The planes of life and death are many, with just as many planes of reality and imagination in between. Take for instance Mr. Goodman Howe, a kindly old man who has lost everyone in the world he loves, and yet he still goes on day to day. But, on the first day in a long time, something good will happen to Mr. Howe, only in- The Twilight Zone…
Sitting in his vehicle, the rusted out ol scrap that it was, more rust on the truck anymore than paint, Goodman looked at the near empty parking lot, only two other vehicles there besides his. One, the day guards, Ricks. The other, one he hadn’t noticed before. Must’ve been someone working late, he thought. Something that happened ever so rarely.
After the death of his wife a few years prior, Goodman found himself lonely, the isolation of sitting at home alone filling him with depression and grief. Needing to get out, he opened the papers one day, the papers being from days before, and yet still, he saw the ad, called the number, and got hired to fill the position, no problems. Night guardsman for an avionics production facility. A quiet job, and quiet was just what Goodman thought he needed. A quiet job, outside of his eerily, quiet home. But over time, he found that his little guard shack didn’t offer any sort of relief that he had been hoping for.
Finally climbing out from his rust bucket, the hands on his watch finally finishing their crawl to those two one’s standing side by side like two lonely men, the eleven o’ clock shift starting, another night of nick-at-night reruns and reading through the papers from days before.
Strolling up to the shack, Rick already outside waiting, much like he did most nights, his impatience overly visible in his body language. “Bout time Goodman,” the kid said. The kid, Goodman thought, like he could call him that. Rick was in his early thirties, and compared to Goodman’s early seventies, hell, he could call him a kid. Damn kid’s.
“It’s right on eleven,” looking to his watch, seeing it was eleven o’ two, Goodman damning himself, caught in a very minuscule lie, but a lie none-the-less, wondering how it had taken him two whole minutes to walk from the rust bucket to the shack. Was he getting that slow in what used to be a strong, meaningful stride?
“Alright,” Rick said, just playing it off, knowing it wasn’t worth getting irritated with the old man. “You have a good night now.” With nothing else, the man, or kid in Goodman’s eyes made his way to his car, in it, key turned, wheels quickly turning to leave the ugly truck and one other vehicle sitting alone in the parking lot.
Climbing into the shack, shutting the door behind him, taking his seat, realizing that he had grown tired of the job, with no one there at night, nothing happening, Goodman just reasoned that it was just best he stayed put, kept the job. It’ll just be the same anywhere else, he thought. Lonesome. Quiet.
Grabbing a newspaper off the shack’s little counter, the counter itself littered with candy bar wrappers, which Goodman supposed was Rick’s, the man looking to have never minded his weight, and a small t.v., the company nice enough to run a cable line out to them so they could zone out on the job with the trash that was on the boob tube, as Goodman’s son called it.
His son, Gary, had moved all the way over to the other side of the country, in California, where he designed video games, or something like that. Thinking about him, his graduation from high school, college, Goodman was proud of his son, but missed him dearly, having not seen him since Christmas. Of last year.
Wish he’d settle down, give me a grandchild. Goodman thought, hoping his thoughts would drown out the silence of the shack, not that it was completely silent, the humming from the light above him relaxing, once you got used it that is. After so long, the sound became torture, staying in your ears well after your shift has ended and you’re lying in bed trying to get to sleep. Back to his son and a grandchild, Goodman reasoned that even if Gary had a child, its grandfather would never see it. Gary had always been a momma’s boy.
The hours rolled by slowly, agonizingly slow. Unable to even fall asleep, even though that was a no-no on the job, something he had been warned about countless times the day he was hired, Goodman knew better than to expect anything to happen. Nothing ever did happen. Ever. Flipping off the light in the shack, the television not even on yet, Goodman not having reached that point of boredom to give in and watch reruns that he had seen countless times, he looked out the dirty window up to the sky and stars, wondering if Mary, his wife, was looking down on here, feeling sorry for her miserable, widowed husband. But he also wondered when he had missed his chance to do anything worth doing in his life.
Not that life hadn’t been good, but looking back on it, Goodman just couldn’t think of anything that had been worth his life, worth life itself. And it saddened him to think that his existence on Earth had been wasted. Deciding to change his mood and demeanor, depression something he had gotten used to but wasn’t in the mood for that night, he flicked the television on, turned it to nick-at-nite, and let the show’s he was only half-heartedly watch take the rest of the night away.
