From the Journal of the Devil

Aug. 13th, 2009
I just witnessed yet another one of those late night infomercials. I must get it. The item in question is a pizza cutter that makes the perfect slices every time. This beauty goes by the name the Perfect Slice. So simplistic I love it. For the low, low price of $9.99 plus shipping and handling, I could be cutting my way to pizza heaven. How could I go wrong? Worst case scenario it becomes another prop I can use to frighten my victims will. I could raise the scissor-like device and threaten to cut little triangles out of their ball sack. The applications would be limited when it comes to actual torture. I’m sure that it can’t cut too deeply through the skin and there is no way it is getting through bone. Though if I modify it with a better hinge it could have the potential to do more damage, but then I’m into it for way more than the asking prices. There is also its basic function of cutting pizza and that could be helpful at a dinner party. I’m excited at the possibilities, but I don’t think it can live up to my last late night purchases. The Tri-Saw which has to be the most amazing device I have ever purchased. I really couldn’t ask for a better product. Three counter spinning blades rotating at 5500 mps gets my dick hard just thinking about it. This amazing saw can cut through most metals with ease once you purchase the Cut Anything replacement blades. Which of course I purchased because when you need to cut through a bone you want a perfect cut every time. Also, the stability of the Tri-Saw is second to none. There’s no jerking or pulling like there is with most saws. Plus it is handheld and portable. The miter saw I was using before was just too bulky and awkward. Not to mention loud and there are only so many new house projects I can lie about before the neighbors realize I haven’t fixed a thing. But with the Tri-Saw there is barely any noise. It does, however, lack a proper guard which can make quite the mess out of dismembering a body. But with this hobby, it seems to be unavoidable anyways and nothing a well-manufactured tarp can’t handle. There is nothing like it in on the market today. The Tri-Saw gets my seal of approval like my other great purchases such as the All in One Super Blending Unit, Soil Extraordinaire, Fantastic Flavor Inserter, and the Dangler Tomato Planter. While other products can be utilized beyond their intended purpose. The Soil Extraordinaire is for pure entertainment. Soil Extraordinaire was designed to feed water into plants as they need it. A reserve reservoir for those long business trips or the lazy ass who couldn’t be bothered to water their plants. It has the quite opposite effect if the product is stabbed into the whore’s neck. Granted some of the blood does make its way into the small hand-blown globe that acts as the reservoir, but this is mostly due to the pure force of the blood coming from their neck. The best technique is to enter at an angle so that the blood has a better chance of actually doing this. Then in order to save the blood from spilling all over the place, I have to gently remove the Soil Extraordinaire from the victim’s neck, and flip it so that the sharp end is pointing up. There is a real art to it all. Though if I am feeling lazy it is much easier to fill the product the old fashion way with a knife and a small incision. Either way works, but then I can take and put the blood filled globes in any potted plant that I have around the house. The blood doesn’t help them in any way. In fact, it mostly destroys them over time. Too much iron in the blood maybe? Really their only purpose is for me to have a discrete way of showing off my blood collection. Waste not want not. Plus there is something about having incriminating evidence stashed around the house that really gets me going. A major drawback to the Soil Extraordinaire is that the cheap shitty glass breaks way too easily. I have to make sure I stab the stem of the Soil Extraordinaire perfectly into the bitch’s neck or it snaps off into a million tiny little pieces on her collarbone. All of this creates an insidious mess that I have to clean up later. It took a reasonable amount of practice and quite a few Soil Extraordinaire to perfect the whole technique. The first girl I must have stabbed her at least six times before I got it to work. That’s about thirty-five dollars in globes alone. This is where the added value comes kicking in. At five dollars a globe it is much cheaper to replace the Soil Extraordinaire than it is to use quality materials. But even if the stem breaks or the globe itself, not all is lost because I can still use the leftover pieces to stab randomly all over their body. Another fun trick that I like to do whenever I’m not in a poetic blood and flowers kind of mood is to take the blood filled globes and smash it over their head. If their mouth isn’t gagged, neighbors on vacation, I like to watch as the blood slowly makes its way into their mouths. They pit and choke as they try to find a way to get it out, but more and more as the little shards stick out of their foreheads. The scene turns quite hilarious if left alive for a long enough time as they begin to vomit up their own blood all over themselves. The All in One Super Blending Unit on the other hand is a wonderful device from top to bottom. The name could have used some work, but it does do everything it promises and more. It really isn’t something I like to use during playtime but afterwards is a whole other thing. To quote the online website, “The units unique shape design circulates food with so much force and speed that it can do any job in 5 seconds or less.” So impressive. In the case of cooked human flesh this amazing little device can chop, dice, or mince me into flavor heaven in not one, not two, not even four seconds, but just three seconds. For the perfect human topping on nachos, in omelets, or to just sprinkle in my mouth. This little fucking machine even comes with a cookbook for other great recipe ideas. Of course I have to just replace parts of the recipe with cooked human pieces. Marinating chunks of human used to be a real bitch before one extraordinary night I came across the Fantastic Flavor Inserter while using the All in One Super Blending Unit to prepare my favorite midnight snack, human quesadillas or hum dillas as I like to call them. I had the Fantastic Flavor Inserter operator in stitches with a story about one of my many horrible attempts at making the perfect garlic “chicken.” Luckily for me the operator was laughing so hard she couldn’t hear the moans of some stupid bitch I brought home that night. Let’s just say she never got to enjoy the Fantastic Flavor Inserter like I have or the sunrise on that particular morning. I however did get to enjoy that amazing sunrise and I must say there is nothing more enjoyable than a brain shake at dawn. I haven’t been able to find a useful purpose for the Dangling Tomato planter, but it does grow very tasty tomatoes in just a few short weeks.


