Life had always sucked hairy goat balls for Krystal Blevins. She was born in rural Texas to subliterate teenagers who lived in a trailer house and had piss poor taste in music. Her aural blueprint was stamped loud with the Bee Gees and Chicago. Once her daddy beat her ass with his cowboy belt for not eating all of her onion rings. Another time he pissed on her Barbie dream house with the cute elevator but he was drunk. Anyway, Krystal grew up to make bad grades and worse decisions. She got knocked up by the preacher’s middle son when she was fifteen. Jesus didn’t want her to have an abortion so she carried the baby for nine months then handed it (turned out to be a girl) over to adoptive parents who had prayed faithfully for a baby for five years.
There were jobs, lots of different jobs. Dairy Queen. Burger King. AARP call center. Dog food factory. Pretty Titty Lounge. There were boyfriends, lots of different boyfriends. Bob. John. Walt. Kevin. Eric. Nathan. Still, Krystal was pretty sure she wasn’t a lesbian. She was sold on dick.
Finally. One bright spring day that suddenly became ominous with storm clouds Krystal decided it was time to go. She had stood on the planet for almost three decades. She was certain the only surprises left in store were bad surprises, such as which nursing home she would end up in, shitting herself while watching game shows and soap operas. The tornado siren blared. “I guess killing myself with a tornado is as good a way as any to commit suicide,” Krystal said. She was the only person who was listening. She lived alone in a Section 8 apartment across from Friendly Dollar. Instead of hunkering down in her bathtub Krystal walked out her front door. All kinds of shit was flying around. The sky was shit green. Krystal saw the tornado. It was fat and black. It looked pretty fucking lethal. Krystal walked toward the tornado, said, “Bring it on, motherfucker.” Sure enough, the tornado (an F5) picked Krystal up, spun her around, stabbed her with branches and Popsicle sticks and puked her up on the highway. She was almost dead but not quite. Then the intoxicated driver of a Ford Ranger pick-up truck ran over Krystal. Then she was dead.
roxixmas 
this is my england
Short and sweet/bitter. Hard lines. Good.
roxixmas
gracias, amigo
ajhayes2
Never read a better final line. There is no doubt about it, she’s deader than a john clees concert. Great little piece of razor blade candy. Cool.
ajhayes2
Hard as dog track biscuits. And that last line rocks. You don’t get no deader than that! Cool!