A dark comedical love canard that follows the personal narrative of a subnormal man that tussels with a mild decline of memory. He has a restricted amount of time to understand himself because of the hostage situation he has fashioned, at the Flex Cutler Recreation Center.

5:00 ERRR! 5:00 ERRR! 5:00 ERRR! On weekdays, my alarm clock is always affixed to five-o-clock a.m. It's a retro digital flip. It's one where the automatic perpetual calendar flicks every sixty seconds. It creates that barely audible pulsate when each minute does a change over. For some bizzare reason, I find it relaxing yet irritating at the same time. That tick. That dinky pulsating din is my bedtime coziness. At five a.m. I erect from my full-size royal pedic with the same habitual undertaking every morning. Piss. Clean teeth. Throw on clothes. Cigarette. Coffee. Black and brewed the prior evening. A smoke and a cup of caffeine. The breakfast of champions. Then off to work. I'm a lumper. A laborer. Commercial driver's employ me when they need muscle to load or unload vessels. Tractor trailers. I'm a hired hand that fills and dumps residential furniture. What? What's wrong? "Nothing." I'm blabbering, aren't I? My fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Saul, enlightened

me with the catchword, K.I.S.S. Keep it simple, stupid. Sorry, It's the sake. "No. You're fine. It's a gasp of fresh air to meet face with another oral human being. You're not just another enamored robotic, pardon my language, fucktard!" Peppy. "Sorry, it's the sake. Please, continue." It's all really a ho hum hereafter . Nothing rip-roaring from here. Warehouse to trailer. Trailer to house... "Doesn't it ever get boring?" It's tough. Tiresome. I wouldn't necessarily say boring. Day after day, I come across crisp, virginal shippers. A shipper is the customer. The overseeing moneypocket whom coordinates the transport. It's fascinating. They're fascinating. Each day, I rub eyeballs with people from different parts of the country. A couple years ago, I met this oddball family I hauled up north. I believe they relocated from Connecticut... with them, they backpacked a mumified baby that was secondhand from numerous posterior generations. A pre-own from kooky, mental descendants. No bullshit. Sometime last year, I off-loaded an unwed mother and her son from the Bear Flag State. Her boy was born with a development disability, but he was the most endearing, irresistible kid. Him being so appealing, I didn't mind so much that he had an overactive bladder, and would piss far and wide, high and low. I had to free myself of my brand new Dr. Martens. My uniform smelt like asparagus dooched in a messful stew of amonia! I couldn't surrender the stink for a couple of weeks! No bullshit! A month back, this seventy-seven year old floozy migrated into an assisted living outfit. She was weak and fatigued, so I had to help her unpack her personal possessions. Bulldozing dildos. Bulky anal beeds. Slimy vaginal oils. Senior snuff magazines. Billowing bed buddies... "No bullshit?" Exactly! "Wow. Your handicraft line of livelihood certifies you front-runner to the flakey fruitcakes of the world." They're not all atrocious.Some are admirable, good people. Most of them are. The unentertaining, misrepresented ones, anyway. For example, backtrack a few years, a husband and wife couple moved in near the seasoned millpond. They downsized. The sympathetic twosome found it necessary to trim away, exclusively because their

children were severely injured in a very abnormal automobile accident. They were good-natured people, but I could sense the anguish and bleakness in their anew household. I swear to the Almighty that one of the residents was on T.V. I think the hubby was a newscaster... maybe. Anyway, I'll never forget them. They tipped first-rate. "Would you ever consider a different career?" Most likely. But until something likable and concrete appears, I've got this. It's good pay. Good exercise. Good experience. "Have you ever been married?" Engaged. I was lovesick. Unripe. She was my best friend. It should of stayed that way. Her blubber-lard-biker-blindspot-hog father interrupted my penis' intelligence. "Pardon?" Sake. What about you? Have you ever dressed up your ring finger? "We have all evening to flap tongues about me. I need more chapters and verses about Wesker Cooper." Alright. Third degree me. "Okay. Obviously, you have excellent taste touching on fine dining for a first date. I love sushi." Likewise. It's healthy. Low in saturated fat and high in protein... ...not to mention I have an adoring liking to it's liquid buddy, Sake! It endorses white folk to dance Mai style, and gives the green light to lip sync GAWDZIWWA! GAWDZIWWA! "GAWDZIWWA!" Okay, I'll ridiculously mobilize my mouth, and you say it... "GAWDZIWWA!" Excuss me waitor, can we get the check? "Alright. Favorite movie?" Classics. "Classics? I didn't ask for a genre." Classic cinema is the best. Hitchcock. Kubrick. Scorsese. I can't single any of them out. I like them all equally. "Favorite musician?" Bobby the hobo.. "Really? I would have never guessed." He's a talented songwriter. "Okay, let the kitten out of the knapsack. Wheresoever does your name ejaculate from?" The origin of Wesker implicates indomitable defender. It was my great grandfather's name. I dare to say he was a whistle-stop tradesperson.

Canadian born, like my mother. The surname, Cooper, derives from England. Apparently my predecessors made buckets and tubs. Hence the name symbolizing an occupational aspect. Hey, how much would your brain rack if I suggest that we skedaddle and shamble down the street to nab a seven-o-clock show? "Sounds like a brilliant course of action." Great. Let me just plunk down the check. ... ... ... Fuck. "What's the matter?" I lost my wallet.


Hello? Hello? Are you listening? My demands are simple. Listen to the story of how all this has happened, and I promise you Lieutenant, I will release the hostages. "How do I know you will keep your word?" A promise is a promise. I know it's made and broken, and I know it's usually said and not trusted, but trust me Lieutenant. I want the crescendo. I want to see the climax, just as anyone else does. Trust me, I'm sick of the howling, bawling children in swimwear infused with the funk of chlorine. I'm sick of the sweat immersed, disunioned patrons jeering at me, begging to let their babies go. I'm sick and irritated with the repugnant golden-agers. This will end Lieutenant. You just have to listen. Remember Lieutenant, no fantastical patronage. Nay on the funny business. Keep in mind where I am at. My colleagues left this shithole at two-o-clock. Since than, I've been spearhead. I've been baron of the stronghold. Three public entrances. Two, east and west in the lobby, one in the north hallway. Two private event entrances in the multi-purpose rooms.

One employees only entrance at the south end of the facility. All in which I have decorated with fatal explosives. Keep in mind where I am at. Calcium Hypochloite, Ammonium Nitrate and flammable liquid mixtures of hydrocarbons are freely accessible for me to obtain. No sweat. The four rooftop access hatches and the three emergency exit doors haven't been blanked out. They too have been fashionably dressed up. I want the captives to know who's baron as well. No fantastical patronage. "Alright than. Let's hear your story." This instant, it is 2:32 in the afternoon. My shift ends in approximately an hour and fifty-eight minutes. I have an hour and fifty-eight minutes. An hour and fifty-eight minutes to tell you my story. I filled out my time card beforehand. If I don't stay the whole shebang, the total eight hour shift, I bamboozle the company. I assume your entire department and trained to perform high-risk operatives have organized a secure perimeter within a 2 mile radius. I don't plan on flying the coop. I imagine elite tactical units are directing their assault rifles, submachine guns, carbines, shotguns, stun grenades, and high-powered rifles in my beeline. Riflemen are squatting across the street on the roof of the Woodlawn County Courthouse. Am I right Lieutenant? Am I? Nevermind. Those were rhetorical questions. Don't quick fix me. You no longer have any need to murmur. I'm the only individual that has the privilege to yak. Only the things I gab of is of any importance. For instance, this very moment, I'm positioned in the administration offices just shy of the window that casts sunlight onto the lead facility programmer's cubicle. waitwaitNevermind. I'm gone. One of your highly trained, positioned marksman could have easily obtained the kill. I'm trekking back to the fitness area. Remember Lieutenant, no funny business. If I become aware of any incursion on this building, my accomplice has been ordered to flood radical amounts of nitrogen goulashed with hydrogen into the swimming pool's water conditioning system. The pungent odored gas will conjoin with the powerful oxidant fed into the natatorium releasing a deadly volatile substance. It will tear into the patrons' nasal passages, trachea, and lungs and create massive cellular damage. They will die. No fantastical patronage. Dollars to doughnuts, Lieutenant.

Dollars to doughnuts. One hour and fifty-two minutes. Let's get started. I'll tell you as far back as I can remember.


Four years ago. Four years ago is where my mind's eye takes me. I lived in my parents' understructure. I could deliver the command being my folks' basement, but with that said, you would only be inclined to think that I was an adolescent, delinquent upstart- but that's nowhere near the illustration. Just let me explain. The basement was dark. Dark and dewy. Drizzly like the excretion off of a frigidity beer. The shantty hovel was put together in 74'. Somewhere, somebody back than thought it was a neat idea to nestle galvanized, cognate pipes into these enfeebled, clichéd homes. Old, innervated pipes rust so atrociously, it can allow them to crumple in on themselves and will stopple. I like to call this the tampon effect. When this happens it allows declined amounts of water through the line and it will flood. Mold would flourish through the floor, sheetrock and walls. If you flushed a toilet on the overhead level, feces would breach the laundry room drain. Excrement and soiled juices would scramble up the taproom sink. It was sickening. The basement awakens memories of my mother's womb. I was barbarically kicking and thrashing to be set free, but I couldn't do it prematurely. The wall-to-wall nappy floor covering denoted a thick fabric shag. It was natural redhead. It was burnt orange. Popular in interior planning in the 1970s. Fuck the 1970s. The 1970s was hippie culture, rubbing out riceheads, Mother Teresa and my natal celebration. Fuck them. I curse this ensemble of bygone assemblage, only because I am disgusted by burnt orange carpet. Sorry you good-for-nothing, degrated radicals.

Sorry you lifeless slopeheads. Sorry you old wrinkled dustbag. I'm not sorry you rueful diurnal course that glorifies my birth. I am inadmissible. I am residual surplus. It reeked of mildew and pet dander. The carpet. The household animal was a dim-witted Queensland Heeler. Malco. Apparently Malco's breed was developed to drive cattle. Supposedly energetic, independent and intelligent. Not Malco. Malco was inactive, sluggish and slothful. He would lay down while devouring vile-odored mutt mush. He would micturate like a bitch. Malco was a fucking muttonhead. Multiple times I would bear down and reimburse slobber crowded, gnawed up Chuck Taylors and bootleg denims. Malco would chaw concrete pursuing his own shadow. Malco would munch electrical cords carrying low voltage household currents. Malco would cower in close-fitting spaces, tucked away, from rodent instigators. Malco was a fucking muttonhead. Malco passed shortly prior to my leave. He choked on his mutt mush wayfaring the staircase, which caused a plunging descent to substructure level. Malco snapped his neck. Malco was a fucking muttonhesniff. sniff. Excuss me. I normally don't choke up like that. I guess the entire perished pet thing whops me. What can I say? It's bitter and blue when animals die. "But it doesn't dampen your spirit when people die? It doesn't weigh you down, knowing you're terrorizing innocent lives?" That's funny, Lieutenant. You're quite the knee-slapper, aren't you? I don't call to mind that I gave you permission to speak. Remember, you have no need to murmur. " Oh, bottle up kid! Choke on it! This entire merrymaking adventure you've got everyone on is bogus!" My demands are simple. Listen to the story of how all this has happened, and I promise you Lieutenant, I will release the hostages. Because of your impotence, right now, at this very moment, a goldenhaired, rotund five-year-old child is sucking the barrel of my 9mm CZ 75b. His gutless bearer is yelping at me, while the plumpish brat is blubbering tears all over my persuader's rod. I hope it doesn't rust. Do I pull the trigger? "Alright! Alright! I'll dummy up. Talk. Let's hear your story."

Well, I'm delighted we're on the same footpath again. You no longer need to inhale the hardware, kid. Where was I? It's a mistake to interfere my caravan of thoughts, Lieutenant. I tend to be absent-minded. I have normal deterioration of memory function. My mother says it's side effects of various medications and self-awareness mental disorders. I think my loss of memory is early signs of Alzheimer's. I'll tell you as far back as I can remember. Burnt orange deep-pile carpet. The aroma was horrendous, no thanks to on the fritz plumbing and Malco. The walls were a superior solid construction of wood paneling. Espresso brown. I felt like I was en route on a pirate ship. I wanted the ship to sink. The basement was dark. The only wellspring of illumination in my 12' by 14' bedchamber was a bitsy storm window and a corona that gleamed out a tarnished ring of light. I was miserable. In my exclusive, beclouded mausoleum, my preferred pass time was art. I would draw, sketch, doodle and draw some more. I would draw as much as bedraggled hookers would fuck unhonest men. In the dimness, I would have a black .5mm Needle Point pinched between my thumb and my fuck finger, and let my mental agility of visualizations wheeze life. I would draw anything. I would draw celebrities. I would draw mythical creatures. I would draw celebrities being mutilated by mythical creatures. Losing limbs, leaving mush. I would draw superstructures. The Chrysler. Empire State Building. Himeji Castle. The John Hancock Center. Union Station. The Eiffel Tower. I would draw superstructures, only to draw the consequences behind ground zero. I would draw people and portraits. Abstract and surreal. I would draw men fucking women. I would draw women fucking women. I would draw men fucking men. I wasn't lonelyI was just alone. I would draw anything I could damn well please. I would draw, and I was good at it. Art was always a building gem for castles in the air. I always envisioned it as my enduring, deep-rooted profession. Possibly stumble upon a closefisted advertising agency. Maybe happen upon a nose to grindstone biweekly rag or a hardboiled film studio. Nevertheless, the entwining serpent-haired fishwife molded me into stonework and ceased me in my footsteps. My mother. Also known as Medusa. Also known as the

governing grumble of the domain. Don't judge me inaccurately. Honestly, I love my mother, but my father and I both agree about her holding purse strings. In the crisp of the eighties, my mom was an infomercial divinity. Those particularly drawn out television commercials, typically between thirty minutes and one hour that sold as a block to advertise late night bankroll for sub-par, pathetic networks, my mother was more than likely the celebrated starlet. Ancient Japanese detox systems. Stop smoking devices. Pet rocks that sprout moss. Facial aerosol anti-blemish sprays. In reverse robes. All in which, made my mother the great publicity monarch. It got to her head. She falsified her current life with the bygone days of 1982. Absorbing Lexapro and Xanax, she would reenact her early gigs with lamenting eyes in the washroom mirror. My mom was the regent mother, and my father and I were her lackey doormats. She put a squeeze on me to work young. I was sandbagged to be a painter with my father. I was a contractor painting the guts of bantam businesses. Guts implicating interior covering and coating. My father gratified the byword "guts" only to hint our proffesion less ho hum. Go ahead, ask me anything about interior painting. Stir thoroughly before use. Apply in full even coats. To thin, if necessary, use appropriate amounts of clean water. Never mix colors. Do not apply when surface tempetures are below 50°F ( 10°C). Clean tools in warm soapy water, and final rinse with mineral spirits. The chemical process that befalls during the drying is called evaporation. Evaporation is where the liquid share alters into an noxious gas. A poorly ventilated overlay is hazardous to whomever's wellness. Painting the guts of constructed piles was never grueling trials. It just got repetitious and uninteresting after a year of Xerox cycles. That, and steadily operating beside my old man. My father. A man so glorified with his second-rate proffesion, pride would defecate from his ass. The porcelain gods were gratified. Dad would comfortably accept what he was given, and that was his defect. The man had no backbone. Painting was decent take-home, and allowed me to afford my other real world diversions. Before I fashioned an average take, I was admitted into ridiculous pleasurable pastimes. For example, have you ever imagined yourself a

robot? Trekking down the driveway with automated, machine-driven movements, adding ZZZZZZZZT racket with each gesture. I have. Have you ever blinked recklessly and violently for a minute than pinched your eyes shut to enjoy a pulsating light show? I have. Life. Hard-boiled and fierce. The most prejudiced and wrongful thing about the living duration is the way it concludes. It's not stopping and not finishing. The only grasp of accomplishment we get when it's all over is death. The great demise, it's the commission and bonus. It's the special compensation. In all conscience, The life cycle is entirely backwards. We should relinquish first, far-fling it into the backwoods. Mature into dust bags and colonize in assisted living communities. Get the boot for being too healthy, and go muster a pension. From here, it all gets recognizable. We onset some random job that we have an extreme dislike for, maybe stress the grind for thirty years until we're bloomed enough to retire. Drink recklessly, party our immaturity , than load our bookbags for school. Go to college. High school. Junior high. Grade school. Preschool. Become a kid. We'll play video games, we'll collect action figures and adorable little dolls. We'll have no responsibilities and our parents will look upon us as holy terrors. We'll go back, way back. Spend our final nine months floating with high living and bliss. Like a whirlpool and a mineral spring resort. Central heating. Room service on tap. Finally, we'll finish it all off as a fucking wet culmination. Hallelujah.


The slap on of tinted covoring, decorative overlay gave me my salvation. A Micro Vector GX Custom Home think machine. A Celeron D 351 / 3.2 GHz processor, 4.0 GB of ram, 250.0 GB of hard drive spaciousness, a GMA 900 visual unit... I was finally an all-embracing, allinclusive demigod. My face was sponged up against the 24 inch ultrasharp display after sundown and before sunrise. I could now shake-down art techniques graphically. No more inflamed calluses on my innermost digit. I'm no prodigy when it comes to electronic brains. I made it rank to exclusively recognize paint and web explorer desktop icons. I became a

social slut in the virtual world. I would crudely wreck social networking rooms. I was a clique crasher. It was an addiction. The utmost ones to bust were the sex addicts. I'd falsify my identity and say I was web connoisseur supervisory special agent for the Bureau. I'd make all of the perverts with cold feet feel uncomfortable. I'd crash them all. Bent over bitchez. Population 563. Hurtin for squirtin. Population 424. Fuck my brown star. Population 128. Fetish fantasies. Population 612. Fist fuck my virgin pussy. Population 821. Lookin 4 3somes. Population 711. Rainbow rods. Population 83. When I first posted my early abrupt comments in the Rainbow rods room, the number one thing that registered in my head was homosexual hangout. That was nowhere connected to the signification. Rainbow rods was a rendezvous for blowjob obsessed junkies. The room's title is endowed from a game played where the female uses a range of assorted colors of lipstick on her kisser, to make intensely hued rings along the length of a man's penis. I was spellbound. This is how I met S3xy_S0utherN3R and Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ. My hobnob contacts. S3xy_S0utherN3R is a gas station clerk in some lifeless, boring boondocks stretch based in Texas. He's your typical redneck. A dim-witted, defective white male with an IQ comparable to a deaf Afghan Hound's brilliance. Isolated in his own little world, uneducated, and lodges in Section 8 housing. S3xy_S0utherN3R oozes american juices, but carries a confederate flag. His nuts are pint-sized shrimp when women are an integral of the concoct plan. The only way he'll ever get any growth in his testicles, is either pray for a retiform sertoli tumor, or consume mass amounts of aged corn whisky. He came right out and typewrote it, "not everything is big in Texas". Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ is a net event nympho. She entrenches rooms with a cooked-up self image to prey on lascivious deviants. She describes herself as slim and exquisitely tall, blonde with a little crispation. Measurements of 34-23-36, and tits that perk upward toward the Heavens. In my personal word with her, she illustrated herself as a lump of chocolate pudding stirred with an Amazonian Manatee. She's a gorger for sweet Choux pastries and angular, bony white beaus. To S3xy_S0utherN3R, she's a holiness. She's a reincarnation of Marilyn Monroe. To me, she's a desolated, rejected sweetheart glued to menthol cigarettes and French crullers. A solitary, bedridden gentlewoman with a laptop sunk into her thighs. The three of us, S3xy_S0utherN3R, Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ and myself,

became remarkably palsy-walsy. We were chummy, buddy-buddy attached. Three heavyhearted interlopers. We would discuss all things. We would give our voice to continually downsizing all ambitions and expectations. We would rhapsodize about life after death investments. The life glitch. The life fucker. The life force. Life goes on. Rainbow Rods became our own discreet little remedial group. A therapy concourse that only the three of us were fascinated with. It's population diminished to an unadorned 4. "Four? Why four?" Yes, Lieutenant, four. And why are you conversing with me? You are unmistakably aware of the rules. "I apologize. I slipped." ... ... ... "Wesker?" ... ... ... BANG! "Wesker!? What happened? Who's hollering?" I apologize. My jerk finger slipped. A 115 grs 9mm round diverged into Mr. Henderson's leg. "Is he okay?" He's fine Lieutenant. The Transtibial Prosthesis limb however... "Thank god." No. Thank Wesker Cooper. The big man has neglected you today. He's taken a sick leave to play a turn of eighteen holes with all the supplementary divine natures. He left me with the ruling. Why is it so difficult for you to comprehend? Everytime you impolitely interrupt me, it decays dear time. Time is something we do not have sizable amounts of. I will tell you. I will tell you, why four. I will tell you the lock stock and barrels, and everything in a broad, wide scope. If you keep interfering with my chainlink brainwork, my narrative will get nowhere because time will be short supply, and that will tempt the fate of my panic-stricken audience. One hour and thirty-eight minutes. A sacked out person, on average, swallows eight spiders in their life course. Did you know that? Neither did I, until Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ knowledged me. The female monarch of useless gospel. Behind all of her raunchy desires, she was really a thought-provoking individual. A pound of potato chips cost twice as much as a pound of potatoes. She told me that