Postscript of the Unimaginative

“The world shatters around me. Falling shards of a broken mirror reflecting all the past actions of my life. Regret is something that can only happen after everything is said and done. How I wish I could take them all back, but I can’t. Each broken shard plunges into me and through all the pain. Through all the despair all I have left is tears and regrets. Open wounds that will never heal and maybe that is for the best. I’ve wasted too much time already on what if. Maybe now is the time to move on from all the pain and anguish. I’m not trying to justify my sins or the things I have done. I am only trying to move on, take credit for the things that I have done. In the past where they should stay. Stealing, robbing, threating, and who knows what else can’t be undone. Maybe it is time I told my tale. Confessed my part in everything that has unfolded in all these years. Maybe it is time.” The cold barrel presses against the back of his head.

Laying in a pool of his own blood the words fade away into nothing. No one leaves this world the way they envision. You either leave willingly shitting yourself until it is your time or you get put down like a dog. Rabid useless monster you never knew you’d become. Turn states evidence. Turn up dead. You signed the contract before it was written. One in the same. Only one of us was stupid enough to try and live. The other as stupid as the day we met. The point is to keep your mouth shut.

“Your debt is paid. You have proved your loyalty,” his voice as grime as the day we were introduced. “What does that mean?” I ask him. “You are free,” he smiles. I stare into his eyes. The gun still heavy in my hands. A weight that I can’t understand. “Like I asked. What does that mean?” He never blinks only stares back at me with those cold dead eyes, “It means that you and I never need to see each other again. Your husband’s debt is paid. We will take care of the rest.” I refuse to look away. Gripping the pistol tighter. My husband’s blood still splattered against my face. “Unless you would care to join him?” He asks me as though the question is really an option. I know as soon as I turn my back he will kill me. My husband told me everything about this man, this monster. Never trust a monster. “You going to stand there all night?” he asks me. Slowly I back away from him. Making my way towards the door. I want to speak, but it is only a waste of words. I back into something heavy. It doesn’t move as I step away from it. “You know I could use someone like you. A cold-hearted woman such as yourself,” he states. The heavy figure grabs me from behind “I know I could find a good use for her,” the heavy figure says into my ear. I know better than to struggle. The gun still in my hand, “I want no part of what you are selling.” He finally looks away waving his hand as he does. The figure lets me go. “I think you do,” he states. “I think you are at least curious to what I have to offer you,” he pulls a contract from his jacket pocket.

“You think of me as a monster and you are right. But it goes much deeper than that. I don’t care that your husband went to the authorities. Doesn’t even matter. None of this even matters. You taking my offer or not doesn’t even matter,” he picks up the pen from my husband’s desk. “We both know that it is too late for you to take another path. You’ve already chosen in fact. So this can end in only one way. Work for me. Replace your weak husband as one of my own,” his eyes light up and smoke pours out of his mouth. “What about my children?” I ask the monster. “They are already gone. As I stated before you are free. One last parting gift from your dearly departed husband,” he laughs in a cold methodical tone. I raise the weapon at the desk. He stops his laughing and stares me down once again. I fire two bullets into the back of my husband. The anger of all that I lost shaking me to the core. He doesn’t even blink, doesn’t move at the sound of the gun discharging. “Where do you want me to sign,” I sigh.

Suffering Through This

“I feel like things are getting increasingly worse. I am no longer myself or not as much or I don’t know. I don’t believe in angels or demons, but the nightmares, the dreams, the visions. The visions have been so surreal as of late. The absent, the loss of time has become confusing. I no longer understand what is happening to me. I fear for the worst inside of me and for my family. I see them burning. Each and every one of them. Burning layer by layer until there is nothing left but their skulls and their laughter. It sounds like my voice, it sounds like something ungodly. The laughter rages with the fire as if it saying something or maybe it is just their screams. Please help me. Help me before it is too late. Help before they are no longer dreams.”


Steven Kleine

“Three days after this letter was sent Mr. Kleine and his family burned to death in their family home. The investigators say their deaths were similar by all accounts to his dreams or visions as he calls them. Each one was written in vivid description found in what was labeled confession letters. The house as a whole still stands today. The fire contained to one room and one room only. No reason for this has ever been turned up. Fire doesn’t care about anything, but it appears on this night it did. Mr. Kleine has been blamed for this atrocity, but should he be? Is the question I present to you today. Yes, young lady in the cardigan,” the professor calls out.

“You want to know if he is at fault for his actions?” She asks. “Yes, Did Mr, Kleine  commit murder willingly or was it something else?” The professor asks once again. “We have to go with the facts, sir. The fact that he killed his family by not saving them is true. Premeditated murder wouldn’t be that far from the truth as well judging by the letter you have presented. Willingly, however, is a much harder question to determine. I would say no he didn’t, but he still did. He murdered his family whether he wanted to or not,” she answers. He waits for anyone else to raise their hand. No one is willing to challenge her statement. “You are right it doesn’t matter in the sense of the law. Ethically though does it matter that the person to receive this last latter was the local police station? Does it matter that they did nothing other than file it way as a joke? How much blame can be put on them? How seriously should we take cries for help when it comes to mental illness?” He points at a young man in the third row, “We should take it very seriously, but when does a story become fact? After it already happens. The police had no reason to believe that any of this would happen.” The professor  nods his head, “Then let’s talk about facts.”