An hour passed by like that, when startled by a sudden knock at his door, Goodman about fell from his chair, was almost certain that he was going to have a heart attack, his old heart pounding in a way it hadn’t in a long, long time. Looking to see who had spooked him, a kid, and this time a young man, no more older than twenty three, stood, smiling, mouthing the word sorry through the door’s tiny window.
Motioning the kid in with a wave of his wrinkled hand, the door opened, the young man stepping in, apologetic. “I’m really sorry bout that,” he said. “Didn’t mean to give you a scare there.” Laughing, Goodman thought little about it, just glad to have someone to talk to for a minute.
“It’s nothing, needed it to keep me awake. Is there something I can do for ya? You the one working late in there?” Looking out to the car that hadn’t left yet, it was the logical thing to think.
“Yeah, that’s me,” the kid said, looking out to the car. “Ol thing ain’t starting up, was wondering if I could use your phone, can’t seem to find mine.” Goodman, not even seeing the kid walk out to his car and attempt to start it felt bad, the old man never owning a phone in his life, and the realization that his shack didn’t have one either. What good was a guard with no gun and no phone? He thought, they really must not expect anything to EVER happen out here.
“Sorry, but, no phone. Wish I could help. Got a key to get back in the building, they got phones in there.” Reaching for his keys, getting up to walk in, the kid wasn’t too worried about calling for a ride.
“Nah, don’t worry bout it sir, thanks anyways. I don’t live too far from here, and I can walk. Nice night out anyways.” Looking back behind him into the stars much like Goodman had been doing, a smile came across the kid’s lips that reminded the old man of better days, when he young, and thought he could own the world. Instead, the universe turned everything around on him, leaving him alone in a too-crowded world.
“It is ain’t it. Reminds me of when I was about your age. Owned a cherry red ’56 Chevy. White top, never had the thing on with nights like this to drive around. Love the feel of the wind making my way down these roads. Remember when this parking lot used to be nothing but fields, looked so nice in the moonlight.”
Goodman was in a very happy place thinking back to his days of his reckless youth, burning down the back country roads, back before they were asphalt and yellow paint, with Mary in the passenger seat, neither wearing a seat belt, the voice of Buddy Holly trying to beat out the roar of the engine and the howl of the young couple’s laughs. The best of times.
“Those must have been the days,” the kid said, still looking up into the sky. “Welp, I better get goin before the wife starts wonderin’. You have a g’night now sir,” the kid said, the sir surprising him, kids these days having no manners. Goodman just nodded, said a goodnight and a goodbye in response, his mind left wandering back to better days. His night would go by quick, the rest of his shift spent on back country roads with the wind blowing through his memory.
Two hours had grudgingly crawled by, leaving Goodman to wish he could return to working on his Chevy in his pa’s garage, or sitting with Mary the night of their first kiss, both nervous teens, just waiting for one to make a move. Mary made the first move, putting her hand on top of his on the hillside that looked over both their homes. They had lived close, their houses on the same street, their families went to the same church.
Seeing his rust bucket and the kid’s car being the only two in the parking lot again that night, he wondered if the kid’s car was still not running, left from the night before, or if the young lad was working late again, leaving the misses at home waiting.
Not in the mood to watch the television or read the paper that he had brought in with him, not that it was worth reading, the damn thing four days old, he instead walked out of the shack, stretching his old, tired legs, getting some fresh air. Stepping into the night, the air was a bit chilly, autumn creeping it’s way up on the closing summer, but autumn was Goodman’s favorite season. Most likely cause it had been Mary’s. She loved the colors of the leaves.
Very calm, taking deep breaths, taking in the stars, wishing he could just fly up there with them, around the planets, maybe take in the sight’s of Saturn’s rings, talk to the Man on the Moon, roast a marshmallow over the sun, Goodman jumped when he was surprisingly greeted from behind.
“Hey,” laughing, realizing he had yet again startled the night guardsman, the kid laughing, placed a reassuring hand on the old man’s shoulder, apologizing. “I’m sorry. Keep doing that too ya.”
“You’re gonna kill me one of these nights. Catch me just the right way and poof!, heart attack,” Goodman playfully grabbed his shirt over his heart, acting like his heart was giving out on his, going into full character with facial expressions and groans, getting a few more laughs from the kid. “Late night for ya again. Must love that overtime.” Finishing his laugh, the kid just nodded.
“Not really, but hey, could use the money. Takin’ in the night air?” he said, taking a deep breath himself, eye’s shut.
“Good night to do so. And those stars are just calling down to me. ‘Come play with us Goodman.’” Looking up at them, he knew Mary was up there.
