Exercise #12 "The Whore Who Spat"

WARNING:
Very lowbrow-caution-do not judge the writer-not good to view if you are faint of heart

Sick Bird, he said...
Some guy is lying in the street with a nubile tart on his dick. Licking that long wet rod, pumpin' it in her hand and playing merry go round with her tongue. Before he gets to cum out a wad, his face turns red, blue, purple, as a boulder of a truck goes over his legs and cuts both appendages off...until there are two bloody indistinguishable pulps. His pulps pump blood just as his bladder lets go, and the cum valve shuts off in order for the spew of hot steamy bloody piss comes shooting out, and immmediately after-ladies and gentlemen-his bowels lose all control, so that two steamy pieces of shit shaped like diamonds poke their way out of his ass like a new born's crowning head. Following these events, he loses all control because he is gurgling and foaming at the mouth from the pain (the tart is still holding onto his penis whilst all the pain and wrought agony upon his face, sensations a man should never be conscious enough to feel. God gave him no mercy and left him conscious until the tart whacked him a good one over the head as he began to beat on his own chest and making a futile effort to knock his own head into the ground-a fine paste on this fine day. Before, and within the seconds and minutes of agonizing eternity, he gave himself two seconds to finish off (much like a defiant bolter of which he was), he shot two slews of sticky white cum, unfettered by gory blood, which exhaled itself onto the glittery asphalt road. The tart called an ambulance, but it was too late for former VP Dick Cheney.

Controlled revision:

Sick Bird, he said.
Some guy is lying in the street with a nubile tart on his person. She went the rounds of his body, using her tongue to measure distance between each body part. Before he gets to finish, his face turns red, blue, purple, as a boulder of a truck goes right over his legs and severs both appendages off…until there is nothing but two bloody gaps where his legs used to be. His bladder lets go, and he relieves himself-sweet agony giving way to searing pain. Immediately after, ladies and gentlemen, his bowels lose all control, and he is forced to relieve himself in front of company. Following these events, he loses all control because he is foaming at the mouth from pain (the tart’s body bows over his in an attempt to distract him from what is happening to his physical being and gave him a good punch in the head to deter him from beating on his own chest in a futile effort to knock himself unconscious, for no man, good or evil, should be granted no mercy in such a way). Before, and within the seconds and minutes of agonizing eternity, he gave himself two seconds to finish off (much like a defiant bolter of which he was) he released the boiling tension in masturbatory display onto the glittery asphalt road. The tart called an ambulance, but I was too late for former VP Dick Cheney.