too. This is what Rainbow rods had become. A well-disposed, peaceable headquarters. I wasn't so much miserable anymore. I had playmates in a happy little cubbyhole, that is, until MomentO_m0ri abolished it all. MomentO_m0ri would nest in our group. She wouldn't mobolize a finger to transcribe a single word. She was a fucking wordless benumb. S3xy_S0utherN3R would struggle to make her break, but would never outwit and attain a good outcome. He began to get overly suspicious and started to believe MomentO_m0ri was a snitch bot sent by some Uncle Sam department. It got lead-footed for the hayseeded hillbilly. S3xy_S0utherN3R vamoosed. Soon after, Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ vanished. Rainbow rods wasn't the same for her without her dimwitsouthern adoration. Population declined to two. I continued to log in, and sure enough, MomentO_m0ri was still making her intrusion. Still speechless and uncommunicative. It got to the point where I wouldn't even hunt-and-peck, and it would be a do-nothing, inactive function for hours. Rainbow rods was burned up. It was finished. I needed a new clique to crash. An unseasoned, untouched utopia. I made it priority to stray away from sexual merrymakings. I tresspassed in congenial gatherings. 80s RAWK. Population 231. Video Gamerz. Population 422. Metro Playaz. Population. 337. Gutter Glitter. Population 112. zoological. Population 187. Go PINK. Population 97. Go PINK is an encouragement group for women that agonize with cancer. I obviously wasn't akin here, but with my screen name being big_C_bruisy, no one knew. People that recognize they're at death's door, are the most captivating people. This one woman, SALMONsw1mmer01, shared with the batch, three things she wanted to do before she kicked the bucket. Swim with a dolphin. Make sensual, desirous love on a train. Fall deeply in love - helplessly and unconditionally. I actually felt sympathy for her. Another woman, H0p3_h0n3Y_f28, announced she wandered from the orthodox of her faith and lost her virginity prior to holy matrimony. She yearned the sensation of a raw, luscious cock, before she would give up the ghost. How touching. Some of these women would yammer so pigheaded at times, I felt I was residing with the sex addicts all over again. Pumpk1n13 reconciled with her deceiving, dishonest ex, only to enact adultery on him. K1ttYL0v3R desired the fullfillment of her greatest sexual fantasy before she would rest in peace; a sloppy circle jerk. I was growing inattentive. It got to the point where I was on middle ground and reconsidered my kill time. It turned over in my mind to abandon social networking, cold turkey. I wish I had. These optimistic, expectant women were my opiates. I was magnetized

to their animation, to their enthusiastic spirits. They were my ultramodern medication. I wanted to say goodbye, but I couldn't. I caved in. I was big_C_bruisy. I am 34 years old. I have been a breast cancer survivor for six years. Immediately following my breast cancer diagnosis, my thoughts turned to my adoring family. Their contentment and safety. What would happen to my beloved ones when I would be done? Soon thereafter, my son died unexpectedly and horribly. He toppled over the family tabby while on the roof, and immerged to his death. With this loss weighing heavily on my heart, I went through an extremely aching recovery process post-mastectomy, before I started my chemotherapy. SALMONsw1mmer01 felt sorry for me. H0p3_h0n3Y_f28 felt sorry for me. Pumpk1n13 felt sorry for me. K1ttYL0v3R felt sorry for me. MomentO_m0ri felt sorry for me. I know exactly what you're thinking. MomentO_m0ri? What the fuck was she doing in Go PINK? Trust me, I was asking myself the same question. I was lost at sea. Aboard my espresso brown, wood paneled pirate ship. I was befuddled, bewildered, slaphappy and spaced out. A space cadet. Adrift in intercosmic emptiness, disoriented mentally. It gets worse. She actually participated and reciprocated in our discussions. She was no longer a tongueless, shackled retardo. It was a forthcoming. It was child's play for her to be included in our clump of expiring sisterhood. So wickedly, I hankered the thought of pulling the rake over the coals. I wanted to curse-lash her, and criticize her so evilly for sabotaging Rainbow rods. But I couldn't. I couldn't. I wasn't going to let the typhoon whomp my second self. At that temporal period, big_C_bruisy was far more top-drawer than I ever was. MomentO_m0ri. She's the grocery store buggy with one lousy wheel. She's the utility service rep. that doesn't arrive in the eight hour window. She's the thuds and thunks of a rolling suitcase. She's the sloppy napkin left on the table throughout dinner. She's tangled hangers. She's filthy, begrimed keyboards. She's a cancer patient. This was it. MomentO_m0ri discovered an ample protrusion. 3 inches wide and 1.5 inches thick. The ultrasound indicated an extension growth, and it was essential for an immediate needle aspiration. No fluids were brought into being, and the practitioner conjectured it being a phyllodes.

MomentO_m0ri was scheduled for prompt surgery, but never appeared. She was scared. She was scared, and I was in high spirits. I thought she deserved it. Rainbow rods was justified. SALMONsw1mmer01 was aghast and enraged with MomentO_m0ri's resolution. So were the rest of the girls. H0p3_h0n3Y_f28 said she was a gutless chicken-heart. She gabbled about how survival time and duration of existance is absolutely worth it. Worth what? That's what I thinking. After all, in the course of time, we're all going to breathe one final breath. Some sooner than others.The most prejudiced and wrongful thing about the living duration is the way it concludes. I goofed. I printed my characters. I spoke my mind. Kissing keys with every digit, I wrote my philosophies. I shared my principles and knowledge. Life. A all over, devoting terminal disease. The abrupt course of a rain drop, aerodynamically descending, than it splatters. That's it. The board game that shares the very name, is more enjoyable. The commendable things are high price, the mouthwatering things make you overweight and the entertaining things are immoral. Unpredictable, but death is inevitable. God's twisted, perverted idea of a joke. The Almighty is a physical-injurious liability. He wrongly contributed to more fatalities than anyone else in history. He can't save you. No one can. Supposedly, H0p3_h0n3Y_f28 was the strong arm of Go PINK. I did not know this. She was the one that set her hand to the terms of agreement for safeguarding the room. She was able to give the steel toe if she found any guests being ignorant or disrespectful. In that little, quadratical social window, H0p3_h0n3Y_f28 was god. Goodbye MomentO_m0ri. Kick. Goodbye big_C_bruisy. Kick.


I was frantic. Frenetic. Frenzied. I become the black beast when i'm removed from inclusion. I started to fling shit. My 15 pack DVD-R 4.7 GB discs. My 5.0 Megapixels digital camera. Printing and memo pads. Classic ballpoint and white stick pens. It looked like a cyclone crashed the dark and dewy understructure. My mother hollered to bottle up and pipe down. Her words roused me to get full-mouthed and louder. I payed a visit to a free online text and web page language translation website. I typed in affectionate, warm-hearted sentences and expressing adoration, only to bawl back in foreign dialect. For example; Ich liebe dich Mamma! Vous êtes la meilleure mère au monde ! I would roar things like that. I can't say how ultraprecise the interpretations were, but it was plain amusement. It irritated her, not being able to understand what I was announcing. Every so often she would start to snivel and sob. She would try to hide it, but her soft mewls were always a heartrending earful. The crying was mournful and out of sorts. It was nothing like the blubbering from her vanished days of acclamation. Menthol Cigarettes. My mother has the tendency to ablaze a cigarette everytime she's agitated, or all torn up. Malco destroyed her Horchow silk bee curtains. She lit a cigarette. The dishcharge drain pipe on the garbage disposal broke. She lit a cigarette. She wrestled with a pillow to get it inside a slip cover. She lit a cigarette. Mom shoves aside whatever she's provoked or angered with, and hunkers in her cushioned-back, brown polyurethane dining chair. She settles there, pertaining her thoughts. She meditates, smoking a menthol cigarette. When I would be mischievous and lose my temper, mom would outburst. When I was a disturbing irritation, mom would inhale the evensteven of a pack. Her pungent, saltish tears would sometimes disrupt the flames. Sometimes, I made up theories for her deep distress. Was she regretting and remorseful to have me as her offspring? Don't blame me, mom. Dad was the one that settled the idea to drive it rawdog. Bombed on A-rocks and Wa-Hoo-Was, in some full-service resort vacationed at

Waikiki. Was she disappointed with an action I had brought about, that I was not knowledgeable of? Dad told me, it's worse to disappoint someone than to make the person angry. I swallowed it and take it as a gospel. She cried. She cried more tears than a broken spigot valve that's lost mastery to it's release of liquids. I was going to embrace her. Squeeze all of the hurt and aches away. Tell her everything was going to be all right. Than MomentO_m0ri bombarded mud in the water. In the upper right-handed bend of my 24 inch monitor exposed a privy chat window, querying me to allow a closet conversation with MomentO_m0ri. Mom was still crying. How could I decline? Not only was MomentO_m0ri the downfall of Rainbow rods, I also condemn her for my unexpected departure from Go PINK. Sure, it may have been my altercation that asked for trouble, but she instigated me. I just had to remember this was a dying girl I was behaving towards. That, and she still believes I'm big_C_bruisy. Mom was still crying, gagging on the toxic fumes from her menthol cigarette. I accept the invite. Cigarette smoke contains Polychlorinated dibenzo-p-dioxins and polychlorinated dibenzofurans. Both being hazardous compounds. Because of their beyond questionable tremendous lethal effects, their demeanor in the environment conveys serious health problems. "I smoke," MomentO_m0ri uttered suddenly. I must have transcribed my thoughts without being aware. I asked her why she was so strong-willed to die. "I don't want to wither and dwindle away, not distinctly yet," she told me. "I'm still longing to be loved. I crave for people to admit to my existence. I want them to take notice that I'm more than emptiness. When I'm beyond a blackened void, that's when I will be fully enthusiastic to die." She told me she was too young to die. The longevity period wasn't allinclusive, all-embracing, full-fledged and home free yet. She's defective, deficient, imperfect. She wasn't complete yet. "I want someone who is captivated by me for whom I really am. Mutatis mutandis. I want a fucking sizzling flame that I can mold preemie babies with!" And we just one-two-punched an antipersonnel mine. MomentO_m0ri kept the words rolling. "I want dinky, slobbering, reeking preemie babies," she said. "I want dinky preemie babies that I can doll up with black and white striped infant stockings. I want dinky babies to fashion in miniature, itsy-bitsy punk rock

tees! I want a loving, sizzling flame that I can blissfully squat in a respectably-sized home with!" Contemporary design black leather sofas. Crimson wall tapestries. Vintage metal ornate design wall art. Charcoal marble countertops. Black and white checkered linoleum tile. She wanted it all. Want. Want. Want. Want. Want. We all want a desired entity. It's everything else we attain, before it's the sure-enough aspirations we want. Momento Mori. Remember you shall die. Clearly, the girl was goofed up in the head. The chat feature we were exchanging information on, endorsed an action that allowed party members to eyeball each other's profile. With just an arrow click on a screen name, it green lighted a person's identity. Profile photo, name, age, sex, location, hobbies, interests, etc, etc, etc. Not at any time before have I found it all-important to use this feature. Everyone anterior to MomentO_m0ri was a small potato. A small potato or an artificial small potato, wink Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ. MomentO_m0ri. Remember you shall die. I clicked it. Immediately I was attracted to her adorableness. She was gorgeous in a shuddersome way. Abundant, ultramarine blue eyes surrounded with a halo of black eye-liner. Her hair was corkscrewed and as red as volant embers from sweltering coal. Her skin was blanched and pale, like an inanimated mort frightened to death. In her photostat, she was decorated in a vintage long striped velvet evening gown accessorized with Tahitian black pearls. She make believed a little, bent smile for the camera, and shrouded behind that gracious imitation, was her hopelessness. The darkness that she radiated, it was on the verge of being angelic. My eyeballs swarmed everywhere mousing her biography. She didn't advertise her real name. She was Momento Mori. Fine. Age, twenty. The age where confidence begins to pollute the skin. Sex, female. Obviously. Location. Apparently, according to her personal account, Momento Mori was located inside a wardrobe carton hiding at the rear of some corporate mega mart. Fine.

Hobbies, reading Mein Kampf back to front, aloud in public. She declared she also takes pleasure in collecting old pencil shavings, attempts to ingest her own tongue, and adores kittens. And I thought I was uncanny and bizarre. Occupation, murderer. The girl was clearly a madcap. I started to wonder if she even had cancer. I had no clearance to Q and A her. To her, I was still big_C_bruisy. I was still big_C_bruisy, but I couldn't withstand my seducement. She was amazingly beautiful. I told her that. "Thank you," she replied and promptly followed with, "why don't you have a profile?" I told her I'm nothing to gander at. I spit out that I was a lump of chocolate pudding stirred with an Amazonian Manatee. A gorger for sweet Choux pastries and angular, bony white beaus. A desolated, rejected sweetheart glued to French crullers. lol. She key-pecked. I evolved into the Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ that Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ is mortified to be. I clued in that Momento Mori would come across hopefulness and joviality some day. She layed the dirt about her prior man attraction. He was an underemployed, spoon-fed forebearer's boy who was, as Momento Mori implied, borderline creepy. He would on the sly, struggle to breathe in the funk of her bittersweet hair. He acquired an overcoming aroma of budget buy cologne and spoke too much of his mother. He poorly hid a critical hair loss, and he despised Momento Mori's nonstop cigarette intake. "I want someone who is captivated by me for whom I really am," she reuttered. "Mutatis mutandis." Mutatis mutandis. With those things having been changed which need to be changed. Memento Mori, not under any condition would she remodel. I accepted her. We became very close. We became Lucy and Ethel.


The MSDS Data Sheets. Material Safety Data Sheets. In this disordered line of practical preparation, supposably considered a career, it is necessary that I study this manual for safety intentions. I'm tickled I did. MSDS. A blue-collar bible containing data respecting the hallmarks of a blow-by-blow substance. A substantial component of product dispensation and workplace safety. It is intended to lay down procedures for handling or working with hazardous substances in a safe manner, for workers and emergency personnel. You most likely are familiar with it. Correct, Lieutenant? Let's jaw about the safety data of ultimate premium bleach. The opaque, white, viscous liquid that may cause eye inflammation and skin irritability. Of course, we're all at home with it. The MSDS throws out that it's stable under correct use. It's ingredients contain Sodium hypochlorite, Sodium hydroxide, and Lauramine oxide. What knocks me dead, is the laborer exposure cutoff on these fixings is stamped not established. Did you know bleach jumbled with vinegar creates a toxic chlorine vapor? Did you know bleach messed with acid toilet bowl cleaner can throw together toxic, potentially deadly fumes? You can bring about a compression bomb with the amen amounts of bleach goulashed with dish washer solvent. Strong and effective enough to blast off one's hand. This is what I habitually do in the thick of two-o-clock and four-thirty p.m when I'm unsupervised. I study this authoritative scripture, and theory up solutions. One hour and twenty-two minutes. I better shake a leg. Away from the nonstop chat array, I also was an on stream windowshopper. EBay, Amazon, Craigslist, the classifieds. I would look around and examine cursorily. I would hit the high spots and inspect loosely. Sometimes bargain for shit I didn't require, but purchased it anyway, plainly because it amused me. I even bought a piece of shit one time. The auctioneer characterized in the description that she was a personal helpmate and palsy-walsy friend to actress, Joan Crawford. She embezzled Joan Crawford's shit. She stole it, sealed it in a molded, treated compound, and than haggled it to me.

I'm bordering on that it's false, forged celebrity shit. Most likely a cram of bullshit, being that of. Not Mrs. Crawford's expulsion of bowel movements, but I didn't care. I thought it was neat. A gob of discharged dung enameled in a resilient, molded mishmash, sold for twelve dollars at a buy it now price. It was clever. Sometimes, it's the shoestring things that matter with a lion's share. The networked classifieds was a blast-off portal for takeoff. I was befuddled, bewildered, slaphappy and spaced out. A space cadet, aboard my espresso brown, wood paneled pirate ship. I wanted the ship to sink. I so wickedly needed out from my mother's womb. I was barbarically kicking and thrashing to be set free, but I couldn't do it prematurely. Prematurely. Preemie babies. Momento Mori. There it was. PostingID 1198466613. "Help wanted. Fantastical! Family Amusement Center seeking Character Designer/cartoonist/Flash Designer & Developer needed ASAP. VERY IMPORTANT: Must be available to work on quick turn-around time projects. In addition to the day time, you must also be available to speak during nights and weekends. If we are pleased with your work, we would love to build a continuous relationship for future projects. Applicants please contact MIKE. 303 - digit.digit.digit. - 4FUN." Jackpot. A fucking bonanza. I branched out a colossal erection. I got overly zipped up. Hyperactive. Discomposed. When I get jumpy and in a tizz, my jowl shifts from biscuit-colored beige to a glitzy blossom tone. I steam, sudor, and transudate. My soggy paws quiver and tremble. At this particularized tide, my hair was dank and dripping, and the threadlikes that concealed my face, discharged oversalted juices that blistered my vision. I jerked my cell from my tattered pocket. Cell phones contain Cadmium, Lead, Brominated flame retardants, and Beryllium. All being dangersome substances, and should be promptly and correctly disposed of. Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ revealed this to me. The female monarch of useless gospel. I dialed the decimals. 3 - 0 - 3 - digit - digit - digit - 4 - 3 - 8 - 6.

It started to ring. My grasp on the phone was smoothing along, the perspiration on my paws was surrendering my grip. It rang some more. I was high-strung. This was my hopeful chance. I didn't want to pickle-itup. I was densely breathing, struggling to entrap some air. It rang... ...and rang... ...and rang. Fuck. No answer. I decided to give another jingle later. I had to get levelheaded. I had to become a breezeless rush of aura brushing the surface of the seaway. I resorted to self-abusive, self-polluted autoeroticism. Masturbation. When I masturbate, I routinely conceptualize very unaimed thoughts. Case in point, I was at the village green away back. I observed and attested an aging husband and wife locking hands and swaying their arms. They presented an illusive image that they have been blessed and flung high forever. Everlasting and endlessly together. Forever. I barreled home and masturbated to that thought. I knew the couple was not walking on bona fide air. They couldn't be that jubilant and tickled to a beauteous rose-tone of pink. Mrs. aging wife most likely deceived Mr. aging husband doubtlessly more than once. Mr. aging husband, one can assume, lashed vital fluids from Mrs. aging wife for the dirty extramarital affairs. They were frauds, fakers, pretenders and a sham. They were ethical proof that love is a make-believe magical tale. That's what got me off. This dynamite favorable chance provided by the courteous Fantastical! Family Amusement Center and Mike. Same sequential outline. All of my count ons and knocking on wood is looking forward to a constructive aftereffect, but in my alimentary canal between the stomach and anus, I convince myself it's a a whale of a whopper. I think of disaster and misfortune. I think of the backbiting tall stories I clue in to myself that make the odd being the slightest achievable. This is what I jerk off to. Failure. Being overthrown. Falsification.

I aim my attention so much on contradictory and eventually cut out the shaker dance because my gray matter would be overburdened with selfperversion. I typically get conscience-stricken, but this particular jerk I kept pumping the pole. All of the bad inducing formations altered into an alluring, willowy dying girl costumed in a vintage long striped velvet evening gown accessorized with Tahitian black pearls. Momento Mori. Remember you shall die. If you burglarize a glassblowing shop, the single thing you need to carry off is a cut-off wheel. A cut-off wheel is a shebang of machinery used to gash and graze full lengths of glass. Keep the finely grated powder from a voluminous application and intermingle it with sodium chloride. Next time Mr. Unheard-of hungers for the bacon and kippered herring with extra salt, dash on a smidgen of minced glass and he'll be buying the farm. The glass will gradually gash and carve at his digestive track and perforate the lining of his stomach. Momento Mori enlightened me with this grasp. Keep in mind, her daily profession is a murderer. Take hydrogen cyanide salts married with an alkyl residue creating a noxious substance to coldcock Mr. Unheard-of. Once he's conked, acquire Cyanoacrylate and cautiously bond his kisser airtight and close off his olfactory nerves. He'll be excessively alarmed when he wakes up and be frenzied for ventilation. "Or use polyepoxide to airtight every orifice on the body and witness Mr. Unheard-of blow to kingdom come," Momento Mori added. "There are endless, artistic and imaginative ways to kill someone." I asked her if she was downbeat serious. "Go ahead, name any average, ordinary household item, and I will model an ingenious way to bump off with it," she insisted. A nail filer, I submitted. "Too easy," she said. "Use this pencil-like apex to shovel the jugular, like you would with a keen-edged knife. The results are an eyesore." An ipod? I suggested. "Bulldoze it down their throat!" she joked and made further comment, "use the lithium-ion battery pack to contaminate a person’s take-out or beverage." I didn't even dominate an absolute, all-powerful ipod. The singular thing I fathomed from it was that it's a music gimmick. I wasn't a ragtime, rap, refrain, rock and roll junkie. I didn't even hear or pay attention to pleasant, harmonized sounds. "What's your musical cup of tea?" she asked. The only genre I was accustomed with was American song folk. I don't allude the irritating kitchen buffet yelps, I refer to the deep, down home,

and all over appreciated traditional song genre. The brand perfected by heartland poets who noted affecting melodies and stimulating, subtle messages about life, love, and loss. I was at home with this genre because of my parents' fondness and taste. I let it slip. I forenamed folk ballads. "Please impart you're trying to wisecrack me," she said. She wasn't convinced with my preference. Momento Mori made further comment, " you hardly seem like a woman that appreciates white ethnomusicology." I nearly consigned to oblivion. I had to bear in mind I was Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ. Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ. A monarch of useless gospel, entrenching lives with a cooked-up self image. Gravy. I had to warp the issue. She didn't concede my mention of sawmill gravy. I explained. I wanted a hang-up on how to do away with Mr. Unheard-of with Béchamel sauce cream gravy. "Easy," she said. " Cover Mr. Unheard-of in considerable portions of gravy, with the roux being made of meat drippings. Bolt and padlock him in a pocket-sized, waterlogged room with a wild, maniacal wolverine." The girl was bewitching. She was a virtuoso. She's why I blew my junk off.