“In his dreams, Mr. Kleine only saw the room burning, his family burning, and he himself burning. He doesn’t go into detail about which room these visions take place. Given he only saw fire around him it would be hard to determine this information. Yet throughout the detailed accounts he never experienced or wrote about his death. He only wrote about the death of his family and the burning of the room. To this day no one knows why only the room burned. There was no reason, there was no incendiary device or substance used, and there was no faulty wiring. The Kleine family simply caught on fire and as his family burned he tried to put them out while they laughed hysterically. In fact, the only reason investigators decided that Mr. Kleine caught on fire is because he was trying to help them. Isn’t that right Mr. Kleine ?” A man or what is left of a man walks in from the back of the lecture hall, “Yes sir that is correct.”

He slowly makes his way up to the front of the class. His skin rigid and pressed tightly against his bones, “I tried everything I could to save my family. Though none of it worked. I was found guilty by reason of insanity of course. No one could explain what had happened. Deemed insane I spent quite a few years in an asylum. Until my visions became more about something other than myself.” The professor helps him onto the stage, “Well, then I wasn’t so crazy. Then I became known as someone who was gifted. I became someone special. My family’s death haunts me every day. I see their faces and I hear their screams, but something converged on that night. Something lives inside me. Something that no one understands not even myself. But that is not why I am here is it Miss Greenwood?” The girl in the cardigan drops her pen onto her notebook. Flustered she tries to respond, “I don’t know what you mean sir.” More people enter the hall dressed in tactical gear as a silence takes over the room. “I believe that you don’t, but I know that you will,” Mr. Kleine lays out cryptically. The tactical team surrounds her. “Please come with us Miss Greenwood,” the lead asks. She sits there silently making her decision. She tries to reach for her bag but she is ordered to stop. Knowing she has no other options but to comply she rises from her chair like a burning phoenix.  Flames spitting all around her, “You had to come and get me, Steven. You had to be the hero.”

The room begins to panic as she rises higher into the air. “You know that this is what I do. You knew that I was coming for you and yet you made sure things would be difficult,” Kleine says. The tactical team has their guns trained on her. Even though all the flames surrounding her the laser sites of their weapons can be seen resting on her head and throughout her body. They wait for a signal, for a sign. “You pretend to understand the vastness of the world you stumbled into. I was born with these flames. A gift upon which I was destined to attain. I will not have it taken away from me,” she screams with fiery breath.  “No one said anything about taking your gifts away,” he says to a nearly empty room. “In fact, I think your gifts could be quite useful if you would like to join us.” The flames flicker around her, “Enslavement is more like it. I’ve heard what you are doing. You thought you were being coy. I knew right away there was more to all of this than a simple lesson,” she lets out. “Would have been disappointed if you didn’t know. Wouldn’t have even let you live for a second longer, but I also know how this ends. Not all gifts are created equal or fair,” he stares into her eyes. Her anger causes her to discharge a wave of flames as she burns hotter the team begins to feel the full force of her powers.

“We can help you control those powers,” He begins to say. “I don’t need your help,” she conveys her clothes telling a different story as they begin to singe. “Unless it is your intent to ruin that cardigan then I think we could be some use to you. Come down from there peacefully and we can discuss what I am offering,” he reasons. She places her head within her hands as she descends back to the floor the lasers following her as she goes. “So my options are death or join you? You leave a woman with little choice, but to go with you,” she says as her feet touch the ground and her flames slowly dissipate. “It would appear that way, but not all intentions are good. Not everything I have to do is for the benefit of myself. Something you will have to learn in time,” Mr. Kleine states. She screams and as she does a burst of flames engulf her once again. The tactical team around her is surrounded by flames. They pull their triggers, each bullet ripping through their predestined entry point. Tearing through her flesh, desecrating her skull, and what is left of her body falls to the floor. “The fucking visions are never wrong,” Mr. Kleine says as he limps out of the auditorium past her lifeless corpse. The team follows him out one by one without a word.


Will this be a series?… hard to tell… has the makings of one though… so that is something… Hope you enjoyed this weird tale of murder or a negotiation gone wrong… flames.. burning.. fire… seemed to be the theme of this one… Join us next week as we discuss the importance of water… 

Important information on fire… PamphletsProtective GearVideos… 

Is the Doctor In?

I’ve been waiting in this waiting room for what seems like days. It’s almost my turn to be seen and yet it feels like it isn’t. The nurse has already done the pre-exam checkups, all clear. She’s cleaned me up and got me all set, and now I’m waiting for her to call my name. It has been a crazy couple of days and I am glad the doctor could see me on such short notice, but this wait is inhumane. Granite the doctor has had a busy day too. There must have been at least four people seen since I have arrived and another five or six since then. This doctor must be really good to see this many people in one day and many of us on short notice. I wonder how much longer I have to wait though. It’s freezing in here and the music is terrible. That’s how all waiting rooms are though. There’s never anything interesting to watch or read and if there is ever any music it is never good. It’s always some simple piano notes with no lyrics. It couldn’t possibly be anything current or even pleasing to the ears. Not that the music nowadays could be considered good, but anything is better than this. I’d take some golden oldies at this point. Anything but this horrible sound combined with the ticking of the clock. I must be going insane from the sounds. I can’t believe someone was paid to create this torture. If I could move my foot I’d probably tap it to the beat out of boredom, but I can’t which only makes all of this even worse. The other people in the room seem to be as bored as me. I can’t really see what they are doing thanks to the rather dim waiting area. The doctor must be sensitive to light or something. God, I am just full of complaints today. I usually don’t complain this much, but I’m what some people call a mover and a shaker. If I’m not moving I’m either sleeping or dead. I hear the nurse shout next up is Skinner. That’s me Alan Skinner top medical supplies salesman in the district three years running. Last year alone I was the third highest salesman for the whole company. This year I hope to be number one. No, I don’t hope. I will be number one. Always selling is what my wife says. In and out of here I hope. I’ve got things to do and people to sell too. My favorite part of selling is the power of closing the deal and knowing I sold my customers the best products on the market. I enjoyed my job, which is probably a good thing since I have been doing it for twenty years now. When the nurse enters the waiting room to collect me no one moves or says anything.

