I hefted Keith onto the table and strapped him down. God, my left shoulder was killing me. I had no idea he weighed that much, but then again, I hadn’t seen him in over a year. Awww. He looks so innocent lying there, asleep, not running his mouth about how I should fucking shut up and know my place as a woman or I’d gained a few pounds and should really do something that. Or another favorite of his: “Honey, that’s why I make all the money, so you don’t have to think. Now bend over, pull down your panties, and give daddy your pussy.”

I spit on his cheek and rubbed it in. He moaned and appeared to be coming around. I grinned. Good. Soon we could get this show on the road. I took a utility knife and neatly slashed and ripped through all his clothes, which I threw in a corner of the room. Then I stripped and donned a clear plastic raincoat—tucked neatly into the drawer of the surgical cart, just as promised—and pulled on a shower cap and protective full-face visor. I left my five-inch go-go boots on because they made me feel powerful and sexy, and tonight was all about taking back the control after this bastard stole it away.

“Wha-what’s going on?”

I leaned down and whispered in his ear. “We’re going to have playtime, Keith. Don’t you remember playtime with Betty Jean?”

I stood back to give him a good look at me, naked in my clear plastic raincoat.

“Betty Jean. I remember your lips tasted like strawberries and you had a pussy so tight, I thought you were never going to give it up.” He cackled. “Say, why are we in such a weird room?”

Before he could ask any more questions, I plunged a needle into his neck, injecting him with a powerful cocktail that immobilized him but left him conscious and, most important, able to feel what was about to happen. I strolled to the corner and turned on the pink boombox, preloaded with “Bikini Girls with Machine Guns” by the Cramps. As the song belted from the speakers, I duct-taped his mouth. Tonight, I wouldn’t have to hear any more of his shit.

I climbed onto the surgical table, positioned myself over Keith’s face, and pissed on him, letting loose a long, slow stream of urine as I sang along with the Cramps. When I was done, I dragged my pussy lips through his hair and laughed, thinking about the many times he’d come on my face without my consent. The little prick.

He lay there with his eyes screwed shut, trying to keep the piss out of them. “Awww. Poor baby,” I said, drying his face off with a towel and patting his cheek before turning my attention to the surgical instruments. What would be the most fun a girl could have? Well, let’s see. Keith was always talking to my tits, instead of looking me in the eyes. I admired the shiny, sharp tools of my trade, holding one up for him to see. His eyes flew open, wide as saucers, imploring me.

I hummed along with the boombox as I selected a scalpel. Nothing like “Bikini Girls with Machine Guns” to put a girl in the mood. I cackled and drew my finger across the blade. Crimson droplets oozed up. I sucked at the blood. This knife was strong enough to penetrate Keith’s skin. I didn’t hesitate. With a precise motion I cut a perfect circle around his left nipple, then repeated the cut around his right nipple. A howl of pain erupted from his duct-taped mouth and tears ran down his face as I laid the slimy, warm, flappy nipples into a stainless steel bowl and smacked him across the face to get him to shut up. He shat himself and I wrinkled my nose.

“You scream again and I’ll take something worse. Now close your eyes. And if you shit yourself again, I’m going to make you eat it.”

There is no way in hell I’m cleaning up this dickwad’s shit.

He stilled, whimpering, vitally aware of who was in charge. The room stank like a stall at the state fair. Thankfully, I had a strong stomach. I was going to make sure he never ogled another pair of tits—other than his own sorry, mangled nipples—ever again. Carefully, I sewed his top and bottom eyelids open, and just as carefully, I stitched his nipples over his eyes. It didn’t take him long to start screaming again. I gave him another shot of the cocktail, and that quieted him down enough for me to concentrate on finishing his makeover. Afterward, I stood back to admire my handiwork. The result left him with the appearance of a strange, demented doll, possibly one used for black magic. Streaks of red ran down his face. His chest shook with great, wracking sobs. He moaned.

“Oh, we’re not finished, yet, honey, baby, Keith,” I pouted and twirled a piece of my curly hair around my hand. “It’s time to take care of that pesky little problem you’ve always had with gossiping,” I said, whispering gossiping for dramatic emphasis and ripping the duct tape from his mouth. He moved his lips, helpless, but the drugs rendered him inarticulate, and only a dull murmur came out. “Cat got your tongue? A rare treat. You never could keep anything to yourself,” I said, my voice perky. “Remember the first time I stayed over at your place? By the time I got to work the next morning, the entire department knew.”

I took another knife, this one even more fine and delicate, and began sawing off Keith’s lips. Stretching them taut, I sliced through the tender flesh with ease as the blood flowed into his mouth. He coughed and sputtered, choking on it. I separated the upper lip and lifted it toward the surgical light, jiggling it like a piece of fat, then set it in the stainless steel bowl and repeated the task with the bottom lip. By then there was so much blood, I could hardly hold onto the blade. It painted his face crimson and gave his chest a red bib. His teeth, exposed to the gums, were smeared ruby, as well. The blood smelled coppery and good. My mouth watered for a rare steak, and I had a strange burst of imagination: those lips, sauteed in butter. But I had no plans to eat him. I’m not a barbarian.