3 - 0 - 3 - digit - digit - digit - 4 - 3 - 8 - 6. It began ringing once more. This time, the rings were resonant, booming with an earsplitting deep-tone. Again, it was my mental stress. I was struck with the fidgets and heebie-jeebies. I thought of failure, being overthrown, and falsification. I sprouted a chubby. It resembled my morning glory that I rise-and-shine with every break of day. It rang... ...and rang... A full of life, forceful voice picked up, "thank you for calling Fantastical! Family Amusement Center! This is Mike, lead coordinator of artistry department. How can I help you?"

Jackpot. A fucking bonanza. I was flustered with excitement. I thought of Momento Mori to put me at a soothing standstill. I thought of the things she has educated me with. Aside from the Cyanoacrylate and polyepoxide, Momento Mori recommended an additional way to cork-up Mr. Unheard-of. A more chaotic, ensanguined way. She suggested to acquire a hand-held hacksaw and fiercely onslaught Mr. Unheard-of while he's anesthetized from the cyanide. Hastily and efficiently mutilate off his foot. If necessary, backpack a large concrete block, if trouble befalls while trying to saw the bone. Repeat series of actions, only now with his thumbs. By now, Mr. Unheard-of should be conscious and alert from the abrupt trauma. Like a bat out of hell, jam-pack the dismembered, mangled appendage in his mouth, and cram the mutilated digits in his nose holes. The reaction is worth a king's ransom. "Hello? Is anyone there?" The powerful voice grilled. I was in a deep rapture. Entrap Mr. Unheard-of by compressing his bareskinned penis in a vice grip. While he's perplexed and secured screaking excruciating gobbledygook, roast the constructed dwelling that's now his imprisonment. "Hello!?" The voice on the other end gets more abusive and demanding. I hang up. I decided to give another jingle later. Momento Mori, at one time, asked me if I really thought God was a physical-injurious liability. She asked if I seriously was convinced life was a torturous, incurable disease. I didn't know what to think. I can't summon into mind how I was constructed. I have no retrospect of my bygone days. I can't remember. "What's your say-so about God?" She asked. He's the protagonist in The Bible. He's an unsubstantial abstract that indecisive people use to fall back on. As times prior to, I clean forget I'm pretending to be big_C_bruisy pretending to be Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ. "Interesting," Momento Mori said. She continued the exhaustive questioning, "What's your say-so about Satan?" Christianity's business partner. My giddy and foolish viewpoints dribbling from my gray matter. "I'm on to you," she printed in the privy chat window. Her font adjusted to a immense bulk. On top of that, she transfigured it from Arial Black to Impact. I was in tumult. I asked her, how?

"You're horrified to relinquish your elegant, little life," she bawled out and brought about additional squawking. "You have no pizzazz about spiritual-mindedness or divinity because you're afraid!" I didn't quibble. I have no recollections. I have restricted jurisdiction on my retrospection. My subconscious is shot in the dark. I asked her what's her system of beliefs. Her font transfigured back to normal. She proclaimed that she envisions man incarnating into other manifestations. We transmigrate after the grave because we're gutless cowards. Because we're afraid of the possible actuality of a pearly promised land or a pit of the condemned. It's about reincarnation with no ability to hold in mind our previous lives. "The same conviction goes for God," she key-pecked. "He too is a lilyliver coward. He's some great divinity still strolling among us, but he doesn't know it." And Satan? I asked. "Same," she made no hesitation. She continued her impressive guesswork. "He's walking lazily among us too. He could very well be shoulder to shoulder with God, blissfully jolly and tickled pink, rejoiced in some absolute, A-OK crisp life together. They just don't know it." Everlasting and endlessly together. Forever. I thought of Mr. aging husband and Mrs. aging wife. "Satan isn't as wicked and villainous as he's perceived to be," she said. "He never rebelled against God. He was God's contractor. He was the firststrung, flying gofer to do God's scuzzy, disheveled work. He challenges us and makes us throw down the gauntlet on our morality. " It was a thought-provoking assumption. I asked how she was so cocksure. She answered, "if a high-principled upstanding can take as gospel that Satan is an exile that disobeyed God, I have every deserved fitting to believe my own right-minded judgment." Her allusion is, quite possibly, she could be the devil. At the time, it wasn't a wonderment if she was. "You could be the devil!" She divulged. I was honored. 3 - 0 - 3 - digit - digit - digit - 4 - 3 - 8 - 6. Bind and knot Mr. Unheard-of in a rickety, aged timbered chair underneath an African Bush Elephant's behind. Once he's properly balanced and placed physically in location, pummel a firm iron stake into the land mammal's large pad-like front foot, shocking it and forcing it to hunker down. If done correctly, the elephant will excellently sit, slam-bang

on Mr. Unheard-of, collapsing the feeble chair, and driving Unheard-of's top story in the hulking mammoth's anus. The afflict and struggle should only carry on for bats of an eye, cause to be, Mr. Unheard-of will suffocate from inadequate oxygenates and redundant hunks of stool. Silly, nevertheless amusing. It rang... Insert a cylinder pipeline into Mr. Unheard-of's bowels, repeatedly jampacking it with a blistering fireplace stoker. Rerun until Mr. Unheard-of is achingly dead. ...and rang. Again, bind and knot Mr. Unheard-of in a rickety, aged timbered chair. This time, horizontally cleave gashes in each of his jowls. Next, take that large, concrete block from your backpack, and shatter his barefeet. Finally, loosen the knots binding his hands and stand back to watch. Mr. Unheardof will be so uncontrolled and frantic, he'll impulsively mutilate his cheeks apart, bleeding to death. Momento Mori corrupted my thinker. A full of life, forceful voice picked up, "thank you for calling Fantastical! Family Amusement Center! This is Mike, lead coordinator of artistry department. How can I help you?" I said my call was in regard to PostingID 1198466613, the character designer. I couldn't hold my speech steady, and my shakers were soaked and quavering. Mike dauntlessly squelched, "Yeah man," he made headway with expectations. "We are awaiting a fitting aspirant whom can perfect an idealistic vision of our family-friendly mascot. The mascot being a lollipop person." Hard candy on a stick. Suck away the hardened, flavored sucrose with corn syrup and vigorously prod the bare stick in Mr. Unheard-of's eye cavity. It won't kill him, but his range of view will be ineffectual, allowing you to rip and rend him with a gut hook hunting knife. It's the utmost I could do, I was galvanized. The voice on the other end pressed on, "are you innovational and leading-edge? Are you able to take direction well and are you strongwilling?" Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. "Supply your creative designs! We're searching for digital drawings, technical illustrations, traditional art, anything that could be an attainable outline for our mascot." Mike elucidated. "Go wild!" He bellowed. I was already manufacturing sticky-pop personalities in my brain.

Dozens of flavors and many different shapes. The small ones purchased by the hundreds, often given away for free at financial institutions and credit unions. The large ones made out of candy canes twisted into a circle. All with appendages and neat, little accesories. Optical organs, jaws, and kissers. I was dreaming up an entire civilization. "Are you still interested?" Mike asked. Bubble gum lollipops. Fruit flavored lollipops. Salmiak-flavored lollipops. Motorized lollipops that spin around in one's mouth. Impregnated with soft candy lollipops. Mealworm larvae lollipops. Non-edible center, flashing light lollipops. Fentanyl lollipops imagined up by dope manufacturers. I was in lollipop dreamworld. "Hello?. Are you still there?" The voice on the other end queried. My delirium uppercutted my mandible obligating me to shout. Fuck yes I am. It bowed out before I could pounce on it. "Great!" Mike enthusiastically said. "I like your ambition!" I was dumbfounded. He continued miscellaneous bits, and collected my information. My confronting questioning and evaluation was scheduled. I had three days before I was expected in the city. Jackpot. A fucking bonanza.

I grilled Momento Mori's record line of work. I wasn't convinced she was a certified psychoneurotic-excruciation instrument. That's when she familiarized me with Mr. Morbidly Obese. She stumbled shoulders with him at one of her habitual hospital visitations. She was never a check in, she just stopped off routinely to appraise ways of departure. The girl was inscrutable. Mr. Morbidly Obese. A beefy, blimp-like man with a large abdominal pannus. She posted that he advertised red, inflamed skin around his breadbasket paunch. "It looked like a unremarkable skin contamination," she said. I was intrigued. I wanted to know the principle agent. The source originator.

She went on to reveal that Dr. Everyman upraised the clammy, festering pannus, and a pastrami on rye slumped from between his folds. Mr. Morbidly Obese shamingly blurted it was about two months old. "The rancid odor validated approval," Momento Mori said. Dr. Everyman ordained the obese epidemic three things. First, and foremost, try and lose the poundage. Secondly, after an all-encompassing shower decontamination, upheave the dangling skin and blow dry on a chilled setting. Finally, use antifungals or non-talc powders. "Yuck," Momento Mori expressed. The obese epidemic. Mr. Morbidly Obese. I started to collect daunting techniques. Osteoarthritis, heart disease, and hypertension from ample, repulsive obesity. Goodbye Mr. Unheard-of. Deadly bacterial skin infections transmitted from aged, rotten edibles. Goodbye Mr. Unhead-of. The dynamite hazards of legislated licensed medicine. Goodbye Mr. Unheard-of. "See? You're mastering the talent," Momento Mori said. She persisted with, "just by the reconnaissance of a person, you can determine their firstclass, suitable way of departure." The girl corrupted my thinker. I had to break away the theme. I uttered suddenly and explained.my possible employment connection with Fantastical! Family Amusement Center. "Doing what?" She asked. I reviewed the status quo. I explained the idea of an anthropomorphism edible candy on a stick. "Engulf the hardened sticky-pop and forcefully jab the naked stick in Mr. Unheard-of's lateral wall. It won't kill him, but it will discompose him for a brief wink, allowing you to sever and tear him with a d-shaped trench knife," she shared. "It's not a super-duper way to do it, but it's the first thing that came to my mind." Unbelievable. I recall my eyeballs amplifying, and my mouth lurk to a bent, sly grin. We're beyond the five classical senses now. As I began to poke keys to construe our alikeness, I heard a arduous wheezing noise. I revolved my head away from the 24 inch ultrasharp display. My soggy hair lashed my oculars causing me to surrender my perception. Trailing the wheezing, I detected a blaring thump. Followed by another. And another. The thumps got expeditious, and blustering being only continual for a few seconds. As they came to an end, my range of view was mending. I blinked once. Twice. Three times. Malco was dead. Malco choked on his mutt mush wayfaring the staircase, which caused a plunging descent to substructure level. Malco's head was twisted the way a liquorice rope braids. His tongue dangled from his chops, smeared with mutt mush and

vital fluids. Malco was a fucking muttonhesniff. sniff. Stupid dog. Mom was questioning the rambunctious noise. I assumed she thought it was me bombarding one of my many flare-ups. She barreled to the apex of the staircase and started screeching, yowling an outpour of tears. Mom was now alert, perceiving the real cause of the racket. She hotfooted down the stairs, dad joined her at the heels. Both of my parents beaming at a dead Malco, they became unglued. Lifeless. Comatose. Dead to the world. Their grief and mortification made me out of sorts. I couldn't concentrate. Mom. Dad. Shut the fuck up. "What?" Momento Mori typewrote in the privy chat window. I must have transcribed my thoughts without being aware, again. Nothing, I told her. "I knew it!" Momento Mori exclaimed. "I thought of you as a mannerly, sweet women with the likeness of a smitten character whom graces the label of syrup bottles! I'm so stupid!" Her font, again, adjusted to an immense bulk, transfigurement from Arial Black to Impact. "You're a phony. A pseudo. A put-on. A SHAM!" Mom was crying. Dad was inspecting for a rhythm, positioning Malco's head to commonplace. "Are you okay, boy?" Dad asked the breathless, wasted, stiff mongrel. Of course he's not. He's dead! Dead you fucking idiot. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead! Dad jerked up from his balanced posture alongside dead Malco. Mom was still crying. He stood upright for a moment, with his right hand constrained against his face. His head was swaying from side to side. He cancelled the repetitious motion, and slid his face from beneath his palm. His eyes spotlighted on me, inflamed with disgrace. It's worse to disappoint someone than to make the person angry, I just accomplished both. Dad eyeballed me for a meager second, snarled and gnashed his teeth. And out of nowhere, darted my direction. "YOU SIMPLE-MINDED, SADDENING PIECE OF SHIT!" He was blaring as he was clubbing my face. His fist was briskly fluctuating back and forth across my forehead to the chin and traversing ear to ear. "YOU DISGRACIOUS LITTLE FUCK!" I could taste the sanguine juices saturate

my lower gum. Mom was crying, begging my father to stop. I could feel my eyeballs drill in to their sockets. "IF ONLY YOU KNEW WHAT YOUR MOTHER AND I...," and he stopped. He suspended all animation, than collapsed to his knees. Dad was crying. His whimpering was thunder-like, and much more uproaring than moms'. I recaptured my durability, and acknowledged Momento Mori was still extant on my screen. I typed, midnight tonight, and logged out. Dad was crying. Mom was crying. Malco was dead. I strided away from the computer, ogled my parents with displeasure, and hobbled to my room.


Watermelon Bubblegum Pops. Tangerine Mango Madness Pops. Sour and Sweet Lollipops. Caramel Apple Orchard Lollipops. Mini Pops. Whistle Pops. Blink-blink Pops. Chili Pepper Lollipops. Cinnamon Spice Lollipops. Sugar Free Lollipops. Custom-word Heart Pops. Dice-shaped Lollipops. Penis-shaped Lollipops. Eyeball Pop Lollipops. Flash Lollipop Rings. Flash Pop Pops. Flower Pop Lollipops. Chocolate-covered Cricket Pops. Fluffy Cotton Candy Pops. Mega Groovy Swirl Pops. Super HOT Habanero Lollipops. Individually Wrapped Custom Shape Gourmet Lollipops. Horchata Pops. Javapop Coffee Flavored Caffeinated Lollipops. Marshmallow Lollipops. Paintball Giant Jawbreaker Pops. Absinthe Pops. Savory Maple-bacon Lollipops. Wasabi-Ginger Lollipops. Pina Colada Pops. Holiday Novelty Lollipops. Sugarfree Butter Rum Pops. Sweet and Swirly Sucker Peppermint Lollipops. I drew them all. I gave each individual lollipop a distinctive personality to counterpart it's flavor. For example, the Guava Flavored Chili Coated Lollipops I spruced up with dopy, lazy eyes, a fino, desaliñado moustache, and a gargantuan sombrero. The Folding Fan-shaped Buttermint Lollipops, I fashioned with scrunched up eyes and fu manchus. You get the idea. That evening, I was the absolute, omnipotent Lord of Lords for the unmitigated lollipop culture. My black .5mm Needle Point was my necromantic scepter. I drew lollipop people with incisive dynamism. I illustrated them with sparkle and liveliness, storyboard style. Sample.

Billy, the Lemon Flavored Skully Pop-pop is a preadult, rabble-rouser. Affected with attachment disorder, Billy has a situation requiring great effort to establish meaningful loving relationships with Perennial-shaped Mum Mum Candy-pop, and Sugar-free Rum Pop-pop. I outlined the three of them as the typical portrait of an American family, dysfunctional, lollipop style. The trio bump heads and bicker, fluttering their lingering ghost-like appendages. Billy shouts deep-felt absurdities, forcing Sugar-free Rum Pop-pop to clock him. Sound familiar? I was in pain. Vital fluids expanded below my flaky peel circling my blinder. Possibly an all-encompassing injury. Maybe a skull fracture. I didn't care. It hurt like hellions marching in a parade. It busted up so beastly, it made my head thump. Extreme, intense, excruciating unilateral pains. My head felt like it could rupture and moisturize the walls with glutinous gray and white matter casseroled with plasma. I cringed at specific noise, and eveything visual was disturbing. The corona that gleamed out a tarnished ring of radiant aurora, and the insignificant detection of pen etching on paper made my head pummel. When I would crush my eyelids closed to submerge the pain, it felt like a fevered, hot stock prod was driving, helter-skelter into my temporal bone. Doctor McNeil, the family practitioner, forcibly endorsed I engage in a daily fix of Genesis Ginkgo Biloba, Tricyclic and a cream-colored, bitty, rounded tablet with a "25" imprinted onto one side. This was prior to the remorseless thrashing done by my father. I can't remember when, exactly. What I do remember is my mother badgering me regularly to inhale my medicine. On that circumstantial belatedly eve, I increased the dosage. The Ginkgo Biloba allegedly skyrockets mindfulness, diminshes indication of senility and anchors Alzheimer symptoms. I adventure with a decline in cognitive function, obviously. Ginkgo also is beneficial to aid men who are in crucial need of a massive erection. Did you know that? Side effects also include; bad temper, anxiety, diarrhea and nausea. Check. Check. Check. Check. I felt the pinch for the pain to letup. Tricyclic is my psychoactive addiction. I snowballed the shot. I hunkered there, damaged and screwed-up, recognizing that I have come hell or high water, no idea what the bitty, rounded, cream-colored tablet was. Doctor McNeil never told me. Mom never told me. Dad never told me. I've been shoving this abstruse, little pellet down my throat for some time now, not having any idea what it was. For all I know, it could be

a shady dealings of sildenafil doused with Acetone. I went on fact-finding, fishing expeditions to nail down the "25" imprinted off-white pill, but had no title-holder , only many suggestions. Drug Dossier Online implies it may be hydrochlorothiazide. Hydrochlorothiazide is a thiazide diuretic that assists your body from absorbing too much sodium chloride, which can cause fluid confinement. I don't have congestive heart implosions, kidney shambles, or cirrhosis of the liver. I can cross hydrochlorothiazide off. Dronabinol is another two cents' worth. Dronabinol is defined as a treatment for people with AIDS who suffer with a loss of appetite. It's also used to treat grim nausea and disgorging, that is caused by cancer's destructive agent. I know i'm not a flamboyant flame, and i've spoofed the whole canker thing. Cross dronabinol off. Being euphoric and doped, it made me pertaine to thought and conjure up illogical grounds. I started deliberating, what if Moment0_m0ri's unconvincing, implausible belief of hereafter and the great beyond was genuine in existence. What if I was an All Knowing in my bygone days, with no hindsight? What if I was, in truth, the Evil Spirit? What if the cream-colored tablets strained pressure for me to clean forget and rinse my disoriented past down the drain of world without end? That oppressive eventide, I quit cold, the medication. MomentO_m0ri. Remember you shall die. The witching hour approached. I don't know how long that night I loitered my black .5mm Needle Point in my hand. I outlined one lollipop person after another. It got to the point where I didn't even know what I was drawing anymore. Some of it resembled a disinterested child's scribble. I blame the well-worn depressant. It was time. I like to chew over this next confrontation with Moment0_m0ri as our first actual, authentic premier. I initialized my operating system. I scrambled in to Explorer. Waiting for my advent appearance in live discussion, there she was, the girl decorated in a vintage long striped velvet evening gown accessorized with Tahitian black pearls. "Ciao Mr. Scuzzbag," she welcomed me with. "Are you going to decay more of my duration with further fibs, or you going to start confessing with realism?" "I'm fucked up," I advised to her. "I know," She said. "It takes a real degenerate to make-believe who he is, so he can have a few extra playmates." I wasn't implying to that rationalization. I was suggesting the critical, aching physical suffering, and the overabundance of pharmaceutical agents. I deserved her approach. "My dog just died," I dolefully let out. "So?" She bluntly keyed. "Am I supposed to show remorse after the way

you behaved towards me?" I felt like a jackass' stockpile of excrement. I said I was sorry. Sorry is a word i scantily use. I, not at any time, have a sense of loss over something done or undone. Moment0_m0ri inhibited her typewriting for a handful of minutes. I thought our networked companionship had come to a tottering end. I began to feel the way I felt while connecting with Mike, lead coordinator of artistry department for Fantastical! Family Amusement Center. I was struck with the fidgets and heebie-jeebies. I was a failure, overthrown, and a despicable falsification. I couldn't buckle under, and I asked if she was still in the live discussion. "Who are you?" She acted in question. "This time, be entirely honest with me." Being intensely gratified she was still there, I gave her the fair shake to third degree me. "Who are you?" She reduplicated in words, ongoing with, "what is your name?" I proceeded with the fluttering trembles, it took me collective seconds to act in answer. Al Zimmerman i said. "You continued to lie to her?" Lieutenant? Why do you stick to guns on experimentalizing me? Have i not yet demonstrated I'm deadpan serious!? I told Moment0_m0ri what she requested. I told her of my abhorrent retentiveness. I told her of my unreasonable household. I even told her of my admiring fondness for her. Even after all of that, she couldn't overlook and turn the other cheek. The last thing she said to me was, "if we ever are unfortunate enough to meet again, let's start over." And after that, our network acquaintanceship was over. "I too am a hounder of traditional song. Not to mention an enthusiast to rockabilly, blues, and early rock and roll. I know exactly where your false handle comes from. Your name isn't Al Zimmerman. Al Zimmerman is a top drawer, inordinate, greatly celebrated eminence! It's humiliating that you cut to the quick on insulting a legendary man. Your name is the underachieving, devoided Wesker Cooper." According to you Lieutenant, Wesker Cooper is my name. According to you, a mob of mingled law enforcement officers and gobbling news commentators, that is my name. And let's not blink overpass the televiewer sluggards gazing at their idiot boxes with nothing better to do. They also assume my proper signature is Wesker Cooper. "You're heightening the stink. Reckless conduct, pointing a firearm, unlawful confinement, assualt, careless use of a firearm. Those aren't even adducing the incriminations accredited to you in court. If you

buckle under now, you're promised a minimum of fifteen." ...... "Wesker?" ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... "Wesker!?" ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... "WESKER. Are you there?" ...... ...... ...... "What's going on? What the hell have you done!?" ...... ...... ...... Your anxious state is beginning to grandstand in your tone. Domiciliary chemicals. An aerosolizing device being the Flex Cutler oxygenating system. A computer conducted system that I'm familiar with. "Please." Up-creek-without-a-paddle patrons... ...addled.

