Call of the Earlobes

Dwight Howard of the NBA was notoriously known for his extremely mischievous behavior on, and off, the beautiful, glistening courts of the NBA. Of course, Iris, who did not watch any NBA games during her fairly fruitful life, was not even remotely aware of his perpetually bamboozling behavior. When suddenly and strikingly attacked by the mysterious baller, the squelch of her body hitting the hard, unforgiving cement awoke a previously mentioned figure, but no one from the NBA. It was her fiancé, Howard, who had also never witnessed a ravishing NBA game. His gorgeous, excrement-hued eyes, akin to the shade of the basketball battlegrounds of the NBA, flew open as the alarming noise reached his three voluptuous ears.

"Honeydinklebarkry," he cried out in a fearful tone, trepidation coloring his heavily accented voice, sounding similar to that of Yao Ming of the NBA. He darted from his waterbed filled with the wings of dead birds, flying fast as the players of the NBA league; he occasionally found them resting in his earlobes. "You okay'? Nazfak brossom? I ras tinking we courd watch our first NBA game! What ras that noise?"

When his call of distress was bluntly recieved by the towering and tenacious Dwight Howard of the NBA, he narrowed his eyes in the general direction of the whimpering cry. The Crocs occupying his feet shifted slightly as he moved into a battle stance that he had never before used during a single, solitary NBA game. They reared their angry claw extensions that Dwight Howard of the NBA had purchased lovingly at the Croc accessory store, which was unoccupied by anyone but himself, similarly to how Iris had previously entered her day job's building. The claws scraped at Iris' deceased body's arm, putting more gashes, as straight as the lines of the court of the NBA into her ivory skin.

"No! Her body is mine!" Dwight Howard of the NBA hissed, fingers the shape of NBA basketballs (a disease conceived from an unfortunate trip to Aruba in the seventh grade) curling at his side as he whined in livid irritation. "Mine, mine!" His voice dropped at least five octaves—just like the ball of the NBA games dropping with an echo against the polished wood of the courts of the NBA!

Finally, Howard met the eyes of his enemy, brows rising just as the goals the NBA provides, fear striking his distinguished, dainty figure.

Suddenly, the atmosphere had stilled, just as the silence on the court before an important free throw during an NBA game, the only movement evident between the two being the light sway of the braided earlobes Howard possessed due to the whispering, wild wind.

While the royal purple blood, just the shade of the NBA Lakers' jersey, dripped from the deceased woman's temple, the first words were raised civilly between the two.

"What has you did?" Howard whispered in a strangled voice as his eyes met his deceased lover, just as Lamar Odom of the NBA loves Khloe Kardashian. Dwight Howard of the NBA didn't answer before he made a move to grab his counterpart's face with his basketball fingers, a snarl spread across his plump, playful lips.

"She didn't come to work on Tuesday," he hissed, pressing the lover's cheeks together as his nipples became erect and hard at the sight of his wiggling earlobes, like the wiggling of the Jell-O sold at the concession food at all NBA games. "I had to punish her."

As his nipples pressed closer to the other man's small frame, opposite of the requirements for anyone from the NBA, Dwight Howard of the NBA's tongue quickly swiped at his ears. They were just so… entrancing, swinging back and forth like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, never once included during an NBA game, ticking lonely and shallowly in the halls of an abandoned house.

While the man from the NBA was distracted, Howard easily became empowered by all the birds he had brutally murdered for simply trying to exist in prosperity among the comfortable wax occupying his earlobes, also being sensually licked at the moment, by his lover's murderer. He felt all the unaccounted energy bubbling and prickling underneath hairless skin, just as a player of an NBA's. Spindly and maladroit legs shrank as well as his arms and torso. Anger fueled his metaphorical fire while Dwight Howard of the NBA was taken aback by the transformation, tongue lolling against his chin while eyes widened in half-interest, half-horror.

"You kirr my rover," Howard exclaimed, loud as the viewer's cheering during an NBA game, "Now, because I will never find anorer butthole as beautifur as Iris', you must pay."

Before Dwight Howard of the NBA could react, a screech brought upon from the birds deep inside, rang loudly through the athlete's relatively normal and mundane ear ducts, the 'ca-caaaw!' throwing the man off guard.

The noise was so powerful, just like Kobe Bryant of the NBA's speeches, which Dwight had jumped back in terror, into the bush portal from which he came.

Easily, Howard grew to his regular size, tears streaming down his face, onto his saliva-laved earlobes, and pitter-pattered against the ground. He dropped to his knees beside his loved one, chlorine still sensually soaked across her barf-colored twelve-piece. Somehow, the dollar bills previously inserted between the rolls of her fat had stayed intact.

"Oh bapsingle-boop-barkle," he sobbed brokenly, peeling off the first piece of her bathing suit, which was situated gently around her first neck fat roll, out of all seventeen. "I will wear your skin proudly, as tradition and curture in bof of our famiries rineage."

Eventually, he had delicately gutted Iris to the point of wearability, her swimsuit tossed into the opalescent pool, as well as her innards. Situating his small body (he only came up to her set of sagging breasts, where two loose vaginas took the place of her nipples (the two missing organs never having made it to her anatomy (when she was birthed))) right inside of her skin.

It was warm, wet and wild inside her body, and vaguely, Howard thought, it must be something in the water. As soon as he found himself enveloped in her silky skin, he closed his eyes, and began to sing.

"We're soaring! Frying!" Meanwhile, did you know that turtles lay many, many eggs, because they do not expect the majority of their offspring to be capable of returning to the east Australian current? Sweeeet. Totally.