The Nigger Killer, by Stephen King

It was a dark and stormy bix nood. No more. Gore.
Singlet slut sharpened her knife. Smoked a fake cigarette, lighted at the end. A prop destroyed.
She took it out like it was a hard hit of alcohol. Tasting bad. Flicked it out and it bounced around, starting a fire on a curtain, score, that has to be a trope.

Squats. Pisses. It's put out. She puts the damp cigarette fake back in her mouth, chews the plastic. Pretends to herself to consider like a camping outlaw deciding if the beans in the fire are ready in some serious epic, like that matters.
She pisses on the nigger. Not the expected ending to an annoying announcement but this wasn't a cinema and she wasn't eating.
She pulls out a coloured pink clinker thing, covered with chocolate. They're called clinkers I think, she thinks, and checks the packet. Doesn't read the name but takes a green one instead. Green undiscovered in her mouth.

She reads a Stephen King book. One of the four first Dark Tower books, no it isn't what the fuck is this? It's a bible. What the fuck. She sets it on fire. Never reading that shit. Maybe there's some child rape stashed somewhere, who the fuck keeps a bible-
Thinking about those beans.
Has another clinker.
Stephen King isn't writing this she thinks correctly. This is shit.
She has to be the sex scene herself. Oh well. How many clinkers can she fit in her hole.