August 24, 2007
I closed my eyes, accepting my fate, but instead of silence and nothingness, I felt the shotgun barrel smack the right side of my head. My eyes fluttered open as I was thrown off my attacker. Arms limp, it was only by chance that I knocked the shotgun away with me. I came to a halt on my back, in the mud, beside my rival. I clutched the shotgun to my chest with both hands. It was in my best interest to keep it.
He rolled over - towards me - on the offensive, trying to rip the shotgun from my grip using his one good hand. His face was red and his teeth gritted. Remembering an old tug-of-war trick, I gave a little so he would pull harder - and then be forced to release his grip when I came back in full force. He fell to a seated position, and he flailed his legs against my arm. I directed one good kick to his chest, forcing him further from me.
I got to my feet. Watching him struggle to do the same, I turned the shotgun in my hands. The barrel was metal, but still hollow. It would be a more efficient to hit him with the wooden handle. So I took two steps toward him and swung it, aiming for the ribs.
He was pulling himself up using a gravestone when the handle smashed into his bones, making him release his grip and fall down. He turned his face to me. Blood ran from his nose into the pool of muddy water where his cheek rested. “Please - I give up.” He coughed. “Let me live.” He rolled onto his side, wincing as he held his damaged fingers. “You can have the son of bitch - take her.”
In the time it took me to open my mouth to ask if he meant the shotgun or the girl, he scrambled to his feet and tackled me. His head struck my legs and he barely managed to bring me down. On the ground, I kneed him once as he grabbed for the shotgun. With the handle toward him, he took it easily. There was almost no friction as I felt the wet metal slip away.
He was then standing up, speedily pulling more ammunition from a coat pocket with shaking fingers. Back pedaling, a sneer manifested itself on his partially destroyed face while he loaded the weapon.
There was no cover except the tree and the statue. The statue was now behind him. And the tree was many rows from me. He was closest. So I sprinted, threw myself, sliding and exhausted, straight for him.
He leveled the weapon on me, but we weren’t far enough. I passed the tip of the barrel, knocking him backwards - yet left him standing. I felt a brief wave of heat as the shotgun blew mud into the air behind my feet.
Now, he was really out of luck. The shotgun had kicked itself from his grasp once again. Without a further thought, I stooped to pick it up.
He ran toward the statue, hunched over as if it would save him somehow. He lost his footing right before making it to cover, but then went on hands and knees to hide in temporary safety.
Knowing he would be pinned there, weaponless, and also noting my own hard breathing, I decided it was a good time to take a break. I walked toward the statue slowly, the shotgun held tight with each of my hands. I knelt, and, perhaps unwisely, lowered my head. The outline of a shoe dug into the earth was centered in my gaze by coincidence. Floating in that print was a strand of something…
I plucked the piano wire from the pool of water. Remembering this had been exactly where he was standing when he first fired the shotgun, I wrapped the string around my left hand and then placed it back on the barrel.
From the statue, I could see my battered opponent’s face peering at me.
I nodded to myself - I was not done. I lifted my heavy arms and forced myself to walk. Once I got within five feet, with my weapon trained on the statue, I knew I could pull the trigger and hit him. I could see his arms and legs sticking out on the sides in places, and, in addition, the bullets would probably go through the statue. But I didn’t fire. “Why’d you do this?”
He must’ve contemplated making a run for it right then, because I saw him put one leg forward. “Love.” He spat it out like a hair on his tongue.
“That doesn’t make sense.” I commented, putting the slightest of pressure on the trigger. “You don’t kill for love.”
His foot dug into the mud and quivered uncomfortably. “You’re about to.” He was about to make a break for it. One glance, and he also brandished a weapon - my rusted knife. I’d dropped it to pick up the sticks.
“Wait.” I shook my head. “We don’t have to do this.” Lowering the shotgun. “Just put down the knife and step out. I won’t… you can go.”
He pulled back behind his cover, as if contemplating the offer and my sincerity. It didn’t last long. The knife was still in his hand when he entered fully into view. His face was caked in mud and blood. It ran down into his forced smile. “You’ll kill me or I’ll kill you.” He took a step forward, and I took a step back. “But I don’t know why you bother - she always called you a pest. Did you know that?” He continued forward and I continued back. “Just an obsessed guy who would never make it into her real life; a loser she keeps around because he’s good entertainment.”
“Don’t-” I started only to be cut off.
“She doesn’t give half a shit about you.” He leapt forward with the knife.
I slipped and slid backwards in the mud, the knife swinging just wide of my left arm. The shotgun raised as if by it’s own will. He stumbled forward, past my side. Both of my hands rested on the shotgun. He raised the dagger.
Half a step towards me, the shotgun fired into his upper chest - not a direct hit - but to his left side. A red plume shot into the air behind him as he turned with the blast. Dazed, he swiveled, and seemed sure I’d missed when he came to a stop.
