikes the ground. Coont remains still for a moment before approaching the limp corpse of the child. He bends down, looks straight into the boy's lifeless eyes and retrieves a cookie from the box still gripped firmly by the child's hands. As he chews the cookie a wicked smile stretches across his face. The smile evolves into a grin and before long Coont is laughing maniacally. He pulls down his pants and urinates into the boy's open mouth, chuckling as he does so.

    "What the fuck are you doing?" A voice cries from the open door to Coont's room. Apparently the boy's mother noticed her son had disappeared and had been looking for him. She looks down at the boy, staring in shock at the knife implanted in his forehead and the urine leaking from his mouth.
      "Bertha?" Coont asks, his eyes wide in disbelief.
      "How do you know my name, you sick bastard?"
      "It's me, Coont, from primary school"
      "Who?" this response shocks Coont. He has thought about her every day since she left. So he launches himself at her, grasping his knife-throwing hand around her neck as he beats her with his floppy, broken hand. She screams out as the sloshy mess repeatedly bashes her slender cheeks. Within moments a tall, heavily built man bursts into the room, shoving Coont aside and catching Bertha in his arms.
     "You slimey fuck, I'll end you!" the man shouts after placing Bertha on the soiled mattress Coont uses as a bed.
     "Who are you and what are you doing with my girlfriend?" Coont asks with what one might almost be able to call an assertive tone. Despite the situation the man manages to let a gasp of laughter escape his throat.
     "She's my wife, you pathetic shrivel of a human being" he says as he plants a fist in Coont's face, breaking his nose. Blood erupts from his nostrils, causing him to cup his face as he squeals in pain. The man approaches a table in the corner of the room. It is covered with various strange contraptions that he mistakes for torture equipment, which actually happens to be Coont's S&M kit.
    "You really are revolting" the man gazes at the kit with absolute shock before turning back towards Coont, picking him up and dragging him towards the window. Coont lets out a final pitiful moan before being launched through the window, falling two floors and landing in a crumpled heap on the patio below. The children outside gather around him, pointing and laughing at his mangled body as blood oozes from every orifice.



Now that you're happy and cheerful, go outside and play! It's a beautiful day. What's that? It's winter where you are? Well screw you!