From A Highly Dysfunctional Brain

I don’t know where this stuff comes from, but, well, here is an extract from my weird brain.

I was having an extremely difficult time moving my bowels. It was right there, ready to exit the long, brown tunnel, but it was as if it was having trouble moving forward. Stubborn, perhaps? Fear of the unknown, at what lies beneath? Hydrophobia? I was straining pretty hard, bearing down with considerable effort. I could feel my face flush from the exertion. My legs had pins and needles, and I was sitting so long, I feared a blood clot. Dammit, and I had to get up early in the morning to present a thesis on the Deep Resonance, and, Apathy Of Anvil’s Forged In Fire in front of a full English class at the prestigious Dollar General Community College. Full meaning 8, the most in attendance ever.
I gotta get this out! C’mon you sonofa-
The bathroom door opened, and my wife walked in wearing her Kewpie doll nightgown.
“Honey, I gotta pee, bad.”
Her nightgown was bunched up around her crotch, and she was hopping up and down, her face scrunched up in misery.
“Sweetheart,” I said, “I’m having problems. It’s right there, but, it won’t come out. Isn’t there a bucket somewhere?”
“Oh, God, Jimmy, I don’t think I could make it. Please!”
I sighed, leaned back against the tank, spread my legs.
“C’mon, sit.”
“Thanks, love! I owe ya.”
She quickly raised her gown, pulled down her panties, sat on top of my thighs, began to pee.
It was warm, and the sound of the urination, that hiss, kinda got me off. I started getting hard.
“Ah, babe, I’m gettin’ a hard on. Dammit, I’ll never be able to push this out.”
She wriggled her rump.
“Oh, I know, honey, I can feel it. Nice. Oh, it tickles.”
I raised her gown, and placed my hands on her breasts, tweaking her nipples.
“Sweet Jesus.” I whispered.
Just then, Grandma walked in, holding her stomach, complaining about the greasy food.
It was going to be a long night….

Marty Low Learns A Valuable Lesson

“Ya big lug, whaddya go do that for?”

The big lug was Marty Low aka Marty Knuckles. He was big as a house with all the sense of an inebriated cricket. All he had going for him was his fists. He didn’t know his father. The unknown seed planter had run away, (far, far away), after waking up one morning from a tour of the lower east side bars, sampling just about every beer brewed in the country, and finding himself in bed with a banshee with the face of Yoda, and the body of Jabba The Hut. Sally Low was not ugly as sin, she was uglier. She was mean, too. She has this shrill, high pitched voice that makes her sound like Tweety Bird on helium. She sounds funny, but you wouldn’t laugh, not if you value your life. Her eyes were little pinpoints in a doughy face, but they glittered with malice. You tread lightly around Sally.

Her one and only sexual encounter produced a child. A 12 pound baby boy she called Martin Francis, named after two of her favorite directors. She gave birth to him at home. Didn’t like hospitals. Said that a hospital was too clean a place to bring a child into the world. Clean, sanitary environments, sterilized equipment, people wearing gloves and masks who scrubbed all the germs off their hands and arms before they even said hello to you, now what good is that for a newborn? Huh? That’s so unhealthy! The baby should be exposed to the germs in a house, on the street, anywhere for that matter. How else are they gonna build up immunity? Huh? How? That’s why I’m gonna have my baby at home, cos it’s better for him, or her, in the long run.

It was also cheaper.

Janice Lacey, the midwife, does not talk about the night Martin Francis Low came into this world. In fact, if you ask her about it, she screams.

They say Sally would breast feed the baby while sitting on the porch steps of her house everyday and that Marty was so big and round no-one could tell where the breast ended, and Marty began. People complained, of course. The sight of Sally’s huge, purple veined gargantuan breast scalded their retinas. One brave cop did speak to her about it. Sally stared at him for a while, those motes of hostility making him sweat a little bit, his heart race a few more beats per second, his nerves bend to almost breaking. He wanted to look away, but, he couldn’t. He was too afraid.

Suddenly, Sally stood up, (making him visibly flinch, and back away a few steps), shuffled over to the cop, handed him 12 pounds of wailing baby, who also happened to carry around 2 pounds of baby diarrhea in his diaper, crossed her huge arms, and glared at him. And while he struggled with Marty, his back straining, trying desperately to coo, and make funny faces in an effort to make the kid stop that horrible keening sound , a sound that made your teeth ache, and your muscles tense, she kicked him in the balls.

