A Collection of Short Pieces – 2

Check out my page tabs above. I have changed all of them and added new stuff. Right now I’m at work and my car alarm is going off every half-hour and it’s driving me batshit. I swear the thing gets lonely and in need of attention but it can fuck off I’ve got things to do -well, obviously no I fucking don’t. As always thanks for reading.

You can taste the dragon
inside of her lips.
You can own everything else
but you will never own it.


You’ve tried religion. You’ve tried yoga. You’ve tried meditation. And then one day you try Johnny Fucking Walker and you never look back. Yes, you pick up the bottle and then one day years later you realize that you had never put it down. Slowly it just becomes something that you are. That’s how you end up waking up this morning feeling so sick that you can’t even vomit. Luckily you have half that bottle of tequila left from last night. That should help you get out of bed. Wait, well… you don’t have it anymore but at least your stomach is starting to settle and you can get dressed.
You live on the first floor in the shambles of some fifties out of the way shit-piece of an apartment building. It comes fully-equipped with the harrowingly narrow kitchen, the view of the bingo hall across the street, and an elegant finish of torn linoleum. Stepping into this palace makes you feel like you won the fucking lottery! The building is mostly populated by old ladies with man faces from frowning who spend their days smoking cigarettes in the halls and looking at you like you should be blowing them. All the other faces are hardened by the factory floor and haunted by decades of cheap bars and run-down coffee shops. Yes, you can see Hell from here.
You stumble into the kitchen. There’s some vodka in the fridge. You can open your eyes a little more. The sky is grey. It’s always grey.
Once again your thoughts become interrupted. You think you hear your girlfriend scream at you right on schedule. It’s just part of the day. As much as you ignore her and pretend she doesn’t matter her voice still sits on your mind like a sumo wrestler on a kitten. And it’s always the same things:
‘You drink too much, do enough drugs to kill a seasoned horse, you smoke like a convict, and you’re a fucking pervert. You know I love you but sometimes I really fucking hate you.’ Words like that don’t sit well with a man who’s as stubborn as his father and doesn’t give a shit about anything but the next drink so you return the volley:
“Oh yeah?! Sure, it’s noon. Yeah, I’m drunk. Yeah, you can’t leave anything with alcohol in the house because you know I’ll fucking drink it. And if there was always something with alcohol in the house then I’d always be drunk. While we’re being totally honest with each other for once I think more about booze than I do about you because every time I think about you I need a drink. So fuck you, I’m going to the liquor store!”
But before you do you go charging through the place looking to settle a score. Your day was just fine until you heard her voice. And who was she to boss you around? She would lift up her skirt to anyone with a guitar doesn’t matter if they played or not. She wasn’t about to ruin your day. You were going to tell her what you really thought! So where was she then? Living room? No. Closet? No. Drawer? Nope. Basement? Fuck, you live in an apartment.
The worst part of that whole ordeal was when you remembered that she picked up that extra shift and wasn’t even home.  So who the fuck were you talking to then? Fuck, you’re doing it again. When you have a big fight with your girlfriend and she wasn’t even there then you know you got problems. It gets you thinking:
This is not normal. This is as far from normal as a two dollar hand-job. You’re sick and you need to get some help. Why can’t you see that? What’s it going to take? You’re so destroyed by alcohol that you think this is all acceptable behaviour!
Fuck off! You say to yourself.  Just a little rough around the edges. I just need a week to level myself off then I’ll be as good as new.
For now you leave the building trying not to look shit-canned but you’re too wasted to know if you’re doing a good job or not. First stop is the corner store to grab smokes. Better be well-equipped today before you start to tackle tomorrow! You walk in and almost forget but it hits you and you turn around. Yup there it is…there’s that malevolent bird all ready to deflate you again.
“Fucking Nazi Sympathizer!” Is how it greets you. The parrot squawks hatred and the man behind the counter apparently cannot speak. What a great place.
You decide to ignore it, them, everything here and focus on your task. “Pack of Menthols king size.”
You can hear the bird behind you stepping along its perch assessing you, judging you…condemning you before you even had a chance to begin.
“9.25.” Wait for it…”Asshole.” The parrot growls with sheer loathing.
That ignorant fuck, who did it think it was? Worst part was that if you completely lost it like you wanted to the mute behind the counter would call the cops, suddenly know how to talk and THEN you would have to explain to your girlfriend why you were in the drunk tank again.
The bird, Bitch, the bird! Yeah, that would make you sound stable and ready for a relationship. Better to avoid it entirely and keep the topside cool and the asshole within. You get your smokes and are about to go, but you turn back towards the counter instead.
“You know, if you taught that thing how to work the register you wouldn’t even need to fucking be here.” You say to the mute. He smiles.
“Get out of here, you Nazi drunk!” The parrot says. The ‘drunk’ remark hurt a little deeper, not sure why but you can feel their silent laughter as you leave. It’s going to eat at you all day, unless you get drunk enough to forget it. On to the liquor store then.

I’m a company man.
I’ve worked here so long
that I know little else anymore
so I get amped when stocks are high
and depressed when bookings are low
and I work long hours on salary
so that my boss might throw me
a fucking bone
but it doesn’t matter anyways
because my wife is a bitch
and my daughter’s a whore
so I would rather be here
all the time
all on my fucking own.

