april 23

punching bag dream

The pigeon-catcher stands in a clearing, sifting through feathers with his feet. He looks down all the time, except to glance up and change direction. The catcher finds no carcass, no blood, only feathers. But a shot is fired and a falling bird falls right into the pigeon-cather's open, waiting arms.

Crawling on hands and knees, our heroes soon discover the very ovary of decay, a batch of filth from which every sinister beast originates. Every ounce of sickness and disease pours forth from this vulva of the vile. Slobber and semen boil, hot as molten lead, bubbles up from the orifice and our heroes stand above it.
'Will you dive in?' asked the one.
'I must.' said the other. 'It is the last place on Earth to explore.'

Two men, suspicious of the other, are screwing the same woman. Her name is Roxanne and she has shit for brains. The birds know this and they cry.
The first to produce a ring shall be the winner. But while Roxanne essentially pisses on both her entertainers, she secretly harbors a frightening type of disease. This illness is capable of toppling the remainder of civilization, if it gets loose. So terrible is this version of death that is will grind your intestines to jelly, it will burst hemophiliac cysts over your skin and melt your spirit to mucus.
All three characters die, including Roxanne, but they manage to go to Heaven, a place of dog farts and vomiting rainbows.

Imagine a man standing in line, the register closed, the light turned off, the stored closed, but still he wants his cigarettes.

The street sweeper swerves his truck up onto the sidewalk and snatches me in his revolving brushes of sterility. He vowed to clean up the filth and so he did, so he did.

Perks

Our hero awakes with a bloody nose. He doesn't seem worried as he wipes away the crust with spit on his thumb.

He drinks coffee with seven canisters of creamer, easing into his day with a slight twitch. He puts on his work uniform, a pair of dark khaki pants and tucks his white button-up shirt beneath the belt. On the news is a story about a plane crash.

He drives to work in a 2005 Toyota Prius. It's a rental. His car is in the shop.

At work, he enters data into a computer for three hours and then takes a lunch break. He eats a pita bread sandwich and some baked Lays potato chips. He's not sure this is a healthy alternative to a McDonalds hamburger, but the packaging tells him it is, so he feels better. He takes a sip from a bottle of purified water and then swallows two Percocets.

The pills taste bitter and almost immediately start to dissolve on his tongue. His dealer told him these little white tabs will make his day so much easier. And our hero desperately wants an easy day. It is, after all, a Thursday. One day short from one day from freedom. The anticipation is almost too much to bear.

Our hero pauses to watch the sky, the clouds. He somehow doesn't feel connected to anything, anyone, but he can't explain why.

Back inside the building, our hero starts to feel the pills taking effect. He gets a little anxious as he moves in and out of the feeling, keeps asking, "Am I feeling it yet? Am I feeling it yet?"

Less than an hour later, his computer screen starts to fade in and out. He can't focus on the fluorescent buzz coming off every object in the room. His hands slip from the keyboard and rest on his lap. He's flying.

Our hero has never felt so good. This isn't like normal highs he's felt. His mind isn't affected at all. This isn't like Mary or Sally or anyone. He just wants to lie down and stare at the ceiling and think about the things that make him happy.

This reminds him of some artwork by a modern artist he really likes. Something about being trapped by society and conditioning and just lying back and taking it. No fighting back. The painting could be asking, "Am I feeling it yet?"

So our hero lies down and he begins to think, but nothing important or pleasant comes to mind. It should, but it doesn't make our hero disappointed.

A knock comes on his office door and a scrawny secretary wearing a miniskirt comes in. She looks down at our hero and says nothing, a puzzled expression on her face. She watches him smile incessantly, until he sits up, looks at her and says, "I'm going to throw up." He does so, promptly, all over himself and it pours down his khaki pants and rubs up against the secretary's high heels.

The feeling of euphoria leaves our hero. But the point is, it was there.

