Friday, December 16, 2011

Fat Blunts and Slutty Women

By Grant Wamack

Dear Rich,
     Last night I ate a rapper. I know it sounds strange, but it's true. You can check the facts if you want. There's probably some DNA strands embedded in my shit. Disgusting, I know.
     I found him walking down the street rapping that rapper stuff. You know, the money, hoes, and clothes stuff you hear all over the radio. I knocked him out with a steel frying pan and dragged him inside the front door under the cover of night.
     He smelled like a pungent mixture of fat blunts, dead presidents, and slutty women. Just thought you would like to know.
     The kids were sound asleep and so were you honey. So I knew I had to be real quiet like. Mouse. Cat. Old people. Take your pick.  I was all three and then some.
     I tossed the rapper on the table with a small thud. It was actually quite easy thanks to some workout videos I picked out last year and some key supplements. Then I took a butcher knife and chopped him up real quick like.
     It was crazy bloody. I got some fluids in my hair and bits of flesh on that yellow summer dress you bought me for our last anniversary. I considered cooking him but none of my pans were big enough for the job so I said fuck it. Yeah, I know ladies aren't supposed to cuss but I'm a lady with an edge. Metaphoric of course. That's why you married me instead of that goodie two shoes who lives down the block.
     Just like sushi I ate him raw. I applied liberal amounts of wasabi and Tabasco sauce to add some flavor and I downed a few cups of bone marrow afterwards to finish off a satisfying meal. I felt a little bad that I didn't wake you up and share, but I thought your sleep would be more important than my late night snack.
     All that remained were hollow bones, a little viscera, a fat ass gold chain and some rings.
     I slid the rings onto my slender fingers and put the chain on my neck. I have to admit it was kinda heavy. I wanted to feel like a rapper. It felt good.
     I gave the leftovers to the neighbor's dog who seemed to like it just as much as I did.
     I woke up the next day late. You already dropped off the kids at school and I assumed you went to work.
     Everything seemed the same. Drool hanging out the side of my mouth. Eye boogers in my tear ducts. Hair all over the place as usual. The only thing that was out of the ordinary were my thoughts. They all rhymed. I couldn't help but think of raps. That five finger ring, gold chain rap.
     So I said a few and they sounded great.
     I tossed on some clothes and felt this urge to take out a sucka emcee.
     I went outside scouring the streets of our safe and serene suburb for any rappers who dare cross my path. I finally found a couple of acne ridden teenagers and accosted them.
     “Yeah I rap,” this little snotty ass Eminem wanna be said. Then he spit on the ground. “Nice tits.”
     “Yeah wish you could feel these chump, but I bet your balls aren't any bigger than a cancerous lump.”
     He looked at me dumbfounded. Then he began trembling like a poorly constructed house caught in a raging hurricane. He fell to pieces, sobbing on the sidewalk.
     “'s true...every single word.”
     His friend gave me dap, closing his hand around mine as if it were a secret gesture.
     “I make beats. You should come over to the studio and we can make an album.”
     So I did. I sleep in the basement with rats and other creatures. Sometimes I give the kid a blow job from time to time so he'll be happy and let me stay for free. He actually has a pretty big cock. It's juicy too. Besides that, I write raps all day and record them at night.
     We released a few songs on youtube. My newest song is called “Fat Blunts and Slutty Women.” I think you would like it. Plus, it  has over ten million views on youtube.
     A couple record execs called me up and invited to fly me out to talk about signing a deal. Isn't that great? All of my dreams are coming true and I'm going to be rolling in the dough in no time.
     I hope there's no hard feelings. Tell the kids I said hi.
     Melissa Sawyer aka the baddest bitch.


BIO: Grant Wamack writes weird fiction at night and works for the Navy during the day. He has been published at Flashes in the Dark, Everyday Fiction, and 365 Tomorrows among other places. If you would like your mind blown please visit him at

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