Coughing. Redness. Irritation. Burning on site. Deep tissue injury. Defaced vision. Faint. Weak. Fuddled. All because a poor quality right-hand person can't keep his mouth shut. It may be that your complete ambition in life is simply to serve as a warning to others. One hour.


At the rear of my parent's pigsty address, hardly 2500 square feet away, Great Dame Nature shaped a timeworn leech lagoon. A perfect hush-up for man's unwanted immoral by-products. If a felonious wildcat needed to curtain substantiation, this was the place to do it. Beneath the sickening blots on the land, disproportionated brush, and underneath the polluted water, sat composing, artificial litter. Masked in the background behind wild, jungly brush was a stationed 1967 Buick Skylark Convertible. Featured with a rustry trunk pan, beaten quarter panels and fenders, and a spider web windshield. It was atrocious. Inside, the upholstery was worndown, and grime caked the dashboard. Dried up gore juice speckled the shotgun seat along with the body molding of the passanger door. This car was my getaway vehicle. Being an antique, dilapidated model, it by chance, had a defective ignition switch. No key needed. Jackpot. A fucking bonanza. When i stumbled upon this wrecked chunk of transport, it became my feel at ease, contemplation station. I would collect myself, eased up against the cruddy crushed velvet inserts in the seats. The smell of the pollution and muck-up drowsed the

air, leaving me as calm and plenteous as satisfying fullfillment. As i nestled there, i thought of"Wesker..." I thought of what privileged information mom and dad may have been squirreling from me. I thought of Mr. Unheard-of. I thought of Moment0_m0ri. As i nestled there, i scavenged for negligent immoral byproducts. I rubbernecked for anything neat. Entombed underneath the passanger's battered floor lining and black rubber mat, i hit upon what i was looking for. I found a clammy, crackled, burnt sienna-colored billfold, and congested inside the pockets was the complete identity of Wesker Cooper. Jackpot. A fucking bonanza. "Impossible." Driver's lisense, with a blemished, dinged photo. The resemblance to yours truly is uncanny. Health insurance card, important medical information, emergency contacts, personal numbers, debit cards, a crumpled birth certificate, even the doltish twit's social security. That's when i became the improved, modernized Wesker Cooper. The come after day next to my remorseless spanking and regrettable seperation with Moment0_m0ri , i idled by my mother's shoulder, eyeballing her paint the kitchen backsplash. Apply in full even coats. Use appropriate amounts of clean water. Never mix colors. Secure and enchain Mr. Unheard-of in a secluded, isolated shithole slathered with paint. Be sure his yap-box is laboriously duct-taped shut. Hopefully he'll choke to death on his own vomit. Mom asked if i would lend a hand. No. She was inept and uneasy too, a menthol cigarette suspended from her low-set lip. I languished by my mother's side, sucking in the intoxicating pollution from her rolled gasper. Through the red-eye fumes, i inanely peered out the kitchen window, fathoming just beyond the expansive lawn, my breakout. "Your father didn't mean it," she, fly-in-the-face, outdared to say. My heedfulness was still keyed on the 1967 Skylark with a defective ignition switch. "He loves you," she dauntlessly added. Secure and enchain dear old dad in a secluded, isolated shithole slathered with paint. Be sure his yap-box is laboriously duct-taped shut. Hopefully he'll choke to death on his own vomit.

"Excuse me!?" Mom was boiled over. I have an atrocious tendency to break my thoughts by way of words. Mom got reckless and offhand. Apply in full even coats. The ivory cream yellow was trickling within the caramel tan region. The caramel tan was abounding the chalky white. Never mix colors. The ivory cream yellow interbreeded with the spinach green and the sandy blond, spawning an oyster auburn. "Why can't i remember?" I asked mom. She puffed in an immense drag on her cigarette. Her hand furiously set in to trembles, plashing the caramel tan and the spinach green. With a convulsive murmur, she delivered back, "we're trying really hard". That wasn't my question. I asked what the bitty, rounded, cream-colored tablet was. "Your medicine," she hesitantly uttered from her mouth. The cigarette was slumping to the final puff. With one last, desperate drag, she sucked it to the butt. The driblets from the oyster auburn was used as disposal for the remaing hot cherry. She lit another. "What do they do?" I supplicated to know the purpose of the rounded, cream tablet. Her hand went into total spasms, jaunting up her upper arm and wandered elsewhere across her form. She began rattling her head, and went underway with the distressed and upset cries. She cried. She cried more tears than a thawing glaicer. She howled, yowled, and gagged on her blubbery mucus ripened from fresh snivels. I showed no remorse. Like a bat out of hell, i gyrated towards my mother, swung my clenched hand, and struck the ivory cream yellow incrusted paint brush from her jittering grip. Her face was in breakdown. Again, i asked about the cream-colored tablet, this time demanding an answer. She gaped blindly. The baked menthol cigarette fell to the floor, and extinguished in Malco's water bowl. Mom collapsed. Sweating. Fullness of pain. Shortness of breath. I think i killed my mother.


I went on a junket. I traveled 287 south towards East 6th street. I continued to follow US-287. I curved left onto 14th street, south east. I had to get the Gehenna out of Dodge. 14th street becomes CO-402. I merged onto US-87 south. I kept ruminating that i put her to death. Exit 213. Exit 213 becomes Park Avenue. Park Avenue Car Wash. I had to flush, soak, and splash the Skylark from it's infestation of decay and dump. It was so filthy, the burnished-color from the gunk and muck misrepresented it's lustrous, argent color. Park Avenue west becomes 22nd street. By chance, Do-It-Yourself Hardware and Apple of One's Eye Thrift were neighboring businesses. To curtain the fractured passanger window, Do-ItYourself Hardware, supplied me with achromatic, dense plastic to counterpart the stylish silvery cast. I adapted the plastic with a tapleless look by utilizing duct tape on the inside of the door frame. From Apple of One's Eye Thrift, i was gratified to bargain a blanched bed lining to dress the seat, overcasting the exsiccated gore juice. I swayed a slight right onto South Broadway, than intermixed with CO402 traffic. Highway CO-402. The mindless twits of independent means in the state's exceeding legislature hit the skids to adequately fund this transfer death trap. Enraged automobilists believe they can challenge physics, and horde one another traversing the capacious road. A multitude of fatalities come to pass each working day, because of the impatient motorists. Impatient motorists. Motorists that carelessly guide a wheel while intoxicated. Female road hogs that concentrate putting on a face in place of eyeing the road. Texting. Gorging. Oral sex. Ambitious automobilists persistent to arrive at their journey's end, even if

they're short of slumber. The list goes on and on. I spit upon driving. It makes me distressed and bothered. My attention was fixated on my mother's well-being, and not CO-402. I had to mull over things that would divert my attention. CO-402 is notable to many for it's stockpile advertising. Roughly every four-hundred meters, commuters are bestowed with hording business boards. Billboards. Ostensibly witty slogans, and distinctive visuals. I made pleasure with this. Wave Rapids Water Village. On the signboard it displayed a mother and son bespattering each other in a cool-off, unlaxed swimming pool. Obviously, the woman presenting the image of the mother was a bogus imitation. She was far too phony to be rejoicing in that wizz-crowded water. She was a thirty-four, twenty-four, thirty-four. Her face was beautified with anti-aging skin care and mineral products. What kind of family manager takes her child to a public water tank, looking like that? The watchwords on the bulletin read, "Wildly wet wavey fun!" Bombard Mr. Unheard-of in a repulsive, contaminated pool. Coming immediately after, hurl diesel juice in the collection of liquid, and flare up the facial surface of water. If we're fortunate enough, Mr. Unheard-of will corner from aquaphobia and pyrophobia. A meager hundred meters down the road, Do-It-Yourself Hardware had an advertisement unfolding their annual savings. The signboard displayed a photo of a stellar industrial 8-gallon wheelbarrow air compressor. Render Mr. Unheard-of senseless. Carve, carefully, into his waist with a sharp instrument. Latterly, take the industrial 8-gallon wheelbarrow air compressor, and affix the suction head against his kidneys. Pause until he awakens, and when he does, power on the compressor, and witness his urine-production paired organs take to the air! "Preparing is logic! Smooth the way now," a billboard announced, some kilometers down the dragway. It was an alertness ad for the flu season. Gash out Mr. Unheard-of's eyes, and upchuck diseased, bacterial broth in his desolated sockets. Was that over the line? I still couldn't concentrate. Mom was doing the gambol on my gray matter. She was rehearsing the rhumba with Momento Mori. I pulled off an abutting offgoing, and as i idled at the interchange, i saw a filthy, disabled vagabond mooching for riches, grasping a piece of battered cardboard that read, "I'm another reason for abortion."

Take Mr. Unheard-of and... nevermind. The crippled beggar already exceeded his resposibility. At the crossing of Marion and Downing is a fuel station. I pulled in. I outlooked my surrondings. An ordinary, pigsty gas station, assisted with a convenience shop. Eight fuel pumps, hackneyed from the behindhand days. Pump number three gave a boost to an old 76 Chrysler Lebaron. It was mousy gray, much the same color as the coat on the Pit Bull Terrier in the back seat. The domesticated, four-legged companion posed behind the passanger seat of the Lebaron, sweeping his chomps with his tongue. Than it hit me. My first miraculous marvel took effect. I remembered. Years ago, Malco barbarically devoured a 20 piece wild sampler of Kamikaze and Garlic Parmesan Wild Wings. Agitatedly, dad got on the line with the immediate area, ceaseless veterinarian. Mr. Workhorse, the veternarian, advocated that Malco should be feed 12 fl oz. of pure pumpkin every thirty minutes. The pumpkin should be beneficial for mixed intentions. Workhorse gabbed that pumpkin overspreads the chicken bone, with hope that it does not damage any internal organs. Furthermore, if Malco absorbs enough of the canned gourd, he'll have a highly expected, brisk chance of pooping the bones out. Guess who had to explore the muttonhead's filthy stools. My mental stress once again took action, clobbered with the fidgets and heebie-jeebies. Why did this thought summon in my mentality? Obviously, the mousy gray Pit Bull bolstered the cause to happen, but why? Why ol' muttonhead annihilating salved osseous matter? I sat in the Skylark for somewhere around an hour, contemplating, cogitating, trying to remember more. No luck. I urged back onto Highway CO-402. This time, to redirect my attention, i onlooked nature's recently deceased. 81% mammals. Bowdlerized and dismembered squirrels. Mangled cats cut to diminutive pieces. Marred, ravaged racoon. One hashed up deer. The radio in the Skylark was mincemeat. 15% birds. Crushed, cut up chipping sparrows. Demolished cedar waxwings. 3% reptiles Pommeled common kingsnake.

1% undiscernible. Maimed Mr. Unheard-of. Droplets discharged from my eyes. What can I say? It's bitter and blue when animals die. The moisture flounced into my eyeballs, harassing my range of view. I relocated my right hand from the command helm to my profile, smudging my digits crosswise, to precise my sight. For a brief time, i lost my wits. Soon, thereafter, behind the rubbing and the sponging, i took sight of a delusive tragedy. A nonexistent catastrophe. One that felt too real. When i recaptured full range of view, a transmittal freighter clobbered the passanger side of the Skylark, bewitchingly discharging gore juice from thin air. Crunching my eyes to blot out the disaster, i hammered on the brakes and fastly and loosley aborted with a screeching halt. Resultant flow of blood. The titanic thumps of my heart. For a twinkle, it was the only thing i heard. Until... the honking started. I unbolted my eyes. Like i said, it was delusive. It was nonexistent. The only thing that was real, was the Skylark shut down on Highway CO-402, interrupting the flow of traffic. Lost my wits. Lost my wits? If so, than explain this. After the tizzy thrown incident, i beamed out the rear-view mirror, and behind me, obstructing the clear, was an ivory cream yellow transmittal freighter. Even more astounding, the company name was Wings Highway Freight. Get it? Ol' muttonhead annihilating salved osseous matter? The chicken wings? Wings. Now we're getting somewhere.


Fantastical! Family Amusement Center.

Mike. PostingID 1198466613. Seeking Character Designer/cartoonist/Flash Designer & Developer needed ASAP. I took a bend off CO-402, and plugged into rush hour on California Avenue. Somewhere around 15,000 feet up the beat-up concrete drag, there it was. The all-powerful children's place for pleasure. Fantastical! Family Amusement Center. The jerry-built structure was inanely overwhelming. 60,000 square feet of indulgent patriarchal nightmares. The building-covering even formed a powerhouse dome to safeguard an indoor ferris wheel. The car park was as i expected. Jampacked and loaded with pasty milk-white mini vans and mulberry, group generous SUVs. Every vapor lamp that highlighted the car park was jazzed up with a bouquet of balloons, waving joyful patrons in. I stationed the Skylark in the camping pleasure portion of the lot, far-flung and remote from the constructed pile of debris. I plucked my portfolio from the passanger's seat, anxious and enthusiastic to adjoin myself with a fellowship of fantastical family fun. Upon breezing in, i was bewildered by the hangout. Glittering, beaming lights. Glimmering, radiant colors. Luminous sparkles and glowing flickers. The paneling was masked with magnetizing, saffron polka-dots, and suspended from the teal rafters were mesmerizing star-shaped fixtures. The staff members all shared a tenderness expression and a artificial presence to be a factor of the company. I was shut in by high time rides and top commercial games. The Littlewinder Kiddy Coaster. Tilt-A-Whirl. Tea Cups. The Rainbow. Railway Choo-choo. The Mama Moo Roundup. Balloon Race. Frisbees. The Little Ferris Wheel. Crazy Shakes. The Looper. Tip-top, and so much more! I stood there, in astonishment, conceptualizing my breed of lollipop simpletons inhabiting this anklebiter's fairyland. It was a prodigious feeling. "Can i help you?" The blooming, unripe girl at the welcome counter asked. "I have a prearranged meeting with Mike, the lead coordinator of artistry department," i ordained. "Right this way please," the delicate, little preadult gesticulated me to proceed within a team of doublet doors, in the background of the welcome counter. I convinced myself, this is it. This is the deep-rooted profession i had always envisioned. Jackpot. A fucking bonanza. Not quite. Behind the team of doublet doors was a low in quality, no-good hold-

back room with five dozen people distressfully jam-packed, all expectantly waiting for the same thing. That's right. Sixty skittish fantasizers all waiting to flaunt their breeds of lollipop simpletons to Mike, the lead coordinator of artistry department. Dammit. I took a chair. Cotton twill upholstery with polyester foam core-fill. Stained espresso finish, underneath the parched, tawny discoloration. Beside me, to my right, was a outdated gemtleman that costumed like a eccentric beatnik. He funked like a back-dated carton of cigarettes. It made me think of mom. Bind and knot Mr. Unheard-of. Shower him with mammoth amounts of diesel juice, and use a cyanoacrylate based fast-acting adhesive to entrap a cigarette between his yappers. Light the head. To my left, was Fawny. Fawny's mother was one of those dingy, mad as a hatter, green earth woman that immersed on fresh air and out-of-doors. In case you're curious about her name. Yes, like a baby deer. Fawny was an irregular one, but she was a darling. She was decorated in a burnished faux fur-hooded puffer vest, seamless leggings, and floral damask print rain boots. Her hair was toasted almond in color, untamed with savage curls. She sat there beside me, invariably coiling the chaotic twirls with her pointer. Her appearance was much the same as a breakfast time cartoon character. Delightful, yet erratic. Pleasant, yet aberrant. Fawny's face was drawn-out and confined. Her baby blues were copious, pastey and composed in sync. Her kisser was wide and luscious. Her form was incise. Like i said, she was a darling, but an odd bird as well. I remained in the cotton twill upholstery with polyester foam core-fill for, what seemed like an everlasting period, respiring back-dated cigarettes and tuning in to Fawny's undying oration. Her voice was keen and high pitched. She doled out her period of youth, her connection with her father, and her passed away, alfresco mother. She presented her lollipop caricatures to me, and proclaimed her passion for art. I put across our common ground, and blended in with the gabbing. I was ruffled and exhausted. Fawny and i talked about all things. We would give our voice to continually downsizing all ambitions and expectations. We would rhapsodize about life after death investments. The life glitch. The life fucker. The life force. Life goes on. We became remarkably palsy-walsy. Sound familiar? Well into an hour of our running discursive yak, a short, inflated woman

with a dirty, chic bob haircut shoved through a two panel solid primed door. "Fawny Deer?" The thickset woman bellowed. "Your last name is deer?" I asked, sniggering. "Shut up," she briskly spit out. Again, the inflated, bob-cut woman roared, "Fawny Deer?" She continued with her command, "Mike is ready to see you." "Wish me luck," Fawny supplicated, and as she erected from the cotton twill upholstery with polyester foam core-fill, she smoothly patted my knee. I didn't wish her any form of godsend fortune. I wanted this. I wanted to be the absolute, omnipotent Lord of Lords for the unmitigated lollipop culture. I just put on a happy expression. She graciously grined back, and tensely shuffled through the two panel solid primed door. I counted the diamond plate ceiling tiles. 144. I counted the shortest intervals between eccentric beatnik's consecutive hacking bark. More or less, 85 seconds. I examined the timeworn blotches on the textured cut pile carpet. Calamine Lotion. Soft Drinks. Vomit. Cough Syrup. I imagined myself as a robot, trekking in the hold-back room with automated, machine-driven movements, adding ZZZZZZZZT racket. I thought about mom. I thought about Momento Mori. I thought and thought and thought. And than another miraculous marvel cluthched my unavailing cerebrum. I recollected a similar, wistful occasion. Not that exact point in time, but i flashed on a preceding memory where i was skittishly waiting. Temporarily deferred in an comfortless area much like the hold-back room. To my right, was a heartsick, convulsed man. His face was filmy and phantom-like. To my left, was a languishing, mournful woman. Her face too, was bleary and resembled a chilling specter. I couldn't make their appearance understandable, but it was all very real. The muddled woman was howling and cackled deep whimpers. In all places, all over creation, i gave an audience to devastation. The sounds of agonizing bewailing. Fawny gushed forth through the two panel solid primed door, concussing me back into materialization. Dammit. Once again.

