Migliore Films
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Writings

The Running of the Dead Horse

A Tale of Sicily
by Domenic Migliore

I met the devil in an airport men’s room. It was at Leonardo da Vinci International in Rome. I was waiting for a connecting flight to Etna, going to visit Pasqualino and his sister Enza in Palermo.

The urinals reeked of piss, so I used a stall. I found a torn up porno mag on the toilet seat. I remember thinking...

“A relic older than da Vinci himself.”

That’s when the horny beast appeared behind me. He smelled of sulfur and cheap rubbing alcohol. He propositioned me for a blowjob. In exchange, he promised me immortality. I told him I was seventy-five-years old. Immortality was the last thing I needed.

He counter-offered with peace in the Middle East. He pressed his scaly fingers to my forehead and showed me visions of a utopian future filled with brown-skinned Palestinian children in rocket ships on their way to Mars alongside white, Hebrew, and Chinese children. I told him the Kebabs and the Jews never did nothing for me. Try again.

He clacked his cloven hooves together three times and farted a piece of parchment out his ass. He rolled it open, handed me a number two pencil, and asked me to write down what I desired. So I did. I wrote down the one thing I would suck the devil’s cock for. My very own champion racehorse. A genuine Secretariat for the new millennium.

We shook hands and the devil unzipped his fly. He was smaller than I expected. That’s when the bastard fiend smiled. A deal was a deal, and he knew the endgame from the moment he sized up my ass. His cock was stubby and barbed at the tip. He only lasted thirty seconds, but managed to rip up my cheek flesh and tongue. Our bargain also stipulated that I had to swallow his cum, which tasted not at all salty, but oddly sweet. It mixed with the blood from my mouth wounds and went down warm and tangy.

During my time in Sicily, Pasqualino asked why I refused to talk. My mouth was too sore to speak. I was afraid he could see the shame buried beneath my face. The pain would not allow me to eat his sister’s cooking. For this transgression, I was forced to sleep in the chicken coop. After two days, Pasqualino brought me minestrone broth to help ease my throat. When I gained my voice back, I told my childhood friend of seventy years the story.

Two weeks later, I returned home to the states. My horse was waiting for me in my backyard. It was a magnificent Stallion with hair blacker than any shade of night. And just below its massive frame, between its ample legs, hung a red and stubby barbed cock...

 

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