My Fucking Palms Hurt

“My Fucking palms hurt.”

Jesus Christ tied off and shot the drug into his left arm just below the bend of his elbow. The whore that was lying next to him, her eyes rolled back in her head and fluttering, wasn’t going to wake up any time soon. As the heroin hit him, he started slowly to lie back and let his hand brush her ample breast on the way down. The two of them had been fixing every few hours for days. Eventually they would have to eat something, but at the moment that didn’t seem nearly as important as the sticky warm oblivion the needle was offering them. With that thought, he passed back out.

When Jesus came to, John the Baptist was humping the whore. She was still unconscious, and the Baptist’s head was no where to be seen. The creepy old fucker had a habit of leaving it lying around, and then forgetting where he had put it. The sight of that bloody neck stump bobbing up and down over the whore’s ample tits made Jesus want to puke. He picked himself up, and tried to dust the dirt from his body. His ribs, he decided, were much too prominent. Maybe he could get off the junk, then start hitting the gym again. He was pretty sure that he still had a membership at one of the swanky workout shops downtown.

The headless preacher rolled off the whore and went to find his head. Jesus looked down at her crotch and wondered if he should take a run at her. He decided to let it wait. She needed a wash. He squatted down next to her and slapped her face a bit. The whore’s eyelids fluttered, then drew back to reveal blood shot retinas.

“Mhhhhn uh,” she half moaned and rolled over.

“Fuck it.” Jesus found a balled up T-shirt on the floor, stretched it out and gave it a good sniff. Then he pulled it over his head and went looking for his sandals.

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3 Comments

  1. That second paragraphs kills me. Thought of reading it to the stranger sitting next to me right now.

    Like

  2. jesus deep down wants to fuck john the baptists neck hole.

    Like

  3. […] story by Nathan Tyree is a digital flower. Touch it why won’t […]

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