Fawny was crying. Her cackling whimpers, blaring and shrieky. I imagine, much like a smothered cottontail would sound, coiled by a slaying python. Welcome Mr. Unheard-of as a boarder embarked on an idyllic wildlife cruise in Indonesia. Catch sight of a 990 pound python, and force Mr. Unheard-of overboard. Pray the violent serpent to be hungry enough, so you can witness Mr. Unheard-of be it's midday meal. She ran to me. I vaulted onto my heels. She ran to me, clasped my boney physique with her delicate limbs and blubbered onto my piked shoulder. She smelt like fabric softner and peppermint tea. For some unusual reason, i thought of the pleasant essence deriving from Momento Mori. I presumed it would be how she smelt. The cleanness of well-kept garments and the verdant effusion splashed with peppermint. "What?" Fawny confusedly buzzed, sniffling in discharge. I looked at her with disorientation and absorption. "What?" I asked. "You said Mori," she addled. I unconsciously spoke my logic once again. She made headway and asked what it meant. "No i didn't." Falsehood doesn't warp people, factualness does. "I said Amore. It's Italian for love." No i didn't. I said Mori. She pored over me with admirable eyes. "I'm sorry. That doesn't insult you, does it?" I dubiously asked. I know, i'm a dimwitted dolt. "No! You're such a sweetheart," she said with her waterworks wearing away, and she snatched me closer and clenched me with more affection. The downrush of tears was authentication that Fawny didn't get the Character Designer/cartoonist position. She genially divulged what Mike and the artistry department was specifically prefering from the sixty skittish applicants. I was in dire straits. Trouble. The short, inflated woman with the dirty bob hairstyle shoved through the two panel solid primed door again. "Wesker Cooper? Mike is ready to see you," she groaned. Fawny wished me the most excellent of luck. Big, big trouble. That discommodious, daily delay in the hold-back room, was the last time i saw Fawny Deer.

"Wesker Cooper!?" The thickset woman bellowed again. I bobbed up from the polyester foam core-fill chair.


I find it fascinating how many people trust and rely on God, but yet don't attach weight to the devil or the divine disposition of pure evil. People give their blood pumping heart to the Lord. Why? Why do people wine and dine on God's word? Why not wine and dine on the devil's word? Why not fucking wine and dine on my word? Fuck being born again. Being born again does not give you high-minded powers to fight me. They say if you're not born again, you have zero dynamism. There is no dynamism. There is no power. Just my dynamism. Just my power. How do you suppose Mr. Unheard-of reacts to all of the afflictive abuse and dire heart aches? God's Word says that our fight is not with bloody body tissue and fatness, but it's with principalities and dominance. The divine disposition of pure evil is principalities and dominance. They are effective motivation. My effective motivation. Do not dismiss me... "What the hell happened to your face?" Lieutenant, I don't call to mind that I gave you permission to SPEAK! "I didn't say anything Wesker." ... ... ... "I said, what the hell happened to your face?" Mike, the lead coordinator of artistry department put through the wringer. I wasn't handing out my full attention. I was instill from the embellishing touches in his office. His decorative

metallic-finish office desk was layered with doodads purchased from novelty outlets. The finish elements on the surface walls were furbished with children's drawings and showy, splashed banners. Creativity accolades lined the obstruction behind him. "I said, what the hell happened to your face?" I had to full tilt an excuse. I couldn't break the news of dad's childopprobrious beating. I fell down some stairs. Bind and knot Mr. Unheard-of with aged, corroded, sharp-edged fencing wire. Make sure the deadly, conducting strand is snug enough to rend Mr. Unheard-of's delicate flesh, abutting him down a tumble of stairs. Mike looked at me the way mom would look at me when she skillfully mastered my tall stories. Mr. lead coordinator of artistry department was displayed in a apricotcolored tie, curtaining the catch downs on his cantaloupe-colored Oxford collar. He looked overexerted. I could only conjure up endless amounts of agog applicants before me. Before Fawny. "Wesker Cooper?" He buzzed, extending his hand for the sporadic welcome. I locomoted forward, coming to a standstill at the decorative metallic, office workspace. We shook hands. His clamping embrace was snug and skin-tight, squeezing with restraint. Mine was delicate, forceless, deluged with excreation. "Have a seat," he invited me in a chair. The same comfortless cotton twill upholstery with polyester foam core-fill chair in the hold-back room. Figures. Mike looked frazzled. He looked run ragged, drained dry from all brain cells. Champing at the bit to hit upon an ideal contestant. I thought of the far-reaching, worthy expectations he was prowling for. The ones that Fawny had shared with me. I was fucked. Throbbing. Jitters. Teeters and totters. I sprouted a chubby. How humiliating. "So, you are interested in the Character Designer/cartoonist position?" Mike profoundly asked. The jeans i wore at the time were charcoal, thin fabric. I surmise, manufactured in some dong province in China. They were very convenient and cozy but also overworn and threadbare. Tattered, frowzy fabric

accommodates the outline of human framework. Point being, the jeans made my discombobulated dick look like an anchored tent in the middle of the Sahara desert. Very fucking humiliating. "Ye... yee... yeesss," i yapped nervously, stammering. I hid my rattled rod with the manilla portfollio that housed my artwork. Steamed sudor swaddled down my forehead stringing along to my jowel. I thought about mom. I thought about Momento Mori. Mike unraveled the illusory position that so many casual participants were inclined towards. "The occupational duty is LEAD planner/producer for Fantastical! Family Amusement Center's contemporary mascots. Colorful, zippy, blithesome lollipop people," he delivered, only as if he's already announced it several hundred times. He endured with, "if you were the fitting representative, your responsibility would be to, accompany and be responsible for a driven and persistent staff of designers to place a contemporary mascot in a contemplative, introspective culture fitting the company's exultant environment." I think of disaster and misfortune. I think of the odd being the slightest achievable. Failure. Being overthrown. Falsification. Please. Not now. "Does this still hold your attention?" He asked. Mike began disentangling the apricot-colored tie that constricted around his neck. Was i easement? Was i an amenity for the loosening? The sour, pungent sweat from my brow rinsed my teeth. "Ye... yes," i tottered out. "Excellent," he divulged with no enthusiasm. He asked for my submissions. I thought of Momento Mori. I thought of the adorable dying girl decorated in a vintage long striped velvet evening gown accessorized with Tahitian black pearls... ...And that's when it happened. The discombobulated dick discharged sourdough batter. Very, VERY fucking humiliating. I was reluctant, but it had to be done. I painstakingly hoisted the manilla

portfollio away from my lap. Underneath, a sizable portion of pasty, viscid goo blotted the charcoal, thin fabric atop my perverse crotch. I immediately cupped the sullied mess with my right palm. The reprehensible odor was insufferable. The humiliation was engulfing. I waggled and doddered. My flesh tone transposed to inflamed blush. I handed Mike the folder. Unhesitatingly, Mike plucked the tainted portfolio from my aquivering hold. Thereupon, his nostrils went in to alert spasms. He could smell the degradation. He opened the folder. The contortion on his face was an eyesore. Even for me. "Is this some kind of fucking joke? What are these?" He wrathfully put the screws too. My submissions. My drawings. Javapop Coffee Flavored Caffeinated Lollipop gashing away the innards of Fluffy Cotton Candy Pop with a Gas, 16 In. Bar, 38 CC Chain Saw. Sugarfree Butter Rum Pop literary fucking the shit out of Custom-word Heart Pop. Penis-shaped Lollipop frantically chawing away Sweet and Swirly Sucker Peppermint Lollipop while fastening down her appendages and maneuvering into a fortified deathroll, all while maintaining sloppy insertion. I don't remember drawing these. The pinch for the pain to letup. Mike was gawking at lollipop smut obscenity because i was high as a hawk from painkillers when i drew them. At least my pictures were creative. I told him that. "Get the fuck out," he furiously directed me to the door with his pointer. No longer apprehensive, i remained there for a brief instant wondering, what the fuck just happened? "It's been a pleasure. Thank you for your time," i said. I elevated my damp, spoogey hand from my soiled pubic area, actuating a hospitable handshake. Mike, lead coordinator of artistry department, adversely refused my conciliatory hand, and continued to point at the two panel solid primed door. I bobbed up from the polyester foam core-fill chair. I turned, and disappointedly walked away. Mike said one final thing before i left the room, "You fucking came your pants!" I disappointedly ran away.


There was a boy. A boy so engaged with life and good spirit. So immersed with his family. The boy was pronounced with trisomy G at the budding age of two. A chromosomal discombobulation caused by the demeanor portion of an excess 21st chromosome. The boy adapted with moderate developmental disadvantages. He was a loving, charming boy. He always conceded his older brother as his beyond compare, greatest friend. He was his brother's champion. They would do the lock-stock-and barrel of things together. The brother was five years his senior, but always made lastingness and eminent allotment for the boy. They cut capers together. Kicked up heels. They cooked up naughtiness, and had each other's back. They messed around, pranked, and teased. They were inseparable. Or so the boy thought. One day, the boy was bedridden with bronchopneumonia. Fever. Chest pain. Chills. Difficulty with breathing. On this day, big brother was no where to be found. Big brother became acquainted with an alluring, beautiful girl. She was everything big brother had hungered for in a companion. Ample, cobalt eyes that spellbound. Immaculate, coiled hair that bedazzled in sunlight. She was undersized, and petite. Both her grin and her tenderness were lovely and infectious. Big brother had found a new champion. The boy's illness had gotten worse. The boy needed surgery. Pockets of pus composed throughout his lungs and needed to be filtered out. He coughed up blood-streaked mucus. Big brother was still nowhere to be found.

The boy survived the procedure and overcame the sickness, but was aching more than ever because he lost his best friend. He no longer cut capers, kicked up heels, or cooked up naughtiness. He was empty. He was lonely. He knew he was different. He accused his handicap. He was convinced he was alone because his big brother no longer wanted to accompany socially with a retard. Eventually, big brother came back. He came back, but he wasn't alone. He brought with him, the alluring, beautiful girl. The boy was overwrought, but big brother explained. He explained his very strong liking and adoration for the girl. He explained their affection and their shared rapture. Big brother also told the boy that he will always be his greatest friend. He told him that he would no longer leave him deserted, desolated, detached. From now on, big brother would take the boy with him, everywhere. The boy was ecstatic. Not only would he have big brother to romp with, but also the beautiful girl. The three of them became the unparalleled trio. The boy and big brother's parents didn't approbate. they didn't appreciate the beautiful girl. They thought she was irresponsible, too adventuresome, and corruptive. The girl's father felt the same way about big brother. From now on, big brother would take the boy with him. Everywhere. The unparalleled trio ran away. Together. Wesley... Forty minutes. I better continue on.


I idled in the car park of Fantastical! Family Amusement Center for a coon's age. The charcoal, thin fabric of my denims, encircling my groin, mummifed to a dehydrated blot. Fortunately, i transported fresh apparel

with me. I had no aim on returning home. Nor did i have intentions on replacing my tainted jeans. I was too chafed. Fuck you Mike. Lead fucking coordinator of artistry department. Fuck you. Engulf a hardened sticky-pop and forcefully jab the naked stick in Mike's appalling lateral wall. It won't kill him, but it will discompose him for a brief wink, allowing you to smother the mentality from his brains by wrenching his stupid apricot-colored tie. I was truly squandered. I no longer had an aimed route. The only sense of security i had left was the hogwashed Skylark and one-hundred and thirteen dollars. Four miles down California Avenue was Papa Boy's Plaza Motel. Thirtyseven dollars a night. It was obvious why. Papa Boy's is rated on OvernightADVISOR, as #7 atrocious hotel in America. Hot. Shabby. Putrid smelling. The odor was proportionate to a composite of turned, curdled milk and fermented, decomposing fish. The bathroom ceiling was drooling urin from the overhead accommodation. No locks were on the exterior hallway door. The carpeting was gummy, and matted, with a modest waxen hue. Gore juice smudged the low-set of the impure bed sheets, which led me to imagine the previous occupant was a raunchy woman with an astrayed menstrual cycle. Also, i recall gathering on OvernightADVISOR, that one critic is convinced the obstruction harbors dead bodies... For the first time, i missed my espresso brown, wood paneled pirate ship. I missed the burnt orange, thick fabric shag. I missed mom, dad, Malco, and especially Momento Mori. I dreamt about her that night, agitatedly tossing on the tainted bedding. The beautiful girl with ultramarine blue eyes. The magnificent headlights that were encircled with a halo of black eye-liner. The liner was exuding, oozing
down her flushed cheeks. She was coughing. Her barks were hushed, but they were constant, unending. She was hawking vital fluids. The lucent glow from the nighttide emulated the spit-up blood to look flaming. There was nothing I could do. I woke up varnished in a feverous sweat. I was heaving, wide-eyed, and oddly i felt aroused and unrefined. I couldn't fall back asleep. I erected from the discommodious, crummy bed, and made way to the repulsive bathroom. I tugged my dick out to take a leak, and a bead of fetid urin dribbled from the ceiling, and splashed on my penis' cap.

Son-of-a-bitch. I thought of old, innervated pipes rusting so atrociously. I thought of mold

flourishing through the floor, sheetrock and walls. I snugged my tainted dick back into my boxer shorts, and fetched my mobile. I called home. The first dial on my contact list was labled my architects. Mom and dad. It was ringing. And ringing. And ringing. "Son?" Dad answered. It was 2 a.m. He gave the impression of low spirits and despair. Obviously, he was weary, but the emphasis of his voice was woeful. "Son, where are you?" "Where's mom?" I asked. He was hesitant for a compressed moment. I could hear faint chuffs spurt into the speaker. "Come home, now son." Again, i hunted for my requisition. "WHERE IS MOM!?" My exaction was much louder. Dad began crying. The same thunder-like, uproaring whimpers i've heard in the past. They got ear-splitting. Intense. Full-mouthed. I heard a rowdy thwack. The bawling muffled. I assume he dropped the phone. I listened to his downpour for rare seconds. I had to hang up. Right then and there, i realized i was on my own.


I didn't sleep. I didn't sleep. I numerated the breathing space everytime the grizzled, debilitated heater would kick on. 22. I counted the vibrant twinkle of the Papa Boy's Plaza Motel signboard. 76.

I kept an eye on the automatic perpetual digital flip of the nightstand clock. 3:31 3:32 3:33 3:33 3:33. Why did three, colon, thirty-three seem so grounded to me. The image, three, colon, thirty-three, in cybernated numeric formation. The display of the three numbers and the double-dotted punctuation gave me the shakes and needles. Cold-sweat. 3:33 3:34. I was restless. I laid there, agitated, contemplating all the synonymous for lacking or denying rest. See also; antsy, anxious, bunch of nerves, disturbed, edgy, fidgety, ill at ease, nervous, sleepless, toss and turn, troubled, spasmodic, worried, unsettled, unstable. Thank you gratuitoussynonymous.com. Thank you Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ for introducing me to gratuitoussynonymous.com. Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ, the net-event nympho. The female monarch of useless gospel. I yearn my lump of chocolate pudding stirred with an Amazonian Manatee. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't sleep. I was antsy, anxious, a bunch of nerves, etc. I was worse than ever. A deprived, shy void. Momento Mori. Remember you shall die. I thought about the cream-colored, bitty, rounded tablet with a "25" imprinted onto one side. Was it my covered passageway to sanity? Was it the crawlspace that lead to my healthy balance? Was it the gummy adhesive that secured my gray matter? I'll never know. I thought of Mr. Unheard-of. I thought up an illustration for the fictitious, friendless figure. Possibly a middle-aged down-and-outer that the planet despises. For the most part, he has a beanpole structure, aside from his jelly-lard gut.

5 feet 9.2 inches, unless he's wearing his brown suede elevator shoes. He's baldheaded, with the exception of the laughable, nonsensical combover. On his beefy nose, he props up bounce back, titanium classic bifocals. He's wide-eyed, with snuff-colored lenses. Filthy. Hairy. Too much of a coward. Too much a living doll. Some call him a pussyfoot. Some call him a petophile. Some may even call him a nice guy. He's my animus. He's my nonentity. He's my nobody.


The following sunup, i dropped over the news stand and pickled a daily tabloid. Being on my own, i had to make heads or tails of the situation. The classifieds. Business opportunities. Let's see... JEWISH EGG DONOR URGENTLY NEEDED $10,000 If you are a Jewish woman age 20-32, very accountable, affectionate and all heart, with great selfhood and would consider aiding an outstanding family, please email us at... Obviously not. It caught my eye. Alright... CRYOBANK; GIVE THE GIFT OF FAMILY. SPERM DONORS NEEDED Basic requirements; 1. Must be between 19 and 38 Check. 2. Must be able to commit to program for a minimal of 1 year Okay. 3. Must not be partaking in use of alcohol or drugs As far as i know. 4. Must reside a reasonable distance from facility for frequent visits I can do that...

5. Must be attending a four-year University OR hold a Bachelor's Degree Fuck. Alright... next one. TELE-SALE POSITIONS AVAILABLE We have one of the largest legal networks in the country and provide specialized services to our customers. Looking for committed, selfmotivated professionals with good communication skills. I don't have the skills. Sounds humdrum. Next. TALENTED AND GIFTED FEMALE MASSAGE THERAPIST Are you a magnificently talented pair of hands -a legitimate healer who would like to join a team? Are you craving to meet new people? Are you stable? Punctual? Compassionate? Loyal and Dependable? No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. NO. Of course not. I don't bare the slightest potential. The only pipe dream with this possibility is my attenuated figure, and my effeminate hair. Next. DOORMAN Busy upscale bar/ MUST HAVE EXPERIENCE Next. DIESEL FLEET MECHANIC No. GARAGE DOOR INSTALLERS No. ALL-AMERICAN DESSERT BAKERY - GUEST SERVICES (MUST LOVE CAKES!) Mmm. Cakes. No. DATA ENTRY No. SOLAR INSTALLATION CREW LEADER No. POSITION: FACILITY MAINTENANCE I - FLEX CUTLER RECREATION CENTER

Responsible for all cleaning tasks associated with the Flex Cutler Recreation Center. Knowledge and Abilities: Cleaning of glass and mirrors, cleaning of floor surfaces with wet and dry mops, vacuuming and shampooing of carpeted floors, disinfecting of all upholstered surfaces on workout equipment, trash pick up through out the center, disinfecting of trash cans, tables, vending machines, water fountains, front desk area, locker rooms, restrooms and setting up/breaking down tables/equipment for events/rentals. Jackpot.


The Skylark wouldn't start. A gasoline engine needs three key components of concoction to properly operate: 1.) Fuel. Somewhere amid home and the bend off of CO-402, i saturated the tank. At least i think i did. Unless the fuel gauge was damaged... 2.) a spark to touch off the fuel, and 3.) some way for the fuel to affront the spark and inflame the fire, being the compression. Compressing fuel in a hampered cylinder within the engine, then ushering a spit from a spark plug will produce a meager explosion. This explosion is what channels horsepower. My father taught me this. He said before i squander greenback on a devious grease monkey, ask myself what is lacking from the equation. Fuel. Spark. Compression. I turned the faulty ignition switch and the engine was defunct, but the bleary lights still functioned fine. The headlights were on and beaming, so i assumed the battery was doing it's undertaking. The starter takes energized power from the battery and turns the engine over to start the piston explosion action. So... the case may be a problem with the starter. Did this bewilder a bombshell?

Was it an eye-opener? No. Remember, the godawful Skylark was corroding away in the timework leech lagoon. I was fortunate to get it mobilized. It was my getaway chariot. I got away. My prearranged meet with the Flex Cutler facility maintenance staff was the teatime of that day. I needed conveyance, and i needed it in a hairtrigger. There was another way...

75 dollars and 50 cents. Three Mr. Jacksons, one Lincoln, ten crushed Washingtons and two little begrimed, argent Georges' all enduring in a pocket orgy. 4 dollars for the Commuter Rail. Wave goodbye to the other Washingtons. The Commuter Rail Transit, or if you're an asshole, you call it The CRT. Sure. Why not. The CRT, as we all know, is a high capacity, high speed shit box. Any piece of shit that needs to get from Point A to Point B in a significance of private right-of-ways can, and will. Young, upwardly, button-down professionals that don't take pleasure in the morning commute. 4 dollars. Parental neglected youth attending school. One. Two. Three. Four Georges'. Nouveau riche profiteer monkeys that have greenback to blow. 4 dollars please. Plastered, fecal-smudged fools stammering around town. That'll be... 16 quarters. Of course, to tread the interior of a CRT car, each individual must stand

in line, precociously, to purchase the four dollar daily pass. Disatrously, Mr. Plastered, fecal-smudged fool is ahead of me, ramming his 16 quarters in the pass vendor. I'm waiting. And waiting. And waiting. And the Northbound D Line to Oxford - City of Salida just departed. That was the Commuter i needed to occupy. Fuck. Fuck you Mr. Plastered, fecal-smudged fool. Take grody, bedraggled Mr. Unheard-of and vigorously propel his rejected can onto the low-floor railway. Pray to idol master Holiness that good-for-nothing ruptures his femur, and an electric rail CRT, miraculously splatters the incompetent fuck. The next commute to my target stop was in 12 minutes. My prearranged meet was well over suitable time. I had a squeak in the opening, so that wasn't a botheration. My life was in a squeezing worriment, and bad situations put me in a bad mood. I felt like dumping a nuclear attack on a serene garden chock-full of black rhinos, goldenseals, hawkbill turtles and green-cheeked parrots. I was fuming and antagonized. I plopped on a uncleanly sit-tight bench. Waiting. A smutty pre-teen plummeted down on to the low-floor railway to rescue a passed down cigarette. Take Mr. Unheard-of and fasten him to a resistant, reliable sanatorium sling. Develop some sort of mandible fastening nipper that enforces Unheard-of to munch away unmanageability. Feed him cigarette filters. One after another. Cigarette butts contains 20 milligrams of nicotine. Nicotine is an insecticide. One after another... Nicotine is a potent insecticide. 50 milligrams of nicotine is enough to kill a human being. One after another, until he's indisposed. A freethinking nonconformist balanced one leg on a neighboring sit-tight bench. He was calmly waiting for his commute. While waiting, he was plucking the nylon strings of an acoustic guitar. The instrument's back was pressured against his skeletal chest, and the bottom of the guitar's neck was aligned correctly with the ground. He was practiced. His posture showcased. His music was show off. He was making a spectacle, an undesired display.

