4322P: Free Range Chickens

[satanic goatslayer]

Darkness.

Out of the side of my eye, I could see his shadow approaching. Piano wire, check. As he knocks the door, I approach him and ask him for a light. Sure, he replies and digs into his pocket for his lighter. Lit my pipe and turned around back towards the bushes. Change of mind, quickly dash behind him, strap the wire around his neck and drag his flailing body into the shrubs.

Strangulation. Blood trickles down his neck as I reach into my belt for my cleaver. Three chops, complete decapitation. Strip the skin off his face, douse his head in diesel, ignite head, and throw the head through the bedroom window.

Crack smoke all around.

Convenience store: 2:45 am. Enter store, greet smelly fellow behind counter, buy him a stick of deodorant. Purchase cheap cigar, rolling papers, and a newspaper.

Quick glance around reveals a lonely looking woman in pink tights. Stroll over, take a seat behind her, ask her for her name. She answers Marissa, picks a carton of milk out of the cooler. I follow behind, take brief notice of my surroundings.

$3.67 is your change, he hacks as she takes her things and walks down the dimly lit street. Stealth.

Remember me?

Look at what I found, duck your head down a little bit and take a look. Double handed thrust down into the neck. Twist knife slowly, hum Greensleeves. Cut some hair off, put it into my pocket.

Can I have your milk?

Cut her eyeballs out and put them into the carton. Shake vigorously, then locate the nearest homeless man. Drive by and throw the carton at the man’s head. Stop and shove homeless Willy into his cardboard box. Use newspaper to ignite box, inhale soothing smells of burning hobo and have a drink of shine.

Smoke cigar, roll hair into a thick joint, sell to the elementary school children on Monday. Have sex with the principal, give her syphilis, toss her out the window. Jagged glass is the cure.

The less I think, the easier it becomes to live.

Go to local bar, order scotch neat, sit down. Commence drinking myself into a tolerable reality. Walk to jukebox, put a quarter in, select song.

What about love – Heart

Old bar hag approaches, asks if I’m having a rough time. Yes, give me free drinks or die, dirty skank.

Refusal.

Cautiously bring her into bathroom, prop door closed, tap dryer button. Grab her by the hair, smash her face against the tile, slam her head into the sink, tell her to keep it there.
Run up, axe kick to the back of the head, extraction of teeth. Cave her skull in with garbage can, clean myself up, pay my tab and walk home.

Maladjusted, jaded towards the world, addicted to opium. Every day is like the one before, save for the date. The long, dark street seemed tranquil for a short time.

Hey man, do you have a smoke?

Not for you, mongrel. Let me crack your dome open and stab your brain with a fork.

Large rock hoisted, run towards man, deliver crushing blow as promised. Use sharp rock to crack skull open, stab his brain with a stick, listen to the responses and laugh. Roll man in honey, cover him in oats, and throw him into the goat pen. Record how long it takes for complete consumption.

Repeat cycle indefinitely.

 

[Latimer]

That's really beautiful man.

 

[satanic goatslayer]

I know, I get that all the time.

 

[Latimer]

How's your queer brother doing?

 

[satanic goatslayer]

I don't know, ever since he started his fag band, I don't talk to him much. He's not my real brother though, thank salmon. I found him in a ditch and had a moment of pity.

 

[Latimer]

You should end him.

 

[satanic goatslayer]

He has AIDS. It's only a matter of time.

 

[Latimer]

You should still do it before he can spread the disease. You never know if he'll be fucking or getting fucked by a bisexual.

 

[satanic goatslayer]

Good point, but if he does spread it, then it's like killing two (or more) birds with one stone, so to speak.

 

[THeMaCHinE]

Nice work SG, like the stream of conciousness. Could be a gem in the rough...

Here's one I wrote last year:

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The slow swirl of reality escaping. My mind becoming numb. The blackness enters my soul. Things are easier now, I don't have to think any longer. Finally, I am at my base. Primordial. Emotional. Instinctual.

The smooth wood of the bat fits my hand perfectly. It is battered and scarred. Like me. My grip is intense, knuckles white, but I don't feel it. I don't feel anything. Except hate. And love. The moment is perfect. The moment is more real than anything I've ever experienced.

The darkness is my cover, my shroud. It cloaks me like the blackness that has covered my soul. I wait behind the bushes. At his house. The enemy. Stupid fucker. Should've known.

I peer between the branches, the scent of dirt and leaves pervades my nostrils. I'm motionless. For hours. Finally, lights. Twin beams piercing the night as his car pulls up the driveway by the shrubs.

Though his windows are closed, I hear the bump of his music through the car. Muffled. He opens the car door and the dome light illuminates him as he pulls himself out of the car using the door and steering wheel as crutches. All I see where his eyes are is shadows. He is pathetic, weak and undeserving. To think, I once called him my friend.

As he gets out, a beer can drops to the ground. Drunk again. Good. It'll make things easier.

He staggers up the dark driveway. Towards me. Towards the end. I think at the last minute he must have sensed something because he looks towards me as I spring from the bush. Too late. Sucker. The arc of the bat is perfect, a slow, downward swing that lands squarely on his shoulder. Did you know that it only takes eight pounds of pressure per square inch to break a bone? His collarbone is shattered. He drops. Strangely, without a sound.

I pace towards his fallen figure, fire racing through my veins. The moon illuminates me from behind, he can't make out my face as he peers up from the ground. But he knows. And he is ready. I swing the bat four more times, once on each knee, once on each elbow. He's beginning to scream now. The reality of the situation has come to him. He realizes he's going to die. Right then, right there, in pool of his own beer-laden vomit and piss.

I straddle him standing and hold the bat over my head like an axe. With everything I have, I slam it down into his face. Blood sprays, it is warm on my face. I bring the bat down twice more for good measure and it is over. All of it. My whole life I've been waiting for this moment, and the moment only took thirty seconds.

But it was perfect. As perfect as anything I've ever felt.