| omg whoah |
[Jun. 17th, 2006|06:28 am] |
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i haven't logged on in a year. this place is holy cow way trite and myspace is passe. OH WELLS I <3 everyone. www.myspace.com/livinginconformity if you really love me. |
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| about that time... |
[Mar. 12th, 2005|12:16 am] |
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The Golden Gate Bridge is receiving a suicide-fence manicure and the citizens, of course, are up in proverbial arms. Dear residents, please do not allow the architects to become blamed for obscuring forces of nature and man-made beauty. Who if anyone, after all, could deny the irresistable call for a headfirst kiss across sludgecrust water. |
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| x-masturbation |
[Dec. 20th, 2004|10:56 pm] |
My next door neighbor murdered Christmas; at the very least he stabbed it right in the fucking throat. My participation in the holiday is rather limited, so this turn of events doesn't bother me too much. I do believe however, that the baby Jesus is probably crying his little eyes out in some rundown shanty of a farmhouse. The son of God is bawling, a carpenter is questioning his virgin's fidelity, and my neighbor is beating his wife's brains against a wall. I would involve myself, but I would rather courageously place myself as humble narrator thereby rendering myself impotent to the occurrences of plot.
The events concerning my neighbor and his lucky bride are not particular to the season. I have observed him kick her around the yard in some of the more mundane months, such as March, which contains no holiday of gift giving importance. This guy is relentless. He comes home daily wearing an Army costume and with (what I would assume) accurate and cunning battle plans to blitzkrieg the shit out of his spouse's pretty face. My neighbor is a relentless mother fucker of destruction, a machine of terror, and on the week before Christmas he decorated his house with strings of happy, colored lights. The trees in his lot smile with blinking white teeth and the little baby Jesus sleeps in a little bed of hay. Jesus is love, or that's what I hear anyways.
Yesterday, I stood outside smoking a cigarette while my friendly neighbor stormed the beachhead that is his driveway in a Humvee. He rushed his front door wielding bags cheerfully wrapped by one of the friendly mall elves taking residence at any of the conveniently located guest service stations. Please allow the author to use the following paragraphs to make the most meager and unassuming divinations concerning the aforementioned packages' contents.
I speculate that at least one little gift box contains a nice new transparent thong, with which his wife can wear on "special occasions". What I mean by this, of course, are those sensual and romantic moments when his wife relents due to continual begging and pressure, bends over and let's her caring and providing man fuck her asshole. Rest assured, he reciprocates the favor by fantasizing about his spouse's younger sister (his wife has put on a few pounds over the last fifteen years) and blowing his load within 5 minutes leaving his actual partner entirely unsatisfied. She does not mind, however. She is a thoroughbred from a long and loyal stock of faithful housewives. She fully understands that "sex toy" is a role that all good women fill, and that being objectified is synonymous with success. She will smile because her man is happy, and then compliment him on his magnificent performance.
A few of the thinner packages more than likely hold video games for our brave soldier's son. These games will only be allowed to be played after all homework has been finished and only for two hours at a time. Special exceptions will be made for when daddy is horny and wants mommy to eat his cum. X-box will also be allowed when daddy is uppercutting mommy's jaw into splinters- children are not to be privy to these adult conversations.
The remaining presents are for friends, neighbors, and relatives that do not have much worth, ie. anyone outside of the immediate family. These gifts generally consist of generic products that no one could possibly want, and only serve to make the recipient feel uncomfortable as they strangle themselves looking for the words to articulate a heartfelt and believable thanks.
As a lowly request from this most meekest of narrators, I offer this final prayer and predicition. Hopefully, one little package contains a chrome .38 Special, with which my neighbor uses to execute both his wife and child, eliminating any further chance of contamination or outbreak beyond our block. Shortly afterwards in a special display of holiday good cheer, he will then proceed to place the gun into his mouth and coax it into ejaculating a bullet.