I’m a company man.
I avidly join into conversations
about the weather
and the price of your house
at the photocopier
and town-hall meetings get me as excited
as a squirrel with nuts in its mouth
because I love meetings. Fuck, I love meetings.
Everyone here is such a wonderful mouse
(As long as you don’t turn your back on them,
friend, not for a god-damned second!)
they give my vapid world so much meaning.

I’m a company man
because this organization will
always take good care of me.
They would never trade me in for a fresh graduate
instead of me.
One that would work twice as hard for half my pay
because I surf teen porn half the day
on bondage gear I’ll surf away…
No sir. I’m no fool. Never.
There’s just no way.
I’ve been here so long that I’m here to stay
and this cubicle is my world because it is safe.

So a week after I posted my first blog I checked out my stats to see how many people joined up to follow it. It said I had two people on my blog and I didn’t even know them but the two males seemed to reside in the same mental ward. One was called ‘Chuckie’. The other was called ‘Chuckie Is Delicious!’ Christ, I didn’t want to know what that was about.

That’s no good, I thought. I need to hustle up some readers. Fuck it. It was time to hit the streets. I started at the bar. That’s where I met Lars. He looked like a German sociopath and probably was. There was something off about this guy. I just couldn’t put my finger on it but he somehow looked out of place not wearing a muzzle and a helmet. I’m not sure how I ended up talking to him or why. But every time I walked into a club or bar there must be some illuminated sign above my head that read: ‘Drunken Asshole, talk to this guy!’
A drag-queen that looked like he had spent the last week on the needle on the floor of some dirty apartment strutted past us like a wasted peacock. Lars looked interested. Sure, if he was into that kind of action, why not? Somehow I was off the wagon and was hammering the drinks down like it was nobody’s business. Everything was OK.
“So man, what’s your deal?” I asked.
“Well, I torture small animals and am considering working my way up to people.”
“That’s super. Do you want to read my blog?”I gave it to him. The way Lars’ head was cocked he probably didn’t catch half the shyte I had written. But then he began to laugh out loud.
“What’s funny?” I asked him
“You spelled ‘shit’ wrong.”
“I think you’re missing the point.”
“I think its shit.”
“Ok. I’m going to go.”
“Wait. Let me buy you a beer.”
Lars actually bought me a couple. After a little while I started to feel disconnected but attributed that to lack of sustenance and therefore drank the beer even faster to make up for it. At that point Lars said there were girls coming over to his place and that I should come with him. I was too drunk not to believe him.
“Yeah. Sounds great.” Last thing I remembered was the alleyway or a door and then Jesus was  dancing naked to Skinny Puppy with last week’s date. Fucking Self-serving Bitch.

Hours after being drug I had awoken duct-taped to a wooden chair. My first sight was that of Lars but everything quickly swarmed into focus. I presumed I was in his apartment. What a fucking hole.
“What did you give me?”
“I gave you what you needed to relax.”
Lars was strapping on rubber gloves and had Rammstein crackling the speakers. As soon as he went for something that looked like an egg-beater I knew I was in shit. I had to do something drastic or I was dead! I hobbled the chair back an inch and realized that I was going nowhere fast.
“I like the look of you, Boy!”
“I’m thirty-six!” I said but what came out was: “mmphphmmmhphhphpm!”
“Come to Daddy.” He licked his lips.
“mmpphhmmpphMMMPPH!” I hobbled the chair back another inch. If my eyes got any wider they could’ve been used as dinner plates.  When I thrust the chair back for the third time it fell over and came apart. I quickly tore everything off me and stood up. Lars didn’t react at all. He just stood there, egg-beater in hand, looking up at me.
Yeah, try me when I’m not bound to a chair, you unhealthy fuck!
In a silent, awkward moment both our eyes went to the rotary phone on the table beside me, then back to each other…then back to the phone. I picked it up and swung it into the side of his head. I heard a crack even above the music. Wasn’t from the phone -Lars had this look in his eyes. I’ve seen that look before in absent-minded children and squirrels. Lars then fell dead-weight to the ground. Of course nobody could hear anything so I decided to smash the phone into him a few more times to make sure Lars was out. I think I did one better. Fucker looked deceased. Time to get moving.
I grabbed my blog, bagged the phone and wiped everything down best I could before leaving. I walked for a while before finally losing the phone on Third Street where the next day was garbage day. I wasn’t thinking clearly but I haven’t been for years. But I usually found my way through things as fucked up as this. Maybe it would come back to me. Maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe next time I can actually get somebody to join my fucking blog. Things get lost in translation, you know? My intentions were good. What the fuck was wrong with people these days?

Stay tuned for Blog Review 3 where…

‘I lay helplessly tied to her bed no longer wondering what the generator in the corner was for. As she brought the two ends of the jumper cables together a vicious arc of electricity sizzled right above my package.
“Are you ready for the action now, Danger-boy?” She asked with the smile of an ageless demon escaped from Hell. Shit, this seven-layers-of-crazy bitch was seriously going to do this! I had to take drastic action or I was dead!’

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