He looked at me with his determined gaze as the delayed pain reached him. He spasmed in agony, dropping the knife.
Realizing what I’d done, his eyes fell downwards. A chunk of him was gone. Sharp fragments of bone swam in the blood running out of his body. He dropped to his knees and then flat onto his back. Not a word escaped his mouth. Not a curse. Not a farewell. Not even an expression for his true love.
I was almost certain this was as far as the human body could go, but surprisingly, he lifted his head. I was only fearful for a moment until I saw his face. I could see defeat. He, as well as I, had already decided that he was going to bleed to death. Or, at the very least, he was going to die.
I’d already surpassed the limit of the law. There were consequences in the future. What did I have, then, except momentary gain?
I dropped the shotgun behind me. In my extended left hand, the piano wire unraveled. I pulled it tight as I stood over him. “She called you those things. An obsessed loser - all of it.” I paused. “But I don’t believe she said it about me.” I knelt next to him, knowing that it was entirely irrelevant what she thought now. Nobody loves a murderer.
He swallowed, I guessed, mostly blood. “Wrong.” He whispered and forced one last grin.
I rolled him over. Then I pulled the wire over his head.
Filed by kamikaze189 at August 24th, 2007 under Fiction with little or no point, Seriousness
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July 30, 2007
The Gun, The Knife, The Girl.
The graveyard was silent, except for my own slowly beating heart. Fog surrounded me on all sides and the evening darkness carried extra cover for the stones. Besides the markers, only a dead tree stretched one branch across the aisles of graves ahead of me. The rain pelted the already damp earth.
Dismissing any of my fears, I walked forward. My shoes sank into the mud by my second and third steps, slowing me down, smothering the bottom of my shoes. But I was supposed to be here, and I wasn’t just going to turn around. My guess was that my companion was waiting on the other side of this tree.
I neared it, and paused. A rusted knife waited to be drawn from my belt, but I had no idea why I had even brought it. Gut instinct? No. A graveyard, she had said, would be a cool place to meet. That struck me as creepy. And not at all like her…
“I know why you came here.” A voice from the fog called. A voice, sounding confident, of a man I was familiar with.
In one swift motion, my blade was drawn and I rushed to the tree. I looked over each side methodologically, and flattened myself against the bark. Everywhere within my limited sight looked clear.
“You’ll never get her.” In this voice, I detected anger, resentment, and hate. And I shared the same for the speaker. I knew him well… well enough to know we’d like eachother not to be alive. “She’s far better off without you. Away from you.”
The truth value of any of these spoken statements were challenging me, setting my mind on fire. I’d wondered it before, but I would be an idiot to analyze his words and ignore the fact his voice was giving away his location. He was directly to my right, and when I turned my head, I could see an outline through the thick fog.
“Go home.” He demanded. “She’s not even here and never would she have invited you.”
He must’ve been wrong, I’d talked to her on the phone before. Her voice as clear as day. Either she was in on it or she acted under duress. And she didn’t seem the type to betray, so I figured, chances are, she’s tied up in his trunk or worse. Maybe not the clearest of thinking, but nevertheless, that was my conclusion at the time.
So, the urge to attack him couldn’t be suppressed. I leapt up and sprinted toward the outline. Flying by grave stones, I swung my arms fast and as efficiently as I could. Mud flew in my wake, and the figure before me gained more and more features. I pulled the knife back and prepared to nail the figure’s chest.
The last row of graves propelled past my feet and the figure remained stationary. I came to an abrupt halt, sliding in the mud, and lost my balance. Knife still in hand, I crouched before a statue of a man with its arms crossed and its head tilted down.
I spun to face the new direction of the voice, back across the cemetery, surely behind the tree. “If only there were money on the line, right?” He spoke angrily, yet also sarcastically. “What was it she said?”
“Two million.” I broke my silence. “And I think it might be too much.”
Pause. Was he moving? Was he getting ready to attack?
No, although he must’ve considered it, as his voice came from the same direction. “You’re sick. You need serious help.”
I approached the nearest grave stone and knelt behind it. “And you’re just fine, luring a friend of a friend into a trap.” I was ready. My knife was ready. I only needed visual contact. “Did you threaten her?” I lifted my feet from the mud, ready to move. “I know her voice, I know that was her on the phone.”
Footsteps, sloshing forward, covered by fog, moving around on my right. They suddenly stopped, and I heard a click. “She told me what I needed to hear.”
“So what do you plan to do?” I crouched a bit lower, and, figuring I could get better cover, stealthily crossed the aisle to sit behind the statue.
“I’ll save her for myself - and from you.” With that, I heard footsteps begin to come towards me.
I looked over my shoulder to see the walking movements of an foggy shadow coming into sight, where the voice had been. To my misfortune, his right arm carried a weapon of some kind that stretched down to his knees, looking very much like the barrel of a gun.
“Now, get the hell out of here and leave with the knowledge that if you ever so much as talk to her again, I will kill you.” He paused, eyes watching my statue as he continued forward. “Or come out here and get it over with right now.”