She comes over to me and starts wheeling me into the exam room. It becomes brighter as she pushes me closer to the room. The exam room is nearly blinding as she pushes me to the center of the room. She pushes me right under the brightest light I have ever seen. Must be from all the time in the dim waiting room, but this room is so bright. Maybe he should turn the light down or I won’t even be able to see his face. He starts the examination right away by taking off my white sheet. His head blocks the light but only for a second or two. He feels around my rib cage. No hello, no how are you doing today Mr. Skinner just right to business. He must be in a hurry, which I don’t mind, but there’s never a reason to be rude. His hands feel very warm on my chest after all that time in the waiting room. When he finally finds what he is looking for he takes his saw off his side table and zips through my chest as if he is pulling a zipper down a jacket. He tries to comfort me by saying, “I hope that didn’t hurt too much.” His words are welcome after that rude excuses for an introduction, but I didn’t feel a thing. He takes out another tool. The extractor or the rib cracker 2000 as we call it at work. Top of the line model none the less. Placing it between the ribs is all he has to do as the tool does the rest. Separating my rib cage with ease. It felt nice to feel air touch my lungs once again. The doctor pokes around the outside of my lungs before cutting each one out. He places each lung gently into the metal tray next to him. He turns his body towards his side table and begins to inspect my lungs by looking all around the outside of them. He cuts into my lungs like they were a nice family meal. He tells the nurse that it looks like he was a smoker, but he must have quit at least ten years ago. Impressive I quit seven years ago for health reasons I try to tell him, but he only ignores me. His bedside manner leaves something to be desired. “Did you feel that?” The doctor asks the nurse. She shakes her head no, He moves on with my exam. He takes a dark mass that I believe is my liver. Placing it on his table he cuts pieces of it out. Checking each section as he does. “Not much damage to his liver. He was a light drinker if at all,” the doctor says. Each thing he says the nurse takes notes on her clipboard. The doctor continues, “His Kidneys look good for his age, no ulcers in his stomach lining, but there appears to be some sort of obstruction inside his esophagus.” The doctor cuts open the esophagus, “A piece of baked chicken. He died of  after the chicken got stuck in his trachea.” “How sad,” the nurse shakes her head in disbelief, “It’s so sad there are so many people out there that don’t know the Heimlich maneuver. What about his heart doctor?” “Wouldn’t hurt to look, but I’m positive he died from asphyxiation.” The doctor takes my heart from my chest. A bloody fist of an organ and places it in a fresh metal tray on his side table. After dissecting the bloody red mass he says, “The left and right ventricles along with his right atrium look fine enough given his age and weight. The left atrium, however, looks to have taken a lot of damage over the years.” The nurse continues her notes. “What does it mean doctor?” I ask, but the words seem to fall on deaf ears. “Is there anything in his pre-exam report about him complaining of chest pains just before collapsing?” The doctor asks. “No there’s nothing about that,” the nurse answers. “Well, I’m going to stick with my original assessment that he died from affixation. Given the evidence, I can’t tell if he had a mild heart attack because of the stress of choking or the other way around. Either way, this man would have died tonight. “I’m right here,” I try to say. “How can I be dead if I am right here,” I scream. The doctor’s words sink in as I try to get up off the gurney to no avail.  My body begins to heat up. I feel as if I have been set on fire. The confusion sets in deeper. I can’t be getting cremated. I didn’t ask for this. It’s not making any sense. I try to close my eyes, but I can’t. My vision starts to blur from the fiery pain that is consuming my body. “I wonder what set this whole incident in motion,” I can hear the doctor say what feels like miles away. Then just as quick as it came the pain washes away. I was no longer lying but rather floating next to the doctor. He looks right through me as he talks, “Who’s next?” The nurse puts my clipboard down and picks up another, “A Jonathan Murdock, self-inflicted gunshot to the head. There seems to be a lot of those lately.” Like a hangover the pain and the memories of my death come flooding back in to what can only be described as my “mind,” as I am neither here nor there anymore. I try to scream again more to see if I can than anything else. I find that I can’t once again. “Did you feel that? That cold chill feeling I felt from before. I just felt it again,” the doctor tells the nurse. The memories get clearer as I reach the door. I reach to push the door forward, but my hand goes right through it. Old habits die hard I guess. The nurse says, “I did feel something just now.” “This place can really,” I miss the last part of what he was about to say as I walk through the door. The memories won’t leave my mind. My life flashes in bits and pieces like a migraine that has no cure. Frustration and anger settle in with the confusion and yet I feel nothing at all. Passing through each building, each sign, and each person as I make my way in a straight line. Images of my children smiling, my friends cheering me on in grade school, my mother crying as I get married, and her. My wife’s face comes and goes with each happy image. Then it is as though it has been clear all along. I don’t know where I am, but I know where I am going, home. I remember the sequence of events that led to my sudden death, and it is as though I know nothing else. I want my revenge.