Poor man’s face turned pale as milk, a small O formed, and a strange squeee sound emanated from it. Just as he was about to let Marty go, for he needed his hands to cup his injured jewels, Sally gently removed the child. The cop crumpled to the ground, curled up in a ball, and continued to make that squeeing sound. Sally shuffled back to the porch steps and continued feeding her son. After a while the cop got up off the ground, wiped tears from his eyes, and walked away, slowly, with the gait of an old man who has seen too many years. He never reported the assault.

Martin grew up a lonely child. The other kids in the neighborhood were too scared of him. He was like a giant to them. Their parents kept them away as well. They didn’t want to be associated with that drug dealing monster. Sally did sell. Weed, cocaine, heroin, oxy, meth. It helped pay the rent, put food on the table. She didn’t sell that much, only enough to get by. Only the really desperate bought from her. She hid the baggies in her folds which was an area rich, and ripe with all kinds of bacteria, and pungent odors. She was thoughtful somewhat in that she did double bag the produce, but when someone handed her a ten and she reached up under her muumuu and produced a small bag slick with sweat, and slime, and god knows what else, well, repeat business is pretty slim.

Martin did not do well at school. He hated it. All those words and numbers made his head hurt, and when his head hurt, he lashed out. Many a child was beat down because Martin couldn’t figure out multiplication, or, spell maximise. Sally finally decided to home school him, which was like an Alzheimer sufferer trying to teach his pet gerbil to heel. In the old days Martin would be called feeble minded, dense, slow. Now, he has learning difficulties. Not his fault, but it is what it is. He’s dumber than a box of rocks. And little old me has to teach him the ways of collecting from those that borrow from my boss, Charlie Handrick.

Sally had this idea, see. Marty had turned 16 a couple of months ago, but he looked like a grown man, like an NFL linebacker with serious steroid use. Just seeing his fists would put the fear of god into you. At least, that’s what Sally had hoped. She put the word out that her son was available for work that involved special enticement. My boss had seen Marty a few times as he walked his neighborhood, reminding those poor cretins personally that a payment was due by the end of the week, and subtly explaining the consequences of not paying. Paint him green, he thought, and you don’t need no CGI. Damn, that’s one big sonofabitch.

A deal was made. Marty was to intern for a period of two weeks and if all went well, then Charlie would put him on the payroll. And this Patsy was to be his teacher.

My name’s Patsy Wilson, and I’m looking down at our first client, Stanley Beezer, who got way behind on his payments due to the fact he couldn’t pick his nose, never mind a winner. His face looked as if a slab of concrete had smashed into it. The cheek was caved in, eye socket cracked, nose broken, a bloody tooth lay on his wasted chin, and his eyes just stared sightless up at the sky.

“You told me to punch him.” said Marty, with a little bit of fear in his voice.

A picture of the Incredible Hulk punching Peter Parker’s Aunt May entered my mind.

“Jesus, Marty, I just wanted you to hurt him-I- Aw, Christ-I guess I should have been more specific, like, hey, Marty, why don’t ya just give him a little tap instead of punching him into hell.”

Marty’s head hung low. “Sorry, boss.” If he starts cryin’ I’m gonna take my gun out-

“No, no, no, let’s ah, let’s try to salvage this, ok? Charlie’s gonna be pissed, but if we get somethin’, he’s not gonna be murderously pissed, understand? You with me Marty?”

“Um-sure, boss, sure.”

“Right, turn him over, get that wallet. We’ll sell his debit card, credit cards if the douche has any, sell his soc number, put the wallet in a garage sale. Hell, we’ll wash his clothes and sell them at a garage sale. Drag him behind that dumpster, out of sight. I’m gonna call Marv. He owns the butchers on Maple. Your Mom ever buy meat there?”

“No, boss.”

“Well, don’t. Ever.”

When Stanley’s body was safely out of the way, I called Marv, made a deal, garnered a few bucks. What I was gonna say to Charlie, I dunno. That’ll have to wait ’til later. I called Marty over.

” Okay, what have you learned today?”

It took him a while to answer as his brain tried to compute the question. ” Don’t hit too hard?”

“That’s right, that’s right, pull your punches. We need them alive so they can keep payin’. The next guy we see after Marv picks Stanley up will quiver and shake in his boots so much, he’ll sell everything he has, and his grandmother’s. He’ll sell her glass eye, false teeth, wooden leg. Trust me, you won’t have to touch him. Just make a fist. That’ll convince him to pay up.”

“A lesson learned is money earned. Think of that, Marty. Every day.”

The big lug nodded and I clapped him on the back.