There was no way I would have even a chance fighting him if the object in his hand was a gun, but neither was I going to give up. If I was going to run away, I would have right when I heard his voice the first time. All I needed was something better than a knife - or an additional weapon. My environment seemed to entirely bare of objects I could even pick up, except the grass and mud surrounding me on all sides.
But then something caught my eye. A couple of sticks on the next cement block, looking small enough and close enough to the size of a gun barrel that they could be mistaken for such. I lifted one, and decided it was good enough. Then, for whatever reason, the thought ran through my mind: Two fake guns are better than one. So I grabbed a second. Knowing they were only good for intimidation, my chances of getting out of the current mess unscathed were slim at best.
Ersatz guns in hand, I took one step out and turned to face my enemy. Luckily, we were still at the range where each of us were barely gaining coloration in the fog. I said nothing, but he stopped instantly, his eyes surely tracing the contours of my outline, two barrel-like extensions from the ends of my hands.
The same thought must’ve run through both of our minds. One of us is about to die.
With only decaying tree branches in my hands, I had the benefit of knowing which of us it would be.
Little drops of water ran down our faces and feet sank into the ground. Unblinking, my eyes weren’t leaving the gun in his hands.
To my surprise, he didn’t lift his gun right away. “You know what I’m going to do after I shoot you?” He raised his empty hand, and a thread dangled down his palm. “Piano wire.” I could see his teeth, even through the fog.
“Piano wire.” I said to myself.
“Poetic, isn’t it?” He was only talking to himself, holding the string in one hand and smiling blissfully.
I faced certain death. Unless…
My enemy’s weapon was long enough to require both hands to aim, I guessed, and he was using one of those hands to taunt me. That meant I had an opening - a small crack - but an opening anyway.
So I put one foot in front of the other and ran towards him. One of the sticks fell from my shaking hands. That made me remember the other, and I chucked it at him, although it was useless.
The projectile knocked across the side of his head, doing minimal damage, while he struggled to put the wire into his palm, grab the barrel, and aim it at once.
And, whether I had picked the best time to charge or not, the barrel was rising. At the closer range, at about ten feet, the gun he was holding revealed itself to be a double barreled shotgun. I wasn’t too good looking to start with, but, like most guns, those make very pretty things turn not pretty at all. I jumped to the nearest gravestone and collapsed behind it.
Half a foot above my cranium, cement exploded from the stone and fell all over me like bread crumbs as the shotgun let loose. The bastard barely aimed that one, and, at less then ten feet, I figured things were about to get ugly and painful real quick when the second shot came. The second, oddly, took a branch off the only tree in the graveyard - and that was nowhere near where I was hiding.
After hearing the tree branch collapse reluctantly to the earth, I thought for a moment, maybe I’d been wrong all this time about the afterlife. Maybe I was there? Maybe I’d just had a shotgun blast to the everywhere?
Nah.
I looked over the tombstone, where my nemesis held his right hand close to his body, two of his fingers bent at a painful forty five degree angle. Without his second hand holding the shotgun, the recoil had been far too much. He dropped to his knees, seeing me rise from behind the stone, and clutched for the gun with his good left hand.
I was charging again, before I knew it. Half a moment before my foot struck him in the nose, he grabbed the shotgun with his functioning hand, and then collapsed backwards onto his back with blood dribbling from his nose.
Wasting no time, I hopped over his legs with little resistance and cocked my arm for the first of the finishing blows. But, before I could even send the impulse to my arm to smash his face, I looked down the end of the shotgun - struck with defeat.
Surrendered to death, I thought: Well, he’s going to break a couple fingers on his other hand at least.
Then he pulled the trigger, at nearly point blank.
Filed by kamikaze189 at July 30th, 2007 under Fiction with little or no point
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July 22, 2007
Pete sat before the tiny garbage can located in the airport restroom. He plucked a wet tissue from the top of the pile with a pair of special tweezers, designed specifically for the task, and analyzed the wet paper for any suspicious substances. As he told a gentleman walking out of a stall, any passenger could be a terrorist. They could put anthrax in your garbage right beneath your nose. If there was anything that terrified Pete, it was his fear that other people would be in fear. It was the single force that drove Pete.
And he needed to be driven, as he didn’t have one of those easy jobs, either. His job as the head of the airport security was incredibly difficult. While other security officers went through people’s luggage, regularly found metal plates inside people’s bodies, and worried about having to put on rubber gloves for strip searches - Pete walked around casually analyzing anything that looked out of place. Then he investigated it himself.
Immense responsibility sat on this man’s shoulders. And he knew it.
Using his free hand, he jammed a finger into the button on his chest-mounted radio. “Benton, we’ve got a problem.” He let the paper towel drift to the trash.
Benton, Pete’s right-hand man, responded eagerly and urgently over the radio. “What is it? Is it anthrax, Pete? A dirty bomb?”