The baby Jesus understood sacrifice. |
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| 1,095 days after the fact. |
[Dec. 7th, 2004|11:53 pm] |
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I remember her naked, laying in the reflections of a dirt washed mirror- oh God, she was beautiful. The exact same as extinguished cigarettes thrown across chalk white snow. |
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| Your showmanship, my therapy. |
[Sep. 30th, 2004|06:31 pm] |
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I got into an argument with a box cutter today. He was not very reasonable. I tried to debate the shit out of the issues, but logic evidently was not good enough. He was irrational and dramatic and taunted me by sticking out his tongue. I figured the only thing left for me to do was to respond in a mature and clinical manner- I sat down and cried hard. |
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| five or six days delayed... |
[Sep. 17th, 2004|09:37 pm] |
I had been sitting against the wall in my hallway for about five fucking hours waiting for her to come home. It was probably about 6 AM, but I was too goddamned nervous to sleep. When I heard the front door unlock I straightened up so that it looked like I was deadly serious or something. I was honestly more relieved that she hadn't just completely run off on me. When I saw her turn the corner, I confronted her. I said:
"We are done aren't we?"
Her eyes were muddled and I knew. She didn't have to say a goddamned thing.
I wanted to get up. I struggled to put my feet under some words so that I could at least be standing. It was very embarrassing being on the floor for something like this- I can't really explain why. It was probably subconsciously symbolic. I have this problem with designing about a million idiotic metaphors and then living them out. I really don't understand it- I've always done it, I guess. Anyways, I couldn't get up so instead I just sat there. I sat there and asked her why.
She said, "I dunno. I've told you before, really."
I told her to tell me again.
"I feel like you've betrayed me- like you have turned into this person that is the complete opposite of what I knew. You have no ambition or desires and I feel drained and ruined by being with you."
She had told me that before. She was being very truthful about that. I never knew that things were this serious though. I guess that I might have actually known and not cared. It doesn't matter, really. After she said that, I felt like crying and I honestly tried to. I couldn't fucking do it though. I was too weighed down by the gravity of the situation. We were both very quiet for a while. I don't know for how long.
"Do you still love me?", I asked.
She told me that she still did. Immediately afterward she added:
"That is why I want you to get your things and go home soon. It doesn't have to be tonight, but it needs to be soon."
I noticed that she was wrenching her hands. She had one cupped inside the other and she was squeezing them like crazy. I asked her what the hell she was doing. She didn't reply, so I stood up because I wanted to know what the fuck was happening. I grabbed her fucking hands and pried them apart. She had been digging the tips of her fingernails into her skin so hard that she was bleeding pretty profusely in four different spots.
"Why the fuck did you do this?", I asked her.
"You.", she mouthed. She didn't say it, but I could read her lips. At this point, I finally lost it. I burst into tears and threw her hands down. I turned and walked the hell out of that hall.
I heard her scream my name as I turned the corner into the kitchen. I just ignored her though. I went into the kitchen and opened the cabinet where all of our silverware was kept. I found the biggest fucking steak knife that I could and went back into the hall with it. She must have thought she was going to get stabbed or something, because she gasped when I walked up. I won't lie here. For a very tiny, split-second, I thought about shoving my knife into her goddamned throat and catching the arterial spray on my tongue. I hated her so much for breaking us in two. As soon as I thought about this though, I started bawling even more. Instead of murder, I took my stupid knife and cut five lines with it into my forearm. I heard her yell something at me, but I didn't care. I just kept slicing. I switched hands with the knife, and cut five lines into my other arm to prove that I was hurt by this more, and that I had loved her the most. I know this doesn't make sense. I even knew that while I was doing it. I didn't care though, I did it anyways- I had to prove my goddamned love for her.
"Fucking stop!", she yelled at me. She told me to give her my knife and she reached out to grab me. I sort of jumped out of the way though.
I walked out of the hall again and opened the back door. She was following me and screaming for my knife. I went over to this dumpster and chucked the fucking knife into it. She tried to punch me or grab my arm or something, but I just ignored it and walked back inside of our house. I sat down on our futon where I noticed that I had been bleeding pretty badly. Blood was leaking out of my arms like crazy. It really was all over the goddamned place. I didn't fucking care though. I just sat there ruining the futon and looking at all the mess. I was pretty much oblivious to everything at this point. I had even stopped crying.
After what was probably about 30 minutes, she walked in and sat right next to me. My bleeding had basically stopped- I didn't cut myself that deeply. I looked over and took her stupid cut up hand in mine and started kissing off the blood. I honestly wasn't trying to make some type of vampiric metaphor out of this. I just didn't like to look at her all bloody.