He fingered Life Is Hard. Mother always told me life is hard. I wish i could nail it down. Remember why. With sensibleness, i tried to think of my existing course before residing in a burnt orange understructure with my starlet procreator and her cowhearted dauber monogamist. A train slacked half a statute down the track to decelerate at the station. It wasn't mine. I could think of nothing. Not nothing like emptiness or nullity, but more so of nonexistance and extinction. A bashed dunderhead approached unnoticely from behind obstructing the nonconformist's fine tune. The dunderhead was hollering, "LET SATAN ENSARE YOU BY A SINGLE HAIR, AND YOU ARE HIS TILL THE COWS COME HOME!" Cows are notably drooping, dull creatures and make their way home at their own leisurely pace. Hence the phrase, till the cows come home. Thank you Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ, monarch of useless gospel. The unwashed, loudmouthed dunder was looking candidly at me while he was styling the phrase. His chestnut eyes were stabbing my equanimity. Has The Prince of Darkness frazzled all of my hair? Or, more desireably, have i jerked the strands from each person in my beaten path? Mom? Dad? The Northbound D Line to Oxford - City of Salida came to destination. All aboard.


I had a headache. My pain sensitive complex was in boogie down twostep. I felt a disturbance in the temples. I applied pressure to my brow with my palm, dimmed the headlights, and that was the point in time i crashed with perceptibility. Realness. What's what. Absoluteness. I remembe-

... ... ... ... "We lost him!" "We lost him!" Lieutenant Frank Gordon uttered off at the mouth. His onslaught of driven and persistent standing enforcers were in order, and in line at his directive. The Lieutenant is a well admired man, and has been a loyal badge to the Woodlawn County Police Department for thirteen years. "What's the say-so Frank?" Asked Investigator Freudenthal. "Any hint of kin in a fifty mile sweep?" "Negative Lieutenant," Freudenthal asserted. Advancing with, "Cooper is #62 with the census. Over 100 results were searched out in the greater metro area." "Do we have officers checking over the names?" Asked The Lieutenant. "Yes. Since the aspect. So far, no luck." "What about Zimmerman?" Remorseful with his reply, Freudenthal responded, "No. No luck." "Damnit. We're running out of time!" Gordon outraged. The external grounds of The Flex Cutler Recreation Center was bunched with peering pedestrians, law enforcement, news correspondents, uneasy relatives of the captives, and alarmed employees of the center. Johnathan Wallace, director of the facility, was admist the impertinent crowd. "Mr. Wallace," yawped The Liutenant. "How many patrons and company personnel would you say are in the building?" "This is the crawling hour. On a typical; 20 customers, 7 employees." In very recent past, Johnathan Wallace became overseer of the facility. Before he got in the business of social and cultural events, he was a swimming pool service technician. He wasn't accustomed with a social ruin like this aggresion, but he was superior with group governance, and conciliating clientele. "It's been nearly thirty minutes since we overheard the hostages." Wallace outthought with distress. "I know," Gordon tensely spoke beneath his breath. He frenziedly punched call-back on his line to get to the assailant. Still, all he derived was a voice mail. The mobile phone The Liutenant was contacting, was under the current usage of Wesker Cooper, but the service provider was only able to contribute the billing information to a PO Box in Salida City. Assorted badges have been appointed to finecomb the city for an

acquaintance, but they have had no luck. "Freudenthal, order the media to air the assailant's delineation again and again, and again!" ululated Gordon. "Yes Liutenant." "When you're done, i want you, exclusively, to rummage his squat at Papa Boy's Plaza Motel." "Yes sir." Investigator Freudenthal expeditiously ran the orders. Nervously, Liutenant Gordon positioned there, overseeing less and less alternatives. If the assailant didn't act in answer soon, The Liutenant's only choice would be an all out incursion. "Is he capable of chemical compound explosives in there?" The Liutenant timorously asked Wallace. "It's very well possible. I never under any condition expected this." Once again, The Lieutenant began poking the assilant's digits. Still, he acquired no answer, only an autoattendant, prompting to leave a message at the beep. "Wesker," The Lieutenant conveyed, "where are you..." Frantically, one final time, The Lieutenant punched in the number. It rang. It rang. And it rang. But before The Lieutenant could close his dispatch, a fidgety voice answered. Lieutenant? Lieutenant? My apologies. My phone died.


My talk-time battery life is approximately 4 hours, however, the phone is getting on in years, i rarely disable sounds and virations, and my screen

brightness is set to aglow. What can i say, it's conductive as a flashlight. Right now, my mobile is connected to a universal battery charger. The wall power unit is plugged in to the electrical fissure on the west side of the maintenance shop. I'm unable to mingle among the facility, therefore, i have based here. And in my company, i have thirteen unhinged, apalled captives. "Is that everyone? Is everyone alright?" Chew over it Lieutenant. Thirteen unhinged, apalled captives and a 9mm CZ 75b. That little hiccup with the cellular exacted a penalty with time. So, i'll just scoot to the tip-top nits and grits. Noticeably, i got the job. Here i am, facility maintenance at the Flex Cutler Recreation Center. Placed on my locker is my Morning Work Schedule to advise me my chore calendar for the hours of 8:00 a.m. - 4:30 p.m. 8:00 - start Do time sheet, pick up radio, start new daily event log The rechargable two-way radio is the pie-in-the-sky emergency preparedness of communication. "Maintenance, do you copy?" The front desk would hiss with headache. "This is maintenance, go ahead," i would lukewarmly reply. The front desk would payback with, "we have a mess in Cabana 4." A cabana is typiclly a small, permanent, free standing structure with traversing curtains and/or solid walls. At the Flex Cutler, a cabana is the embellished title used for a personal, fogey shit box. Golden-agers mob the cabanas after their restorative, comfortability aquatic classes. The "mess" the front desk blabs of is, inexact, the burnt sienna discharge that gushes from the asshole. Loose bowels. Montezuma's revenge. The runs. Diarreha. I call it the Aztec two-step. It is my declaration under oath to sterile and decontaminate the mess in Cabana 4. I applicate Ammonial All Purpose Cleaner-Liquid to the mat surface and the perdurable partition for healthful salutariness. I bring into play the Soft Scrub w/ Bleach to disinfect the enamelware of the toilet and sink.

Fun fact; Goulashing Ammonia with Sodium hypochlorite can make Chlorine Gas. Chlorine Gas was used as a chemical weapon by Nazi Germany in World War II. The rechargable two-way radio not only is a pie-in-the-sky preparedness tool, it also is a bothersome nuisance. Model number; EM1000R, may be the most excellent for the asking price, but that's the Catch-22. The slipup. Every establishment in a 20 mile radius uses the exact same model. The alert function and the irritating bleep sirens inessential transference doesn't always pertain to this facility. Woodlawn Senior Housing Facility is a neighboring complex that also utilizes model number; EM1000R. "Room 315 would like prune juice today instead of her norm. She needs aid to relieve her constipation." The shut-ins are referred to as lodging numbers instead of their pen name to respect their privacy. The caretakers know we can hear them. Sometimes, i would answer back. "We are currently out of prune juice. I'll deliver up some stool softener to aid her with her hard, painful mighty manure that she cannot pass." Check with supervisor for revisions in daily schedule My supervisor, my overseeing inspector is the dependable, dexterous, Mr. Denny Wells. Denny is on sabbatical right now, breezing beyond country on his hog. The man and his hog. He cherishes that piggy over and above his bride. He's the archetypal biker. An aged fellow that is subculture with bulk in the post-World War II epoch. He avocates on celebrating independence, nonconformity to the contemporary nation, and has full allegiance to the American Motorcyclist Association. When he's not costumed in his work uniform, he's draped in oxhide. He's an admirable taskman, but sometimes an irritation to work with. Denny Wells demands total perseverance from his staff members. He requires this construct structure completely cleansed and dirtless before the closing hour. If there's dust on the window ledge.. Compulsion to be obsolete. If there's footmarks on the treadmills.. Compulsion to be obsolete. If there's a soiled halo inside a toilet bowl..

You guessed it; compulsion to be obsolete. Denny's subordinate in command is my additional superior, Wade Haakenson. Haakenson is a retired aerospace maintenance technician for the airforce. He was one of the blokes that would engage in appointed inspections, operative checks and preventive maintenance on aircraft and aircraft-installed equipment. Haakenson was a patrioteer for twenty-two years before he bombarded down the uniform. He recognized it was the peak-squeak to take concern for his household of seven. Wade Haakenson isn't the conventional militaristic man. Honestly, he's an extreme behemothic goober. I quit taking score the number of times he discussed with me the adventures he had in an online massive-multiplayer world. He also is an enthusiastic fantasy-role player. And a hot-to-trot cob roller. If a slender, moderately-appealing women with a nice ass slips in the center, Haakenson dispenses his animalistic imagination. He too, is on leave of absence following his day off. You won't find him in the bothered assemblage outside. He ventured with his wife and adolescents to Wyoming to support his mother through her hip replacement surgery. Both, Denny Wells and Wade Haakenson are venerable acquaintances.


Start - 10:00am Check set up report for multi-purpose rooms. Arrange rooms as required Walk grounds, picking up litter and surveying areas that need further/immediate attention The multi-purpose rooms are stamped with clever wildlife mammal names. When a party registers a reservation for a doltish gathering, they have a choice from one of the following; Room A: The American Pika Room Room B: The Ringtail Room

Room C: The Shrew Room Every Tuesday, The RecGame Bridge Club schedules a prearrangement with use of The Shrew Room. It is my amenability, and burden, to piece together the plan structure The RecGame Bridge Club has requisitioned. Six lightweight, square resin folding card tables. Twenty-four corpulent, large molded seat folding chairs. Four chairs per table, three tables per row. Two rows. The Bridge Club loves the plan structure i organize, but they continually rancor the room. They nasty the room, but yet, still schedule it week after week. They grumble about the coldness thermal reading. They groan that the partition is wafer-thin. They're convinced it has an unmanageable smell. So, why is it that they only commit to The Shrew Room? Because the fossilized hag that advocates the club thinks shrew mice are so fucking cute. I don't care too much for the gray-haired, grizzled bridge bunch, but for some baffling reason, they adore me. Haakenson, on the contrary, they despise. The fossilized hag eavesdropped one of his ill-famed dead baby jokes. How do you make a dead baby float? Take your foot off of it's head. What present do you get for a dead baby? A dead puppy. Why did the dead baby cross the road? It was chained to a bumper. How are babies and the elderly alike? Both are fun to throw out of moving cars. I think that last one was the one fossilized hag overheard. 10:00 a.m. - 10:15 a.m. Break I picked up smoking. The awful, cruddy habit that my mother had, that i repudiated, i now commence it. Every break, i would retreat out the south entrance of the facility to the building service area, and light up. Cigarette smoke contains Polychlorinated dibenzo-p-dioxins and polychlorinated dibenzofurans. Both being hazardous compounds.

Because of their beyond questionable tremendous lethal effects, their demeanor in the environment conveys serious health problems. I don't care anymore. Mom smoked. Momento Mori smoked. Nicotine is a stimulant. It nourishes my beta-endorphins. The everyday basic in my brain that makes me feel high-minded. I gratitude Lyle and Jim for this injurious monkey on my back. Lyle and Jim are the dogwatch of the troupe that work 4p.m. to 12:30a.m. Both are chronic smokers. When they would blow in for their latter shift, we would have a half hour fold over time. For that half hour, we would link up at the building service area. I would outline the occurrence and happenings of the day, and they would disregard my discussion while puffing their gaspers. Eventually, i didn't take interest in what went on anymore. Everything began to be identical. Xerox, carbon-copied clones of days preexisting. I started smoking. Instead of tossing around daily adventures, i discussed hootch and hard liquor. Lyle and i contested on which one of us would fill our Booze Barn points pass first. He always would finish in front. I'm not much of a pathological guzzler, but he's a dipsomaniac drunkard. I would compete for converse. Jim is a long gone hootch hound. He put the bottle down in time gone by. What's favorable about out-of-the-woods alcoholics, is that they always have an autobiography chalked up in their head. Jim always had a tale to tell. Example. Jim was included as a guest at his parent's garnished banquet. He hadn't communicated with them for years, since his habit became a worriment. He pledged to his mother that he was cold sober. He wasn't. When Jim appeared at his parent's residency, he was tanked flagging sheets to the wind. He mistook the dining table as a mattress, floundered around on all of the food, and handled the table cloth as a blanket. He hasn't seen them since. 10:15 a.m. - 1:00 p.m. Vacuum all carpets. Keep lobby/library area tables, chairs and floors clean (daily as needed). Empty all trash can interior/exterior This schedule didn't really last. Denny actualized how driven and persistent i really am. He prioritized me with fresh, more complex tasks. I know how to replace the belt on a treadmill.

Disconnect the sweat apparatus from it's motive force, and carry away the motor hood. Locate and unfasten the screws that hold the roller in place to lurch the belt off. Install the replacement belt by gliding the belt through the lead roller. Clench all hardware. Furnish the motor hood to close the unit up. I know how to replace an HVAC air filter. Turn off the thermostat to the unit. Locate the furnace filter positioned where the return duct conjoins. Unbind the screws on the admission panel to acquire the old filter. Drive the new filter into the vacant recess. Check to see that the arrows position toward the furnace. They need to aim in the direction that the air is flowing through the filter into the furnace. Lastly, replace the admission panel. Viola. I know how to catalogue an MSDS manual. I know that All-purpose cleaners often subsume ammonia, a strong irritant that has been associated to liver and kidney damage. I know that Bleach is a strong and effective oxidizer, which can scald the eyes and skin. I know valid stainless steel cleaners can muster chemical burns and expel toxic fumes that harm the respiratory system. I know that Insecticides and Herbicides can induce kidney damage and reproductive harm. I know that polybrominated diphenyl ethers is known to accumulate in blood, breast milk and fatty tissues. This chemical is linked to liver, thyroid, and neuro-developmental toxicity. I've learned quite a bit here. 1:00 p.m. - 1:30 p.m. Lunch Midday meal time is typically spent the same as breakout period. Smoking. Provocating my lungs with malady. On lunch, i'm not glorified with the company of the dogwatch troupe, so i'm scorching the death twig alone. It gives me time to surmise. To implore my precedings. I am the antagonist of humankind. Undoubtedly, i've insubordinated God for understandable reasons. He does not like me. If he did, i wouldn't be in this epoch pile up. I don't need him. I contemn the bulk of people, with the exception of a few, and that few i've left stranded or dissatified. Undeniably, i lie. It is my aim to mislead others, even when i'm

unenlightened if i'm doing so. Do you think i'm immoral, Lieutenant? "I think you need help." Help? God helped the devil, allowing him life and bestowed him a beautiful entity. When the devil desecrated his gift, where was God when the devil needed absolution? Rather than casting him out of heaven, God could have ameliorated him. But no, he was rejected. Just like my mother and father rejected me. They didn't want to amend me. They chose to circumvent me instead of sustain me with assurance! I don't need help. I need to finish my redemption. "No. You need help. Wesker, please, just end this. I know of an excellent nationally accredited psychiatric clinic that can make you better." Damnnit Liutenant! Speak to me and my horns appear! It's nice to know you attempt to be so commendable in a world bothered by intense fear and evil. Now, i enormously caution you. One more word, without my sanction, will deprive these curdled-blooded people of their existence! Where was i? Lunch. The better part of the week i would suck in smoke. But on Thursdays, the Flex Cutler Recreation Center would present Thursday Luncheon. Thursday Luncheon is a weekly happening that allures customers to dine in on a gourmet meal for six dollars. Myself and Haakenson would have to organize all three multi-purpose rooms for the function. Eighteen milky-white center, 6 foot folding tables, arranged to copy handon diagram. One hundred and forty-four corpulent, large molded seat folding chairs. Eight chairs per table. Since Haakenson and i structure the event, we get invited to attend the meal. This is how i met Wesley Hagan. Wesley Hagan has subaverage general intellectual function. He's too feebleminded to work a genuine job, so he volunteers in the Flex Cutler kitchen. Wesley's a toddler cornered in a fifteen-year-old boy's body. Wesley's an amputee. He straightforwardly told me that his older brother accidentally butchered off his right appendage. Wesley can't ring a bell the abound details, but when Wesley gained consciousness, after the incident, his brother was gone. Wesley never saw him again. When Wesley told me this, in his stammering speech chaos, i wanted to smother his older sibling. I felt sorry for the kid. On Thursdays, he hunkers directly across from me at the 6 foot folding

table reserved for Flex Cutler staff. I have the acclaimed privilege to eyeball Wesley cram spaghetti with egg and bacon sauce into his gob hole. Last week it was chicken cordon bleu. Two weeks ago it was no-noodle zucchini lasagna. Wesley tells me i'm his pal. Second to none. I'm flattered.


1:30 p.m. Babysitting room - mop floors, general clean all areas and bathroom The babysitting room. The quarterage for enfant terribles hatched from upstart, vulgarian, workout mommies. At the Flex Cutler, the rabble-rouser rugrats attain no discipline, nor manners. The Flex Cutler daycare crew empower the anklebiters to do whatever they desire. "Yes, Madison, you can scribble your name, erratically, all over the floor with a cherry-colored crayon." "Yes, Lily, you can chow down all of those chocolate truffles your mother left with you, than barbarously puke all over the carpet." The superiority of the attendance is female, and all of the little holy terrors grouse in a blaring, nasal sound. Headache. Headache. Headache. The lion's share of a afternoon is burnt-out cleaning up after these fiendish rascals. Spray the crayoned artwork area with water-displacing spray. If the surface is heavily tarnished, leave the lubricant on for 3 minutes. Towel the area with a clean, supple cloth. If leftovers remains, wash the area with warm water and dishwashing soap. Next we move on to, how to clean tot-sput from carpet. Dismiss as much of the vomit as possible from the carpet without

widening the mess. Shower dry cleaning fluid over the leftover stain. Blot the stain with a dry, white cloth. Lay on a small amount of mild liquid detergent to the stain. Blot again. Flood the stain with water. Blot again. Pour a diminutive amount of ammonia over the stain. Blot again. Apply a more detergent to the stain. Blot again. Blot again. Blot again. Blot again. Now, the portion i failed to mention of this cleanup performance, is my subsidiary to ammonia. Ammonia is produced within a person’s body each day. Most produced by organs and tissues, but some is composed by bacteria living inside our intestines. The liver normally converts ammonia into urea, which is then exterminated in urine. Ammonia levels in the blood rise when the liver is not able to transpose ammonia to urea. Commonly caused by digestive disorders; Cirrhosis. Or severe hepatitis. I don't abuse alcohol, i no longer pop medicants, and i know i'm not racked with chronic viral hep. I just pretend. It gives me reason to tinkle on the holy terrors' play space. On Thursdays after the eccentric luncheons, Wesley enlists himself to assist me in the daycare. He doesn't really assist with a helping hand, he's just there to babble a bull session. I wipe down the cloth liners in the bassinet. "I...i...i...i wet the be..bed," Wesley sputters out. Keep in mind he has a stuttering speech disorder. The kid has Nocturnal enuresis, where he involuntary urinates. A common pediatric-health issue, but in a 15-year-old boy. I feel sorry for the kid. I wipe all mirrors and windows that the tots come into closeness with. Begrimed, blotched handprints collage the glass. "Th...that's di...di...disgusting." Wesley abides with limited obsessive compulsive disorder. The smallest things, like filthy, bitty fingerprints catapult his anxiety. I clean large, frequent-fondled toys with a bleach solution. "My m...m...mom bought me an Ultimate Bu...bu...building Set Fun Tub." Wesley is diagnosed with MR, a generalized disorder with symptoms including the ability to learn socially, and delays in the development of

social inhibitors. He's a good kid. I've taken the spare moments to shuck and jive the performance of big brother. 2:30 p.m. - 2:45 p.m. Break 2:45 p.m. - 4:30 p.m. General clean, remove trash, sweep and dust Turn in radio and daily event log How do you know when a baby is a dead baby? The dog plays with it more. Haakenson and i would squat on baking concrete during the hot spell of a day, dismissing aged chewing gum from sidewalks with a putty knife. He would bombast his dead baby jokes to front the silence. "What's brown and gurgles?" What? "A baby in a casserole." "What do you call a dead baby with no arms and no legs hanging on your wall?" What? "Art." Sooner or later, he would become aware of my aloofness, and pipe down. We perch there, flaking the broken-down gum from the footway. The quickest, no trouble way to remove the cohesive polka-dots is spats of liquid carbon dioxide, and immediately after, pass a rotarty wire brush atop the surrendering splutter. Unfortunately, the facility's budget can't afford the manageable alternative, and besides that, Denny likes to watch us suffer. Instead, we bear on the sweltry pavement, with only a fine white scrubbing pad and heavy duty spot remover/degreaser. Haakenson can't keep his words imprisoned. "I finally got my Undead Mage his complete set of teir armor." He invariably brings up his online gaming obsession. The man is the generator of five children, and rather than portraying the progenitor performance, he appoints his reserve time to this video game. "I also made my Dwarf Hunter a Death Knight." I scrub. And scrub. And scrub.

