Liberia X Ebola-Chan

        Liberia carried a hot skillet to the table and presented it to Ebola-Chan. She didn't smile – she just wasn't the sort – but he could tell by the candlelight reflecting in those big beautiful eyes that she was pleased.

        “It's called Chicken Yassa,” he said. “It is good, very good. Better than bushmeat anyhow.”

        Liberia scooped some rice onto a plate with his spicy yassa, all the while marvelling at how gorgeous Ebola-Chan was.

        “Not that bushmeat is bad,” he said. “After all, it's how we met.”

        She remained silent, her face still, as always. She spoke about as often as she smiled, it seemed, but Liberia just couldn't help but love her all the same.

        “You know, my father doesn't approve of you,” he continued. “But I told him to go fuck himself. He actually suggested I go to the clinic when he found out I was spending time with you. I don't need him. I just need you.”

        He sat the plate of food on the table before her. She looked at it in the dim light flickering from the candles. Somehow, Liberia realised, she just wasn't interested in the food.

        “Are you not hungry?” he asked. “We can go out for dinner. I just want to make you happy. I don't want you to ever leave me.”

        She smiled. Her smile was all the more beautiful due to its rarity, and Liberia felt his heart skip.

        “Niggaru, prease,” began her soft, delicate voice. “Me love you long time.”

        Liberia nearly collapsed from the relief her words brought.

        “I am SO happy to hear you say that,” he began. “Whatever you want or need, baby, I will provide.”

        She continued to smile, though her face twisted the grin into something devious; dirty. She raised her index finger toward him, and beckoned him to come nearer.

        “Aw, yeah, baby. I was just thinking the same thing.”

        Liberia pulled his shirt over his head, showing Ebola-Chan the well-toned body his active lifestyle had given him. She opened her arms to embrace him as their lips met. Her hands danced all over his broad, dusky back. He placed soft, gentle kisses on her lips, her cheek, her neck and her ear. Her fingers caressed the back of his head and his coarse, spongy hair.

        “I love you so much, baby,” Liberia whispered into her ear.

        “Me love you long time,” she replied, her own lips now venturing over his neck.

        He giggled as her lips tickled him. “Damn, girl. You know how to treat a nigga right. You so... damn, are you nibbling my ear? Where did you- DAMN BITCH, WHAT THE FUCK?”

        Liberia backed away in startled panic, his hand clasped over his ear.

        “BITCH, DID YOU JUST... MY EAR... DO I LOOK LIKE EVANDER MUTHAFUCKING HOLYFIELD TO YOU?”

        He pulled his hand away from his head, confirming his fear when he saw blood dripping from his fingers. His eyes returned to Ebola-Chan, who was examining the blood on her own fingers. She looked at him with those giant, amber eyes, stared into his soul as she placed a crimson-soaked finger into her mouth and closed her lips around it. She removed the finger slowly, seductively. All Liberia's anger and confusion faded as he looked her over, kawaii as ever in the dim light of a        romantic candle-lit dinner.

        “Damn, girl, you's a freak,” he replied as he stepped back toward her.

        Liberia knew, deep down, that he should probably turn around and leave. Maybe, just maybe, his father was right. Maybe his girl WILL be the death of him. Still, reason and intuition always lose to an erection, like a game where rock will always beat paper AND scissors.

        They locked lips once more, Liberia tasting his own blood lingering on hers. Once more their lips grew adventurous. Once more her lips journedy to his neck, and once more he felt her nibbling on him. The gentle bites grew sharper, but he gritted his teeth because he didn't want to disappoint her.

        “Damn, girl,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I didn't know you liked it so rough.”

        He backed away, his pain threshold exceeded. He tapped his hand to his neck, gently, but hissed each time he touched a stinging wound. His torso was now warm and sticky and wet from the streams pouring out of his neck.

        “C'mon, now,” he protested. “There are parts of the body that need that blood to function. Like my dick. Or my brai-”

        He trailed off as he looked at Ebola-Chan. His blood streamed down her lips and her chin, and stained her white nurse's dress. She had never been more beautiful. He was growing woozy now. His father would argue it was loss of blood doing it. But Liberia knew better. That wooziness was true love.

        “Damn, baby, I just can't stay mad at you.” he whispered as he walked toward her again. “I love you, Ebola-Chan.”