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.


Stuck In Time, A Distant Past

“You said you’d love me forever.”
“No, what I said was I once gave a damn.”
“You lie as though you believe it to be true.”
“Truth has a funny way of appearing to be a lie.”
“Then we shall see in the end who is telling the truth or telling a lie.”
Blood spurts from her neck, a fountain of life erupting for the first and only time. “In the end, we shall see,” she says with a grin.

“Blood in, blood out we are nothing more than the thoughts and ideas we choose to believe. Some days I think yeah I am more than this. I am more than a few ideas I stole from those around me, but I would be wrong. Human nature is nothing more than a copy. A copy of the animals, the nature around us evolved to their current point. We all evolve our traits, our ideas, and our very existence. A thousand years ago we were different, but yet we can look into the eyes of our past selves and see the similarities.” She stands there staring at me from the other side of the hot shelve. A metal slab bathed in red light and her face staring back at me from the other side.

“What the hell are you going on about now?” She asks her blonde hair perfectly held in place. “Is this another one of your epic speeches you build up in your head?” Her head is replaced with her pushed up breasts. Already large enough pushed up to look even larger. A secondary benefit to this job. “You know what it doesn’t matter its dinner rush and my table needs those fries.” I stare at the exposed flesh of her chest, “No one ever wants to hear what I say,” I say into her chest. Her face returns, “What?” I turn to the timer behind me. I glimpse the chaos that surrounds me on all sides. Transcending, drenched in thought I watch the timer count down one second at a time, “At least another minute.” The timer slowly ticks away as each thought crosses my mind. The world is full of useless people like us with useless jobs and careers. Most of us could easily be replaced by machines, but then what would we all do? Sit around and think about nothing? If we are to believe we are all the same. Then we have to realize that each of us is always thinking about something. Something so profound it could change the world as we know it. Tech so powerful that. “The fries man, the fucking fries,” another cook shouts. The timer beeps flashing zero over and over in a distinct annoying pattern. “Today asshole,” her voice cuts through all the noise.

My hand pulls the fries from the oil and I turn the timer off. Reaching for the bowl all of this becomes apparent. All of this becomes useless not only in my mind as I pour the fries into the bowl, but in my heart. What am I doing here? I shake the sea salt over the bowl tossing the fries as I do. Why is it that I do these things? I grab the small square plate and place a handful of fires onto it. Am I destined for something more? I pass off the fires to her, “About fucking time. Get your head in the game asshole.” She disappears as I place the rest of the fries under the red glow. Like vultures to a carcass more breast appear into view and hands pick at the bowl until there is nothing left.

There was once a girl that stood on the other side of that counter. Another face in the crowd of many. I remember her shape, but not her face. She asked me for ketchup. Over and over. Too busy I shouted without looking into her eyes. A mouse of a person. She wasn’t meant to work in a place full of predators. A place built on selfish, demanding assholes. She was too sweet to understand she didn’t belong. These thoughts fired off in my brain. My actions replaying, my words floating in the air. All she wanted was ketchup. Nothing more. It wasn’t for her. It wasn’t a large request and yet I couldn’t possibly stop for a second. The world is on fire in my mind. She’s nothing more than another flame. The thought haunts me at times. My actions as I see her shape walk away. I knew I was wrong. I knew better and yet I did nothing until it was over. I placed the tiny cup of ketchup in the window. Waiting for her return. Three days later she was dead. Three days later she wasn’t there anymore. Three days later everyone got ketchup as I tried to hold back the pain, the tears, and the regret of something so small.

My actions didn’t condemn her. A moment in our short time together. I never even learned her name. I’m sure she knew mine. Prince of the demanding assholes. Loudest of them all. I know she knew me, but I didn’t bother to know her. They say there is a God, but every turn I take I have yet to see such evidence. Searching for a reason that justifies taking the life of a twenty-year-old girl I’ve stopped searching. She didn’t do anything. She wasn’t part of any mysterious way. A victim of the uninsured. Too quiet to demand I give her the ketchup and too polite to seek treatment she couldn’t afford. Had she spoken up, had she said something, had she known, had so many things had happened I wonder what she would be doing today.