"I got some killer rune enhancements for my blunt, now i'm tanking my DPS." And scrub. And scrub. The inward of my thumb began to brutishly chafe on the cement, leaving me with aching blisters. The high tempeture soused my long hair with sweat. Excretion was moistening my uniform. My self-consciousness was close to the ground. I felt like a disarrayed slob at a civil gathering. "Yeah, the Death Knight uses runes instead of energy, or mana." And i dwindled to pieces. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I bellowed. Haakenson's facial contortion went to a scowling expression. Fortunately, no clientele was situated in the vicinity. "Dude, what's wrong with you?" Haakenson asked. "I'm disgusted with everything." "Than do something about it. You're young." I think Haakenson was mislead. I wasn't relating my revulsion with this deplorable daily grind. Disgusted with EVERYTHING. That afternoon, after prying fusty gum, things diverged. I turned in my two-way radio, and submited my event log. The daily event log is autographed authentication that employees do their appointed responsibilities. I dash off the times. I jot down the tasks. Sometimes, if i'm feeling artistic and imaginative, i scribble down inventive duties. Like the other day, i combated ninja assassins in the gymnasium at 2 p.m. Last week, i played lacrosse with a feral dog. Denny thinks my artistry is clever. That's a usual day for me at The Flex Cutler Recreation Center. After all of that, it's time to go home.



Home is the hot, shabby, putrid commorancy at Papa Boy's Plaza Motel. How do i afford thirty-seven greenback a night on a twelve-hundred dollar monthly paycheck, you may be asking yourself? Let me introduce you to the late Eber Herrerra. Eber is the proprietor of Papa Boy's. He inherited the establishment when his father passed. Being a short-term residence holder was never Eber's strong affection. This is probably why the structure has been hammered to hell. Eber's real, tangible fondness is with old cars. The Skylark. When i first pulled the 1967 hogwashed twaddle in the car park, he was in a tizzy like a wet, defiled girly. And it just so happened, convertibles were his distinctive cup of tea. I turned over the Skylark, and provided him fifty bucks a month, and in return, i nest at the motel. I speak of Eber is the past tense, because he's dead now. Relax. I didn't kill him. Eleven months ago, Eber was driving the Skylark recklessly, and injured the gas tank. He failed to behold the damage until the mess got worse. Two weeks coming after, he started to sniff-out a pungent odor, and detected a continuous drip. And inexplicably, an hour later, his Uncle Edward rang, and announced Auntie Alberta has had a harsh myocardial infarction. Without analyzing, Eber bounced in the Skylark, and aimed for Farmington, New Mexico. Here's where he really fucked up. Eber was hysterical, and on his stampede, he was convinced the Skylark would make the overlong haul to Farmington. Even if the gas tank was ravaged. He figured as long as he kept overflowing jerrycans in the trunk, he would be fine. If a gas tank is to the brim, and tucked away in a suffocating trunk, there is no oxygen for it to respirate. If a slight impact were to thud the hind end of the vehicle, say, like a bumper to bumper collision, the vapors burst and it would blaze the Skylark to kingdom come. Guess what happened? Eber Herrerra was a decent man, but not very bright. Guess who solicit rooms at Papa Boy's Plaza now? Mr. Orotund and his raunchy ladylove dole out thirty-seven long greens to yours truly now. As does, exhausted drivers, bent drug vendors, dopey travelers, and trashy teenybops. The Skylark was annihilated in the disaster, but favorably, i never

transfered the proprietary rights to Eber. After the inevitable happened to him, i approached Wesker Cooper's insurance company and announced the car had been stolen. Jackpot. A fucking bonanza. Wesker Cooper had comprehensive and collision damage coverage, which obligated the insurance company to bang out a check for the cash value of the vehicle. And because i'm a devoted wayfarer of The Commuter Rail Transit now, I no longer require a personal automobile. So, thanks to Eber's dullness of mind, and the Papa Boy populace, i've got a little extra wad in my wallet. 5:00 ERRR! 5:00 ERRR! 5:00 ERRR! On weekdays, my alarm clock is always affixed to five-o-clock a.m. It's a retro digital flip. It's one where the automatic perpetual calendar flicks every sixty seconds. It creates that barely audible pulsate when each minute does a change over. For some bizzare reason, I find it relaxing yet irritating at the same time. That tick. That dinky pulsating din is my bedtime coziness. At five a.m. I erect from my Simple Twin-size Platform Bed with the same habitual undertaking every morning. Piss. Clean teeth. Throw on clothes. Cigarette. Coffee. Black and brewed the prior evening. A smoke and a cup of caffeine. The breakfast of champions. Then off to work. The Commuter Rail Transit Northbound D Line to Oxford - City of Salida, is my conveyance to the Flex Cutler Recreation Center. Every day is identical. 7:10 a.m. is my departure. I plummet the runner-up CRT car. It's not as crowded with first blush commuters. If i'm timely enough, i can get a discomforting seat instead of an arduous journey, standing in center aisle. I see the same faces every day. Young, upwardly, button-down professionals. Parental neglected youth attending school. Moth-eaten elders blissfully sightseeing. Unlaundered winos begging for a donation.

I see the same CRT indulgences every day. Offensive doodles and scribbles on the vinyl film advertisements. Repellent urine stains on unoccupied seating. Dismissed personal possesions long forgotten. Dishonest thieves burglarizing dismissed personal possesions. I experience this regularly on my twenty minute expedition to work. Every day is identical, except for one day. One fortuitous morn, my alarm clock went eccentric. Instead of the accustomed 5 a.m. rise and shine, it hummed at 3:33 a.m. I was at wits' end, in a tizzy. I had an erection. I bowled over from the confusion, and scrunched my cocked tower from the belly-roll. I was in agonizing stress, and i scrabbled for the lamp on the nightstand. In my mishandled fumble, i toppled to the floor, cleaving my head on the cranny of the bed table. I was benumbed. Blacked out. Down for the count. I woke to life at daylight. The alarm clock rendered 8:01 a.m. I was late for work. I phoned Denny, described the state of affairs, and expressed my remorse for being tardy. I didn't piss. I didn't clean teeth. I measly slung on my uniform, and engulfed a cigarette on the way to the CRT. The next departure shift for the Northbound D Line to Oxford - City of Salida was at 8:50 a.m. I was going to be well over an hour late for my common daily labor. I'm glad i was.


I was agitated. I hate being unpunctual. I looked like a sloppy draggletail. My discriminative taste was crop and morning foul. My hair was unkempt and mussed up. I was roused.

Because of my belatedness, i was disoriented. I didn't get a discomforting seat. Instead, i got an arduous journey standing in center aisle. CRT caravans make constant stops at posts to collect more passengers. When the cars make a spasmodic stop, the sudden force lashes the standees in center aisle. I hate center aisle. Daily travelers beleagued me, and overswarmed my personal space. A bouquet-odored woman nestled my backside, fiercely hacking in my ear. A pen-pushing gent poised closely, unintentionally swaggering his hand into my uneasy groin. A screeching anklebiter blared out cries, battering my ear drums. I hate center aisle. I hate being unpunctual. A peering girl balanced in my straightaway. She looked delighted. Jubilant. Tickled. She sluggishly approached me, making her way through the abundant crowd. Could it be? Was it really her? Was this just a repercussion of my battered head from whacking the end table? Was i having one of my deviating, imagined hallucinations again? I pinched myself. OUCH. I kept her in my peripherals. OUCH. She was hobbling closer. It was her. I instantly recognized her appealing, curved smile. She abruptly came to a standstill, and stretched to the overhand rail. The CRT swatted the brakes, and approached the coming station. It was her depot. She was departing the car. She focused plainly at me, and didn't recognize me. Maybe because i was narcissistic, and i hid beneath the oneness of Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ. I never revealed my actual selfhood to her. I had to follow her. Her destination was Northbound D Line to Eckert Station. Eckert Station is 5 miles from my target-stop. I was already behindtime, if the stretch became too lousey, i could call Denny and request downtime. I never take leave of absence. I followed her, barreling to her heels.

"Do you remember me?" I uncontrollably asked. I was short-winded from all of the commotion. She looked daunted and flustered. "We discussed everything from the life glitch to the lollipop people?" She still seemed to be thrown off, but her kisser set in motion the bent smirk. "Mori?" "Oh my god! How freakish! It's an itty-bitty world!" She vaulted in for a bunny hug. I embraced her. I couldn't believe i had the dark damsel of my dreams willingly plunge in my arms. I behaved towards her so rotten, and yet she still welcomed me. I than caught on. Before our bitter separation, she typewrote, "if we ever are unfortunate enough to meet again, let's start over." She was honest with her words. She looked just as i memorized her. Abundant, ultramarine blue eyes surrounded with a halo of black eye-liner. Her hair was corkscrewed and as red as volant embers from sweltering coal. I was titillated. "You do remember me?" I made certain. "Of course! Out of all of the John and Jane Qs i brush against, you were the candy-coating." I was flattered. "Besides, i'm kind of a weirdo." Possibly because her skin is blanched and pale, like an inanimated mort. "I'm not much of a human gluestick, but you were all heart," she delicately whispered. I gently receded away from the clasping lock. Something was different. She seemed bushy-tailed, in good health. I thought, maybe she cut loose, and finally welcomed her fateful condition. Or maybe, she never really had an ample protrusion. Maybe she was a misleader. A phony. A trickster. But, who am i to bang the gavel? Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ was my masquerade. "Are you busy?" I asked. "I'm going to the grocery store. Your welcome to join me." I beeped Denny and announced i was out for a sick day. I escorted Mori down the pasta aisle of Viands Market. The aisles are wide enough for three people to stand side-by-side. Very congested. Packed. Uncomfortable. Mori flings some manicotti from the rack into her buggy. The grocery store buggy has one lousy wheel. The wheel has a constraining pivot. It makes an aggravating, squealing sound. "What's Flex Cutler?" She asked. I was engrossed with the screeching loudness. "What?"

"Your polo. It says Flex Cutler." The wheel was dragging on the linoleum, frivolously etching at the floor. Mori lobs some italian pasta sauce from the rack into her buggy. MomentO_m0ri. She's the grocery store buggy with one lousy wheel. "You Okay?" "What?" "Your shirt? Is that where you work?" She's the utility service rep. that doesn't arrive in the eight hour window. "Yeah. Yeah. It's a community center." We made a winding to the tissue aisle. Mori hurled some toilet rolls from the shelf into her buggy. She began convulsive barks, expelling air. I speculated it was the backlash from her nicotine fixation. She didn't cover her mouth. "Excuse me," she said with abashment. She's the sloppy napkin left on the table throughout dinner. "What do you do at the community center?" She's tangled hangers. She's filthy, begrimed keyboards. "Maintenance," i faintly replied. I was swamped concentrating on her functioning. The cough wasn't from smoking. Following her convulsive bark, she drifted her backhand over her mouth. She had a smidgen of blood on her arrow-finger. She tried to conceal it. She's a cancer patient. MomentO_m0ri discovered an ample protrusion. 3 inches wide and 1.5 inches thick. The ultrasound indicated an extension growth, and it was essential for an immediate needle aspiration. No fluids were brought into being, and the practitioner conjectured it being a phyllodes. MomentO_m0ri was scheduled for prompt surgery, but never appeared. She was scared. She was scared, and she was going to die. There wasn't much time. We positioned in line for checkout. Mori snagged some small, sugar-free peppermints from the fast rack at the cashier path. She heaved them on to the counter. I was in stupefaction gaping at her physique. Her shape was a bag of bones, but with very stunning framework. My oculars wormed down to her ass. Unlike the rest of her build, her backside was plentiful. Haakenson would detail it as a baby-making buttocks. Mori revolved around, and nabbed me ogle-screwing her. "Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?" She bursted out with a titter.

I was astray, running off with, "Su...su...sure." I sounded like stumbing Wesley. "Excellent," she gaily said, yanking a advertisement snippet from her raven-colored handbag. She squiggled down her street whereabouts and her jingle digits. She handed me the paper. The cashier passed the sales slip, and Mori and i departed Viands Market. We strolled down the roadway, shoulder to shoulder. She was chirpy, standing aligned, clearly walking on air. I focused on her, contemplating, was this really the tantamount, clouded girl i knew? "What?" She inquired with a fazed smile. "You just seem different from the first time we connected," i told her. "I'm tickled now. Tickled pink!" She once told me that The Holiness and the Prince of Darkness could conceivably be walking lazily among us. The two could be side-by-side, blissfully jolly and tickled pink, rejoiced in some absolute, A-OK crisp life together. I thought, could Mori and myself within realm of possibility be... ...nah. We dropped anchor at the Eckert Station. It was time to disjoin and make parted direction. Mori's train to North Bow Mar was decelerating, coming to a deadlock. My sendoff was a unpretentious hug, and before she boarded, she shouted, "seven-o-clock tonight! Don't be late!" Jackpot. A fucking bonanza.


I viciously masturbated when i got home.

Slapped the salami. Pulled the pork. The five knuckle shuffle. Whittled the woodblock. Punched the clown's nose. Tweeked the deek. I greatly aggrandized the surface calefaction of my vessel's prime cannon with expeditious, dangerous motion. I was ungenerous. I was unpleasant to my poor dick. I was punching the purple ninja at a ratio credible to cause inflamed, excruciating friction burn. I rested my bareskinned anus on the posterior end of my left foot, opressing it uncomfortably inbetween my cheeks. I was dripping, ejecting bodily seep. My monumental member was about to buck it's crowning point, but Ms. Nadir rudely, and disturbingly decimated the twinkle. Ms. Nadir is a hatched chicken with lots of mileage. A short while ago, she beat the drum for her thirty-first birthday, but she bears the complexion of a sixty year old. Her outer covering droops with unsettling sinkage. Her shape is haggard and emaciated. Her baby blues have sloshed to an ashen-gray, enringed with a loop of deathly blackness. Her hair is nothing more than a strand of frizzies, and her wardrobe is sleazy second-hand. Ms. Nadir is a blow-in once a month, when her bemused, senility father kicks her out for brief periods. Ms. Nadir has a amphetamine addiction, rationale for her infiltrating my room while i'm penetrating the pipe. "What are you doing in here?" She spluttered out. She must've thought my lodging was her's. I was on edge and up the wall. I did the most probable thing any man would do, when caught with their dick in their palm, by an outright stranger. I lobbed the nearest object at her. The motel phone. I didn't even disconnect the jack from the wall. I ripped it out with the violent pitch. It smashed her dead direct in the midpoint of her head. Possibly a block, non-missile, cranium injury, which the skull is not broken. The telephone cord sheathed faultlessly around her neck, and the joining DSL conducting strand thrashed about her legs, dwindling her to the ground. When she keeled over, she thwacked the backside of her attic on the door knob, than slammed her noggin onto the floor. A penetrating head injury, piercing the skull and breaching the dura mater. All of this happened while i had my heel up my ass and my dick in my hand.

Gore juice surged from her lipstick-blotted musher. Her ashen-gray eyes bowled beneath her top eyelids. Was she dead? Did i kill her? No. Her slat bed, decumbent chest was palpitating. I rocketed my exposed body by her procumbent frame. I mildly slapped her boney jaw. "Ms. Nadir?" I swatted her some more, spanking a bit harder. "Ms. Nadir?" Great. My rendezvous with Mori was in a buckle of hours, and i inconveniencely have a grisly, respiring stiff on my floor. I savagely tugged her inconsequential body to the toilet room, onto the bisque-colored linoleum. I towed her beneath the ceiling seepage in the lavatory, assuming that the drizzled body waste would rouse her, as it spattered upon her grisly cranium. Nothing. I waited. Drip, drop. Drip, drop. And waited. Drip, drop. Drip, drop. And waited. I was still stripped. My bare body was tarnished with her cruddy, greasy blood. I was displeased. Shaking. I was in constant trembles. Desiccated blood was swashed on my forearms. Drip, drop. Drip, drop. I began quavering, swing to totter, clasping my legs, much like a mental patient. Blood moistened the soles of my feet. Her respiration was reducing speed. Drip, drop. Drip, drop. And out of cornballs and clichés, i started destructively beating my face. Right hook to the fleshy lateral wall destroying the sensory branches, triggering intense discomfort to the muscle of facial expression. Battering it, one thwack, one pummel, after another. Come next, a walloping blow to the lower front of the mandible. I could hear my jaw split. I could hear my teeth chink and chip. I could taste my fetid plasma. Thereafter, i lavished repeated short-straights to my left oculus, pauperizing it's angle of the anterior chamber. I could see bloodshot

copper. I could see flaming chestnuts. Lastly, with my lingering strength, i took a middling knuckle to the nasal dorsum. My face looked like a divine disaster. I lost consciousness. While i was benumbed, and bombed out, i had a horror hallucination. A bad, bad nightmare. I was at my forebearer home, nestled at the dinner table. Accompanying me was Mori to my left, sputtering Wesley to my right, and my mother was perched in contrast to me. Everyone was dressed in black. A matter of fact, everything was black. The double hemstitched tablecloth. Black. The six piece counter height table set. Black. The mix-n-match dinnerware collection. Black. The cutlery. Black. The walls. Black. The floor. Black. Black. Black. Black. Black. Both Mom and Mori's cream mascara was oozing down their jowls, leeching to their jawbone. The color? Yep. Black. Wesley, wondrously, had both of his arms. He was convulsing back and forth, throwing in an occasional jolt that would quake the dining table. He was circling toy cars on the tablecloth, infrequently, making them collide head-on. The cars were black. "BOOM!" he would blare, as he made them plow into pulverization. Mori just sat and gaped. She didn't bother to flicker her lids, she just glimmed fixedly. Her eyeballs were mawkish, gooey with stockey tears. Mom began ranting. "YOUR FATHERS WILL NEVER GRIN AND BEAR IT!" What? I questioned. "YOUR FATHERS WILL NEVER RESPECT YOU!" What? "BOOM!" Wesley continued clobbering the toy cars. "YOUR FATHERS WILL NEVER ROLL WITH THE PUNCHES!" "YOUR FATHERS WILL NEVER APPLAUD IT!"

"YOUR FATHERS WILL COMMEND YOU!" A firm door banged open, diverting the blustering ambience. Mom muzzled up, and directed her concentration on the unfamiliar aperture. She beamed graciousness. "Hello Mr. Herrerra! What's for dinner?" She frenziedly said. Out marched Eber Herrerra, the preceding holder of Papa Boy's Plaza Motel. He was fashioned in a black, tuxedo vest and a black, satin cummerbund. He was shouldering an abundant, black serving tray with a dome lid. "Dinner is served!" He flamboyantly cheered. Mom began slapping with approbation. Wesley and Mori united with her. Eber blandly placed the serving tray in the midpoint of the dinner table. He took a seat by the side of mom. Mom pored over Eber and guffawed. "It's time for grace," said Eber. He clasped mom's hand and Mori's hand. I clamped Mori's and Wesley's. Their hands were intensely glacial. The bitter bleakness they disseminated gave me goose bumps. Mom began the prayer. "Dear Lord, I pray that YOU WILL remember the sins of my child, AND his inattentive transgressions. Please think of him according to selfcenteredness and perversive. PLEASE think of him as an undermining derelict, O LORD. Lord I knuckle down to all of those sins that he has committed and I ask for Your help to persecute him by abrogating him and abolishing him so he can engender no more wickedness. We thank you for this amazing meal, and the pithy, short-lived continuance You have given us, O' Holy Spirit, Amen." Everyone loosened their embracing clasp, and frenziedly scuttled for their cutlery. Eber eagle-eyed my way and began sniggering. Mom duped the fixed look and began mockingly laughing. As did Mori and Wesley, both hissing out titters. Wesley began clattering his fork and knife, repetitively, on the counter table top. "Who's hungry?" Eber disheartenly asked, and passed his arm along the table top to expose the meal beneath the dome lid. "TA-DA!" He exclaimed, and removed the black lid from the seving tray. Slumbered on the tray was the mortified, rotted carcass of a spoiled Queensland Heeler. Malco. Putrefied flesh, crowded with larva and canker. Tousled hair congealed with fetid juices. Mutilated organs goulashed with desecrated appendages. His collar was still corkscrewed. Mom started howling hysterically. Eber started howling hysterically. Mori

started howling hysterically. Wesley started howling hysterically. Everyone lunged their mitts into Malco's mangled corpse and gashed away at the bloody slop. They lobbed the decaying corrosion onto their dinnerware. Wesley hooked a severed hind leg. Mori snagged a scattering of imbrued bits. Mom and and Eber battled over the grisly, uncoiled head. It was like watching a cluster of despairing brutes engult their final dinner. They smashed the gory mess down their throats. Imagine a sounder of schitzy swine wallowing in mud and quaffing it. That's what it looked like. They devoured hapless Malco in minutes. When their stomaches were fulfilled with the macabre mess, everyone went uncommunicative. Voiceless. The inhibited hush lasted for drawn out moments, until Mori began heaving. Her balks and strain caused Wesley to disgorge. Mom and Eber expeditiously followed. Everyone was choking. Everyone began spewing up regurgitated dog. The black counter height table top was layered with bloody, boffed bits. Ralphed, rotted fatness. Upchucked flesh and blood. The coming array of actions made me nauseated. Wesley began crumbling, corroding inside-out. His shape and molded arrangement began deflating, severing his right arm. His enlivened appendage popped right off, discharging grisly beef and raw muscle into the inklike scenery. He nose-dived, defunct, onto the dinner table. Mom broke out in a cold sweat, and began gyrating her head. She clutched her upper trunk, and drew her breath sharply. Before she could stifle, she transfigured into a bloodstained, maltreated Ms. Nadir, collapsing onto her black dinnerware. Mori sat there, grieving. She gazed directly at me. Her eyes were shrinkwrapped with water works. "I forgive you," she sputtered out. And, without delay, her dome ruptured wide open, and poured out gray matter. She too fell inanimated. I broke. I bawled and bemoaned. I sniveled and squalled. The people i have affection for, were cruelly ceasing existance before my eyes. I was like a single icicle on a blistering midsummer day. Maybe i am human. I thought about it. But i also thought about how this remorseless pageant of events was only a nightmare.