“No.” Pete breathed as sweat dripped down his forehead. “The trash is full in the southern bathroom.” He stood up, focused like a hawk. “Find a janitor.”
Upon leaving the restroom, he soon found himself walking to where passengers usually sit and yawn… but occasionally they got angry. And Lady luck was not on Pete’s side today, it seemed, for a middle-aged couple stopped Benton in his tracks as he attempted to speed-walk between them. Pete called these angry passengers “mini-terrorists,” as they could easily disturb and, consequently, terrorize other civilians with their raised voices and whining.
A large man’s hand fell on Benton’s shoulder. Caught entirely by surprise, Benton jumped like he’d seen a ghost in a ghost costume. Immediately, the verbal artillery started firing from the mini-terrorists.
Eyebrows narrowed, Pete marched forward to get into the conversation and save Benton.
The man was already in mid-sentence when Pete arrived. “-reservations at the resort for the next three days, so what are we supposed to do? Are we supposed to just throw our money away like this?”
The female then added the punch. “Not to mention the honeymoon.”
Benton’s response was a large gulp followed by raising his eyebrows.
But Pete wouldn’t have it. He stepped forward. “May I see your tickets, sir?”
The man turned to face his new opponent. “Sure, if you want to help.” He handed Pete the tickets.
Pete glared at them for a minute. Then up at the nearest flight screen. Then he looked down at the tickets again. Then at the screen. Then at the couple. “It looks to me like your flight was delayed right on time.” Pete managed to rip an artificial hole into his face that the couple would recognize as a smile while he handed the tickets back. “You’re welcome.”
Pete turned on his heels and the second his back was turned, the smile disappeared.
Benton slipped between the two very confused passengers and caught up to Pete. “That was close.”
Pete kept walking briskly while he nodded solemnly. “It usually is close.” His eyes faked left - then went right. “But it’s better when it isn’t.”
Benton, still trailing Pete, pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket. The first several pages were filled with Pete’s great wisdom. And Benton scribbled the latest piece of advice right at the top of the first, indicating its importance and rank at the very highest. He then stuffed the notepad back into his pocket, clicked the pen anxiously against his chest, and tucked it away.
To Pete, everything Benton had done were just movements in his peripheral vision, accompanied by scratching noises, a belching woman(?), and the sound of a small child running headfirst into a wall as a parent incorrectly hand-steered him toward the john. But, regardless of all the meaningless nonsense his senses were collecting, his main focus was in front of him.
Two middle-eastern men, with what looked to be towels on top of their heads, were chanting something in a language Pete didn’t understand at all. And they were carrying a large red object, which looked to be a home-made device of some kind with many electrical wires sticking out of it, and many cylinders.
Then Pete’s heart nearly skipped a beat; over the tangled mess of wires and cylinders, back about thirty feet, Pete saw two male figures leaning against the wall. And, due to Pete’s innate ability to read lips, he saw and then heard the word “bomb.” Crystal clear in vision and in sound.
As it happens when Pete encounters something alarming, his expert tunnel vision took over completely. He leaned forward, letting the mass of his upper body bring him into the approach. His arms began to swing, unnaturally, in sync with his legs for maximum efficiency. His lungs began to burn. And, while he crossed the fifty or so feet, his mind burned with all the terrible things those evil terrorists could be up to. All the things they could do with a bomb while leaning against the airport wall whilst smiling and conversing.
When Pete snapped out of it, his breath was ragged, and he was about two arm-lengths away from the terrorists. Benton arrived next to Pete, eyes lit up with terror, as he knew this reaction from Pete well.
The terrorist on the left was making vocal noises, which Pete recalled, they could imitate. “Yeah, man, when you informed the minister he was a shit-sucking dad wanker - just holy shit - nobody saw it coming. It was like the jesus-freaks thought Satan was paying them a direct visit from hell.” The terrorist shook his head and grinned nostalgically. “You da bomb, man. I mean, the balls to stand up during mass and just announce that - I don’t even know how you pulled that off. Or how you got out alive with a video camera.”
The second terrorist, much to Pete’s surprise, was also able to communicate in plain English. “Ah, it’s nothing. Remember the time you nailed both of those Catholic sisters in one forty-eight hour time span?” The second terrorist laughed. “Now, you da bomb.”
Both terrorists then erupted in seemingly innocent laughter.
Pete stared, eyes glowing with a suppressed intensity. “Benton,” he whispered, “these men are up to something terrible. I just don’t know what, yet.”
“I don’t know either.” Benton whispered back. “I only know things you know.”
“Troubling.” Pete sucked in information from his surroundings, looking for anything that he could use against the terrorists… when a feeling impacted him so much it knocked his head upward instinctively - like an uppercut delivered from his own brain. Only half in control, and half guided by pure intuition, Pete back pedaled with Benton following him. “I just remembered something I may have tuned out.”
“What?” Benton lowered his head, scanning the airport as people with delayed flights lazily walked past them.
