There once was a man named Ebeneezer Screw. He worked as an accountant in a dusty bomb shelter with his skinny, yet muscular assistant Bob Catchit. Screw was a dirty old bone who took a ton of hell from the church. He hated, like, everything.
As day busted off and night come a'callin, Catchit slapped a shard of hotrock in the heat hole. Screw looked over his cracked and filthy glasses, shooting daggers of pent-up sperm dust into Catchit's fear recepticles. "Hotrocks don't come from nothin'," Screw shouted. "Don't be smackin' 'em home like a Middle Eastern, Bobby." "I'm sorry, sir," Catchit replied. "My man-lumps were frigid and I couldn't contain my char-beast's urges."
Catchit bent down to bare-handedly pluck the scalding sear-pebble from the fire well. The sound and stench of his scorching flesh could be sensed from far too long of a distance to be pleasant for any functioning being. As Screw bolted for his nose plugs and earmuffs, he caught a glimpse of Catchit's plumber's crack escaping his prickly bloomers. Dingleberries glistened in the flicker of Screw's unimaginatively cheap and dying candles.
Catchit turned to see Screw's mouth hanging agape as sweat oozed from his disgusting face - his cruddy, moth-bitten robe bouncing in the middle like a tarp-covered diving board. It all made sense to Catchit now; the lack - nay, loathing of female interaction, the crabby disposition, the erect penis waving in his face at a squirmingly uncomfortable distance. Screw, he though, has a rusty ready for rammin' rumps.
Catchit sat defensively watching Screw's skin-sleeved salami swinging wildly about his face as Screw twitched and coughed from the swift change in blood-pressure. This speckled, veiny cock made Catchit hard beneath his struggling zipper. He leaned in, caressing Screw's throbbing skin flute with his moistened southern lips. Screw's rhythmic spasms drove his pork hammer down Catchit's esophagus like a battering ram of dripping pleasure.
As catchit pulled away to re-wet, Screw's weenie tensed up like a shaky teen arm wrestler going down for the count. Then, in one burst, the tension broke with a horrifying smack of semen, knocking Catchit to the planks. Screw, having collapsed, jiggled on the floor as seventy-five years of ploppy spillage drained from his rickety loins.
He awoke, dazed and messy, and flung his half-crippled carcass onto Catchit's gymnast-like ab set. Catchit clutched Screw's limp love lever like a lively little label licker aught to as his tongue tickled screw's larva-like, spittle-stained gum covers. They laid in a gross naked heap of lose, wrinkled flesh, heaving and moaning in a passionate show of affliction until sunrise.
In the coming weeks, the townsfolk being noticing they don't hate Screw's keep-living ability as much as before. "He's changed," they'd remark. Before long, Screw and Catchit had devised a story about ghosts (or some shit) to throw them off the revolting scent of their secret shame. They died years later, simultaneously, in an amusingly homosexual position. Only Bob's sobbing wife and the fatherless handicapped child she tried to stab in the bathtub knew the truth and they died insanely young and completely impoverished.
The End.