I swabed away my tears. Eber fixed his glim at me with an unresponsive, cold review. He shook his head with a washed out disgruntlement, and after his comedown, he ablazed in rapid oxidation. His screeching outcry barely enshrouded the snaps and crackles of scalding flesh. He toppled. I toppled. I woke from the horrible hallucination on the bisque-colored linoleum in the toilet room. Blood was spattered everywhere. Every point of compass i glimpsed, i could find red vital fluids. The only thing i couldn't find was Ms. Nadir.


Maybe she moved about aimlessly, not fully conscience. Maybe i didn't do it. Maybe she collapsed from anesthetics? Or her amphetamines? Her benny. Her crank. Her dexy. Her pep. Stimulants do have eccentric effects. She's probably fine, hopscotching her way to her senility father's home. She won't remember. I don't have time to worry about a hopheaded space cadet's good health or fortune. My head hurt. I had to clean up. I had an engagement with Mori in forty-five minutes. Stupid dopehead. I didn't have time to sterile the bathroom. It already smelt like stannic, putrefied flesh. I barely had time to sterile and decontaminate myself. My face looked like an African Bush Elephant's piping hot pile of shit. How was i going to explain it to Mori? Fucking burnt-out doper. I hurtled into the shower, ready for purification. The knob valve squeals every time it's circulated to 'on' position. It takes sixtieth shakes before the tarnished faucet drools burnished-colored water. I looked at my hands.

Both were crudely soaked with stale blood. I was able to see all of my hand rumples and rimples with the aid of the spatter. I felt sick. The water began to discharge. I destructively polished my tainted flesh with a bar of soap. Lemon juice works well when purging blood from skin. Regrettably, i didn't have any. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. I thought, what if Ms. Nadir goes to the police? Beyond doubt, my holdings at Papa Boy's would be sacked. Fuck. I couldn't think about that. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. I could see my reflected counterpart in the chrome finish of the spigot. My face was flushed and unrecognizable. I took the russet-stained bar of soap and scoured my battered appearance. Strangely, the vigorous rubbing didn't hurt. Maybe i couldn't feel the affliction because other things, more substantial things, were on my mind. Wesley. Eber. Malco. Mom. Mori. What did it mean? I circled the knob valve to 'off' position. It still trickles continually even when it's off. Stupid shower. Stupid hopheaded, burnt-out space cadet. It was her fault. I was still a small hue of salmon from the doused blood. I fiercely buffed my flesh with a brittle towel. That's it. I would just tell Mori the pink complexion was a material rash. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. I slopped the towel on the floor, expecting it to clean up some of the blood. No time for that. Piss. Clean teeth. Throw on clothes. Cigarette. Mori was expecting me in twenty-five minutes. I ran out the door.

D Line to North Bow Mar. Fortunately, the motorcar i hopped on was entirely free from all other commuters. No bouquet-odored women. No hand-swaggering strangers. No screeching anklebiters. It was nice. North Bow Mar station was twelve miles from my boarding bungalow. A formless assay for transit time would be 11.5 minutes. That would give me practically ten minutes to trudge from the station to her home. Her directions were very particular. I'll make it... I was nervous. I gazed out the paned framework of the motorcar. It was getting illlighted. The sun was preparing for sack time. Small, pooled shopping attractions were switching on their glowing, neon signboards. Motor vehicles were activating their blinders. Families with little darlings were going home to formulate a meal, and eccentric singles were coming out to have a good time. I'm not a night person. My nights usually consisted of a boat filled with wheat noodles and fishbased broth. Commonly, i slouched on my begrimed bed and absorbed the noodle dish in the dark. That was my model-perfect evening. This was awkward. "D Line now arriving at North Bow Mar!" The conductor broadcasted over the train's intercom. Mori's directions were clear-cut. On the button. Travel four blocks north and turn left onto Marion Street. My tramp down the four blocks of cracked concrete and damaged blacktop, made it barefaced that this wasn't a opulent part of town. The passerby transport was aged, unattractive Oldsmobiles with smashed fendors and crackled windshields. I thought of the Skylark. The constructed architecture was fossiled, cement structures slopped with wall doodles, and encircled by a wall of barbed-wire. I could hear dogs gnarl and growl, i could hear sirens bellow in the distance. I thought how could Mori inhabit a dwelling here? Marion street forked into an undersized, negligible neighborhood, congested with wee apartment complexes, all hoarding trash and children toys in the front lawns.

I was frightened. I thought maybe she didn't like me. Maybe this was an evil trick. The directions read, head two blocks down Marion and take a right on Marilyn Court. What a surprise, Marilyn Court was a cluster of more apartments. But these ones were much more faultless, and a smidgen larger. 1621, Unit D. 7 p.m. DON'T BE LATE! I still had four minutes. I took a definitive, absorbing breath, loosened the tensity of my frame, and let everything glide. Her building was olive-brown brick, with a chalky trim. The structure had mung water discoloration worm down the block siding. Arachnid entanglements criss-crossed in hideaways and niches, lodging dead Insecta and newborn larva. I really had no clearance to be so superficial, considering the condition of Papa Boy's, but i had a higher presumption of her household. Her front door was pasty-colored, much more than the chalky trim. A little, boarded slab hung on the door that read, Home Sweet Home. Yeah right. Below the apocryphal decor was a chicken scratch scribble that read, NO SOLICITING! The ink on the write-by-hand sign was drooling, and the parchment it was etched on, was crinkled and cream-stained. What was i going to say? I got really anxious. Jittery. Jumpy. Nervous. Do i tell her about my disapproval regarding her living condition? Skittish and snappish. I became a rattletrap and a rocky tumbledown. Do i tell her a preposterous lie explaining the quality my disfigured face was in? I got overly zipped up. Hyperactive. Discomposed. My jowl shifted from biscuit-colored beige to a glitzy blossom tone. I steamed, I sudored, I transudated. My soggy paws quivered and trembled. No please. Not now. My complete attention was focused on my displeasure. I forgot what time it was. 7:02 p.m. Fuck. I was late. I uplifted my quivering paw to ring the door buzzer.


DING DONG! I was panting. Puffing. The floodgates were wide open. My sight was diluted. I felt like i could keel over. Zonk out. Maybe i should have. It would of been so effortless. I thought of Mr. Unheard-of. Maybe his harrowing torment could calm my mind. DING DONG! Take Mr. Unheard-of and impel a firm, cast rod down his trachea. Keep thrusting the ferrous, metal pole to scramble his crucial organs, dislocating it through his bloody anus. A little better. DING DONG! Collide a panel truck into Mr. Unheard-of's family transport, instantly obliterating his loved one, and dismembering his... ...Mori opened the pasty-colored door. "I'm not late. I've been standing here considering my conversation options." I yipped out. Her primary counteraction was her common smile. She welcomed me with a hug. "You're all wet! Is it starting to sprinkle out?" She was refering to my perspiration. How embarrasing. I told her i backslided into the brook behind the Bow Mar Station. My cover story was an illusive puppy that couldn't doggy-paddle. She chuckled and greeted me in. The interior of her home was nothing like i anticipated. Nor was it a wardrobe carton hiding at the rear of some corporate mega mart, like she detailed on her chat profile. It was nice. Neat. Uncluttered. Her furniture was spotless, snowy-colored italian leather. It was accentuated with speckless, glass top end tables. The walls were embellished with artsycrafty decor, and the nappy floor covering was free of blotches and pet hair. The gut was much nicer than the outlying. "What do you think?" She asked, challenging my opinion. I nodded with a esteemed expression. She looked radiant, as always. Her hair was coiled, finalized with a spritzed shine. She was clothed in a jade-colored, thigh-high dress that included decorative, quarter-sized, teal

buttons. "Spaghetti for supper?" She spittled out. I already knew chow time would be a dish of pasty pasta served with a baked roll. I accompanied her at the grocery store, did she not remember? The thought of limber noodles soaked in red gravy made me think of bloody intestinal stuffing. Abdominal spaghetti. Abdominal spaghetti made me think of my ensanguined, raw face. My face! Surely she's acknowledged my disfigured, maimed finish. My disfashioned, damaged appearance was in plain sight. Was she just being mannerly, overlooking my frightning display. If she was, she was doing a fanciful job. Not even a cock in the eyes. Not even an askance expression. How? How could she avoid such a monstrosity? "Where's your toilet room?" She directed her bitsy, frail finger down the straight, confining hallway. I darted down the passage. At the end of the hall was a cramped, equilateral room containing only a porcelain can, a sinkhole and a smallscale tub. Moisturizers, jellies, and ointments crowded the counter space. Sage-colored linens were ornamented on frameworked shelves. The mirror was gleaming and spotless. I could see my face. How could she not see my face? How could she not be curious what happened. I was unattractive. Appalling. Repulsive. Festered, infected skin dangled from my under lip. My eyes were contracted, bloodshot blots. How? The girl dazed me more and more. Behind the gleaming mirror was a medication cabinet. I was intrusive. Balms. Lotions. Cleansers. Cosmetics. Deodorant. A women's conventional hygenic products. No malignant neoplasm treatments. She really did want to rest in peace. Fluoxetine. Interesting. She was depressed. What's this? Compressed in the atramentous crook on the top ledge was a boodle of nitrile gloves, a sterile needle and an unsullied urinary clamp. Alongside the medicative utensils was a gathering of stool sample pots. What was she underhanding? Was she an informer my originators assigned to scrutinize me? Don't be ridiculous. I've seen too much. I gently closed the cabinet and departed the toilet room. I walked back into the common room. Mori was parked on the snowy-

colored loveseat. She had a scaled-down remote control in her hand. The clicker was adjusting the music ambience in the room. "Come. Sit." She pattered the leather seat pillow beside her. "The noodles are boiling and will be ready shortly." I was hesitant. I eyed at her, expressionless, for a brief period. She peered back with her full, vibrant eyes. Again, she pattered the leather seat pillow. I gradually parked by her side. My modesty got the best of me. I suddenly uttered out, "Why do you have stool sample pots in your medication cabinet?" Oops. She became unsettled and coasted distant. "What were you doing in my medicine cabinet?" Think Wesker. Think. It seemed like misleading was my new pleasurable pastime. "I was making sure you weren't some disarrayed sociopath. I've been there before." Yeah, when i look in the mirror. "I told you, i'm a registered attendant. It's a requirement to keep them at hand if we phone in sick with D and V." Supposedly, she told me this when we first met. I don't remember. Did you know D and V is the mild, medical abbreviation for diarrhea and vomiting? I apologized to her. She granted me my parton and gave me a soapbox oration on how a women's medication cabinet is a big NO-NO to visitant males. Obviously, so far, the evening was going really well. Sarcasm. We migrated into the kitchen room. Mori was erect, in front of the range, stirring the dense sauce on the stove top. I was fixed at the counter, lazed on a cozy bar stool. I observed the setting. Polymer Board, 2 door wall cabinets. They're appropriate standards, considering the apartment's veneer and location. I've painted similar cabinetry when i was in the biz with dad. I wonder how he's doing? A top-freezer white refridgerator. A basic, inexpensive model for a one bedroom accommodation. Amber-colored linoleum floor covering and cocoa-colored wall paper. I was jealous. Mori's dwelling was much nicer than Papa Boy's. Papa Boy's. What a shithole. "What do you pay a month?" I asked.

"Six." It's a befitting amount. The locality may not have been pie-in-the-sky, but neither was Papa Boy's neck of the woods. I joked, "maybe i'll move in and be your next-door neighbor." The second after those words spurted from my mouth, Mori lost grasp of her spoon, and fumbled into the saucepan, slopping pasta gravy all over the range. "SHIT," she hollered. I convulsed backwards lurching off of the bar stool, discomposed on the floor. "Oh my! Are you alright?" Mori coursed to my aide. I wasn't startled because of her clamorous reaction. What spooked me was the visualization of red sauce daubed on her hands. I thought of the nightmare. I thought of her devouring Malco's bloody, imbrued bits. I was a wreck. "Maybe i should go." "No. No. Stay! Please stay!" I was disturbed. Distressed from the moment i arrived. My belly and bowels were talking to me. This was a bad idea from the start. "Please?" She demanded that i stay. Of course, i did. Comprehending, how could it get any worse?


We ordered a pizza. The spaghetti was no longer an opportunity. Between the tomato sauce spattered on the range and the noodles overcooked to a gluelike paste, an

open-faced slop pie was the only alternative. Pizza and wine. The pizza was super supreme. As the advertisement pronounced, a feast of ham, pork sausage, pepperoni, red onions, mushrooms, black olives and green peppers. I wasn't overawe. It wasn't nearly a feast, more of an abstain of dried out toppings. The wine was a sweet punch. Sliced melon. Grape. Mango. I'm not much of a tippler, but the thirteen percentage eased the tightness. I had a crucial time watching Mori eat. I visioned her munching grisly ear flaps and dismembered flew instead of pork sausage and pepperoni. I imagined her gobbling sanguined hock and hematic pads instead of black olives and mushrooms. I thought of her nibbling raw spleen instead of ham. I was sick. "What are your parents like?" She asked. I told her my father is an alarmist. He's a man that would rather elect to his own security than protect his own child. Mori told me her father was the absolute opposite. "Mine is conservative, very cautious about my well-being. He's kind of a hard ass," she said. I wish my dad was somewhat of an aggresor. A submarine machine that consecutively took home the, tin god, father-ofthe-year award. He never was. Not once. I told her my mother was dead. Her's had passed away too. Mori's mom was killed from an infinitesimal amount of cyadine poisoning while bunking at a notable, luxury hotel in Paris. The hotel employees had failed to completely unpollute the room after using hydrogen cyadine against bedbugs. Lawsuit anyone? That explains the italian leather furniture. Mori's mom was a frivolous, skillful artist. She painted crowd-pleasing portraits and displayed her handicraft all over the big blue marble. Her inventiveness was passed on to Mori. The artsy-crafty decor that deck the common room walls, all of it was Mori's handiwork. Mori is an artist. I'm an artist. I was discovering that her and i have amassed things in common. We easefully drooped there, supping the bittersweet, ruby-colored wine. I was wistful and a little bit nostalgic. I would bustle my ass and the leather love seat would make a shreiking melody. It was a bit agitating. Mori thought it was humorous. Her tittering was contagious. When she would

laugh, i would har-de-har. She was laughing A LOT. It was the wine. She began behaving extremely kooky. She instituted that if she ever forebears a child, she'll brainwash it outside of society's cliché. Case in point, she will educate the kid to assume that a domesticated house cat is called a giraffe. She rambled on about how The Land of Liberty has defaced abroad culture... like Godzilla? She garbled about how she prays she'll croak before our civilzation butchers itself. I asked the question. "Are you afraid?" "Of what?" She asked. "Death?" Yes death. Curtains. Eternal rest. Ruin. The grim reaper. The girl had an ample protrusion. She's a cancer patient. "No," she muttered. "It can't be avoided. Besides, The wacky Mayans speculate the world to end on 12/21/12. We'll see." Mori clownishly ascended from the sofa to pour some more wine. I sat there, solely, curious how she could be so oblivious. Absentminded about death and longevity. I was still in amazement that she was unrecognizing my pummeled face! "Did you know that 12/21/12 ultimately dwindles down to 3/3/3, and the symbolisim of 333 can mean a physical or spiritual awakening? So, who knows," she stuttered as she staggered back to the love seat. That's when it hit me. Like a a panel truck slammed into the face. The number 333. I've been recollecting this three digit figure a lot lately. Three thirty-three. It's the last thing i remember from my disinherit memory. The final thing i saw before i cosigned to oblivion. It's my virulent ending and it's my ungracious awakening. I needed more wine. As the after hours dimmed further into darkness, we became more relaxed with each others companionship. We watched outdated, black and white spaghetti westerns with the television's volume on mute. Mori complemented the voice-overs for the female roles, and i impersonated the male actors. We fixed the personalities in unusual, offbeat situations. Mori made the herion lead an irresposible clodhopper in search of her stolen curd cheese, and the hero with the ten-gallon hat, i dashed off as a cattle lover. It was fun. Mori described to me how vintage, capital cinema was the most enchanting. Some of her chalk choices were classics such as Touch of Evil and Psycho. She adored Hitchcock and Kubrick. I had no idea what or who they were. She asked me what my favorite movie was.

I recall watching this one movie with my mother. It was about a British passenger steamer traveling from point A to point B. It's a frumpish, stale film, but an empty-headed, fun disaster. That's all i remember. I guess that was my number one. She looked at me like i was mentally unglued. She asked if i knew the title. No. "The lead role?" No. "The supporting cast?" Nope. "The release date?" Umm... nineteen seventies? And that's when she pulled out her fine-tooth comb. "If you know nothing about it, than why is it your number one?" I thought really, really hard, why. It was exhausting. My head felt like it was beat rhythmically by a mighty Herculean mitt. It may have been the wine. And i uttered the most basic thing that came to mind, "mom." It was mom's favorite. Mom. And that was the brief time period i cracked. The juncture in which i torpedoed into total eradication. I remembered posturing on the painfully, rough rocking chair that mom gained possession of after gram's death. I would sit there, moving back and forth, tottering, irritating the infernal regions of mom as she would concentrate on this stupid movie. Mom loved this movie because it was gram's favorite. I think the irritation of the creaky sways from the aged chair would muddle mom, awakening memories of gram resting on the chair while she would focus on the awful film. I remembered. I remembered the movie. I remembered the rocking chair. I remembered gram and the void she left with mom. I think that's why i lost self-control in the presence of Mori that evening. Mom left me with a familiar desertedness. I don't know if it was unintentional, considering the circumstance. I fell apart, and in the attendance of Mori, i cried. It hit me solid. Like a gale of refrigerated flutter to the face. My eyes baptized and my lower lip crumbled down. My chin scrunched and my nose slobbered gelled waste. It was embarrassing. Mori embraced me. I toppled into her arms and just let go. "Hey, hey. It's okay," Mori delicately said. "Everything will be alright." She jerked me closer to her upper trunk, like i was a bothered toddler

seeking safety from it's soothing mother. She groomed my raggedy hair with her delicate finger tips, effortlessly swaying me in her clutches. "Calm down," she said. The more she would tell me to relax, the more i would cry. More turbulent. More full-mouthed and high-sounding. It wasn't pleasant. I felt sorry for the nearby residents. As i reclined in Mori's hold, i absorbed her delectable scent. She smelt like fresh linen jumbled with watermint. Maybe it was spearmint. One or the other, it was a tranquilizing, vivid smell. I nestled closer to her, reducing the pestering bawling. I became composed, inebriated by her smell. Her aroma was so tranquil, it caused me to become euphoric, and put me in a collected Dhyāna state. I lost all consciousness, and i flashed on another memory. I recaptured myself with the compassion of another young female. Someone i was immensely amorous of. Someone i loved. I couldn't recognize a face. I couldn't cite a name. She was just a distorted shadow. Her and i were both in towering grief. Her voice reverberated, and was abundant in sound. "We were best friends! It should of stayed that way! Dad hates you!" We cried. And cried. And cried. And that's all i remember. Morning came. Mori and i were still snuggled in a nestled curl up on the love seat. We both must've sacked out in the midst of my humiliating breakdown. We were fastened to one another like an intoxicating adhession. It was nice. I have'nt felt this extent of rapture in a long time. It was very nice.

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