Author: Benjamin C. Roy Cory Garrett Illustrator: Luis Gabriel Alvarado Rev History Rev .00 - Original Print - ??/??/2007 Rev .01 - Digitized - 03/16/2022
Who is Tits McGee?
A Mystery
Written by
Benjamin C. Roy Cory Garrett
Illustrated by
Luis Gabriel Alvarado
A Black Unicorn Press Publication
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Dedicated to Seth McCoy
A true Kirksville storyteller
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Hayden Bell is the incestuous by-product of one diabolical sorcerer’s experiment to breed a hot air balloon with a walrus. She’s fat. She’s ugly. And she’s good for nothing except filling your ears with steam. She is a liar—and by a liar I mean she is a Fat, Ugly, Good For Nothing Storyteller. She tells Fat, Ugly stories that have, upon occasion, had the entire room laughing, but only at her. If there was a brain in her head, our condescending laughter would shame her into silence, but the girl is as dumb as the mud hole she fell out of. Us boys can spend a whole night picking fun in her direction and she’s just flattered there are fellas looking her way. Yeah, she’s dumb alright – dumb, ugly, fat, and a pain in the ass.
Now normally, I try to think about her ugly fat-ass about as much as I think about having my testicles shredded in a meat grinder, but last night she tells me she experienced something in the Ownbey Cemetery that I’d never believe in one-thousand years. She’s right of course that I don’t believe her—but the story itself is so perverse and macabre that I can’t help but think about just what really happened in that graveyard and how it got her panties into such a disgusting greasy knot.
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Hayden’s story:
Well, I was walking out boundary road, going out to DJ’s farm for his birthday barbeque—the one that you never showed up at—Umhm. I tried calling you up to see if I could catch a ride, and I even tried calling Kat, but nobody seems to answer their telephones anymore, or at least not when I am calling…Anyway it was July hot, and I was just getting roasted up. I was ruining my nice green dress, the one that momma left me when she died, getting sweatier than Cousin James when he shovels manure in the tin barn.
I was wearing myself out, nearing enough to heatstroke, when I came up on Ownbey Cemetery. Well, I got two generations of family resting in that cemetery, so I figure I got the right to rest myself down there against a tree for a bit—at least until the sun went down or a breeze picked up. So that’s what I did, except it was so nice to be sitting in the shade instead of walking in the sun that I fell fast asleep leaning against an old gnarled black walnut tree.
When I woke up, the sun was just a crack in the sky behind me. The graveyard had grown all dusty-dark-gray but for one beam of light that streamed through the shadows of the treetops to enchant a gravestone sitting just a couple steps in front of me and off three paces to the right. It was one of those double stones—lovers stones, they call them—and lit up by that last devil ray of the sun was an inscription just under the names, Wesley and Emma J . Leech:
Now, I don’t know.
Maybe it’s not the most important or beautiful thing that has ever been carved into stone. But sure as Abraham Lincoln wore a funny hat, it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read in my simple life. I was spell-struck and love-bound—sucked into that sentence, and drawn toward the stone—crawling through the grass on my hands and knees like a hog to her slop trough.
As I drew near, an affectionate breeze blew shut my eyelids—just as I reached out my arm, feeling for the edges of them chiseled little letters beneath my fingers as they basked in the last wisps of Lady Sunshine’s laughter.
At least that is what I thought I was feeling for as I stuck my arm out groping for pink granite, but what my fingertips found at the length of their grasp wasn’t no rock, but the flesh of a human being.
***
Oh, you can grin and snarl all you want to Mr. Tits McGee, because the sensation that shot up through my arm with that first fumbling caress was more intimately appreciated by this young lady than a mean little man like you could imagine in your cruelest fantasy.
The love and warmth I felt was nearly too much for me—and I nearly pulled my hand away in embarrassment and shock—except for somehow I knew that everything happening inside me would end as soon as I did pull my hand away. Well, whatever else may come, I wasn’t going to be the one to separate myself from the tenderness of that caress—not for anything. I could die there in that graveyard, happy in the warmth of that skin against my palm.
It did even better than kill me, though.
As I knelt there in dry hot dirt, letting love, Yes I said LOVE, flow up my arm, each and every molecule between my fingertip and my chest danced radiation through 360 degrees of the congregating atoms making up the rest of me. L-O-V-E, Tits. Maybe you don’t know what “IT” is but you know what I am spelling out. I was in communion with spirits lost in each other between heaven and hell and giving no Goddamn about it. I am telling you that Wesley and Emma J. Leech made Love (I say it again, Love) to me there that evening, transcendent through 80 years of earth, death, and a stone of skin.
My knees trembled and ached against the parched earth, but it wasn’t pain that shimmied down my shins or snaked up my thighs. It was an experience beyond experience, and I tell you that I thundered and stormed my every last pleasure onto that patch of soil and sod, prostrated down before that monument to lasting love.
Don’t you dare make that face at me Mr. McGee. I know you wank your willie freely in this smelly little cave you use to close yourself off from the world, but your merry little squirts are infantile and pathetic. You cannot compare the masturbations of a bitter ignorant fool to an eclipse of body and spirit.
For Christ sake, a woman like me wouldn’t and shouldn’t even know that there was such a difference unless she had been exalted upon the evening epiphany table of those vampiric Leeches.
Shit, Tits, do you understand the significance of what I am saying? Last night I lost my immortal virginity in a flood that drenched one Earth only to leave another barren dry. You think I am being over dramatic? Well, you’re probably right. I’m still just the heat, wind, and dust of a human being, just like you.
But miracle or tragedy, it makes no difference in the grand scheme of things, Tits McGee, because I’d rather spend the rest of my life dying of thirst than sucking at the stream of piss you’re sinking in.