“Goodman, eh. Well, I’m Matt.” Reaching out a hand for a shake, Goodman returned the gesture and was pleased by the strength in the kids, Matt’s, grip. A real man’s handshake Goodman thought. A gentleman’s.
“It’s nice to meet you Matt. You’re a good kid.” Goodman said it, instantly regretting calling Matt a kid, not sure if he would take offense too it or not. Kid’s these days, no respect and they take everything to heart. What happened to the youth of this over-crowded world?
“Same to you Goodman. Can I ask you something?” Goodman nodded. “You get bored in there, all by yourself at night? I mean, nothing ever happens round here. I mean, I say that like I know.”
“No, no, you’re right. Nothing exciting ever happens round here. They keep me here for my looks,” Goodman laughed, knowing his charm and good looks left him ages ago, replaced with wrinkles and worn out eyes. But back in the day, he was handsome. Could have been competition for James Dean, or Presley. And Mary, Mary had been so gorgeous. Could have a movie star, she could have. “Welp,” Goodman felt bad, holding the kid up with meaningless chit-chat. “Better get home to the misses now, don’t want to keep her waiting.”
“It’s okay. She’s prolly asleep anyways. I’ll stick around. You need the company anyways.” Goodman couldn’t argue with that. He wanted to tell the kid no, tell Matt to get on home and climb into bed with that girl, cuddle up with her and enjoy it while he had her. But it was only for one night.
“Not much to do round here at night. Got the little shack here,” Goodman said, slapping the door, like he was glad it was all his. “Got the television in there. That’s it. Not much for a young man like yourself. You really should be gettin’ goin.”
“Why don’t we sit out here and you tell me bout those days on these back streets, when these were fields in the moonlight.” Sitting down on the pavement, back against the wall, Goodman thought about and would be glad to tell a story, but he sure as hell wasn’t sitting on the ground. His old back wouldn’t last very long, and he’d never get back up. Grabbing his seat from inside, he made sure Matt wouldn’t be offended if he sat in it, the respectful young lad not caring one bit, just sitting cross legged like a young child waiting for a good story to be spun.
“Let me tell ya bout the time I was racing Charlie Everett…”
Life was good to Goodman. Going to work wasn’t so bad. Matt had stayed the whole night, heading home just before the sun came up, listening to the better days of an old man’s life, smiling the whole time. It was the best thing to happen to Goodman in a long, long time, and all the kid had done was listen, but, Goodman realized, Matt had done more than that. He let Goodman remember. Let the man go back to those days. Let him sit behind the wheel of his car. Racing down the back roads neck and neck with ol’ Charlie Everett in his Model T. Man, did Goodman smoke in at the end.
Walking up to the booth, Rick was outside waiting like he always was, although Goodman was fifteen minutes earlier than usual, a smile on his face, his whole demeanor just a little bit brighter.
“You look like a kid on Christmas morning,” Rick commented, wondering why the night guardsman was in such a good mood.
“I feel like it, that’s for sure.” Looking around the parking lot, he noticed for the first time since pulling in that Matt’s car was finally gone, not parked in the spot it had been for days. Maybe Matt had finally gotten it towed, or more than likely he had left early that day, not feeling like the overtime was worth staying late for. Goodman had to admit to himself, if the kid didn’t startle him that night, he would be a tiny bit disappointed, rather enjoying the young lad’s company.
“So, you hear about the accident? I swear they don’t tell us anything. I read it in the paper this morning,” Rick said, the excitement to tell his news almost sickening, Goodman knowing it couldn’t be any good.
“What happened?” Goodman asked, almost not wanting to hear.
“Kid died here a few days ago. Was working late, fell from a rafter while working on the tail of one of the birds,” birds being airplanes, “no one found him till yesterday morning. Company is trying to keep it secret. Can’t believe I didn’t hear bout it till I read bout it.”
“Kid. What kid?” Goodman asked, the part of him that questioned the unquestionable forming a name already, though the rational side of the old man’s brain told him it was impossible, but as Rick tried to remember, Goodman mouthed along with him just as the name came to him.
“Matt something or other. Young kid. Had a wife with a baby on the way.” Goodman couldn’t believe it. It had to be another Matt. Not his Matthew. It just wasn’t possible.
“Was there a picture of the kid?” the night guardsman asked, knowing a picture would prove the crazy assumptions going through his mind wrong, that he would be put to ease knowing his Matthew was home with his misses, doing what young couple’s do nowadays.
