THEY'RE NOT FISH! The room was lit weakly by a single half dead bulb on the cieling. The air was stiff and dusty, as was the furniture. There were two girls, high and giggling in the bleak little room, eating oysters. Discarded shells were piled high on the floor, and unneaten ones piled high on the table. Chewing clumsilly and laughing aloud about little nothings, they could hardley care to notice the man screaming, strapped to the chair, watching them in terror. This man's name was Bonathan Howard Ramsey, and he was a certified marine biologist. His specialization was in the goings on of bivalve mollusks, yet specialization is a light word to use for such a man. Nay, his passion in life was for the clams, oysters, muscles, etc. that made up this diverse group of marine invertibrates. The sight he was witnessing was the murder of his beloved children, and every muscle in his body yearned to stop these oblivious harlets from killing his babies. "Get off of them! Let go! Stop it! Stop it!", he screamed. There was no responce to his pathetic plight, however. The two young women began dancing to a rythm that could be heard only by them. They were tall and thin, both hovering around five foot eight or nine. The blonde was slightly bustier than the brunette, and she was a little less pale. They both wore skimpy skirts and high heels, with bracelets, body earings and other accessories. As they danced, they quieted down somewhat. They simply lost themselves to the rythm and kept on eating. And what a meal! Oyster scraps and juices hung and dripped from their mouths, chins and necks and fell into their shirts, between their breasts. Again, Bonathan asserted, "Stop this massacre! Stop it! Stop it! Get off of them! They didn't touch you! They didn't fucking hurt you!" Get the fuck off!" The last words were jumbled, as he trailed off into wimpering as the tears grew heavy on his face. He began to kick and scream, trying to free himself from the chair. "Oh yeah!", said the blonde. "Look at you go!", to which the brunnete simply giggled euphorically. "Oh my god", said the blonde. I'm so hot! I'm getting so hot!" She began to remove her heels, to which the brunette coppied. "This stuff is so... feels like... happy...", the brunette stuttered, as her train of thought grew utterly incoherent. They continued dancing and sweating gleefully. Bonathan's wailing increased in volume, reaching a terrifying pitch. Gradually, this wailing became a hopeless wimper again, as they ate more and more of his "babies." They began rubbing oyster juice on each other to cool down. "I'm still hot. Help me out here.", said the blonde. The brunette and her slowly and oafishly wrestled each other's shirts off. In nothing but skirts and bras, they continued dancing. The oyster drip fresh on their cleavage, they continued to dance. However, they were still hot and they realized that this was no regular heat: It was an oyster driven frenzy. "I love fish", said the brunette orgasmically. All of his training in invertibrate taxonomy could not prepare Bonathan for what he had just heard. His tears evaporated faster than his red face could boil them. He wailed with all his might. "THEY'RE NOT FISH! THEY'RE NOT FUCKING FISH! THEY'RE NOT FUCKING FISH! YOU STUP- D- F!" His rage was something that could not be explained. The idiots had seemed above his logic by being so far below it. In his agony, he screamed louder than ever. It was not a coherant word. It wasn't an idea. It was utterly raw in it's nature. It was the kind of scream that knows no language, no accent and no misidentification. The two women finally noticed him with eyes ablaze with oyster fuled lust. They pounced on the only available male specimen in an animalistic frenzy, and began kissing, licking and mounting him as he screamed and cried. Juicy pieces of his babies rubbed and dripped from their bodies onto his. It was a horrifying, yet brief experience, as the drugs in their blood increased their potency, and one after the other, they fell to the floor, and their eyes rolled to the backs of their heads in their euphoria. For a time, all that was heard was Bonathan's sobs, complimented with the occasional scream. A thousand lifetimes of suffering had descended upon him like a cloud of locusts, and he looked upon the now littered floor at the harvest. It was scoured. Barron. Raped. All the horrors of the human experience lingered about like a nightmare that would not end. Interrupting his hell, a calm, meticulous man walked in. He was very pale, and dressed in a plain black suit and glasses. Looking at the oyster faced women and the mortified man, he asked. "Are you ready to talk?", to which the response was an imediate, almost interupting "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, YES!!!" DECENT STORY?
You seem to write as if doing an essay plan. It seems like you're writing down notes from another story and trying to word them together as elaborately as possible, yet you only just keep the bare structure. Also, work on your spelling. I find the story weak, and forced. You seem to be using drugs, surrealism, and sex, as a tool for the sake of producing something alternative. It didn't seem to flow well, either. You did, however, use some nice lines. Such as "His tears evaporated faster than his red face could boil them." All in all though, I didn't like it.
Light bulbs are either working or not, unless they run on batteries. This one must run off the mains as it is a ceiling bulb and probably relies on a serious amount of voltage. The air could not have been as stiff and dusty as the furniture otherwise it would defy several laws of nature. Yes this would be hard to ignore yet somehow they manage it. that bits good!
