Full Credits

Stats & Data

September 03, 2008


*disclaimer* ummm...i haven't finalized how i'm gonna transition the last part into this one...so i'm just gonna start the story and deal with the details later...


Jeremy was coughing on the blood running from the gash in his nose. Or, maybe it was the blood draining from his sinuses down the back of his partially strangled neck. I wasn't really thinking about that as I brought the dirty, dented nose of my defective 9mm pistol down on his face for what had to be the 5th or 6th time.

He started to cry as the pain of the beating finally started to sink in.

He sounds like a dolphin , I thought as i rased the weapon again. My friend flinched...nothing happened...

My arm wouldn't come down. I'm sure i gave it the command to strike, but for some reason it stayed. As if it knew that if I just took a second to evaluate the scene I might think better about what I was doing.

So, there I was, in the stairwell of the Avenue Mall parking garage, straddeling my best friend's chest. Right hand firmly on his neck and my left raised over my head, broken pistol in hand. Poised to strike.

And I was having my first 'moment of clarity'.

Jeremy sniffed hard and choked on a mucus/blood combo of gunk collecting at the back of his throat. He was staring off to one side. Praying to Something that this would be over soon so he could go home and do the rest of the blow he stole from me.

I watched the breath steam out of him.

1 breath...2..3...

I realized mine was coming out at the same time


Our chests were both heaving in unison from the exertion of beating and being beaten. the synchronisity weighed on me like a sun. Burning and heavy and pulling me deeper inside. Inescabable gravity.

I tossed my gun down the concrete stairs and, without another sound...without even breathing, I walked out.


My chest was still burning when I left the parking garage...Inhale, remember to breath again... and i couldn't see.

I realized I was crying. Rub the eyes . I wouldn't even stop at Jeremy's car to get my money or the rest of my drugs. Just keep walking.

Away from the parking garage. Away from my best friend bleeding on the stairs. Away from the light. I just want to be where no one can see me. I want to disappear.

Still crying, but I'm too focused on walking to care, so, I don't see the cluster of garbage cans in the middle of the sidewalk until I'm already face down in empty beer cans and baby diapers


I attempt to pick myself up. My hand presses right through the cheap bags and I come away with baby poop and some syrupy substance oozing down my forearm.

I groan at my situation and try to calm down enough to find a quick solution.

Garden hose.



I stomp around the nearest house in seach of the first pressurized water supply I can find. Cursing the smell that is wafting from my right arm.

I see an open spigot on the deck, attached to this house. I oafishly stagger up the short, wooden stairs. Not even caring about the noise I'm making.

Turn on the water, full blast .

I have almost finished rinsing off my disgusting appendage when the sliding glass door to my right flies open and a burly, hairy man in a tank-top and checkered boxers dives out on top of me.

...Now, i just have to say something before I continue. There are situations where a shoot-first-ask-questions-later mentality is called for. Say if someone has violently invaded your home, or your Bradley Personell Vehicle just got hit with an IED and your platoon is taking heavy hostile fire. But, if someone resembling a vagrant or street urchin is using your outdoor water supply for a bath, attacking them should NOT be the first option. Especially if you are a large man with a deep voice. Just say, "Hey! What the fuck are you doing!?!", in a threatening manner and chances are the offending will scuttle off in apologies/fear. I know I would. But, apparently, this asshole has watched too many Steven Segal movies to be reasonable.

Anyway, back to me getting jumped on...


A large, fuzzy shoulder knocks me off the deck and I go into defence mode. Searching for an escape or a weapon.

The man is up too quick and I'm only on my knees by the time this fat fuck is lunging at me for his second attack.

I duck his flailing arms, but his momentum carries the rest of his girth onto my legs.

Christ, this dude is fat.

He realizes he has me pinned and takes some time to gloat, "Now try and get away you piec-!!"


I nail him right in his fat, open mouth with the first thing my hands can find.

The garden hose.

The big dude grabs at his bleeding maw and rolls further up my legs, onto my torso. Forcing all the air out of my lungs in one big gyser of steam and moaning. I reach out, flapping my hands at his face for anything to get a handle on. I catch what feels like an ear.

Twist. Pull hard.

Fatass squeals like a prize pig and follows the pull of my hand over and off of me. As soon as his tremendous weight is lifted I am up and out of there...

...Right into a waiting squad car.

Fat boy's fat wife called the cops.

Small town cops. Totally the kind of pigs that will apprehend a 14 year old prowler with their guns drawn. For all the obvious, phallic reasons.

I decide, since i'm already fucked, why not have a little fun with these oinkers (where's that 'moment of clarity' NOW?).

"Get on the ground!", one of the officers orders me. I flash him a smile and practically fly over the 6ft pickett fence next to this driveway. Disappearing into the backyards of lower middle class Suburbia, Wisconsin.

Just another bored teenager, trying to kill some time.