“These men, with the towels on.” Pete said, indicating the two. “These are respectable men engaging in everyday behaviors… and I think I just heard…” He shut his eyes for a moment. “Wait for it.”
The first respectable man held the wired up cylinders out in one hand, fastening them to a kind of vest. He then thrust it toward the second man and said to him: “You da bomb.”
The second respectable man, sweating profusely, shook his head and shoved the object back toward the first. “No! You da bomb!”
“Ah.” Pete, opened his eyes, and put his face into his hands. “It was totally normal compliment behavior.” He sighed, and then put a vise-like grip on Benton’s shoulder. “Come on, Benton, there’s bathroom trash cans potentially festering with bio-chemical weapons that need checking out. More important things to do.” He scowled, giving one final telescopic sweep of the airport before walking away.
Benton nodded and pulled out his notepad to jot down another line of pure gold.
Filed by kamikaze189 at July 22nd, 2007 under Fiction with little or no point, Humor
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June 19, 2007
Based loosely on a fictionally true story. A new entry into the genre of “standard comedy asshole fiction.”
Mary, let’s say I like you. Let’s also say you know this. Hypothetically, of course, because I haven’t actually told you this. Haha, it’s funny isn’t it? What’s that? Oh, I have told you that? Why, thank you for reminding me. How could I forget? But then, if you are aware, why is Kenneth here? I know, I know, you want me to talk to your friends. But I came here to talk to you. Perhaps if you had mentioned him, I would have declined. Perhaps you should include information that will drastically affect my visit with you. Perhaps. But thank you for inviting me to this playground.
No, Mary, I don’t want to see Kennet’s face while he tries to show off on the monkey bars. Not really. But it looks like it’s going to embarrass the hell out of him. Let’s see it. Okay, okay… Ah fuck. He didn’t make the face. That’s one for you Kenneth. You bastard.
The nearby playground swings? Sure, that sounds fine, Mary. No, I don’t think it’s childish. We’re nearly twenty years old, but who cares? Not that line of kids, I’m sure.
Why would you ask Kenneth how he’d kill you? That’s an odd question. “I’d strangle you with my bare hands,” says Kenneth, contestant number one.
Me? “Piano wire. Like strangling, but without the prints,” I say. Out done there, Kenneth.
You’d rather be shot in the head, Mary? Oh.
Say something. Quick. Something! “That was my second choice.” Contestant two casts a smirk at Kenneth.
No, you two can make fools of yourselves on the kiddie slide. I’ll stand here and watch.
That was ridiculous. But I guess that’s why I like you, Mary. I guess.
Again with the silly questions, Mary. But, to answer your question, yes. I would fight with Kenneth to the death for two million dollars. Kenneth thinks he can take me, but I doubt it. What about naked? No, I wouldn’t fight to the death naked, not even for two million dollars. I have self-respect and dignity. But Kenneth is the type of low-life who would. I could understand that he might want to fight me, since he wants to die, but I don’t know why he’d want to die naked. That’s more along the lines of humiliating than seeking an everlasting peace or somesuch. By the way, Mary, you should tell me more about these fantasies of yours later.
Oh, Kenneth, that’s interesting. You’re doing a dungeons and dragons campaign tomorrow? My doubts about your fighting skills are tenfold. And your cool factor just shrank down to the size of Gimle – or whatever the hell that Lord Of The Rings midget’s name is.
Sure, let’s go eat out. Oh, wait, before we get in Kennet’s nice car, let’s pause and look at mine. It’s dented and a light is broken since I hit a deer on Saturday. No, I didn’t stop to see if it was alive. I was more worried about my car. Anyway, look at this mess. I’m driving it like a man. It could break down or explode at any given moment, but I get in it anyway. What do you have over there, Kenneth? A silver, shiny new SUV type thing? Neat. I bet it takes balls to drive one of those. You probably don’t even need to worry about manually rolling windows up or down.
Yeah, of course, Kenneth, Mary gets shotgun. I’ll sit in the back with all the trash you’ve collected in your car. And this lone Harry Potter book. Oh yeah, make sure to turn up the radio. Turn it up just to the point that Mary can hear your voice when you yell, but not mine. Right there. Perrrrfect.
The Flaming Lips suck ass, by the way. Just thought you might want to know. And yes, I’ve been to Hanson concerts before, but it wasn’t my choice. You really can’t hold that against me, unless you count that time you got “accidentally raped” by Jabba the Hut at one of those Star Wars conventions against yourself.
You like Rubik’s cubes, Kenneth? In just three minutes, huh? You know what I could do in three minutes? Your mom and any of your potential sisters. What? No, nothing, I didn’t say anything. No, don’t bother turning down the radio. Just keep screaming at Mary. But you know, this Harry Potter book is pretty large. I bet if I brought it down right on top of your head, Kenneth, it would snap your spine — Nope, didn’t say anything, Kenneth, just keep driving — You’d give borrowed books back after that, I bet.