I unstrapped him and he attempted to struggle, but I held a 9mm to his head—another special request, deposited reliably in the drawer of the surgical cart. When this was all over, someone would be getting a good tip.

“Roll over.”

“Why?” Through the ragged hole where his mouth had been, and absent any lips, this came out as “Hyyy.” The cocktail was wearing off, and his voice gargled from the blood flowing down this throat.

“Because I told you to, and I’m the one with all the drugs and the hospital equipment and the gun. So, if I tell you to turn over, you turn over, got it?

“Yeah.” (“Eahhh.”) He turned over and I strapped him in again, his legs spread slightly apart and his ass smeared in shit.

“Now this is what I mean by truly talking out of your ass.”

I parted Keith’s butt cheeks and gathered some strong sutures. I swallowed, my eyes watering at the stench, wiping away what I needed to do my work. The boombox was now playing Irish ballads. The needle slid through his lip and into his asshole with a small amount of force. He howled and tried to clench his cheeks, but the drug was already working. I gagged at the feel of his shit on my hands. I’d expected it to be harder to sew through his flesh, but it was almost like it’d been prophesized that he who talked dishonestly out his ass should then be seen for who he is. When I finished this task, sweat beaded on my forehead and I had a crick in my neck, but I refused to stop. I had a transformation to complete and I was going to complete it in one swoop. I wiped my hands on the soiled sheet beneath him and reached for a Sani wipe on the instrument tray. The sooner I got his shit off me, the better.

“That’s what you get for talking out your ass, Keith.” I giggled.

He moaned and shifted on the table.

By this time, the floor was slick with his blood, and in my smeared and dotted plastic raincoat, I looked like a living Jackson Pollack. I was the art, and so was Keith.

I unstrapped him, rolled him over once more, and placed fresh duct tape over his gnarled mouth. Time for the coup de gras.

He shivered, in shock from blood loss or fear, or both. After all the torture he’d put me through, I didn’t give a fuck. No. No mercy. He was such a dickhead. It’s fitting he BE a dickhead.

I gazed down at the pathetic, shriveled member, limp between his legs. God, I can’t believe I ever allowed that inside me. It made me want to douche with bleach and a toilet brush, but at least, I could get some satisfaction.

Having washed my hands so they wouldn’t slip, I took a fresh scalpel. The boombox started playing, “Short Dicked Man.” Singing along, I sliced into his penis, sawing back and forth with gusto. Fully awake now, he howled behind his duct tape, and bloody tears streamed down his bloody cheeks. In sixty seconds, I held his severed member in my hand and was reveling in the blood that spurted from his groin. I spanked his dick, tossed it in the air, catching it, cackling. “Ahhh…short, dicked man. Time to put you where you belong, since you’re a dickhead and talk dick all the time anyway.”

I set Keith’s pathetic cock in the stainless steel bowl. One more thing to do.

Tearing off the duct tape, I reached into his mouth, grabbed his meaty tongue, and slit his throat. Yanking and pulling, I worked his tongue through the slit, giving him a Sicilian necktie. He gurgled and the blood fountained up and over his chin and down his neck, spattering to the floor. When the flow began to ebb, I reached for a suture, picked up his flaccid dick, and sewed it onto the jagged scarlet hole that was once his mouth.

Now he really was a dickhead.

Again, I stood back to admire my work. As the boombox blasted out Pussy Riot, my feelings surprised me. I had expected exhilaration, a sense of finality, but really, Keith just looked like what he was—a small, pathetic man. Kind of sad. Anticlimactic.

But my spirits rose when I remembered this experience came with a coda, an epilogue. I had a list of his exes, women he’d wronged. Glorying in the thought of delivering this bit of, eh, gossip, I peeled off the plastic raincoat and retrieved my cell. Not bothering to dress, I dialed, beginning with the “As.”

“Is this Autumn?” Pause. “Yes, this is a friend of Keith’s.” Pause. “Yes, I’m sure you probably don’t want to hear from Keith, but I assure you I have something you’re going to want to see.”

About the Author:
Nora B. Peevy is a syndicate author for Thrill Ride eZine and the Butchered Writers. She is also a freelance editor and narrator. Her first short story collection, Cemetery Tacos on Wednesday and Other Delights, appeared in February 2026 from JournalStone, and her debut novel, Flesh-Eating Turtles!, was published in June 2025 by The Evil Cookie Publishing. Her work can be found on Amazon. She also reads scripts for the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival. Nora has a spot on Travs Bruce’s YouTube channel: Horror Realm, and she recently took a job as slush reader for Carnage House. She also hosts the Butchered Writers every other Saturday. If you can’t find her she’s off on a nature walk, staring at the full moon.