Then Marv’s refrigerator truck pulled up and we got to work.


“Do you know where you are?”
“N-no-looks like a basement-someone’s basement?”
“Do you know who you are?”
“Who- my name? I…I’m-Jesus…, I don’t know-I-I don’t know!””
“Do you know what you did?”
“Did? Did? I haven’t done anything…have I?”
“You don’t remember anything?”
“Nothing, fuck, my mind is blank. What’s with all these questions? Who am I? Where am I? What did I do? Who the fuck are you? ”
“You did this-”
“Jesus! No, no, no, there’s no way I could do that…no, no way…, right?”
“Wrong. That’s the aftermath. You did it all right.”
“There has to be some mistake! I couldn’t do-Christ, there’s hardly anything left of those people, I couldn’t…, I just know I couldn’t…, Jesus…, did I? I can’t remember anything! I-I, oh God, I can’t remember!”
“Look at this picture.That’s you sitting in the middle of all that carnage. You see those little bones in your hands, the ones you’re using as chopsticks? That’s part of little Nathan, 13 months old. Your son.”
“My-what? What? Son? Did you say…, son?”
“You had a beautiful wife, Tracy, and two beautiful boys, Nathan, and Derek. You annihilated them.”
“No! No, I would not do something like that! You’re fucking with my head! Your-”
“You did it. You killed your family. You consumed your family. Congratulations, you’re more reviled than Dahmer”
“Look at your hands, we tried to wash it off, but the blood has stained your skin. Look under your fingernails, there’s still tissue underneath them. Look inside yourself, Look deep, and ask yourself, could I do this? Could I murder with such brutality, such depravity?”
“I can’t, I can’t”
“Why not?”
“I’m afraid!”
“Of what?”
“Of the answer, of course!”
“You know, you know deep down that you did it. You-”
“Who am I?”
“From the pictures, it looks like you are the Devil himself”
“My name…, what’s my name?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! Jesus, why are you fucking with me like this?”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“Help me?”
“Remember. I’m trying to help you to remember-”
“Dammit! I can’t fucking remember anything! Can’t you understand that? I-wait a minute…wait a minute…, oh, I get it now…, yes…, oh, yes…, you’ve erased my memory somehow…, this is a mindfuck…, ah…, why didn’t I think of that before? You’ve set this up. Those pictures aren’t real. They’re fake, photoshopped, manipulated…, lots of stuff you can do with pictures these days…, there are tells, yes, tells, and I’m going to find them. I have rights, don’t I? I demand a lawyer! I want to see the original photo on a computer. I want to take it apart, pixel, by, pixel, I’ll see the truth then, I’ll-”
“How do you know that?”
“How do I know what?”
“How do you know about Photoshop, and picture manipulation? Was that your job?”
“How the fuck should I know? I can’t remember! Everyone knows about Photoshop, and digital manipulation, pixels,and BMP’s, JPEGs, gifs, layers, drop shad-…, oh”
“My mind, it’s like a little light showing through. I see a monitor, an image of a monster…, grotesque…, terrifying…,I think… I…”
“Describe it”
“The image?”
“Yes. Can you see it clearly?”
“Madness, I’m insane, that explains everything. If I created that-”
“What’s it look like?”
“Like…,like nothing that could be created from a human mind…, something only a madman could create…, is that it? I’m insane? Are you even in front of me? Am I talking to myself? Oh, Jesus, Jesus, I’m scared, so scared…, can’t you tell me my name? Please? Help me? Did I really kill those people?”
“I’m trying to help you remember. It’s very important that you remember everything. Who you are, what you did, why you did it. We’re getting somewhere, believe me, this is helping, now what does it look like?”
“It’s a creature with three heads…, one of the heads seems human…, but…, there’s something off about it. It’s as if someone who had heard of the human race, but had never seen a human being tried to create a face from a vague description. It’s just all wrong…, it’s body seems immense, vast, scaly…, I see warts, pustules, slits in it’s sides weeping thick, black blood, it has long legs, but, they seem too skinny and insubstantial to hold it’s weight, It’s feet have long, sharp claws, it has no arms, but it has wings, leathery, transparent, I could count the blood vessels if I wanted to, it’s so detailed. One of the heads is all mouths, full of sharp teeth, gnashing and snapping, poisoned drool drips from those mouths, the other head is nothing but eyes, black, soulless eyes, full of hatred, and disdain, and violence. I could not have created this…, no man could have created this monstrosity…, it’s an embodiment of all that is wrong with the universe, looking at it sends your senses into hiding. You can feel the hatred emanating from this…, this thing. I can see a title on the bottom of the image. It reads The Thing That Is, Was, And Ever Shall Be. Below that it states To Release, Consume…, what does that mean?”
“Think. You have to remember!”
“I see this…, I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know why I created-”
“Open your mind. Remember. Remember! Remember!”
“But, why?”
“Because only you can send it back.”