A Bar Scene

Two men of the same age find each other in conversation at a bar and learn that they both loathe life.
“My wife left me for my best friend, I was laid off and my mortgage was foreclosed. My children don’t call or write and I’m getting too old to start over.” Said the one. “I can find only one way out, either through a bottle or a gun.” He finished drinking his beer and waved for another.
“What a coincidence.” Said the other. “You have lost everything but I never had those to begin with.”
“Maybe you’re taking things too seriously,” the bartender interjected. “Many things are worth living for. You don’t have to drink yourself to death.” It was his way of saying, I think you’ve had enough.
“Any happiness in my life makes me feel guilty.” The first muttered. “Perhaps, then, starting right now, I refuse to laugh at anything ever again. I refuse to allow myself any pleasures until I pull through this.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said the second man. “I will make a similar resolution, only I will laugh at everything.” He finished drinking and then turned to his companion and burst into high-pitched squealing. He pointed and he held his stomach and he fell off the stool onto his back.
The first man didn’t react at first, just listening to the man crawling on the floor, laughing. Then he abruptly stood up, bent over the laughing man and slowly beat the shit out of him. But it was no use. The laughing man was already free.

Inheritance

June 14, 2008

NOTE: I started this and never finished it. I actually like it better that way.

TV made me do this. Cops and robbers. Japanese cartoons. Even censored, those R movies persuaded me. Tipped me over the edge. That's why I'm here.

It's raining and later I will be swimming with pneumonia. This will only help my case. I'm sitting in the bushes blinking away raindrops and watching the upstairs window of my girlfriend's house. I should say, "ex."

The light flicks on, glows bright and I can see the flowers I gave her for Valentines day on her dresser. I'm waiting for the right moment and then I'll burst in and kill her and that bastard she's screwing. I'm waiting til they start kissing.

Video games made me do this. Stealing electronic images of cars and gunning down anyone who gets in my way. Big, red, pixel-blobs of blood. There ain't no halo over my head. I was taught this was OK.

I already know that I'll be tried as a minor because I'm 13 and this is the way things work in this town. Maybe I'll get some time in juvenile hall, maybe some community service. I'll get out soon enough and my ex and her new boyfriend will still be dead. I may be able to watch the history channel documentary, in which they'll ask the question, Why did this kid snap?

Who hasn't had some kind of impulse to kill before? Isn't this some sort of human nature? Every one thinks like this once in a while, why am I to blame for going through with it? Evolution made me do this.

I can already imagine the little bullet holes in her chest. Right through the heart she said she gave to me. Lying, stinking whore, you're gonna get yours. She'll be half-naked, because she never goes all the way.

As for that twat she replaced me with, some jock who's 15, I'll shoot him in the head so many times that they won't recognize his teeth.

I don't even know what kind of gun I have.

a small story

She walks out, leaving forever, says, "I'm doing you the biggest favor in your life."
I roll over and fall asleep, the pillow still wet from her tears.
I'm awake at 2am in an insomniac fit.
All the drinks are empty.
At least a dozen vacant bottles.
So I walk to the corner market and I'm the only customer in the store.
I have a tiny cart and put ten bottles of Wild Turkey in it.
Then I grab an extra bottle.
At the checkout, all those little impulse items, I take a package of condoms and some beef jerky.
The cashier asks me if I have ID.
I show it to him and notice he only reads the birthdate.
The cashier asks me cash or credit.
Credit.
The cashier asks for my ID again.
He just reads the name and makes sure it matches the card.
No one ever looks at the picture.
I leave, pushing my little cart down the street.
Two cops pull over, one fat and one short and ask to see my ID.
Do I have a choice?
They run it through a machine without even looking at it.
No warrants, they say, but just in case, what's in the bags.
Eleven bottles of Wild Turkey, some condoms and some beef jerky, I say.
I think this guy is a pervert, the short cop whispers, loud enough that I can hear.
What are you, some kind of pervert? the large one asks.
I plead the 5th.
The cops take me down to the station, sirens blaring.
They say it's just in case.
For several hours they grill me with questions about murdered people.
All I know is what I read in the papers, I say.
This isn't the guy, the one cop whispers, still not quite quiet enough.
You aren't the guy, the other cop says, arms crossed.
The short cop holds up a black and white mugshot.
This man, fat cop says, has been causing terror all over town.
He's killed eleven people already, the other cop mutters.
We thought you were him.
There is a likeness, I say, but how did you get his photograph if you don't know his name?
You can go, says the fat cop.
Can I have my groceries back? I ask.
You can have one bottle.
That's all I need.
I'm forced to walk back to the hotel, about five miles from the station.
I decide to drink.
By the time I have finished half the bottle I start having paranoid delusions that around every corner, down every filthy alley is the serial killer.
I imagine my doppelganger stabbing me with long sharp fingernail knives.
Deep into my neck he thrusts until the blades poke out the other side.
Each step increases my paranoia and my pace, until I am running for my life down empty streets.
It's very quiet.
Then I trip and fall flat on my face.
The Wild Turkey bottle shatters and inch long slivers stab into my neck.
The alcohol seeps warm into my jacket.
I pull the glass out painlessly and I don't bleed much.
The sun rises the moment I return to the hotel.
I go back to my room, which has been cleaned by the maid.
There is a tiny mint on my pillow.