I was having lunch with my boss. We were discussing my future at the company. He offered me a raise and a promotion. If I was to take it I would have been, I could have been a regional manager of another branch. The meeting was going well and I remember things. Jokes, smiles, laughing, having a good time, and there she was sitting across from us at the restaurant. My wife wasn’t at home, but sitting at the restaurant having lunch with someone I didn’t know. Someone I couldn’t see. All I saw was their hair, his hair. I followed her arm with my eyes. In her hand, she was holding his. Everything began to move in slow motion. The streets are busy even this late at night. People walking through me as if I’, not there, and I’m not. I’ve stopped looking both ways as I cross the street. A sense of freedom I have never felt. I have no fear anymore. My thoughts slip back to my death. I can’t see the man clearly and honestly I don’t remember looking. Transfixed on my wife and her actions that day. Holding his hand, leaning in for a kiss, and her smile. God that smile, a smile I hadn’t seen in years. Has it really been that long since I have seen her smile like that? The rushing anger, the sudden jealousy, the slow creeping numbness of my left arm as I stand up. I try to ignore the obvious, I try to say something, but my heart would not have it. My chest tightens as I look down to my boss and I try once again to say something. With all that was happening, I had forgotten about the grilled chicken with lemon zest still in my mouth as I inhaled. The comedy of errors only grew as no one around me knew what was happening. Holding my chest and unable to breathe my vision begins to fade, my mind screaming breathe damn, and the impending feeling of doom as I fall to the floor. I hear voices in the darkness, distant, unclear. The darkness doesn’t last long. I’m still on the restaurant floor, but now I’m being rolled out on a stretcher. “Am I okay?” I remember asking, but no one answers as the white sheet drapes over my face. How am I seeing this? This must be a joke I think. It has to be. I feel them loading me into the ambulance. The feel of the engine as the vehicle is shifted into gear. There were no sirens, there was no rush to the wheels, so I must be fine I remember thinking. I’m only going for a follow-up, a checkup.

Outside on the streets and away from my head, I float in the direction I believe is home. Each person I pass has no idea how close to death they really are. I try to focus on something else besides my anger, but I can’t seem to let go of the pain. Passing by my neighbor’s homes with their manicured lawns and false pretense perfect lives all I feel is pain. I arrive at my home. The one that I paid for with my soul for her, for my family. All she has to do is read the will. There is a car I don’t recognize in my driveway. How long have I been dead? A day? Maybe two? Didn’t take her long to move me out and move him in. I pass my stuff sitting out with the trash. Memories I once had, but no longer need. Either it must be trash night or my kids don’t care as much as her. Passing through my red front door I can see the dining room from the hall. All those greasy dinners come back to my mind except now they seem more like plots to kill me than anything else. Who lets another person eat their weight in beef every night while they eat a salad? I float up my stairs to the second floor. Not even halfway up the stairs, I can hear her moans. Moans she hasn’t made for me in what seems like forever or if ever. I pass through my daughter’s door first only to be greeted by emptiness. I pass through her wall into my son’s room only to find the same. She must have sent our perfect children to her mother’s so she could “grieve.” Her moans pierce through the walls of the second floor. Leaving my son’s room and going into our private bath I make my way closer. A used condom lies on the floor next to the trash can. I storm into my master bedroom the emotion last in the circumstance. My wife begging for more. “Harder, harder,” she moans. I want to scream again. I want to tear her face off with the sound of my voice. I want to destroy her like she destroyed me. “Whore,” I scream with everything that I have and everything I am not. My words drown out her moaning and begging. My scream comes with a chill so cold I can see their breath. The man stops mid thrust, “What the hell was that?” They both turn to look at my direction. A blank stare comes across their faces. Again I scream breaking the silence. The look of horror and shame on their faces is indescribable, but it makes me feel warm inside. “It’s my husband,” she screams. “That’s right your husband you whore,” I scream with another wave of cold air. Somehow they can now see me, but only for a second. The man slips out of my wife as he falls to the floor. My wife stares at me from all fours a condom dangling from her poisonous cunt. “Something that obviously doesn’t mean anything to you,” I continue. My former self-flashing in and out of existence. My wife tries to cover herself up as if a stranger has walked into the room. The man begins to weep, “Sorry, I’m so sorry man.” “You don’t even know the meaning of sorry yet,” I scream. “Get the hell out of my house.” He runs naked to the bedroom door and out down the stairs. I don’t hear the front door slam and I don’t much care. I turn my face to my darling wife, “And as for you. There won’t be much left of you to even be sorry.” The bedroom door slams from the strength of my words and her screams fill the evening air. Maybe being dead won’t be such a bad thing after all.


In a Cage


“Do you ever notice the diseases floating all around you? Going in and out of your lungs, landing on your face, or picked up by your hands as you touch random objects for pleasure without knowing the consequences? Of course, you don’t just like you don’t notice the center for disease shitting in your backyard or laying on your lap as they breathe, droll, and paw all their sickness all over you. Think I didn’t notice the hairs? Thought you got all of them when you left the house today? Wrong. Nobody wants to admit, no I’m sorry no one wants to accept that they are surrounded by disease. But they must and they should. Germs, disgust is everywhere. Goddammit, it’s everywhere throughout our bodies, on our clothes, across every surface, and I say it is time that we get rid of it. How can we not have gotten rid of it all by now?”

“Are we not civilized? Are we not able to travel to distant planets in sterilized space capsules? Yet here on earth in our own homes no less we live in disease, we live with this sickness and death. The madness of it all has long since taken me over, but why hasn’t it taken the world over? How can it not? How can these people stand to be around such filth every day of their lives? I can’t take it. I can’t stand for it any longer. I must find a way to stop the disease I thought to myself. I thought to myself long and hard until I found a way. I found a way to help everyone, but they called it sick. They called it crazy. It was nothing more than just a little bleach. A little bleach to stay alive never killed anyone. I only wanted to live don’t you see? Doesn’t anyone see what I have done? Don’t you see what I’ve discovered? I found a way to help them. Each and every one of them.”