Room To Let

Room To Let
William Morgan


“See, Missus? The room’s too small.”

Huh, look at that? She has her hands to her face, she’s gone all pale, and her mouth is open in a big wide O. Reminds of that painting I once saw. Some brain and bone slides down the wall and her Yorkie runs and tears into it as if it hasn’t been fed in weeks.

Mrs Brannon gasps, collapses.

I let go of the little boys leg, and step over Mrs Brannon, scratch out her listing in the newspaper.

On to the next one.

Looks like this is gonna take a while

A Man Is Interviewed On The Street about the Lottery

“Excuse me, sir? I’d like to ask you a few questions?”
“Yes? What about?”
” Do you play the lottery?”
“Yes, play them all. Big Mega Millions jackpot tonight!”
“Well, we’re interviewing people on the street to ask what they would do if they won the $95 million dollar jackpot”
“Man, if I won that, I’d pay off all my bills. My family and friends would be debt free. I’d Take a vacation somewhere nice and warm, with a beautiful beach, and a deep blue sea. I also order a ton of Extenze.”
“Excuse me?”
” Well, I’m sure you’ve seen the commercials? Natural Male enhancement? I’ll last longer, perform better?”
” Well, have you seen the price of it? Way beyond my budget. So, what I did was, I ordered something more along the line of generic, online. I think it originated in one of the Slovak countries, but, the batch I got probably came via Chernobyl.”
“I don’t understand.”
” It had the opposite effect. It’s bloody embarrassing to tell the truth, but, did you ever see those old school films showing the School nurse going through a child’s hair with a fine tooth comb? That’s what it was like on date night. She’d be combing through me pubic hair asking am I gettin’ any closer, hon? and I’d be like you’re not even close, Honey Dew, may as well give it up and get that thing out of your bedside drawer. I just put new batteries in it.”
“Honey Dew?”
“Wha-oh, that’s my pet name for my wife. It’s the second one actually cos she didn’t like the first one.”
“What was the first one?”

A Man Is Interviewed On The Street About His Tax Refund

“Excuse me sir, may I have permission to interview you for Channel 5 news? We’re doing a segment on what people will be spending their tax refund on this year.”

“Yeah, sure, and hey, I gotta tell you, that piece you did on skimpy bathing suits during sweeps week? Boy, did I use a lot of tissues! It literally was a real pleasure to watch.”


“You’re blushing. Must be real bad if I can notice through all that pancake mixture on your face. Why use so much cement? Hide the wrinkles, laugh lines, cancerous spots? You TV people get a discount at Lowes, Home Depot?'”

“It’s—it’s—ah—never mind. Your name please?”

“Miles. Miles Pulsalot”

“Are you kidding?”

“Wish I was. High school was a nightmare. Could be worse, though, could be Miles Suxcocsalot.”

“Ok—Mr—uh—may I call you Miles?”

“Sure, why not, as long as I can call you later.”

“Ack!—cough—sputter—Miles, what are you going to spend your tax refund on this year?”

“That’s easy. A Real Doll”

“A what? A doll?

“No, a Real Doll. Don’t you know what that is? Never heard of it? No? Oh, well, you know what a blow up doll is, yes?”


“A Real Doll is a thousand times better. More realistic. I’m gonna save a lot of money over time, even if it is expensive to buy in the short term. All my refund’s going to that baby.”

“How so?”

“Well, I calculated how much I spent on crack whores this past year, and, wow, I got the shock of my life. Renting the whore, buying the crack, using all that gas going to the free clinic, antibiotics. A Real Doll’s gonna save me major bucks, plus she’ll be disease free, and I’ll never have to worry about getting arrested, and, or imprisoned for purchasing crack. Never have to see a slum, or ghetto again, unless I accidentally watch CNN, nuthin’ but positive all way around. Why I didn’t think of it before is beyond me. Probably due to all those STD’s. How come nobody’s come up with a chem strip that can be inserted into a woman’s vagina that can tell you whether she’s clean, or not? Focusing too much on boners, I’ll bet.”

“Chr–I mean, can’t you show just a little respect for women?”