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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A Lie Preview

Classes Start

It’s ten a.m. and I’m nearly a hundred percent certain that I am in the wrong class room, but I have no plans of leaving. The teacher, a young woman who is probably a few years older than me with rather large breasts, passes out the syllabus to the class. A two to three page document detailing everything we are supposed to go over in the course of the semester. Fucking gag me, the syllabus is more or less an excuse to mow down a few more acres of trees in South America. Considering our teachers will flood our emails with the same shit anyway. I’m sitting in the far corner of the room, far away from everyone else. The teacher goes into a speech about showing up late, her breasts bouncing with each word. Is she even wearing a bra? I find myself more entertained with her bust line than trying to figure out where I even am. Her words bleed together and I can’t tell if it is me or her who is not making sense of the words. It takes a moment but I finally look down at the syllabus to figure where I am. The paper says that I am in public speaking and I can start to feel the blood drain from my face. Things only get worse when I start to realize that each student is standing up and telling everyone in the class their name and a little bit about themselves and why they are in college. Most of the students here are going for degrees in criminal justice or something as stupid as that. I can feel my heart rate go up and I begin to wonder if anyone else can hear the pounding of my heart like I can. It sounds like an Edgar Allen Poe story in here. Am I fucking dying or am I losing my mind? I hate speaking in front of a single person and speaking in front of all thirty people in the class is making me feel like I am having a heart attack. I can feel the sweat bead up at the top of my head and drip down my face. I was not prepared for this nor would I ever sign up for this. I calm my shaking hand long enough to grab my backpack and slowly make my way to the exit in a near crawl. How this isn’t any worse than just standing up and saying my name is beyond me. The latest victim stops speaking as the teacher asks me where I am going. I stand up from my crouched position and give her a blank stare before running out of the room. My heart is racing a mile a minute as I wander the halls for what seems like days. Everything feels as though it is in slow motion but I keep trekking on. Wandering the halls isn’t an unusual thing for me. I do it a lot. Despite the fact that I hate this school I just can’t seem to leave. I’m never in class, but I’m never not at the school on school days. As confusing as that sounds I think it is because I feel guilty for not attending classes and it also has to do with the fact that I can’t afford to put more gas in my car. So, I might as well stay here and make the best of it. It doesn’t hurt that my drug dealer takes a lot of classes here as well. He says it helps him expand his mind. “Always got to be smart for the streets man, always.” When really he is just going to the school to expand his business, which has worked out pretty well for him in my opinion. It is here in a class for retards that I first met him. The class in question was a basic English course that all students have to take if they didn’t score a certain amount of points on the assessment test to get into this prestigious college. It can’t be over stated that I never wanted to go here so the idea of even trying wasn’t an option when I took the test. I just breezed through the test selecting any answer without reading the question. I was hoping that maybe they would deny me, but nope they accepted me with cash symbols in their eyes since my whole first term wasn’t worth a single credit. I decided today that I will walk around the campus. No use going through another embarrassing first day. The first day doesn’t count anyway. I stop by the bathroom on the first floor before heading outside in the cold. The ground looks much more interesting when I’m high on drugs. The school uses a special kind of salt that is blue-green in color and it does a really good job of clearing off the sidewalks. In the center of campus there is a pond that has long been frozen over. I walk across the wooden bridge that goes across the narrow part of the pond connecting one side of the campus to the other side. In the summer this is where I like to stand, but in the winter the wind comes across the pond and hits me like a cold hard slap to the face. I’m starting to really feel the trip as I walk past the library and head for the main building. I’m making my way to the cafeteria to purchase the overly priced food I really can’t afford and steal one of the overly priced energy drinks. I usually don’t steal things, but I’m not paying three fucking dollars for something I could get for a lot less someplace else. Plus, what’s the worst they could do to me? Kick me out of school? I walk into the cafeteria from the side door of the building. This door is on the opposite side of the student union, a place I try to avoid at all costs. I can’t stand this school and I can’t stand the students that go here even more. Most of them are so pretentious it makes me sick. Half the time I get trapped in some stupid conversation with one of them, and all I want to do is scream, “Look the fuck around.” They all like to live in some fantasy world that they are learning or attending some place that is giving them a higher education and we are not. I get nauseous thinking of the conversations I could get trapped into, but it is probably only the food.  The cafeteria is nearly empty, there must still be classes going on. I walk up to the cooler and pretend to get a drink, but really I just slip one of the energy drinks on the lower shelf into my jacket pocket. No idea what I grabbed but it is that simple, and free and simple is the name of the game. Today’s menu is beef stroganoff prepared by the master chefs the school hires. The smell from the food is close to that of a bowel movement. I never get the prepared meal so I decided on a cheeseburger that I am pretty sure is made of ten percent rubber. This is more of an impulse buy than a decision after the glorified lunch lady asks me if I was going to get anything or just sit there staring at the food. Don’t get me wrong I like being high but it has its negative effects too, such as time and how much of it is not perceived by my mind. After dropping three dollars and fifty cents on a cheese burger even the shittiest fast food place wouldn’t sell, I head back outside and walk to the Art and Science building to eat. Once inside I pound the energy drink down as fast as I can, hoping that the shit tasting cocktail and the drugs will keep me awake long enough to get through the next class. If I decide to even go to that one. My eyes feel like anvils as I eat the only food I will probably have today. A nasty side effect of the drugs is that I don’t eat and in the last couple of months I have lost over twenty pounds. I have always been a little bit heavy set so losing twenty or more pounds really isn’t as drastic as it sounds. Since I can’t afford new clothes no one has really noticed either way, but for once in my life I’m starting to think that I look better than ever. Maybe I will get my own commercial on TV from all the weight I’m losing like that fat fuck did from that restaurant chain or those fat bitches from the eighties. Then again I will probably die and everyone will forget about me. Good lunch, now I’m all set for more drugs. It is best to not have a full stomach or an empty one, this rule stands more tested before bed as the odds of dying in your sleep on your own vomit increase with such activity. I randomly use nearly every bathroom on campus on any given day, I even use the women’s room in the main building once because the men’s was to full. I use the bathroom on the second floor before checking to see what my next class is. Despite my best efforts I am ten minutes late for class, but it is the first day so no one notices. I take my usual place in the back of the room. The teacher, this time a man, passes out the same piece of paper I’m pretty sure I already have detailing what we will be doing in class this semester. It takes me a minute to actually realize that I have in fact seen this paper because I have already taken this class. Maybe it will be easier the second time around, who gives a fuck. I’m starting to feel even more tired now that I know it doesn’t matter.