“Sure wasn’t. Damn shame though. Well, I need to get going. Have a good one Goodman.” And like that, Rick was gone, leaving an old man alone to wonder in a tiny shack.
An hour passed by when Goodman finally decided he couldn’t sit no more, staring out into the parking lot where a kid, no, a young man’s car had been parked the day before. Stretching his legs, hands in his pockets, he didn’t want to think about Chevy’s, or Charlie Everett, or the good ol’ days. He just wasn’t in the mood to think about those days, long and past.
Looking up at the stars, then to the moon, wondering what the Man up there was thinking about, Goodman was startled, nearing jumping off the ground by a “hello” from behind. He knew the voice, and knew that he hadn’t heard anyone walking up behind him. He also knew no one had been in the building working. No one. Turning to see Matt, the boy smiling.
“Sorry bout that. Bad habit I guess,” Matt said, looking at the sad old man before him. “You okay Goodman?”
“Are you bub?” Goodman asked the kid, only ever calling his son that.
“I’m fine. I mean, I feel a little weird, but I’m prolly coming down with something. Everyone is this time of the year.” Looking up from Goodman to the stars, his smiled turned into a small grin, an innocence present, a longing to be somewhere that he couldn’t get too. Goodman knew the kid didn’t belong there with him, was meant to be someplace else, with Mary. But he couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it. If Matt was supposed to be with Mary, wherever Mary was, the stars, heaven, wherever, he would go when he was well and ready too.
“So, want to hear about the time I got caught sneakin’ into a lasses room?” Goodman asked, the kid sitting down, cross legged, smiling and nodding. Grabbing his chair, Goodman was content. Maybe, just maybe, that was where Matt was supposed to be…
An old man left alone in an over-crowded world. A young man robbed of his youth in an accident, only to visit with a lonely man and hear about days long ago. There are many places we are destined to be in our lives, and in the times after our light has been extinguished. And sometimes the most important place we can be is there for someone who needs us. That is no more truer than in…. The Twilight Zone
The alarm went off right after six a.m. Donald opened his eyes, then rose, and grabbed his robe. The coffee pot was on the counter, waiting to perform its morning, and sometimes nightly favor for him. Yessenia was already at the table eating oatmeal, washing it down with brandy. Donald ignored her as he added sugar, milk, and a shot of vodka to his coffee. Yessenia gazed at the back of his head, wishing it would just burst into flames. She had not forgotten the phone call she received from Susana, the new bartender for Maven’s on West Second Street. Susana told Yessenia about how she and Donald made a connection, and that she was sorry if it caused any problems within their marriage. As far as Donald was concerned, there were no problems until Yessenia lost her sex drive. Donald wasn’t dead yet, so he gave in to temptation and justified his actions through the abstinence of his wife for nine years. Even as he stirred his coffee, Donald didn’t feel any pangs of guilt, no remorse of his infidelity. Yessenia stood after downing the last of her brandy, walking towards Donald. Yessenia stopped when Donald faced her. The magnum appeared; drawing blood, then returning to the robe pocket it laid in all night.
I didn’t feel like it.
Now that you can, no doubt, empathize with my struggles and reasons for my disappearance,
it’s time for me to once again assault your round, viewing organs with some words I threw
This time around, I feel like tackling some major issues I’ve been dealing with in
modern society. You see, I acquired a job in January that requires me to stand/walk in
circles in the middle of a shopping mall. Through my daily struggles, I am a witness
to the perplexities and the enigma that surrounds mankind. In this I believe I have found
that man is neither inherently good nor evil, but something much simpler underneath.
I have found mankind’s commonplace; a massive discovery to unite the masses with one
common thread. Please read on…
Here are some common elements witnessed at my job with some regularity:
Dudes wearing Affliction shirts – The girl I’ve been dating went off on me about how
I judge people a bunch, bla bla
bla, something about my disliking for dudes in Affliction shirts, then some more complaining.
I had to stop her to tell her that I hadn’t caught any more of what she had been saying
due to my confusion over her suggestion that not all dudes wearing Affliction
shirts are douchebags.
Screaming children. Not just screaming, but like, really fucking screaming – Parents
will straight up walk right next to me with a fucking five year old in a stroller that
I’m pretty sure is suffering from premature cardiac arrest and is also
prematurely passing a kidney stone simultaneously. They seem to not be bothered at all by
the horrific gurgling, crying, banshee wailing performances of the “child?” Anyway,
sometimes I wonder if it’s actually their child, or if the damn thing is being kidnapped.
