mossbergers jpg
(11.03 KB, 360x202)
In the stuffy haze of Doom’s cluttered bedroom, somewhere in a nameless American sprawl, the air reeked of stale beer and lizard terrarium. Doom, a hulking forty-something with a sweat-slicked gut, loomed over Max, his breath ragged. “The Mossberg 500’s loaded, darlin’,” he rasped, grinning as he thrust, his manhood’s nickname spat with pride. Max, eighteen and rail-thin, lay beneath him, her Nine Inch Nails t-shirt stubbornly clinging to her torso, her dark eyes fixed on the ceiling, lips pressed tight in disinterest.
A skittering noise broke the rhythm. “Goddammit, Reznor, quit eatin’ your own shit!” Doom barked, twisting to glare at the lizard scuttling in its glass cage. Max’s face twitched, annoyance flaring as she shifted, her body tense, barely responding to Doom’s heavy groping. He turned back, muttering, “Mossberg’s still primed,” and resumed, oblivious to her sigh. Reznor scratched again, and Doom’s head snapped around. “Reznor, I swear—” Max’s eyes rolled, her patience thinning as the bed creaked on.