My drug abuse doesn’t allow me to sleep as often as I would like. My depression and my drugs have very different ideas on the topic, but when I do sleep I dream of many things. I dream that I am a woman in a minivan and I’m emptying a shopping bag onto the passenger seat so I can place it over the head of one of the crying children behind me. I scream things as I hold it there. The words don’t make sense but given the context what would it really matter any way. I dream that I am chasing a school bus in a place that I once lived. The sky is blood red and all I can hear, all I can see is the children laughing before vomiting gallons of blood out the window of the moving bus. The blood washes over me as I run with everything I have. I never reach the bus and it never stops. Wave after wave till finally I give up. I dream of her, touching her, feeling her, fucking her. I roll over after coming and fall off the bed into nothing. I can’t move as I fall and I try to reach for the bed that has long since disappeared in to the darkness. I just keep falling and falling with no end. Farther and farther, and I never stop falling, never stop feeling confused until I wake up. I dream in blood and I dream in liquids. I dream so many things that sometimes it is hard to figure out what has been a dream and what has been reality. I often wake up confused to where I am or if I am even alive anymore. I imagine myself standing in the middle of Times Square with a gun to my head screaming, begging for someone to help, but no one stops to help me. I imagine that I pull the trigger and I can feel the bullet digging into my skull in slow motion so, I can feel every bit of pain as it rips through my head and exits the other side. I snap out of my state and realize that I am now sitting in an empty class room. I wonder if I am awake or am I still dreaming. There is a note that sits in front of me. It is from my teacher, “Maybe next time you can try to make it more than ten minutes before falling asleep.”

I stop by the bathroom one more time before going outside to smoke. I decide to blow the rest of the day off and return to my tomb. I get into my car and I sit there. I can still feel the bullet hole in my head. It is twenty degrees outside, but I don’t turn on the car. I don’t do anything. I just sit there. I sit in my car until I can no longer feel my toes from the cold. I sit there and I feel nothing. I sit here and think of nothing. I take another hit and begin my trip back home.

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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.