"Whatever you do, please don't put me in a box.", I told her. "Burn me up, or trash me, or whatever- I don't fucking care. Please just don't shove me in a fucking box."
I couldn't stand the idea of all my leftover things being all boxed up and lonely in a fucking attic or closet somewhere. That idea still depresses me if I think about it for too long.
"I promise.", she said. "But you have to promise not to forget us when we were still having fun and were in brand new love and excited. Promise to always love me for that."
I told her that I promised and I crossed my heart to prove that I wasn't kidding. |
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| a slight story concerning my very first firearm |
[Sep. 2nd, 2004|10:06 pm] |
My friend has a girlfriend. She is a complete piece of shit. She has no job or form of employment. She provides nothing, barring raising blood my pressure and leaving a bitter taste that lingers in the back of my mouth like stale battery acid. She lives alone with my pal and pays her rent with what must be the most ungoldy and horrible distortion of the act of male/female coupling. I would call her a goddamned leech, but I fear I would only anger parasites everywhere into hiring little lawyers and pressing charges of defamation. This bitch has inserted her proboscis into the asshole of my friend and is draining him dry from the inside out. I've begged in vain for her to be tossed aside like rotten milk. Until this unholy relationship, my friend was a 35 year old virgin. I fear that she will be gone no time soon.
God, I detest her. She is a smear on humanity- a shit stain in a public toilet. The world has not seen a monster the likes of this since Hitler or Stalin or Mecha-Godzilla. I honestly would not be surprised if it were to be discovered that she had been created in a laboratory by some underfunded lunatic. She has been birthed and unleashed to wreck havoc and take names. She is apocalypse.
You might make mention that I will not reveal her name. I am afraid that if it is spoken (or written as the case may be) enough she will manifest from the very bottom of the sludges of hell, or gehenna, or whatever and devour my fucking face. This, however, is probably a very unfounded fear. The act of spontaneous manifestation probably requires more effort or movement and exercise than she is willing to put forth, or more realistically could possibly physically muster. For prosperity's sake, I will only refer to her as "her", or "bitch", or "slut", or some other derivative.
This bitch is the very definition of disgustingly fat. Her ass bubbles through her pants, revealing mouldering heaps of cellulite. Her thighs are comparable to baked hams in diameter. She jiggles when she walks, in all of the wrong ways. When I say walk, I actually mean shamble. Monsters her size can not manage a normal gait. I would like nothing more than to attach a cow bell to her neck. It would be both fitting and symbolic, like the beeping a semi truck emits when it is going in reverse.
For a period of time, I came to accept the fact that she was in my life to stay and that nothing I could do or think would delete her. I became consigned to the fact that I would be forced to observe this obscene sloth, this fat fucking bison, anytime I chose to visit my friend. My visits to his house became sparse. Whenever I frequented his home I felt myself fighting back an urge to involuntarily expel the contents of my stomach. The place was kept as a disaster. His whore, who did nothing but wallow around all goddamned day, could not even pick up a single dirty dish in the kitchen. I could never determine if the lingering odor of dog shit and boiled broccoli wafted from the rotting remnants of food in the sink or his girlfriend's stupid mouth. I stayed away as much as I could. However, it was on one of my sporadic visits that I became infuriated to the point of annihilation.
I walked into their house without knocking (as was my custom) only to discover my friend sprawled across his couch with that fat bitch looming over him like a rotting piece of meat dangling from a hook. She had nothing on excluding a hideous bra that draped across her chest like an unfurled flag. Her stomach poured out over her triple XL underwear and splashed amorphically across my friends belly. My eyes begged to be blinked. If I had perhaps a revolver in my pocket, I would have drawn it and fired four shots point blank into the back of her diminutive brain. I would only have saved the remaining rounds to mercy kill both my friend and myself. I was reeling and forever mentally broken, but still unnoticed to them. The bitch whispered something. She had said something to my friend and I felt stabbed. I wanted to swallow my tongue and die. Her three words leveled me like planes hitting skyscrapers.
"I love you", she said.
