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Andrey was three bottles too deep in when he stumbled out into the soggy night, the dizziness hugging his shoulders like a showgirl with very little left to the hazed imagination. The pub, roaring with life, an upset stomach of the Town tossing restlessly in its sleep, was left to eat into itself like an underground fire, and the streets skittered away from a spark stricken by his hand-crafted steel soles. It was a chilling intimidation tactic and gave him an unfair advantage in street fights, though, Andrey barely believed in fairness of something as primal as a curb stomp — being a rightful stomper and never the one being stood upon. He paid his rent to the godless land in teeth, and it was kind enough not to evict him.
Yet.
When he was that drunk and that unsatisfied, his wayward boots always took the same route, leading him to the cemetery. Be that bittersweet intimacy of mementing his mori or the silence that drew him in, it was never just the existential dilemma, but the physical invocation also: Andrey was drunk and his bladder was as tight as his ties with the law enforcement. Painfully tight, always managing to piss him off. And there wasn’t a better place to defile than a place of grief, the somber bedchambers he loathed just for their inviolability.
He tripped over the misplaced rock and picked himself up with a groan. It wasn’t the grave yet. No, his pillar of pride stood tall and lonely, with no choice but eyeing the sky. The townsfolk saw the agony in its gaze, but Andrey knew damn well it was an eye roll of distilled annoyance.
Crawling to me — as always — on the heights of gleeful obscenity, you spoiled, perverse brat.
“Rainy day, huh, old boy?” he yelled into the night.
“Must be all wet for me already.”
The grave refused to play along.
”No, no, of course not for me, that’s wishful. He’s not coming, settle for the next best thing”.
The eye glistened with disdain.
“He’s no better now. Barren babbling, stillborn ideas, shortsighted visions, wouldn’t want him like that, you picky prick? The fuck you wouldn’t! Shut up, I’m not done yet.”
Will you ever be done?
The way you gorge yourself to the point or ripping at seams — insatiable.
That, my good friend, is un-doing.
“Teaching me my own language, fucking moron. Thirsty for some attention still?”, his hands reached for the fly and yanked the buttons. Leaning on the monument, Andrey managed to find his own dick (not a default achievement) and let loose.
“Open wide! All yours now!”, the lesser demiurge barked, spraying the grave with piss, and laughed as hard as he could. His throat was hurting already. The puddle reached his shoes and he took a step back, only to take the stream with him and turn the lake into a river. The eye kept averting itself.
It was getting colder, too cold to keep flaunting his dick with nothing to add to the autograph at the bottom of the gravestone. Andrey felt empty in every sense that wasn’t knocked out dead by the drugs in his system. He stood there, holding his pants together awkwardly, with nobody to cheer up his clever comeback or even scold him, any reaction would suffice, and yet, there was none, just a man who pissed on a grave in a drunken fit. He looked around once more and felt a pinch in his nostrils. The eye above him was wet and weary, and the rain quickly washed away the stains of Andrey’s shame.
“I’m sorry”, he whined through a quivering lip, “That was stupid, that was below us, I’m sorry, not for anything else I'm not, but- I didn’t- I can fix it. I can fix it, hold on in there”, he kneeled and began to wipe the rainwater over the yellowish swirls, bare hands scraping on the stone. The motions grew frantic as Andrey felt his disgrace seeping into the base, deeper and deeper and into the mud, and through the coffin lid, and the rotten cloth, and the skin on his palms grew red from rubbing. He was shivering. His knees ached with a strain of sitting on them, and soon Andrey crumbled, plastered over the ground below the monument, so far out of the eye’s focus, and he was still grinding his hands down. The yellow vanished and the red came. He was crying soon when he slipped and grabbed a handful of dirt, and looked at it with wonder, dark, malleable, inviting.
The soil gave in easily and crawled under his short nails. Andrey kept scratching and the earth gave in now, the raw muscle in his back squirming like a bundle of maggots, yet he dug and he dug until the hole under him was two fingers deep, and then he slipped his dick right into it.
The grave seemed excitedly moist.
He shushed the gust of wind howling above him, “you can take it, c’mon”, and the cackle made Andrey gag. His hips swayed forward into the dirt as his forehead pressed against the stone, and it came crumbling under his weight. Andrey sobbed quietly and pushed in, again, and again, dragging more dirt under his chest, a fancy cushion of decay to lay his heavy heart upon while he fucks his worst friend’s and lover’s – arguably the most qualified colleague’s – grave.
He howled and wallowed in desperate cries like an old dog in a fighting ring, gnawing onto its wounded limbs, whimpering at the whip opening up its striped back. It was never about the win, but about the blood spilled into the pockets of those betting. He wasn't heaven's favourite, doubling their usual intake.
And he lost.
Again and again, he lost and he took the beating.
He couldn’t even fucking cum.
No, I should be sorry.
That one’s on me.
On the coldness and stiffness of the dirt, on the unwelcoming indifference, it was the opposite of satisfaction one seeks as a jailor. The eye felt an urge to close and shake the hurt off its lashes.
Petty, am I not?
Andrey mouthed something incoherent and shuddered, forcing himself out. At least he left the wedding bed clean, his chest, his groin, even his face soiled and his hands bloody as he wandered off.
After all, everyone in the Town knew to mind their business when it came to Andrey Stamatin having mud on his dick if they didn't want to taste it themselves.