“I do respect women. I respect my Mom, and my sisters, Angie, and Rachel, hey, you two, keep ’em closed, remember Betsy and her fertile womb, don’t travel that hellacious road. Betsy’s got more kids than there are pundits on Fox, and CNN. That’s another plus for a Real Doll, no missed monthly’s, no wailing, peeing, pooping blobs of brainless life sucking, wallet emptying shysters who take up space like huge bowel movements blocking a toilet. Flush ’em if ya got ’em, I say.”

“God, I’ll bet you voted for Him.”

“Obama? Sure did. I voted for hope and change, got the same old, same old.”

“You know who I mean—“

“Does his name rhyme with rump, speaking of which, you have a nice one. Round and firm. I DVR’d your sweeps week segment on the best beaches, and that thong bikini was spectacular. TV screen is globby, now with so muc-“

“Stop! Just stop!”

“Oh, yes, I did get a little off track, there, didn’t I? I respect Shelia at work. She’s nice, and kind, and helpful, got a body on her, she does. She squatted down to pick up some papers she dropped and I got a glimpse of her Hanes Her Way’s. Thank God there’s private bathrooms at work-“

“Jesus, how many times”

“How many times, what?”

“Do you masturbate? Seems like every minute.”

“As much as any man, I guess. Ask your cameraman. Hey, buddy, how many times do you stroke it?”

“Don’t answer! Don’t answer!”

“Fine, fine, anyway, crack whores-“

“Sex workers!”

“Crack sex workers doesn’t have the same resonance, loses something, rhythmic I’d say. It wasn’t always like that, you know. I would get a regular wh-sex worker, but every time I dropped my pants, they’d coo, and say “aw, look at the widdle pee-pee, look at the widdle pee-pee!” Didn’t give refunds, either. Now a crack whore, sorry, it’s easier on the tongue, well she’ll not say anything, won’t be no laughing, joking, and she’ll do anything. During the first phase of negotiations, she’ll tell me which orifice is off limits, but as soon as I show her the baggies of Heaven, she’ll strip, lay on the floor, spread her lips, her cheeks, and have her mouth wide open for some-“

“Jesus Christ, you are a horrible man!”

“Why, because I like to fuck?”

“You’re a misogynist! A sexist pig! God, you’re as bad as my co-workers!”

“Oh, slip up there, hey? Lucky this isn’t live, huh. Can edit it out. No-one will be the wiser.”

“Fuck you, you woman hating little piece of shit!”

“Now wait a minute, woman hating? What else is the vagina for, hmmm? Inserting a penis, and expelling a bundle of joyless globs you all call children? You’re married, aren’t you? You let hubby inside, or is it just your fingers, dildos, and various vegetables?”

“How dare you!”

“Cammyman thought it was funny.”

“Leonard, stop laughing! Stop it! Men, you’re all the same! Sex, sex, sex on the brain!”

“My Victoria won’t be like you-“

“What? Who’s Victoria?”

“My Real Doll, it’ll be the name I give her when she’s finally purchased. Now, before your mind goes to the gutter, I’m not naming her after the panties, I’m naming her after Queen Victoria, give her a certain royal mystique, though maybe I should change it since she can’t move on her own, or anything, lifeless, inanimate, so, maybe change her name to Princess Di, well, the Princess Di after the crash-“

“Jesus! You sick bastard!”

“Too soon? Would you like to hear a holocaust joke instead?”

“I don’t want to hear anything else from you, you, you, arrrgghhh, you make me sick!”

“Not gonna make the cut, then?’

“No, Hell no!”

“Ah, well, your loss. Goodnight everybody!”

A Man Is Interviewed On The Street

A Man Is Interviewed On The Street



“Excuse me, sir? I’d like to ask you a few questions?”

“’bout what?”

“Disciplining your dog”

“Oh, aye, I discipline it alright. Bloody chihuahuas are a cantankerous, pigheaded breed.”

“How do you discipline it?”

“Shock collar. As soon as she squats on the carpet, zap!”

“Oh my-isn’t that rather extreme?”

” If I discipline me kids to behave, I surely can teach that damn dog.”

“Your kids?”

“Yah, two sons, ages 7 and 8, and daughter, 16. Best behaved kids in the world. They’ll never open your fridge without askin’, or, switch the channel on your tv, they behave proper alright.”

“You use a shock collar on them?”

“Leave off, missus. Nah, I put ’em over me knee, pull their pants down and spank ’em!”

“You do that to your children? Oh my God!”