This fucking cunt had taken my most treasured emotion and used it as if wiping left over shit from between her legs. I felt as if she had stuffed all of what I valued into her rotten, swollen mouth, swallowed deeply, and then vomited everything into my fucking face. A shotgun blast to my guts would have been less effective. She had so very efficiently pushed me off of my ledge of disdain into something sick like depression but much further back. Bile bubbled over the corner of my lips. I did not know whether to cry or splinter a baseball bat across her spine.
"What's wrong?", my friend asked.
His girlfriend, the fucking murderer, did not even have the modesty to cover up her disgusting parody of a body.
I told them nothing and that I had to go.
I went home where I designed a plan to slaughter her- she had to fucking pay. I purchased a pistol and then invited my friend over for drinks. I fed him alcohol until he vomited. I placed more drinks in front of him and peer pressured him into consumption. When he had passed out I stole his house keys and left him resting his head on my bar. I drove to his house and let myself in. I walked straight into his bedroom where his whore was fast asleep in a puddle of her own curdeled spit. I straddled her obnoxiously wide body and pressed my gun into her cheek like cutting with a knife.
She snored a response.
I said:
"Wake up bitch!"
I slapped her but she only shuddered. I slapped her again and told her that she better wake the fuck up immediately or get murdered. She came around. At first she was only a little startled because she thought I was drunk and joking with her. I told her that my gun was loaded and I was not kidding around.
"This gun has bullets in it and I will shoot them into your face.", I told her. "You better do what I say, because I am not fucking kidding around."
She whimpered like snorting, or a balloon slowly deflating with someone clenching its valve loosely. She understood that I was serious.
I told her that she did not love my friend, and that she was absolutely wrong by saying so. I told her that a disgusting blob of a person such as herself, could never understand anything about love. I informed her that I would accept her being infatuated, but not in love.
"You ruin the world by saying the word love or even pretending to mean it."
That was me who said that. At this point, I was basically screaming.
"Take it back you stupid fucking jerk. You wrecked something valuable and you don't even understand what you've done. Morons like you can't even begin to know what love is and I fucking hate you for pretending like you can."
She began to cry and I had this huge lump in my throat that I could not choke down. I asked her if she wanted to take back what she had said. I told her that she would be shot if she didn't. I hated her so fucking much.
"No.", she mouthed out in between gasps.
I pushed my gun deeper into her pudgy cheek. I could barely hang on to it because my hands had started trembling like crazy. I wanted to pull my trigger and splatter her brains across the bed. I couldn't do it though. I just kept looking into her dumb fucking eyes, while my hand continued to shake like a bastard.
"Please stop. I won't tell anyone if you please just stop", she begged.
"No. You have to fucking take back what you said. Just fucking take it back.", I was seriously about to lose it and start bawling like a damn child.
She would not take it back. She just kept making that stupid promise over and over.
I watched tears fall from my stupid eyes and then splash right on to her fat fucking forehead. I couldn't help it. I got up and put my gun into the back of my pants.
"I won't tell anyone. I promise."
I told her I didn't fucking care what she did. I got into my car and cried the whole way home. |
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| How wars are won. |
[Aug. 31st, 2004|03:16 am] |
I spoke with a friend about violence. He told me that if he were to own a firearm he would discharge it at his earliest convenience on whomever he deemed appropriate.
"Who's cap would you peel?", I asked him, trying to remain hip with the vernacular.
"Whoever the hell pissed me off.", he replied.
I asked him about the carnage he would leave behind. I asked him how many people would lay dead at the end of his rampage.
He told me ten.
"Is that a fact?", I questioned.
He smiled. He thought it to be absolutely, God-has-spoken, true.
I returned the grin.
In a fit of boredom, I purchased my pal a handgun. I had only scientific interests in mind. I wanted to see if in fact he would achieve his estimated goal. I followed him with a small notepad to keep tally. I rode with him in cars and I prayed for a fit of road rage. I paced steps behind him in shopping malls, always hoping that some fucking punk would bump shoulders with him. I got my friend drunk on several occasions and I could do nothing but wish for bloodshed. Nothing ever transpired. Thus goes life.
I had to make a move.
At a bar, in a drunken stupor, I paid some dumb idiot fifty bucks to punch my friend in the fucking face. After much reassurance and haggling (he wanted seventy-five, but I talked him down) I convinced this fool to jack my buddy. He punched him right in the stomach. Mind you, I specifically requested the face, but the guts got the job done. My friend drew his pistol and put a bullet right in between his assailant's eyes. I walked over to the corpse and retrieved my fifty dollars.
