Priority and Perspective or a Lack Thereof

The fingers trembled but that was just a sign of hunger. The pistol didn’t really feel all that heavy and Ben knew that he should have eaten breakfast today. The white tile floor was covered with blood and everyone was still screaming. Ben for his part was pretty calm in the face of crisis. All Ben did was shoot into the crowd and that really did help him think.

As the police surrounded the Diner, Ben realized it was still breakfast hour and all that annoyance, all those bullets had been for not. Sadly, he sat back down at his booth where he proceeded to put the pistol to his temple and pull. His last thoughts were of a Denver omelet.

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The Elephant in the Thin Allegory

There are no words to describe it but the words I’ve got. I have a monopoly as I have the only eye witness account of an elephant who happened to have a laser turret installed in it’s mouth. If that’s not worth a beer, I don’t know what it is.

Story first?

Fine.

Steve was born in Kenya and everyone thought he was a strong, virile elephant. His parents had said as much and the rest of the community agreed. As he grew from calf into a man he started noticing Veronica, a beautiful cow if ever there was one. She was in fact the most beautiful woman in the whole of the elephant of the high school.

Yes, elephants have high schools, where do you think elephants go to learn their vocations? I mean where can you get an apprenticeship any more?

Anyways, turns out that Veronica, yeah she was a bitch. After Veronica basically forced Steve to quit college so that they could focus on her doctorate, she up and left him. Then Steve was on his own and the lack of financial support left him in the slums of… Africa.

Humanities.

No, Veronica was still an elephant smartass.

Oh how did he he get a laser turret installed in his mouth? He went to an elephant surgeon because he was starting to feel afraid in that neighborhood and he needed something to protect himself. After he got the thing, he’d find himself on a lonely night just cocking the hammer and cycling through the chambers. The clicks as the trigger fell on empty cylinders gave him the illusion of control that he so desired.

Yeah, apparently the laser was detachable and it wasn’t loaded. Thank god for that.

How do I know this? Look, I told you a story now I just want my drink. Actually, no, I want a bigger drink. I want the remains of that bottle of Inverhouse.

You want another story? Fine.

Did I ever tell you the story about Steve the giraffe who had to use autoerotic asphyxiation to combat the overwhelming depression that resulted from Virgina the mythical queen of whores leaving him?

Yeah, all I want is the bottle.

Thanks, been a pleasure doing business with you.

Preseason Football, Post Apocalypse

The hate is naked and the motorcycles are revving up for the big game. We first get a glimpse at a wide receiver with an uzi on one of those wayfaring machines with the side saddles built into the bike itself. Soon we see a quarterback, a man gnarled and misshapen by the game he loves. This man played football before the fall of the United States of America and kept on even after the merge with motocross and unconventional warfare. We cheer for he is our champion.

It’s really actually quite hard to follow. In fact in the domed venues they have to turn off the lights and use night vision to keep score. Luckily we no longer have a dome here. It was destroyed in the last skirmish with the French/New Mexican alliance. Between them and the Manitoban Empire, I’m not sure we in the Midwest and Yankee Confederacy will survive. How I’ll miss the stars and sevens if it is replaced by a flag consisting of a maple leaf with vampire fangs. I sit back and try to enjoy the game.

The first quarter opens with the traditional lobbing of rocks at the visiting team. No one is injured, despite the fact that I could had sworn I hit a wide receiver dead center. In fact throughout the first quarter, only two people are injured and one of them is a referee and hardly consider a person except by the leanest of standards. Still, we make lip service to wishing them well despite the fact that we wish them pain and death.

The second quarter starts and the quarterback have their customary sword fight. The home team wins by decapitation and the ball is kicked to them by the pneumatic cannon. There are five murders in total in the second quarter and the crowd is as pleased as it has ever been. We always feel better after first blood is spilled, it relieves tension immensely. Halftime rolls around and the parade the dissidents down the arena’s stairs before the execution. They actually learned their choreography really well. We appreciate those who are about to die’s entertainment value but as a mass we are hungry and do not wish to miss the second half of the game.

As always the hork is excellent but the long pork and nachos is what most of the crowd gets. I come back to my seat just in time to see our brand new running back explode by the hands of a rocket propelled grenade. It’s such a tragedy because we traded five good goats to get him. Actually, the powers that be traded the goats, my family was actually rather keen on keeping our only supply of milk. Still, it’s sad because it’s now very unlikely to win the game. The third quarter ends and we’re cheering as an offensive tackle from the visiting team has just tripped a land mine.