“Well, yeah, pain and shame quickly puts ’em right.”

“You do that to your daughter? Your 16 year old daughter?”

“Yeah, why?”

“She’s sixteen!”

“And? She deserves spec- wait a minute, are you implyin’-wait a bloody minute! Get your mind out the gutter-that’s me daughter- tho, there was one time I got a partial stiffie when I was spankin the 8 year old, but, that’s because there was a classic scene coming up when I were watching Debbie Does Dallas on the VCR-“

“That’s terrible!”

“Oh, I know, but I can’t afford a DVD, or, Blu-Ray player-“

“No! It’s terrible that your exposing your 8 year old son to pornography!”

“Why’s that, then? He’s learnin ’bout the birds an’ bees, ain’t he? And etiquette. I were watchin’ Anal Desires 14, when I hit Tommy on the noggin’ and says to him, I says’ ‘ere see what he’s doin? You knock first before you go in the back door.”

“Oh, my God!.”

“Truth be told. I were on the PC watching some slap and tickle, an I read all those message boards, an’ everyone sayin’ try anal, try anal! It’s fantastic! An’ you know, Ethel, me wee woman, well, she’s more of a layin’ on yer back kinda woman, except this one time we were at Tracies weddin’ an she got a bit tipsy, well, actually, she were walkin’ sideways. We got a wee bit amorous when we got home, and as she laying there, moanin’, or snorin’, I couldn’t quite tell really cos her moans and snores sound the same an’ all. Anyway, I say’s hey Et, any chance I could come in through the back door, and she went, hrrump, which I took for yes, so I did. I’m not sure if it’s marital rape, but, the next week Et was so sore back there, and she did some bleedin’, but luckily for me, she thought it was her ‘roids, and used some cream.”

“That’s awful!”

“It sure is. The smell of that stuff is really strong.”

“No! You misunderstand-“

“Listen, I shouldn’t be sayin’ this, but, you know how you watch some of the old in an out on the PC, and it kinda gets boring after a while? So, you go check out the more, well, specialty sites? Y’know? All that tying up, and peeing, an’ dressin’ up, an’ all that? Well, I got on this site called Animal Love, and it was showin’ some rather risque pictures and film of all these dogs dressed up in frilly knickers an’ stuff, and I read the message boards and everyone sayin’ ya gotta try bangin’ a dog once. It’s incredible! See, Lady, me wee chihuahua, well, I’ve been noticing how she walks, see. The way she has her tail up, in a come hither way. I fear for her y’see”

“You! You! Y-“

” Now, don’t worry, I’ve learned me lesson. I bought KY jelly. She’ll hardly feel a thing.”

I Am, Oh, Yes, I Am

I Am, Oh, Yes, I Am
William Morgan


I am not mad.
I am real. I live as if it is to be my last. The imp inside me has destroyed my moral compass, smothered my conscience. Empathy is a word I furiously obliterate with my sharpie whenever I see it in a newspaper, or magazine. I am colder than the coldest.
I live therefore I kill.
I leap into the abyss with joy.
There is nothing after. Your god is a figment of your imagination. You will die, and will exist no more. But, you will suffer, oh, how you will suffer before you breathe your last, before oblivion. Pain will be your master. Pain will be your everything. Pain will be all that you know.
  I am coming.
  I am unstoppable.
  I am-
  I am-
  I. Am.-
“Asshole, I’m talking to you!”
“Yes, dear?”
“I need cigarettes, there’s some money in my purse. Get off that computer-“
“But, what?”
“I am death, that’s what.”
“Ha,ha,ha,ha, oh, Jesus, that again.”
“I am!”
“You are a willowy little munchkin with all the passion of a dying sloth. You’re a weak, yella-bellied, pile of quivering jello. You’re more yellow than the stains in your shorts”
“Please, Dorothy. Don’t. Please.”
“He assaulted me, Derek. Raped me. And you did nothing. Nothing! Just stood there shaking like a leaf. Yeah, you’re a badass motherfucker. Fucking coward. Fucking coward! He raped me. And-You- Did-Nothing!”
Should I tell her? Should I show her? YouTube will take the video down very shortly. Then, the cop’s will be on their way.
Should I show her how much is left of him? Should I let her hear his screams? Would she feel better? Would she live better? Would she love me again?
I turn off the monitor, get up, get a twenty out of her purse.
Cigarettes for her, and a bottle of strong stuff for me.
Driving to the convenience store, I see his terror, smell his fear, hear his shrieks.

I am death.
I am craven.
I am both.
I am.


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