Author's Note
I DO NOT OWN THE WWE AND I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT THE PERSONAL LIVES OF ITS EMPLOYEES.
I AM NOT WRITING IN AN ATTEMPT TO HURT ANYONE.
I think I'm depressed.
Anyway, this is a ONE-SHOT with no real relationship mentioned here, just Randy enjoying some pie (let me tell you now folks, he REALLY gets into it!).
WARNING:
-THIS IS RATED "M" because Randy kills his wife.
-I DON'T OWN THE WWE AND I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT RANDY'S PERSONAL LIFE.
-I am not writing this with malicious intent, I do NOT wish any ill-will on my readers
-There is a LOT of cursing.
-This IS disgusting.
-I'm tired.
If you DON'T like blood or gore, close the page! I have warned you and I'm not here to torture you.
Out of all the pies feasible to the imagination, there would always be something special about pumpkin pie.
Randy didn't really know what it was about them that just made them so God damn enjoyable.
Granted, it was rarely seen that other people had ever shared his fascination with pumpkin pie, he didn't really care. It wasn't like other people could've stopped him from eating it anyway.
He lifted another goopy forkful of deep rich crimson orange pie into his mouth and smiled, licking away any residue of the mess from his lips.
Mmm, pumpkin pie.
Any witness to his gluttony would have remarked with a slight tinge of nausea that he was becoming aroused while eating that grotesque pastry wrapped in its inviting crust and sickeningly sweet sprinkle of sugar and cinnamon that Randy had lovingly poured onto it before baking.
He leant back in his chair and cocked his head to the side, leering at the pie with a sly smirk across his face.
Delicious.
The rest of the kitchen lay in utter disarray and he was certain that were anyone to walk in, the police would be notified for sure and then he'd go to jail, but he didn't care, he didn't give a shit.
The counter was flooded with blood that spilt down onto the floor, with flesh, pumpkin and body matter squished into a gooey macaroni mess on top of it.
He'd remembered hours of tenderizing slab upon slab of his wife's body into a pulp.
Why did he have to go off and marry someone who was so God damn fit?
He pursed his lips and looked from the bloody cutting board on one counter top, to Samantha's dead body slumped over another one.
Next time he would date a nice plump fat chick, then maybe he'd have that meaty pumpkin pie he knew deep down he deserved.
That would taste even better.
His right hand, smeared with dried candied blood from the slaughter cupped his groin as an erotic sensation washed over him from the thought of an even bloodier pumpkin pie eased its way into his mind.
Baking always felt so good.
He couldn't really feel bad for Samantha at this point. Fuck it; as far as he was concerned, Sammy girl had it coming!
What did she expect would come of spending all of his hard-earned money on jewelry and trifle trinkets of no real monetary value? Did she honestly expect him to laze around and do nothing as she proceeded to castrate him in front of his friends? And what wife really expects their husband to just sit idly by while they carry on with shameless affairs?
Fuck her; he wasn't going to stand for that shit.
Nobody in their right mind would!
So he did what any sensible, civilized human being would do. He'd confronted her with the evidence of her mistreatment and demanded retribution.
Naturally, Samantha refused to pay up, so the situation called for her to be beat over the head with a rolling pin until her skull smashed open and her brains were all over the place.
It wasn't Randy's fault! Those were the cards he was dealt! A situation presented itself and Randy acted, there was nothing else to it.
Well… Maybe baking a pie out of her could be seen as excessive, but was only sweetening the sour taste Samantha had left in his mouth.
Speaking of sweetening…
He stabbed his fork into the pie again and ate another helping.
Oh God, he could have gorged himself to death on this shit.
It was fucking fantastic!
He giggled to himself as he licked his fork clean, enjoying a well-deserved meal before his grey eyes swept over the kitchen for a second look.
The kitchen was so bloody…
There was blood on the ceiling, blood spatter on the fridge, dirty bloodied utensils in the sink (the water in the sink at this time had become a red ocean of soap and blood). Then the worst of it all; blood was seeping into the floor.
He shrugged and sighed to himself, dreading the cleanup that was sure to follow once he'd finished his meal. He served himself another luscious dollop of pie and decided that worrying would just have to wait; the blood wasn't going to get up and run to the police station.
Besides, he wasn't full yet.
Oh God, this is just so good…
He laid his fork down and reclined in his chair, cradling the back of his head in his hands as he leant backwards relaxing.
It was good to have his own house again.
So good. Too Good.
Maybe later he would invite people over to partake in the rest of the pie with him…
Nah.
Nobody would have gotten the pleasure of it that he had. Or if they did like it, they might eat too much of it and leave none for him.
Oh well, their loss.
He chuckled and patted his tummy, still leaning his head back into the palm of his hand. In the midst of digesting the remains of his wife and the bludgeoned pumpkin he'd destroyed after killing her, he sung to himself:
"Peter Peter pumpkin eater,
Had a wife but couldn't keep her,
Put her in a pumpkin shell,
And there he kept her very well."
The end. I hope you liked it.