The fourth quarter is a real barn burner and I say this as a person who’s witnessed a few in my day. Hell, I can almost hear the horses panicking. The ball switches hands about twenty times. Each side comes close to a touchdown but neither can make it in with both wheels or two feet. Then our quarterback drives the whole of our field and is thrown from his Harley into the goal post, ball in hand. Any other man would be dead but Roethlisberger just holds the ball aloft proving that he still has it. We bless his dense head and begin the celebratory looting.

6-0, it was the highest scoring game in years. I wonder who among us will be drafted for the next game. I hope it’s me, I really don’t want to live anymore.

The Romance Of The War Criminals

As the fire finally died, Linton looked down at the huge gaping lack of a city. 400,00 souls all dead and made indistinguishable from their house. From dust we come and to dust we go but still it didn’t seem quite fair. The screams would not leave, nor the flailing of the soon to die, or worst of all the delicious terrible smell. Every damn bit was there inside him etched into his bones. Barbara on the other hand, had stars in her eyes

Linton became lost in the deep blue lakes surrounding her pupils. He gained his orientation and slowly pulled back but it was his will greatly taxxed. There she was 5’7, stuffed with eight miles of sunshine. She was moving with a bounce in her step that was slightly unbecoming of the usually sad and distant woman. Before he could really say anything she was going back into the city with her 9mm hoping to pick of anyone who might have survived.

“We’re forever now Linton! They’ll always remember us.”

All she ever wanted was to make her mark. After twenty crates of various ammunitions, five tons of Semtex and one low yield nuclear warhead they had done just that. All the slaughter was worth it if only to see Barbara happy. Sure one day he would hang and fall to Hell but he had witnessed Heaven on this Earth. Few could make that claim.

The Baby After The Sad Drunken Bloody Sticky Night

The sound is that of a toaster meeting a compactor or a shriek meeting an old dial up modem. She is shrill and six months old and for a moment Ben is capable of killing her. The moment passes but those moments always scare Ben. If the world moves just a little differently one day maybe he will. It occurs to Ben that maybe, everyone thinks this from time to time. The difference is, Ben has proof that he could kill.

The moment stays in the back of his mind. It starts with a drink and then a bit later, a bouncer is involved. Suddenly, Ben is outside in the cold night air. Ben is walking back… east. Seeing as though home is two miles west, it’s safe to say it’s taking Ben a good while to get home. Ben hobbles on, unsure of why he was going east or more importantly why his father bought him a compass in the first place. He wanted a giraffe.

Downtown is a labyrinth to the 80 proof set and Ben is no different. He gives up on going east and tries his hand at finding a donut shop. He makes sure to look at the compass at all times in order to know how far the donut shop is. Of course, the compass can’t tell him this. Ben is pretty sure it’s a design flaw.

Then out of the steam and smokes, enters a man just like Orson Welles. Actually he’s of slight build and has nowhere near the memorable face but Ben was later sure that the man’s entrance was just like the second man in the movie The Third Man. This other man has a knife and wants money. Ben wants a bed.

A fight ensues, actually it’s just a push and then a wine bottle and then a dead man. Ben sobers with the dead man as the police come; 911 had been called by the donut store across the street. There were eyewitnesses galore and everyone vindicated him, except Ben. Ben never vindicates Ben and never would. In his eyes, he is a murder.

But Melissa needs a new diaper and the rest can wait.

The Holy F$%#

It comes in a burst, a moment of unhindered sight. I cum so hard, I see my creator. I can see us as we truly are. We are nothing but mere illusions; surely to soon be destroyed in the man’s waking embarrassment. He watches us as we die that little death and I no longer feel the need to entertain our sovereign. I soften and leave her, rolling on my back with my eyes on the ceiling as if I could see him. She is turned to me for the same reason. Our creator is not welcome here.

“Do you have a name?”

I’m turned to her now. Her red curls meander down the pillows, her eyes shine bright green. Her body is in that incredibly delicate place between cartoonishly well endowed and just really lucky. I’m sure I’m likewise. We sit in a purple room with a lavender queen bed. It’s also luscious and feminine that it must have been a picture he had seen.

“My name is Carlos.”

“Did you have a name, before?”

“Before? No, but I think I deserve one. You?”

She thinks for a moment.

“Helen.”

“So, what do you think we should do?”

She has no answer, I have no answer. We await for his heart to wake him, crippled by our impending doom.