I can’t very well ask though, for fear the parent would be offended or the kidnapper would
get embarrassed. The only time I found the wailing child to be acceptable was when this
total babe was pushing her very loud stroller next to me, but was wearing a low cut shirt
that showed off her hot boobs that were sexy and pretty big and also hot.
People really like the Beatles and think I’m some kind of super dick or down-syndrome
asshole for disliking them. Oh, I mean for hating the fuck out of them. Oh, and I meant
retard asshole – Yeah, I’m a musician. Yeah, I grew up with classic rock. No, I don’t
like the Beatles. I don’t give a shit if you think they are amazing songwriters or how
much they did for rock as a genre. I think the songwriting is drab, the lyrics are
awful, their voices bug me and tons of bands have outdone them since. I don’t care if
they were the first (they’re not). I can like and dislike what I want and even say retard
asshole if I feel like it.
People ask the dumbest fucking questions ever because only people ask
questions, so it makes sense that people also ask the dumbest fucking ones – I’m sure
most of you that have ever worked retail or sales know what I’m talking about. I’m not even
going to give examples here because I’m kind of lazy and, really, who cares? Is this thing
U2 is still popular. Bono is still making money – I’ve tackled the U2 subject before
but it still baffles me.
Basically, I’m getting tired of writing and my wit is draining, so I’ll wrap this up.
My point is, mankind is stupid as fuck and the majority of people have that in common.
So they could, like, all gather ’round and have idiot conventions and talk about dumb shit
like Lil’ Wayne and maybe once they realize that they all like money and sex and hot boobs,
we can end all of this constant warring.
Alright, thanks for reading. I’m going to go relax as fuck.
A bachelor once woke from a midday nap later than he had intended. He looked out his bedroom window to get an idea of what time it was, and was shocked to see how dark the sky had become. The dull green landscape outside had begun to blend into the moonstricken clouds.
He felt that he must have left some of his soul in his dream, since he only felt half-awake, so he threw on his petticoat and walked outside to breathe the cool wintry air. When he crossed the threshold of the house, he found that his house had been transported to the edge of a steep bluff overlooking a narrow valley of marshlands stretching into the horizon. The sun was setting into the crevice of the valley, turning the space between land and darkness peach and pink. The air felt bodily warm.
– Such beauty and wonder, so much in this sight, and also in the oddity of my being here. I want to get closer.
The bachelor jogged up to the bluff, and more of the valley came into view. First, entire worlds presented themselves to him with each step. Then, a few new features at a time became visible. Finally, as he edged up to the precipice, all that was left to see was what was directly beneath. He knelt down and peaked over, and saw and elderly couple, a man and a woman, laying in two bathtubs filled with water, holding hands and bathing in the sun’s last rays.
– This might have been an odd thing to see, but it makes sense. Now I understand why the sun, this valley, these marshlands, and this bluff all had to make their way to my house, and push away the suburbs and roads. Luckily, I don’t need to drive anywhere today, and all of this scenery will let the roads and the suburbs come back when these two leave.
The bachelor returned to his house, now feeling wide-awake, and fully refreshed. The half of him that was still sleeping had returned to him while he was outside, and he commended himself on his designs. He forgot the detail of what he saw outside. It became a blur in his mind. He could only remember that the sun was beautiful, and how lovely the sun made the head of that elderly woman. He distinctly remembered that, because she was so far below him, the shine of her hair had become distorted, like a halo. He could not think about the sun without thinking about the couple, and vice-versa.
The bachelor especially fixated his remembrance on the woman, and when he realized what he wanted from her, he ran outside. All was dark except for a sliver of red on the horizon. The moon burned hot on his back. He rushed up to the ledge and halted himself, for fear that he might throw himself over. He dropped his legs and wrapped his left hand round the edge, and scrambled down the near-vertical bluff, halting completely whenever he thought himself in danger of throwing himself into the ground. When he reached the bottom, he found the woman alone and naked. She was standing in the marsh water up to her thighs. The wrinkles of her face dripped into her neck. Her slender stomach, despite her petite build, slouched so much as to cover her genitals. Her pupils reflected the white of the fiery full moon.
– Who are you? What are you doing in my house? I don’t need you!