Oh, we’re at the restaurant.
Nice outside. Mary wants to whisper something to me. Am I bothered Kenneth is here? Oh, of course not. “Not really.” He’s just like some kind of cancer. Not an extreme form, but a kind of mild tolerable cancer. You’d like to be rid of him, but your friend has a tumor fetish. You just can’t get rid of him. Unless you have some piano wire on you, Mary. No? How about this guy. Excuse me, kind sir, before you get in your car, do you have any piano wire?
I don’t care where we sit. I’m just having water, cause I didn’t bring money. Well, I didn’t know we were going to eat somewhere, dick. Oh, right, your name is Kenneth. Sorry. Slip of the tongue. I got you confused with another one of Mary’s friends named Richard.
No, no food, Mary. I’m only having water. Fine, order me a chocolate milk shake. I didn’t want you to spend your money like that, though. I would gladly starve for you. Kenneth drinks entire pitchers of ice water. It sounds manly. But he’s doing it with a straw. And now he starts shivering like a little girl. You owned yourself, there Kenneth. More points for me.
The shake’s fine, Mary. Yes, Kenneth looks like he’s really cold. Me, I’m fine, except my hand. You think it’s because it’s been on the milk shake, Kenneth? Wow. Your logical abilities astound me. It’s probably a result of all that time you’ve devoted to that worthless Rubik’s cube. Yes, you can cry yourself to sleep repeating that.
Mary, I do believe those cheese fries, which Kenneth suggested, look disgusting. I wouldn’t touch them. Hey, Kenneth, do you want some cheese fries?
I’ll tell you stories about how people at work are assholes. I deal with them in a professional manner, even though my job is meaningless crap. No, customers don’t literally throw things they bought back at me. It was an exaggeration, Kenneth, to show how angry the customers were. Do you need me to explain exaggerations? Good.
Awkward pause. Look away for a few seconds. Most people here are old. Except the people working. The shady looking guy at the register looks like the type who carries piano wire.
Mary wants to know if smoking girls are hot. No way, Mary. But you know who thinks so? Kenneth does. He just said so. He might as well have said, “Black lungs are fucking sexy.” Isn’t this guy a douche, Mary?
Mary, you’re acting like I’ve offended you. Have I? Okay, so I have. Real men don’t apologize for things they meant to say. Yeah, I guess it’s time to leave.
On the road again. You have my screen name, Kenneth? We discussed religion online before? I don’t remember that. Oh, two years ago. Mary wants to know what you are. Are you an atheist or Christian or what? You don’t know? I didn’t think anybody could come up with a religious view more moronic than agnosticism, but “I don’t know” is the ultimate in fence sitting.You’re an agnostic about your religious views – you think it’s impossible for the nature of your religious views to be known.
But, to be honest, Kenneth, you’re probably agnostic. Agnostics are pussies.
Mary, you should put on your seat belt. Why didn’t I tell Kenneth? Is it because I don’t care about Kenneth? In a word - yes. I’ve wanted Kenneth to die ever since I met him. I know it sounds harsh, but not telling him to put on his seat belt isn’t the same thing as throwing him through the windshield myself. The true killer would be a combination of inertia, glass, and asphalt.
Ah, my car. Yeah, Mary, I’ll call you. Don’t hit anymore deer? Haha. Stare at Kenneth and say, “I’ll aim for them.” If Kenneth were a deer, and if I had hit him, I’d put it in reverse, and hit him twice. The damages to my car would be worth every satisfying bone crack. But you two just try to keep your pants on all the way back to wherever you’re going.
Drive home semi-pissed yet content with the way I handled the situation. Play that song about serial killers and the other one dissing people who like fancy shit. Turn the sound up so my ears ring. Home. Take shower. Cleanse mind by writing daily events down in a documentary-like fashion. No longer semi-pissed.
Found some razor wire in the basement. Way better than piano wire.
Filed by kamikaze189 at June 19th, 2007 under Humor
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May 17, 2007
In one week, all the world’s governments united. Their militaries combined, their trade exploded, and in the little frame of things, it was going well. Yet, only one thing could make an event like this happen. They faced a new enemy. A sentience foreign to earth, which was much more powerful.
A single conference room in an undisclosed location held humanity’s most important discussion. It would determine their future. This meeting would be the difference between annihilation or something worse.
Men in suits, some gripping papers with sweaty palms, filed inside through two metal blast doors. There were many of them, at least one representative from all the major world powers. They seated themselves around a large wooden table, scrambling to pull the chairs out. Already seated politicians and diplomats cracked their fingers or otherwise tried to shake the anxiety from their bodies.
The leader of the most powerful country, militarily and economically, watched from one end of the table and studied the people before him. Once the last politician had found his seat, the world’s most powerful man got to his feet. “Welcome to our facility. I apologize, again, for the circumstances of this meeting, but we all know how necessary it is for these precautions.” A stack of paper on the table in front of him became his new focus. It listed facts about the probable impending erasure of Earth. “I’m not going to bother with any niceties. This is a serious situation, as serious, if not more, than World War 3. I first want to assess our diplomatic options.”
