The Ice Cream Killer Again Strikes Again

The Ice Cream Killer Again Strikes Again

The day is Tuesday, and like every Tuesday, Darrel drives about in his ice cream truck, serving ice cream to the young lads and lasses of Diersville. But he has a secret that nobody else knows about except him. He's actually a mean and vicious ice cream killer.

It's 2pm and Darrel is about to serve ice cream to a young boy, whose father is alongside him. "There you go, little boy." Darrel says.

"Thanks, mister!" Says the boy as he scampers off down the sidewalk, not looking back.

"How much is that?" Asked the dad, who was rifling through the pouches of his wallet.

"That'll be one." Said Darrel, with an incredibly, painfully slow-forming grin spreading across his pizza-acne-ridden swiss-cheese face.

The dad of the young boy took a moment to process the price of his son's ice cream. Then, "One what?"

"One LIFE!" Darrel screamed as he grabbed the man by his collar and, with his thin little brittle chicken-flopper arms, over-powered him hurling him into the back of the ice cream truck. "It's time to pay!"

"No, please!" Cried the man as Darrel flipped the nozzel of the ice cream-spewing hose to 'on.' "I have a child, you can't do this. Don't do this to me!" The man, with his wallet still in-hand, flipped to a picture of his son. "Look, this is my son!"

"Sh." Said Darrel, for the man's son had just returned to the truck's window and was preparing a question.

"Have you seen my dad?" The boy asked.

"I haven't son, maybe he ran off." Replied Darrel, wanting the boy to leave very badly.

"Did he buy anything?"

"He didn't. Leave."

"Hey, mister, you're kinda cute." Said the boy with as he placed a taunting finger on his bottom lip and began to suck on it.

The dad in the back peeked out and saw his son being so forward with Darrel and was instantly a bit jealous. "Son!" He cried.

The boy stopped and buttoned up his pants that he was slowly unbuttoning just a moment ago. "Dad! What are you doing back in the back of this ice cream van!? No, don't reply, I'm coming in!" The boy threw himself into Darrel's van.

Darrel was so exhausted by the excess of conversation that had been going on. His denim suspenders that he'd proudly displayed on his body for the last three weeks were almost fully drenched in piss and sweat and saliva. Saliva because Darrel drools. Always.

Underneath the suspenders there was no underwear, but there was a pretty slick Star Wars shirt on. Darrels balls were hanging out of a hole in his suspenders.

"Son, don't be such a hooker!" The dad demanded.

"Dad, I'm gonna cuddle this man's nasty double-chinned neck right now!"

"Don't do it, son!"

The boy, who was like five years old or some such age, grabbed the loose meat under Darrel's neck and began to lather it with his spit. "Mmm, yes, that neck." The boy said as he smeared the wet fat-neck across his pristine cheek.

"Enough!" Darrel cried, as much as he loved the boy rubbing his neck excess. "I'm gonna drown the both of you in chocolate sassofrass!" Darrel pulled on the ice cream hose and started unloading pounds and pounds of grimly dark-brown ice cream onto the boy and father.

"Oh no, we're helpless!" Cried the dad.

Darrel curdled his low-hanging nuts in his right hand, crouched over like a shitting grizzly, watching the boy and his father struggle for breath in the ice cream.

"The ice cream killer strikes again!" Yelled the boy's father.

"Yes, he does! He's killing us!" Roared the boy, splashing to the surface of the ice cream.

Darrel unbuttoned his suspenders -- something he would not normally do under any circumstance -- and brought his massive, forest-haired beer-gut to the young boy's dying face. He slimed his stomach against the boy's face as it became paler while the dad watched, unable to do anything because of the large quantity of ice cream. Darrel was pretty much naked now, except for his Star Wars shirt.

Then, he turned off the hose. The boy was dead, but the dad was not. "No! Curse you, Ice Cream killer!" He cried. "You kill my son but leave me alive, what a sick and disgusting thing for you to do!"

"You haven't seen sick OR disgusting." Retorted Darrel as he swiped a row of oiled watermelons down his ass-crack. He began to shit because one of the watermelons had ripped a large tear in the side of his ass cheek and poop was running out of that hole because it connected to his large intestine somehow.

Actually, all of his organs started running out of that slit in his enormous ass-cheek, and the father of the dead boy was getting giddy. It was his turn now!

"It's my turn now!" Cried the dad. He lunged at Darrel and scrumped up all the organs and feces and draped them across his face like some people do with a wet washcloth and then he spun his tongue in circles and pretended that did anything and flailed his goosy arms in the air while Darrel lifted up his deflating gut and started toward the dad with a cock ready for action.

"This cock is ready." Said the dad, pointing to his own slippery whistler. Their cocks converged in a clash of small intestine and exploding stomach, with the hydrochloric acid melting away the flesh of each unimpressive wiener. It was now a battle of meaty, veiny flopsters, but Darrels ripping ass was still tearing. The cut in his butt was spliting and shitting all up his side.

The tear eventually reached Darrel's chin and then his skin on either side began to sag and wave to the sides like flags and his muscle underneath, covered in layers upon layers of nasty porkchop, bled. He was bleeding but he wasn't quite dead yet, because there was just so much ice cream and it kept him alive because there was just so much. In fact, the hose actually came back on too while the dad and Darrel were sloshing their throbbing coon-mashers around.

Darrel was finally about dead at this point, but the dad would have none of that, so he sewed Darrel's ripping flesh back up with his cock. Now they were like siamese brothers, connected at the ass-cheek by a thinly rolled cock used as surgical wire. What was wonderful though, was that the dad's cock's head ended right at Darrel's chin, where the tear had stopped. This means that the dad would get a constant drip of saliva, because Darrel drools. This thought pleased the dad, but Darrel karate chopped the dad's cock off right at the base and then grabbed the dad by the skin of his scrotum and hurled him through the roof of the ice cream truck and onto a pile of spikes.

The End