She sundered up to the bachelor, and his stomach came a milky rush into his mouth. The vile floated on the murky water like an algae, and the woman produced a long piece of driftwood from the below the vomit and thrust it into the young man’s neck, breaking both the wood and the neck. 150 pounds of dead weight collapsed into the water, except the head, which struck against some elevated mud. All of his feeling was gone fun but for the wet sensations on the back of his scalp and the thistle crowning his face. He was merely a head looking up at a near-black sky draped with gray green curtains. The elderly man appeared in his vision, and spoke in a deep, authoritative, calm voice while the last flagellum of maroon slipped from his sight.
– Oh, to be young again! The man said this to himself, and in a whisper.
The man popped a capsule into the bachelor’s mouth and covered the horrified face with his wrinkled, oozing hand. The man removed his jeans while covering the bachelor’s mouth and showed them to him, seemingly so that he would know what the woman was about to do, since he could not see her. The man held onto them and looked. The young man mouthed some words while the man stared him in the eyes with a glare powerful enough to crack open a coconut from a thousand meters. The elderly couple continued their show until the suburbs and the roads returned, all at once, annihilating everyone and everything, except for the house of course.
What you call it doesn’t matter, I guess. What does matter is that the Abunari have tracked me through six states up and down the Atlantic coast, and I need to keep moving.
I’ll assume you think that the Abunari is something like the mafia, some family organization geared toward money and corruption and a skewed view of honor. You’d be terribly wrong. The Abunari is ten times what the mafia could ever be with no clear understandable motivation. At least what the mafia does can be understood; the Abunari do what they do simply for the hell of it.
I guess with that much power it’s understandable.
I attacked one of them. They have this hobby of taking over largely public vehicles and crashing them into things. They like to watch your thoughts panic and bounce frantically around your aura as you see death approaching you, as you begin to comprehend that your life is terminating.
They live for that moment of clarity you experience right before impact. It feeds them.
I happened to be on that bus one of them overtook in Virginia. And I happened to notice that he didn’t even realize I was there. I looked him straight in the face. He looked right through me.
The Abunari do not “see” like you and I “see”. They perceive the world through something they like to call Visual Telepathic Energy. In essence, they don’t see you, they see your thoughts. Think something along the lines of thermal energy goggles.
I can’t explain it, but for some reason, they can’t see me. I have some sort of VTE shield, and they can’t penetrate it. That’s why the one on the bus couldn’t see me pull out the handgun I carry for protection and shoot him directly between the eyes. Now, of course, this didn’t kill him, but it stunned him long enough for us to toss him onto the road at 60 miles per hour. That didn’t kill him either.
I assume that’s why they want me so badly. It gives them something to chase, something to experiment on when they eventually catch me.
How are they tracking me? I can’t say that I’m entirely sure about that myself. My theory is that they can see me through other people’s VTE. Sure, they never had a clear basis for what I would look like to them, but I’m sure the one on the bus caught glimpses of me, even though he had no idea where I was or what I was doing. Using that, they simply follow me through the people that see me, those who happen to see a ratty, skinny, dirty young woman scaling scaffolds and running through shadows, those who happen to see me hop a bus to wherever.
That’s just a theory, though. I cannot claim to fully understand the Abunari. As I said: all that matters is that they’re tracking me, and I’ve got to keep moving.
All I care about is staying ahead. All I care about is finding others like me, other Shielded, so that maybe we can start a resistance. The Abunari want to tear this world apart; I don’t feel inclined to let them. There are more out there, somewhere, and I’m going to find them.
So I’ll keep moving. Be on the lookout for a woman in the shadows, beyond the perception of everyday life. That’s where I’ll be, preparing to fight.
Andy rode his razor scooter in front of the house. He felt each bump as he rode over the separations of the sidewalk blocks. Turning around at the end of the yard, he rode back, turning up the pathway that led to the front door, almost falling over from turning too sharply.
Turning around when he bumped into the first step leading up to the porch, Andy saw the neighbor man, Mr. Wilkes, standing at the end of the pathway looking at him. Mr. Wilkes was a nice old man, giving Andy extra candy on Halloween, and sometimes letting him play in his swimming pool on really hot days.
“Hey Mr. Wilkes,” Andy said, riding his scooter up to the old man, stopping a few feet away, struggling to come to a complete stop. He had gotten the scooter for his birthday a week before, and was still getting used to it.
“Hey, Andy”, the old man said. He fought back tears as he said the boy’s name. Looking down at the little boy, his blond hair gently moving with each small blow of the breeze, an innocent smile painted on his lips, not a hint of wrong in his eyes. “Andy, can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” Andy replied. He liked Mr. Wilkes, but he wanted to ride his scooter, and the man was in his way. Mr. Wilkes was smiling, but his eyes were glossy, tears beginning to form in the corners of his eyes. Both of his hand’s were in his pockets, and his usual attire, a button up and slacks, looked different. His shirt was untucked, and his pants were all wrinkly.