“But no they didn’t want my help. They only see what they want to believe and that is the sickness. That is the disease taking over, rotting their brains, not mine. I was the normal one until they infected me with their problems, their diseases, and look at me now, sick. I have become sick, riddled with disease, overcome by their sickness.” He smashes his head into the shatter proof glass of his cell. Blood begins to drip from his head. “I’ve begun to lose sight of what is real of what will keep me alive. I wanted to live forever, but you, they took it away. I want my fucking bleach doctor. I need my god damn bleach.” Blood begins to smear on the glass as he smashes his head into the glass over and over. “They took my chance of any kind of life away. Now I am waiting to die. Waiting to die inside my cage.” He slams his head once again into the glass. Pressing his head into the glass. Blood slowly makes its way down the glass as his eyes come into focus. His eyes wide, insane, “Still want to know how I am doing today, Doctor?”


Don’t forget to wash your hands… flu season isn’t over yet… or is it?… I’m not really tracking it… so I’m not sure… just be safe and wash your hands or… who knows… you may end up like Freddy… Covered in filth… and Chewing on Glass… In the Twilght Zone… (eerie noise… he have a low-budget here at Is That A Funeral?)

Also don’t forget to check out these other great links and how to’s to staying clean…

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People With No Name

“Is there anything I can help you find?” The customer looks over from the entry way of the store at the short stubby clerk standing behind the counter. The customer only came in for one item and has no idea where in this store it could possibly be.
“Yes you can I’m looking for. Oh it’s right there. Right in front of me the whole time.” The customer smiles as she reaches for the simple item on the shelf in front of her.
“Glad we could be of some help,” the clerk smiles. The customer gives off a short laugh as she carries the item to the counter.

“Me too. Does that happen a lot?”
“What do you mean?” The clerk asks the customer.
“Someone asks you where something is and they find it right in front of them?”
“Yes it happens a lot. They say it’s my gift.”
“That’s funny. Who says that?” the customer asks.
“The people with no name.”
“Who?,” the customer asks puzzled.
“The people with no name,” the clerk says calmly.
“Is that other customers?”

“No, I’m sorry I’ve said too much. I didn’t realize you didn’t know, never mind.”
“Know what?” the customer asks taken back.
“I’ve said too much. Are you ready to check out?”
“Where are these people you speak of?”
“If you must know they’re all around us. Can’t you at least feel them?”

The customer shakes her head and starts to become even more confused.
“They control everything and everything controls them. How do you not know about the people with no name?”
“Is there a manager or someone I can talk to?” the customer asks politely.
“Of course there is but why would you need to speak to them?”
“Because I do. In private if that’s okay?”
“Of course, of course just a moment please.” The clerk turns his head and begins to whisper as if someone is there, but there is no one the customer can see.

“The manager will be here in a moment.”
“But you didn’t even page or call anyone.”
“Yes I did,” the clerk says sternly.
“No you didn’t. Can you please page the manager for me?”
“Ma’am I already did and she will be here in just a moment.”
“What the hell is going on here?”

“How may I help you today?” A female voice asks.
The customer turns around to face the woman. “Are you the manager?”
“Yes I am, how may I help you?” She asks again.
“I need to talk to you in private,” the customer says as if to test the manager’s sanity.
“We have a non-believer,” the clerk informs the manager.
“Just because I don’t hear voices that make me a non-believer in something?,” the customer asks irate.
“You don’t hear them?” The manager asks politely.
“Hear what?” The customer demands.
“The people who have no name,” the manager says.
“There are no people here. Have you two lost your minds?”
“Ma’am there is no reason to be rude,” the clerk says.
The manager turns her head and begins to whisper and again no one is there.

“They say you are just not ready.”
“Not ready for what? Are you saying I’m not ready to hear voices in my head?”
“We don’t hear voices in our head ma’am. The voices are all around us. I tried to explain that the people are all around us, but I don’t think she understands.”
“How can she understand anything we are talking about if she does not believe?” The manager asks as if the customer isn’t even there.
“This is all just madness. I am calling someone I hope you know that and I’m never shopping here again.”

The customer throws her item up on the counter and storms out of the store. The manager calmly walks over to the counter and picks up the item, “Some people just aren’t ready yet.”
“I know it saddens me, but maybe one day.”
A hand reaches out from behind the clerk and rests on his shoulder.
“One day they will all believe,” the owner of the hand reveals.

Purgatory Part 2

“You know who I want to hear from?” After a very long awkward pause the voice continues, “I would like to hear from Franklin. Would you like to share today Franklin.” “It’s Frank dipshit,” the man riddled with bullet holes stands up. “You don’t have to stand up Franklin,” Sylvia says before laughing. Frank slams his body back into the seat, “Do I have a choice?” “Of course you have a choice. Being here isn’t punishment. Being here is to help you.” Frank shifts in his seat, “Yeah okay cause it sure as hell feels like punishment. We either talk or we have to go sit out there with the rest of the freaks waiting to come back in here. Not a whole lot of options for us here. Despite her smart ass comments I’m with Sylvia on this place. This is all bullshit, but I want out of here so what do you want to hear?” “Why do you think that you are here?” the figure asks him like he just volunteered to die or that in some way this was all optional. Thanks for taking twenty plus bullets to the chest and coming here. Would you mind filling out a small survey? Would you recommend this place to a friend? I’m starting to agree with Sylvia more and more myself. “I am here because those pig fuckers shot the shit out of me.” Frank tries to grab his shirt to show the figure his bullet holes, but he can’t and he quickly gives up. “There has to be a reason they shot at you.” “Yeah cause I was trying to get a little cash for my family.” “Oh yeah that’s real rich their Frankie. That totally justifies the reason you tried to rob a bank,” the business man blurts out as he shakes his head in disbelieve. “Fuck you old man. I did what I had to do to get by.” “Well what you did was against the law that’s why they shot your ass.” “Howard please let Frank speak you can have your turn when he is done,” the figure explains. “I was simply commenting on what Frank was saying.” “The freak said shut the fuck up lard ass.” These people are insane and I try to stay calm through all of it. I want to start getting upset too, but I know that it won’t help any of this. Frank starts back up with his story, “Anyways I took a bullet or two and now I’m here paying for my sins or whatever.” “Is that what you truly believe Frank?” The figure asks him. “I said it didn’t I? So yeah that’s what I fucking believe.” Frank looks over at Sylvia, “You think the freak’s got a brain under there? Cause he is pretty stupid.” Sylvia still isn’t talking and pretends that Frank isn’t even talking. “That’s not a very nice thing to say Frank, but are you done?” “Yeah I am.” “Can I say a few things?” “Like I give a shit,” Frank crosses his arms. “You really need to stop holding in all this blame and anger towards others. Realize that you might be the cause of your own misfortunes. No one told you to rob that bank or take those people hostage Frank. You made all those decisions yourself and you need to forgive yourself before it consumes you any farther.” “I didn’t shoot anybody you fucking freak. I didn’t shoot no body and yet here the fuck I am,” Frank screams causing everyone in the room to jump a little bit. As we all watch Frank place his head in his hands I think that this all sounds rather familiar to me somehow. The figure says nothing back to Frank and Frank doesn’t lash out as he walks to the corner of the room. Another somber moment in a place that is nothing but.

