muhshell

His smile wasn't the sort of thing you wanted to mess with when it crawled over his face and pulled the corners of his mouth down like pincers crab mean and splintered It sort of went slack behind the eyes and reminded you of the fetal pigs you used to dissect, pulling their slick webbed bodies up out of the formaldehyde and slapping them wet on the glass And when he whistled you could see the end of the world flicking off his lips, with cigarette smoke curling up, beading the blue of your night with the sweet taint of asphyxiation.