Another politician leaned forward, seated at about the midpoint of the table. “Mark, if I’m not mistaken, there aren’t diplomatic options.” He laid his wrinkled hands on the table. “Except propaganda, the ETs haven’t even tried to make conversational contact with us. Do you recognize this?”
Mark nodded, more sweat dripping into his eyes. “I’m aware.” He wiped his palms on his suit. “We have hope that communications will get through, though. I wanted to mention it, not depend on it.”
The midpoint man shook his head. “Sir, my country has personally sent not only messages, but real men to their deaths in hopes of creating communications. It is pure and simply a waste of time and life.” He put a pointed finger to the table. “To rely on diplomacy in this situation would be our fastest way to lose this war.”
“George, how can you even call this a war?” Another politician, opposite from George asked. “What are you suggesting, exactly?”
George sighed and looked to Mark. “Now, we’ve worked up Philip.”
Philip smacked a hand on the table. “No, don’t just ignore me! You say we can’t seek diplomatic actions, you had better suggest something better.” Philip crossed his arms. “If your great idea is to fight I’m sure it’d work real well, considering how heavy our combat casualties are.” Although he knew he had made his point, Philip turned to Mark. “I don’t have the numbers on me. Tell George how many soldiers, just fighting men and not civilians, have we lost?”
Mark picked up the papers in front of him, and began to thumb through them. He paused at a page, and glanced up to Philip, and then back to George. “He has a point. A very good one.” He slid the single sheet out of the stack, reading the figures of military experience against their enemy. “We have killed a number of the ETs, but it isn’t sufficient. Our generals have tried many numbers of tactics, and they aren’t seeing success. They outnumber us, as well as overpower us. It would be nothing short of a miracle if we could survive open combat with them.”
George glared at Philip. “It is our only option left. What do you expect me to do?” He turned his gaze to Mark, looking for support. “Phil wants us to politely hand over the planet, so they can destroy what remains of us.”
“You’re a war-monger!” Philip got up from his chair.
“You’re a pacifist!” George retorted. “A surrender-monger!”
“Stop it! Both of you, stop yelling. We won’t get anywhere if we can’t speak like intelligent human beings.” Mark spoke before Philip could. “Now, we have a third option.” He analyzed the people from all over the world as he pronounced the word. They waited, holding their breath. “Surrender.”
Air released from lungs, but eyes looked downward.
Mark looked from one side of the table to the other. “Well, it is an option. From what we gather from intercepted communications, it may actually be the best option.”
George crossed his arms. “Surrender into what? They’ll just slaughter us.”
Mark shook his head. “It seems quite the opposite.” He flipped to another sheet, and slid it across the table into George’s hands. “What do you think now?”
George focused on the text, and then raised his head with a grin. “How can I argue with this? It sounds like… heaven!” He threw the paper at Philip. “If I had known they would help us, I would’ve - you know.”
Looking at the paper, Philip raised his eyebrows. “Without a doubt, this is our best option.” He lifted his head, along with the paper. “Anyone want to see this?”
“I provided it.” A new voice, from the opposite end of the table, entered the conversation. “And, personally, I find it to be disgusting.”
Mark squinted. “Who are you?”
“It hardly matters.”
Philip leaned onto the table to see the new speaker. “What’s disgusting about surviving?”
The man sighed. “Do the aliens believe in equality? Do they practice slavery? Do you think they’d let us keep our republic governments?”
Philip couldn’t answer.
Seeing the gap in conversation, Mark responded. “Their system is quite different from ours-”
“It’s not just different.” The man cut in. “It’s an insult to how far we’ve come from the primitive ways of the past.”
Mark was silent as he stared at the unnamed man. “So what’s our fourth option?”
“There is none.”
George scoffed. “Fighting to the death when we have the option to be a protectorate, a rich one, a successful one, is idiotic.”
“You should see some more of those papers.” The man waited.
Mark handed over the next three pages after scanning them. He collapsed into his seat, his eyes wide with shock afterwards. “This can’t be real.”
George eyed the papers, and then looked up to the other men seated at the table. The papers slipped out of his grasp, floating over the table in Philip’s direction.
Philip read the papers and then looked to the man who had brought them. “If the ETs are immoral… what do we do?”
“Surrender, you idiot.” George replied. “It’s surrender or die.”
Philip was quiet as he looked at the papers. “I - I suppose it is better to-”
“It’s bullshit.” The man said quietly. “This politician,” he indicated George with his gaze, “would rather humanity exist as scum than perish as something respectable. That’s an insult, and if you are human, any of you, you know which is really the better option.”
“Humanity’s existence-” George began.