Breaking the silence. “I have a question for you. What are you?” I ask the figure. The hooded figure sits motionless and I try to look under the hood. Looking for eyes, a mouth, anything that could confirm what it is. All I find is darkness. Beth places her hand on my knee, “You can’t ask it things about itself.” “Why not?” I question. “It is just the way it is sweetie,” she shrugs at me. “What do you think it is?” I ask the group. “I think it’s a freak,” Frank shouts from the corner of the room. “Yeah we know,” Sylvia shouts back as she rolls her eyes. “We think it is the grim reaper or our idea of a grim reaper,” she says to me. The hooded figure finally speaks, “Howard you had something you wanted to say earlier?” We go on as if no one had said anything at all about the figure. “Ah, yes I did. I wanted to tell the group my story.” “Oh dear God,” Sylvia blurts out before going silent once again. She stares at her gashes. She traces the outline of the cut on her left arm with her finger. “My dear Sylvia, such a pretty name, James has yet to hear my story,” Howard says before turning to face me. He locks eyes with me and I can’t help but to not look right at him for his story. I’m more interested in hearing Frank’s story and trying to figure out why it sounds so familiar to me. Respect for others forces me to put that in the back of my mind as I listen to this old man’s tale.

By the way Howard speaks to me and the rest of the group it is as if he is selling us his story. “I have always been a salesman. From the time I was a small child selling candy on the school yard playground and until the moment I found myself here. I sell that’s what I do. It is in my blood, in my DNA. Hell I even convinced my neighbor to purchases my father’s lawn mower once. Slightly used I told him. My father was so pissed. I had to give my neighbor his ten dollars back. That was a lot of money back then, but with everything there is always something to be learned. I learned right then and there that with a strong enough pitch, a kind smile, and a great deal you can sell anything. I also learned to not sell my father’s things as well,” Howard chuckles. “Howard how did you die again?” Sylvia asks and he ignores. “If this story doesn’t end with you choking on a dick. I know I’m going to be disappointed by this story.” I try to not laugh or move my face in any way. “Always be selling became my motto by the time I was out of high school. I was such a good sales man I didn’t even have to go to college. I had, had a job since I was old enough to acquire one, and with my great talent and passion I was able to move up to head of the sales team in no time. I remember the days of the sale, out there on the open road selling my amazing products from customer to customer, city to city. These were the days before personal computers, the days were a phone call was only used to catch up when a letter would not suffice. Not like today where you kids have your gadgets glued to your hands. You kids today could learn a thing or two from talking face to face the way God intended for us to talk to one another. No these were the good old days, the all or nothing days, the days when making a living meant working your ass to the bone and asking for more.” “We fucking get it old man, Jesus.” “How are you Frank? You could learn thing or two as well from my story.” “Yeah like what? Cause I’m already dead dumb ass.” “You could afford to learn a little thing called respect and about working hard. Not just sitting on your ass and taking what’s not yours.” “It wasn’t like that,” Frank walks back over to the group. “You tried to rob a bank to get money that wasn’t yours that’s how it was Frank,” Howard says to the group looking for reassurance. “Wait a second, that was you,” I say. “That was me what?” “That was you who tried to rob some bank in Atlanta?” “Yeah so what?” Frank asks. “It was all over the national news. That happened months ago or at least I think it was months ago. No one else saw the story?” they all stare at me as though I am crazy. “I meant before you all died?” “Well it was against the law that’s why it was all over the news and that’s why they shot you so many times. How many times do I have to say that before you understand?” “Shut up Howard I’m talking to the new guy. What do you mean it was all over the national news?” Frank asks me. “It was ever where or so I thought. I’m trying to remember what all happened. It happened months ago, but I remember hearing about how three or four cops were suspended and then fired for using excessive force because you didn’t even rob the bank with a real gun or something. Plus there was something about the fact that the dead hostage wasn’t your fault either.” “Who killed him then?” Howard asks. “Apparently one of the officers thought they had a shot or was trying to be a hero. Well the gun fire scared the old man and he fainted on to the floor.” “I told him to stay down, but he wouldn’t listen so I started shouting and then the noise went off.” “Right well I guess in the confusion the cops thought you shot him so they all started firing on you. Turns out the man would have been fine, but they shot him and injured three others firing on you.” Frank stands there stunned and silent. He looks as though some revelation has come over him. “Is that all that happened?” Sylvia asks me. “Was I on the news too?” “I don’t remember,” I tell her. “After that band killed themselves and everything that followed the news stopped reporting on suicides. They even stopped reporting on suicide bombers in the Middle East. Anything to try and stop people from killing themselves.” “That fucking band. That band fucking sucked anyways,” Sylvia crosses her arms and leans back into her chair. “What about my family?” Frank asks me. “What happened to my family?” “The last I heard they were suing the city along with the other families, but beyond that I can’t remember anything,” I tell him. “Frank how does that news make you feel?” The figure asks. “I feel. I feel better. For the first time since I have died. I finally feel better about everything. It might have been worth it. I knew what I did was wrong but I didn’t even have a weapon. I took a toy gun that I painted black. I figured worst case I’d get some jail time. I never thought that I would die. It was a mistake. It was all a mistake.” Frank turn to me, “Thank you James. Thank you so very much.” “You’re welcome Frank. I mean I didn’t do anything,” I say shyly. All I did was repeat the news on TV. Frank begins to weep and cover his tearless face with his hands. “Frank,” the figure says in a light voice unlike its self. Frank looks up from his hands and his face is covered with small streams of tears. “You may leave now Frank. Exit the room and continue down the hall. At the end of the hall there is one last door. It will look like a wall with a handle. Once you touch the handle you will know what to do.” Frank wipes the tears from his face as we all sit and stare. Everyone is very confused as to what is happening. Frank turns to me once again, “Thank you James.” The bullet holes, the blood, the wounds disappear as Frank stands up and walks to the door. The room is silent as he exits, but the second he is gone the whole room erupts with noise. All the noise is a collection of different questions with all the same intentions. What else do you know? Everyone is out of their chairs and standing in front of me demanding answers. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” is all I repeat. “Enough questions everyone,” the figure says in its usual tone. “James is not the reason behind Frank’s ascension to the next level. James doesn’t hold the secret clues or answers to why you have died or are still here. Each and every one of you hold those keys. That is enough for today. Next time we will start with Howard again,” the figure gestures to the open door. “What? Why? Let’s just power through this. I mean we made real progress today.” “Can’t we stay for a little bit longer?” “Yeah we want to stay.” “I’m sorry but we are done for today.” “This is bullshit.” “Give it a rest will you Sylvia,” Beth says as she stands up. No one waits for the figure to get to the door this time. Again I am the last to leave the room. “I’m sorry if I offended you earlier by ask you what you are,” I tell the figure. “It is alright James. You have questions that want answers. Demand them even, but maybe it is you who need to wonder what you are?” Confused I exit the room. The door slamming behind me.