“Do you love your parents Andy?” the old man asked, the first tear rolling down his cheek.
“Of course I do. Did you see the scooter they got me for my birthday?” Andy tried to bunny hop with it, but yet again almost fell over, giggling at himself.
“Good, good,” Mr. Wilkes said, taking his left hand out of his pocket to rub Andy’s head. He felt the child’s blond hair play between his fingers as he gently rubbed, playfully like a father might do to his son. “And, do you think your parent’s love you Andy?”
“Duh. Did you not see my scooter?” Mr. Wilkes laughed at this, not being able to control himself anymore, the tears now free falling, gathering in the wrinkles on his face, tracing out the lines of age.
“Good. Good. Now, do you think God loves you Andy?” Mr. Wilkes shivered as he asked this question.
“My mommy says he does. It says so in the bible. Why?” Andy was confused, and done with answering questions. He just wanted to ride his scooter.
“Andy. God doesn’t love you.” Pulling his right hand out of his pocket, in a white knuckle grip on the gun, he pointed it at the child’s head. Andy knew what it was, he had toy guns, watched movies. But all those thoughts ended as the trigger was pulled.
Mr. Wilkes felt the twitch in his index finger, the ripple in his wrist, the shock in his hand. Watching as the frail boy fell to the ground, the pathway behind him now painted red with a hint of white.
Andy’s parents ran from inside, seeing their child, their only child, lying on the ground, his blood, brain matter, and skull fragments covering their sidewalk and yard. Staring into the eyes of Mr. Wilkes, their neighbor, the man that they thought couldn’t hurt a fly, the man who gave them a fruitcake for Christmas.
Putting the gun to his own temple, he pulled the trigger, looking into the eyes of the parents. The parents of the boy he just murdered. Andy’s mother stood in shock as her husband cradled their baby boy, his blood covering his father’s blue dress shirt. They had been preparing dinner, and now, now their son was dead.
And the worst part of it. They couldn’t ask the monster why.
Late one day in August, just before dusk, a man was driving his car down a country road. The man, Thomas, noticed the car was becoming stuffy. So, he opened the window, letting in the warm summer breeze. Full Story
INMATE 1 (burps loud coarse voice) i have this fantasy of being a hunted outlaw taking my 3 guns and piece of shit Ford truck driving north south east west robbing convenience stores bars banks people sharp-shooting car thieving running until my time is up like the old west firing pistols wearing a Stetson hat drunk smart-ass talking hanging with titty bar girls forget about eating just burning a trail (holds metal reflective scrap in hand attempting to catch glimpses of inmate 2)
INMATE 2 (sits cross-legged on floor with palms up resting on knees) too many people are hurting and getting killed right now i imagine if there is a god i’ll bet he or she or it feels weary disappointed disgusted by human kind’s destructive nature
INMATE 1 so what
INMATE 2 i don’t know about you but i miss women their point of view play friendship tenderness nurturing intimacy physical beauty i long for love belonging a woman’s touch her attendance passion the hinge of her thighs licking sucking vagina crave its warm wetness taste smell texture even tongue dipping into anal in a way i’m a total gynephiliac or philogynist
INMATE 1 filojinist huh what are you a professor you sissy son-of-a bitch where did you learn to talk like that tell me professor ever suck on a perfect pussy
INMATE 2 most women have some desirability i’ve known many but yeah there was one in particular i remember she was a beaut bulging pelvic bone cute floppy lips eager clit tangy gamey sweet salty flavor just the right amount of furriness lust response flow she’d reach for my erection and i’d just keep working her getting her hotter taste her urine taste her cum i was addicted to that woman’s vagina even though she treated me like trash perhaps it was simply an oral fixation or some subliminal need i don’t know our relationship lasted way longer then it should have guess i was kind of drunk on her downstairs
INMATE 1 i never was much of a cooch muncher (flexes arm muscles opens tightens fist) women are cows they give off too many odors plus they always want mommy control no matter how much or what you give them they always want more
INMATE 2 you don’t get it do you the connection between the moon oceans great mother earth fragrance of dirt aroma of rain female beauty you’re a misogynist gynophobe possibly misanthrope
INMATE 1 you use too many big words fuck you i hear some women is like how you described yourself some women gets drunk on johnson and nuts
INMATE 2 what are you talking about
INMATE 1 i want to get hooked up with a bitch like that a bitch who’ll lick and suck my johnson and nuts all day long (hand goes to crotch squeezes)