That was one.
Some jerks at the bar tried to rush my friend.
Three, four, five, and six.
A girl screamed in absolute horror.
Seven.
The bartender called the cops.
Eight.
My boy was indeed going to get the high score.
The entire bar dispersed.
I informed my friend he had only managed eight.
"Wait for the police.", he confided in me.
I counted the minutes until the cops showed up. It took them fifteen minutes to arrive. They rolled up and my friend's pistol blasted off a round, but only clipped the ear of an officer. The police returned fire. In a fit of desperation, my friend turned the gun on himself and sloshed me with his teeth and brains.
His final kill count was nine.
He went 9 for his projected 10. This is a far greater ratio than that of the firebombs that fell on the heads of the people of Dresden. They only ended up with a mediocre, 5 for 12. Combined, the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagaski batted a pathetic 7 for 30. The Japanese only went 7 for 20 when they devastated and raped the hillside populace of Nanking. Modern warfare in Iraq has been quite pitiful, shocking and awing only a scant ratio- 3431 for 3125000.
Conclusion: The young, determined, suburbanite is evidently the most efficient killer in the history of modern warfare. |
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| small time fascination with explosives... |
[Aug. 28th, 2004|03:26 am] |
When I was younger and less medicated, I wrote very lousy poetry. Now that I am alone, aging slowly, I argue pedantic points on message boards and call in bomb threats to kill the time. I've traded in angst and apathy for the cheap thrills of dialing schools, homes of senility, veterinarians, cafetoriums, and random suburbanites. I howl at my recipients in warning.
I tell them:
HOLY COW THERES A BOMB AT X!
Where 'X', of course, is a place I deem applicable and appropriate in terms of the victim's location.
Some examples of 'X':
Toilet bowls, benches, flowerpots, wheelchairs, the third Happy Meal box from the left, etc.
The actual locale of my purported incendiaries really does not matter because the results are basically the same. Everyone immediately recognizes me, the caller, for who I am. A total and utter joke.
"Is this some kind of prank?", is a typical response.
"Fuck you jerk!", I received once.
I explained my plight- my utter lack of companionship, ad naseum. I asked my newly established acquaintance to be my friend. I asked him if he would like to see a ballgame that I had tickets for.
"I'm calling the cops!", he replied.
He hung up on me after that. I ripped up my tickets in response. |
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| My slightly hypocritical love affair... |
[Aug. 24th, 2004|02:31 pm] |
I allowed my car to slowly come to a stop. I stepped out and admired her house. It was very goddamned gorgeous. The home was wearing chipped gun-blue faux shutters- they looked to be glued on. The shutters leaned in such a way to make the house look slanted. The yard was a jungle. It was full of grass that grew so high a five year old could safari within it. As I approached her door, I noticed an old hose sprawled out across the porch like a rotting green snake. It had apparently died of natural causes.
I was holding pizzas. Did I mention that? That's my job, pizza delivery I mean. I knocked on the door and looked over my shoulder while smiling. I imagined a camera man filming a drug bust for COPS. I cocked my left leg back to bust down the door. I waited for the signal from my partner. There was definitely crack and heroic action to be found here. My daydream popped as she opened the door.
A very large woman was revealed. She was huge. Not so much Godzilla gargantuan, but more morbidly obese. She sported a stomach that was made popular in style by plumbers and old heavyweight boxers. She had breasts that dripped like water filled garbage bags. The cleavage that her shirt revealed separated in the middle in a similar fashion to that of parts shaved into hair. In my mind she was an untreated hernia created by the weight of a sham society, and for that I fell in love with her.
I immediately felt the undeniable urge to apologize. I wanted her to know that I was sorry for Martin Luther King, the tyranny of corrupt cops and slave holders. I wanted her to realize that I had nothing to do with a century of forced impoverishment. I was not the one that was against her. I wanted to her to know that I could understand her plight, if not by experience, at least in theory. I wanted to scream out that I was not a bigot or a racist and that I despised and confronted those who were. I read her the price of the pizzas instead.
She replied with a curled face bearing the deadly sneer of a spoiled pit bull. Her lip boiled at the edges. This was a face that meant war.