Sylvia is waiting for me in the hallway. “That was some trippy shit wasn’t it?” She asks me. “Yeah I guess. This whole place is trippy if you ask me. How long have you been here?” “No idea, it’s hard to tell time in a place with no windows or concept of it. When did that band die?” “Sometime last year,” I say to her. “So I have been here almost a year.” “And this is the first time you’ve seen some one pass over?” I ask. “Yeah, it was. But I mean I’ve heard of other people passing over or going away from other groups. So personally this was my first. I guess this place isn’t a bunch of bull shit after all.” “What do you think happens after we pass over?” “Fuck if I know. I didn’t even think that this was going to happen.” “Yeah me either,” I say staring at the floor. “Cheer up will you. You are about to be pretty fucking popular here after what just happened. Word gets around,” she smiles at me. “How? No one even talks around here.” “Are you kidding me? Some people don’t ever shut the fuck up.” “Yeah okay,” I huff as we make it back to the waiting area. “Where do you normally sit?” Sylvia asks me. I point to the far right corner. “Yeah we all got to start somewhere. That’s the newbies corner so course they are going to not talk. Those people are scared. Not far from that we have Freaksville. That’s where the messed up one go after they have been here awhile. If you aren’t messed up than you don’t belong there so don’t bother going. Then you have general pockets of people that haven’t been here that long. See over here and over there,” she points. “Why are you telling me all of this?” I ask. “Why the hell not? Lastly that side of the room is mostly filled with the people that have been here the longest. They are not the nicest of people. Real assholes if you ask me,” she walks me over to where she usually sits. “If this is Purgatory than where are the children?” I ask. “No idea. Take a seat.” I take a seat next to her as I look around the room. Already there are a lot of eyes looking in our directions. Sylvia gives off a little laugh and a fake smile, “See just like I told you.” “You weren’t kidding.” “Nope, you are going to be very popular. Too bad you don’t have anything to show for it. Might here some good stories though.” “Who’s that guy sitting over there with all the tattoos?” I ask her. “The one who’s staring you down like you’re a piece of meat at an all you can eat dinner?” “Umm, yeah that guy.” “That’s Layne Ambrose. Stay away from him if you can. That man’s got some real serious issues. He’s already been kicked out of several groups. I heard he even tried to bite someone in the one of the groups.” “We can do that?” “Bite some one? No we can’t do that James were not vampires. Though that would make this strangely worth it all. The most we can do is touch, but it’s pointless because we can’t feel it. We can’t do much of anything in this hell hole.” “Tell me about it. What about those two girls over there?” I ask. “What about them?” “What’s their story?” “How am I supposed to know?” She punches me in the arm, “You got a crush?” My arm stings a little, “No.” “You didn’t have a lot of friends when you were alive did you?” “No, not really,” I say awkwardly. “Yeah, that’s because you ask too many damn questions.”

Drinking Bleach is my first collection of short stories from my earlier days… It is a mixed genre book filled with short stories, poems, micro stories, and more… From the early days of Chewing On Glass to the first story I ever wrote… This book covers a lot of ground… As always available on Kindle… Don’t have a Kindle?… That’s okay… Enjoy thousands of books right from your desktop, smart phone, or tablet with the Kindle app… Now available in paper back…