Rapunzel. Put your spine in your back. rmartyr4mylove4uSeptember 20 2011, 22:16:47 UTC
put your spine in your back.
There are no knights in America. No princes to save the girl and the end is always too abrupt to call happy. But there is man, on a speck of land some dare call a town out past the edge of the map, and when the sun is high and the wind graceless and unforgiving you could look at him and mistake something in his face for goodness.
Madame Violet, who runs the saloon and then a little something on the side, smiles at him each time he buys a drink, bends over the counter farther than she should and if he cared to look he’d see his money’s worth. He never cares to look. By the end of this story that woman is going to regret trying.
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For those looking to keep score, the man could be called John. And if you thought of him as a hero you would be wrong. In turn Madame V is no wicked stepmother.
We’ve already told you. America has no room for happy endings
-
If it hasn’t been sufficiently clear, Madame V runs the best (the only) brothel (whorehouse, den of sin, house of ill repute) in town. The sheriff visits her bed twice a week and the deputy is there every other day.
The only bed and the only room John ever visits is at the top of the house. The woman (and make no mistake she is a woman; there is no room for girls in stories like this) who lives there has long golden hair (like a goddess- no like a whore- but oh dear reader, don’t you know? Every woman is a whore in the eyes of the men who look at them for nothing but their bodies- and so must every goddess be one as well) and when gentleman come to call it hangs loose and straight down across her naked breasts.
John comes to call (and to pay) and she spread her legs wide and he pushes his cock into her wet cunt (and she is always wet- prostitution is no business, it is art) and she is plaint and willing and loud. He calls this love and when he comes he tells her so and she laughs. Throws her head back (and he calls it passion) and she laughs.
-
They term the thing on his face- in his eyes goodness but that is because the true name for it hurts. Greed has a lot of faces but the most dangerous is the one coated in anger.
John craves justice and righteousness but he defines them both himself. John is his own God. His own priest. His own judge and jury and hangman and most of all (though he never notices) his own devil.
John wants the world. John wants Rapunzel. And John wants both in his own image.
-
Eventually he professes love one too many times. Some men would say, she laughs at him one too many times, but that isn’t true. There’s no such thing as too much laughter.
There’s no such thing as blaming the pretty woman, with her long golden hair and perfect breasts and perfect cunt, for the match that burns her house down to the ground, that turns her bones to nothing but ash.
-
If you walk through town and ever think you hear her screaming to her death, you’re wrong. She’s laughing.
There are no knights in America. No princes to save the girl and the end is always too abrupt to call happy. But there is man, on a speck of land some dare call a town out past the edge of the map, and when the sun is high and the wind graceless and unforgiving you could look at him and mistake something in his face for goodness.
Madame Violet, who runs the saloon and then a little something on the side, smiles at him each time he buys a drink, bends over the counter farther than she should and if he cared to look he’d see his money’s worth. He never cares to look. By the end of this story that woman is going to regret trying.
-
For those looking to keep score, the man could be called John. And if you thought of him as a hero you would be wrong. In turn Madame V is no wicked stepmother.
We’ve already told you. America has no room for happy endings
-
If it hasn’t been sufficiently clear, Madame V runs the best (the only) brothel (whorehouse, den of sin, house of ill repute) in town. The sheriff visits her bed twice a week and the deputy is there every other day.
The only bed and the only room John ever visits is at the top of the house. The woman (and make no mistake she is a woman; there is no room for girls in stories like this) who lives there has long golden hair (like a goddess- no like a whore- but oh dear reader, don’t you know? Every woman is a whore in the eyes of the men who look at them for nothing but their bodies- and so must every goddess be one as well) and when gentleman come to call it hangs loose and straight down across her naked breasts.
John comes to call (and to pay) and she spread her legs wide and he pushes his cock into her wet cunt (and she is always wet- prostitution is no business, it is art) and she is plaint and willing and loud. He calls this love and when he comes he tells her so and she laughs. Throws her head back (and he calls it passion) and she laughs.
-
They term the thing on his face- in his eyes goodness but that is because the true name for it hurts. Greed has a lot of faces but the most dangerous is the one coated in anger.
John craves justice and righteousness but he defines them both himself. John is his own God. His own priest. His own judge and jury and hangman and most of all (though he never notices) his own devil.
John wants the world. John wants Rapunzel. And John wants both in his own image.
-
Eventually he professes love one too many times. Some men would say, she laughs at him one too many times, but that isn’t true. There’s no such thing as too much laughter.
There’s no such thing as blaming the pretty woman, with her long golden hair and perfect breasts and perfect cunt, for the match that burns her house down to the ground, that turns her bones to nothing but ash.
-
If you walk through town and ever think you hear her screaming to her death, you’re wrong. She’s laughing.
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