John you sick S.O.B.

Down the hallway he sat. Hand on his face, leaning back in his chair, and writing precariously in his journal with his free hand, John died. I found him face down in the puddle of babble he had been doodling. Apparently he was in love. No matter. He's dead now, and the girl would never have known. Well, the girl would never have known had I not found him first. I'm not even sure I should call her a girl, from what I read in John's journal, she was a Show Girl... an ugly show girl. John loved the ugliness in life. He loved the thrill of appreciating the ridiculous. I saw him once kiss a pile of elephant dung at the circus. I loved John, but I'm afraid I was too pretty for him. He couldn't stand the sight of me. The only truly beneficial thing about our relationship (for him, that is) was the effect of my visage to his tummy. He would vomit almost immediately when I came around the corner. Oh, how John loved the sight and smell of his own vomit. I was his barf key, and he would seek me out when he needed a good upchuck. Perhaps the lovely "Chasity" of Deja Vu had become his new joy. I found a letter from John instructing me to visit his Show Girl, "Chasity". He knew I was the only one that would entertain his obsession with the obscene. Now, I grab my jacket, and I head for the Deja Vu. Here I come, Chasity, I'm bringing you John's body. That's what he wanted. You'll know what to do... you'll read what he wants... I hope you're hungry, you ugly thing. This is gross.