She raised a hand that clutched a twenty dollar bill. Her fingers clenched about it with the might of a locked sharks maw. My customer dropped the money into my open palm in a manner that could only resemble that of an aristocratic woman disposing of a used condom. I could hear the hate she had in the silence that breathed over the both of us. I pushed the crumpled money into my pocket. I wasn't going to be tipped.
In the few petty seconds that it took for me to count back correct change and for her to slam the door right on my fucking face, I became all things that I had previously refuted.
I am so very sorry.
Forgive me for being born white and into an advantageous situation. Forgive me for suburbia and rich subdivisions. Please forgive me for graduating and then squandering perfectly good opportunities- something that you never had the chance to do. Most importantly, please forgive those few seconds in which I lost the ability to distinguish the differences between a cheapskate and that of just another fucking nigger. |
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| Something quite abnormal... |
[Aug. 23rd, 2004|11:46 pm] |
I watched a city become murdered last night- it was very unusual. I was the only survivor of a town who's populace only one short day ago consisted of five thousand, four-hundred and three. I have no hypothesis to offer as explanation of the carnage. I have no unique insight for I was merely an objective observer. I have nothing whatsoever to offer, barring my eye witness testimony to the slaughter.
Late yesterday morning (closer to noon than dawn), a young, but durable looking Asian man stepped across the official boundries of the jerkwater town of Cabbage Leaf, FL and into the city limits of an even greater jerkwater community known as Kaskolosa. Sipping lemonade from a straw, I watched him stride slowly down the street. He wore nothing more than an antiquated oriental style robe and a sheathed sword which he kept tucked deep within his belt. I laughed slightly. He was very overdressed for a town that provided service regardless of shirts or shoes. His face had determination written across it and his eyes stayed focused on something distant. He meant business. I softly imagined him in a suit and a tie. I thought of him as holding a laptop computer in his left hand while screaming at his stockbroker through a phone gripped in his right. This man was obviously someone who could get the job done.
I witnessed three young ruffians approach my determined Asian friend. I watched them point and jeer. These punks laughed right into his fucking face. The Asian said nothing in reply- he was obviously the type commonly referred to as a gentlemen of few words. I somewhat conjectured at this point that he was also the type to allow his actions speak for him. I would soon discover that I was somewhat of a prophet. One of the locals, whom I believe was (notice the past tense) in the possession of the classic trailer park name Seth, pushed my young Asian to the ground. Seth called him a chink and a gook. He called him a goddamned nip. Seth was evidently confused of the actual ethnicity of my little swordsman. The young man stood up and brushed his robes off. Seth went to shove him again but as he reached out with his hands his body split into two distinct pieces. I was a bit confused at this happenstance but all was revealed as the Asian drew his sword and slashed down the second yound boy. He slid his sword back into its sheath and then drew a third time. The third boy stood in horror. He shook in terror. The Asian had missed. I watched the young boy actually piss himself as he patted down his body to make sure he was okay. He breathed in deeply and then exploded into a lot of bloody little pieces.
I saw an old man gasp and I saw a young lady faint. A shop owner ran into the street brandishing a pistol that he kept for self defense. I watched as a bullet was spat from the gun. Without a single care, the Asian caught the slug with his sword and sent it screaming back to its owner. More men and more guns and more targets poured out on to the street. Rounds whistled out from all directions. The Asian spun his sword. Men from all directions fell dead with bullets sleeping inside of their brains. This Asian man was very good at his job to say the least.
The day went on. The streets leaked blood and I still sat drinking lemonade. The police were called and they conviently lined up to take their place with the other victims. The little Asian could not be stopped. I must make note that he was a very fair murderer. I saw him slice up women, men, children, dogs, cats, homes, vehicles- He did not care at all. At one point I saw him slash through a pet goldfish in its bowl. He was nothing if not impartial. By dusk the town was in ruins. Houses lay like torn paper and the tank the Asian had destroyed when the National Guard rolled in smoked from its broken barrel. The town was lost and no one else was going to be screaming for all cars to be called. At midnight, I existed alone with the bloody samurai. He approached me.
"What the hell was all of that for?", I asked.
I thought I noticed a tear on his face but it was only a droplet of someone else's blood.
He said nothing and walked off almost obsequiosly. |
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