wearedriving

We are driving.
Roadtrip.
That kind of thing.

A previous argument has disabled everyone in the vehicle.
No one wants to speak and the driver is especially uncomfortable.
I sit in the back seat and stare out the window.
It’s dark as electrical tape outside, the only light from the high beams that bounce off the road in front of us.
I’m too wired to sleep.
Everyone else is wide awake as well, unable to ignore each other.
And so goes it.

The driver decides, to fill the silence, turns on the radio.
Ticking through the channels like a worried teleprompter, he tries to discover a station that plays music everyone likes.
Not likely.
But besides that, all he can locate is static.
STATICSTATICSTATIC.

The passengers – and me – are getting sick of this white noise.
It’s no substitute for conversation.
Until –
the driver discovers a voice.

It says, T-MINUS 1 HOUR 3 MINUTES
And then static again.

A minute later.
T-MINUS 1 HOUR 2 MINUTES.
And then static again.

We’re still silent in the car, but we’re all sitting upright, waiting for the lulls in the nearly endless static sea.
Still silent to each other.

T-MINUS 57 MINUTES.
The cold voice of a computer echoing in our little box.
A sign says, 50 miles to somewhere.
Destination isn’t important anymore.

T-MINUS 49 MINUTES.
Still waiting.
No explanation.
No reasoning behind any of it.

We’ve mostly forgotten the argument, but not the anger.
We’re retaining that at least.
I think the argument was something about . . .

Existence.

T-MINUS 33 MINUTES.
. . . and counting, one of us whispers.
No one else speaks. The static is enough for us.


And we just kept driving.
Just kept going.
And going.

And going.

Sea Cucumber

These things take planning, but I wasn't prepared for this.

I love the way my eyes swell in the morning, crusted so bad I have to peel them open. I love the bloodshot hopelessness in the worm-like veins. The tears that choke in the corners and the sporadic dilation in the morning sunlight. Like my eyes are rotten grapes bleeding wine.

I love the aching I get in every tired, pulled muscle of my damaged frame. The way my bones crinkle with weight and age. The way my mouth is dry as sand and the way my teeth throb with cavities.

I'm not kidding. It really makes me happy.

I made myself anorexic just last week. For fun. I'm not really concerned that I'm fat, I just want to be disgustingly thin. Like a living skeleton, sucking and smoking thin little cigarettes. I want my bones poking out my back like dragon skin. Like a dead lion, the ribs wrapped in tattered flesh. I want it to hurt to masturbate.

After a big meal of blueberry pancakes and orange juice and bagels with cream cheese and some chocolate bars I use a toothbrush and massage my epiglottis. It's sore and cancerous, but soon my gag reflex is stimulated enough that I puke my guts out, disgorging viscera like a sea cucumber. My salivary glands are swollen and dry. I think some of what I regurgitate is blood, but who knows. That gag reflex feeling is beautiful. I'm pulling myself apart.

I love this.

The brown-red barf swirls down the bowels of the toilet bowl and into oblivion, like this never happened. I feel tired all of a sudden and lay on the tile, focusing in and out on the ceiling light. The sporadic dilation in the florescent sunlight.

Some of the bile splattered on the magazines next to the toilet paper, smearing the ink of a weight loss book. The title screams "LOSE 30 POUNDS IN SIX WEEKS!"

Five more weeks to go.