INMATE 2 yes me too maybe we ought to ask ourselves why escapism into sexual fantasy and release is so profoundly vital to our existences
INMATE 1 what
INMATE 2 life sentence means no motive for rehabilitation no hope for redemption how much money does it cost to maintain each prisoner who pays the bills why keep us alive does society honestly believe we pace our confines haunted in regret yearning for inner salvation
INMATE 1 you think they should kill us
INMATE 2 i question the entire punitive system did you ever read Michel Foucault’s Punishment and Discipline the beginning will make you squirm or Franz Kafka’s In The Penal Colony that horrific carving apparatus
INMATE 1 uuhhh what the fuck are you talking about
INMATE 2 i don’t know i don’t understand why i’m locked up in here
INMATE 1 (runs fingers through hair) what crimes did they convict you of
INMATE 2 i tried killing myself so many times they put me on death row i should be free to roam or at worst case scenario sedated in an insane asylum instead they accused me of being a danger to myself and society they said i could injure other people while attempting to destroy myself i drove off a 6-story garage ledge onto a public street below
INMATE 1 is that why you’re in here you silly ass pussy driving off a 6-story garage ledge onto a public street below ain’t no crime hell just reckless driving
INMATE 2 the courts are screwed up judges think they’re celebrities silver-tongued thieving lawyers twist the truth the whole system is corrupted by bribes cover-ups secret deals concealed schemes personal gain collusion fear
INMATE 1 as for me i tortured raped killed lots of people men women children you want to hear some tantalizing details like the time i raped killed a mother and her 2 young daughters cut out their warm hearts and ate
INMATE 2 (interrupts) stop you sick animal please stop
INMATE 1 yeah you got a problem with that
INMATE 2 i couldn’t live with myself doing what you did i get skittish at the sight of blood
INMATE 1 you pathetic lightweight i want to stick my johnson up your tight hairy ass so bad (sniffs finger) i want to hear you squeal like a little girl
INMATE 2 sorry to disappoint you but i’ve got hemorrhoids
INMATE 1 French ticklers hell they just make penetration a more interesting sensation
INMATE 2 this is the rudest most repulsive conversation
INMATE 1 what you think you’re better than me just because you’re educated (finger picks nose flicks booger at wall speckled with many booger flicks)
INMATE 2 i didn’t say that perhaps morally more reserved why did you torture rape kill people
INMATE 1 it was fun made me feel powerful having control over another person’s existence hey i didn’t ask to be born blame it on my mom people are so screwed up life is a joke i was just trying to help rid the world of all its vermin
INMATE 2 there was a time when i would have considered you psychopathic but in this chaotic shifting flipped out world where reality mirrors fiction and when civilization is insanely vicious fraught with violence guns firing fires exploding extremism prevails criminals scoundrels lunatics govern gang lords rule the streets your murderous vices may serve as grounds for exoneration provided you conduct yourself intelligently you may qualify yourself as an ordinary survivor or possibly even reputable citizen
INMATE 1 what? you’re reasoning i’m normal maybe innocent you’re my main man tell me why you want to destroy yourself so bad
INMATE 2 i think human kind is a curse we annihilate everything and don’t seem to learn change instead we get worse our busy selfishness is a betrayal against earth all the creatures a betrayal against god as a kid the betrayal i felt i knew i could not reveal because it would be a deeper betrayal the neglect and punishment i endured i knew i could not make known because it would only add to the betrayal the rage i felt listening to lies i knew i could not challenge a million lies i did not know how to confront the frustration i now suffer pains me as long as i can remember in my mind i’ve always felt like a prisoner alone in a room no one is coming this twisted despair inside the body of person with suicidal tendencies found guilty sentenced to life incarceration in maximum-security prison doesn’t that sound like a double conviction
INMATE 1 wow interesting ok professor you’re putting me to sleep chat with you later
INMATE 2 you really ought to learn yoga
INMATE 1 voga? what’s that for
INMATE 2 an inner journey a light when other lights go out a way to stay grounded when gravity fails
INMATE 1 sounds like just another jail cell
The president is losing in the polls because of his affairs and foreign policy. His black lady secretary comes up with a devious plan to win the election. Someoene should shoot at the president and hit his arm, so that the people will have compassion with him and vote for him. Full Story