/lit/ - Literature

> I stopped at a cheap motel in Noir Leans. Perfect place to lay low while the case unfolds right before my eyes: several perpetrators are said to visit this spot often. I went for some whiskey and decided to look at the place again from a window just to be sure it's the right location. There it stood. A seven-foot-long perfectly rectangular slab made of black granite, pants eating dust, whacking his meat like a psychotic farmer. Looking at me dead in the eye. When we stared at each other, fountain came out like pus from a necrotic wound. I was found out.