I lay in bed after a long day of critical thinking and mulling over computer screens. It seems now, a knifer is run loose across my town and its because of me. He knifes and knifes and no one can stop him, I created a monster. No one wants to hurt him cause hes crying you see? He’s stabbed 5 old ladies, an obese mailman and the manager of a TacoBell. He has been wearing the same outfit for the past 4 days, as long as the rampage; pink knee socks, black low top vans that are faded and kind of brownish, grey mesh shorts and a way too big white tee shirt. He’s unshaven and hasn’t shaved since the night we smoked weed laced with coke at the golf course 6th hole after hours this past sunday night. This is when I told him about the frog in a shoe box. I said if you find a frog, slice its belly and place it in a shoe box, aliens would come and snatch you away, take you on a trip. He didn’t want to go, he wanted to stay. His girlfriend was there, she kept looking at me, very pretty and dumb and you could tell how horny she was, the frog story drives ladies wild. The kids name is Art, short for Artexerxes. Well I said what do you wanna do?
Heres where he says he wants to fuck his girlfriends little sister. His girl starts crying immediately “I knew it i knew it!” she whimpers, me, I had long forgotten how to interract with women. That part of my brains long broken, the sad lil bitch grabbed Art close. Her stupid head against his belly she whispered “Lets never leave here, now, let’s live this moment forever. ” Art looked at me and said “Lets get the fugg out this bitch.”
So me being black, I always know how to find PCP, angel dust, delicious, ok? so I roll up as we are walking from the golf course, this juicy dust blunt, as Art shows me this tight lil tart on his phone, his girlfriend’s lil sis, and I felt for him. What was she like, 9? I picture Art crushin it, his sad girlfriend in tears.
Speaking of his girlfriend, she’s..okay, so I begin to empathize with rapists, yeah the smart learned people say its about power and dominance and all that bullshit, but as I walk and talk with Art about how he wants to invade tight 9 year old guts, his skaggy dumb girlfriend was somehow walking crooked looking at her feet, her head bobbing retardedly, circular motioned on her shoulders with each step she made. Some things I have always felt are destined to be destroyed, and I secretly wish for it even, she is one of those things. If nature weren’t so merciful, the slightest gust of wind would carry her away, something, anything would fall on her and kill her. The thought of violating her crossed my mind, not because of lust or a need to dominate, but just because her entire visage, Kate is her name, Kate just screamed out with her every breath and movement just void nothingness.
Most respectable people care about their future, or they have dreams or worries, something bogging them down keeping them grounded, but not Kate. And I wanted to fuck her to pieces, to oblivion and stamp her lights out; her lifes like a dying free-flowing flame I’d stamp out. She doesn’t matter to herself, at all, she knows she’s nothing. You can feel it, it’s like she is giving the world permission to tear her to pieces, her being is practically screaming it.
Ahem, so I gave Art my knife after I sparked this angel dust. Yum. I was there when Art’s dad killed the neighbors cat with pliers to the neck, twisting til something popped, the gizzard maybe? Art’s peppy is in jail now.
Art needed a father figure. I said okay, aliens arent you’re thing, how about looking to God for guidance? ‘God comes to me and talks to me Ken.’ My names Ken. ‘You hear me Ken, he talks to me Ken I’m destined for greatness good things are coming Ken and when I kill enough people I’m gonna come back and when I come back I’m gonna fuck that little girl so deep up her tight little ass it’s gonna be Christmas in Honduras forever bro.’, but he rolled the R like 6 clicks, and he said ‘bro’ again and he ran off leaving me and Kate.
And here I sit in my patent leather chair with the wheels on it, wearing my pince-nez optical discs, reveling in what could be. And rather than expound on my stacy adams shoes or bugle boy shirt, because names like those are like bottomless pits of nostalgia, I want to make new memories with violence and all the fear that blood could bring.
No one wants to shoot him, they all say they’d feel bad hurting Art. They can’t explain it, but his safety matters more to them than all the old ladies and fatties and little kids Art wants to rip into.
Fear Coder 