“Would become something pitiful, less than slavery. An adoption of ‘morals’ that are no more moral than that of ancient religions come and gone.” The mysterious man’s voice was still quiet, yet filled with force.
George tried to find someone else in the room who agreed with him by searching their faces. He found none. “Fuck the lot of you.” He stood up, and began pushing past chairs, headed for the exit. “I’ll surrender myself. You’re all making a huge mistake if you listen to this man.” He pulled open the door and stomped his way out.
Mark was left with a totally silent room. He scanned the crowd of men. They understood their position. They were not cowards. They would die, and possibly suffer the unspeakable, and they would not bow to any immoral force, no matter how powerful. Mark drew in a breath, and spoke. “We won’t win, but we can leave a heroic history.” A map of the world on the far wall caught his attention. “If any other intelligence else finds our destroyed planet, at least they’ll know we had something worth fighting for.”
In an instant, papers flew into the air along with bodies. The earth above them shook violently and cracked. A concussion wave traveling through the rock hit hard against the frame of the shelter, bending it harshly above the politicians. People lay sprawled across the table and floors, some of them bleeding. The ones who could, got to their feet, and scrambled for the exit.
Mark paused as he raced for the door when he saw the nameless man on the ground. The man was injured, as the large table had been thrown against the wall in the blast it had caught the man’s, now crushed, legs. “Here,” Mark said, leaning over and pulling up his pant-leg, “take this.” He revealed a small pistol, which he snatched and dropped into the man’s open palms.
The man nodded solemnly in thanks, seeming hardly aware of the pain. “I will put it to good use.”
Mark ran out the door.
Filed by kamikaze189 at May 17th, 2007 under Fiction with a point
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April 28, 2007
A friend of mine, who is Christian, posted my “Christians have a moral responsibility to kill eachother†on his myspace and it got a few comments there from other Christians. The purpose of this post is to simply respond to them.
The first comment read: “I think you’re friend has some misconceptions about the faith. God didn’t send Jesus to earth to die on the cross so we could continue sinning, or to say that it’s ok to sin. There is no excuse for sin. First and foremost, He was sent to earth to glorify the Father. The by-product of that is our chance to spend eternity in Heaven. I don’t think
the Bible says anything about forcing someone to become a Christian. I don’t want to
analyze this too much. It sounds to me like your friend is looking for someone to blame,
or it’s all just a joke.†- Angel
“God didn’t send Jesus to earth to die on the cross so we could continue sinning, or to say that it’s ok to sin.â€
This is fine, but you’re still pardoned. The moral system of Christianity removes any sense of punishment for your wrongdoings once you “accept Jesus as your personal lord and savior.†So god dislikes it when you lie, kill, or steal - yet you don’t see him doing anything about it, like sending you to hell. Guess he doesn’t care all that much then.
And, if you think about it, you’re not really sinning that badly anyway. You’re saving someone from hell, aren’t you? Most Christians ignore “thou shalt not kill†anyway (the U.S. military is overwhelmingly Christian, apparently) but at least you’re killing for a very good cause, right?
As far as “looking for someone to blame,†or “it’s all just a joke,†I don’t consider this to be a way for me to blame anyone, and I certainly don’t see it as a joke from the Christian perspective. From the atheist perspective, it definitely is a peculiar system of morality, perhaps you could call it a joke if it did not mean people’s lives should be on the line. Granted, no few Christians would carry out my logic, although this is not because of the greatness of Christianity or god, but because their religion has left some sanity behind.
Comment #2: “hmm. what do you say to that?? he admits he’s an athiest, yet also admits he will end up in hell… that just contradicted himself. also, how ironic his name is kamikaze.. a term for japanese martyrs who killed themselves for their country.. i think he should read some more scripture and rethink what he said!†- Kasey
“he admits he’s an athiest, yet also admits he will end up in hell… that just contradicted himself.â€
The article is written from the Christian perspective of belief. The article would not raise as much disgust if I wrote it from the atheist perspective. For example: “Kill your kids because they’re Christian and you don’t want them to convert!†is more crazy than: “Don’t kill your kids because there’s no afterlife.â€
I said, but do not sincerely believe, I would go to hell since the article is from the theist perspective. I know there is no such place as hell. A god’s existence is debatable, but certainly no afterlife.
“also, how ironic his name is kamikaze.. a term for japanese martyrs who killed themselves for their country.. i think he should read some more scripture and rethink what he said!â€
I chose the name Kamikaze for gaming purposes when I was younger. You have to have a nice fear-inspiring name, you know?
As far as reading more scripture: I would, except that the Bible has been shown to be full of errors and not a reliable source of information. For a book that is supposed to be written by people with a direct connection to an all-knowing being, I expect it to have no errors whatsoever. If I see one, and I have, that whole “connection to god†thing pretty much goes out the window.
The third comment is a lengthy post by a user named Jonathan. I’ll just respond to the good parts.
“This is obviously a satire, but he seems to really believe the point he’s trying to get across.â€
I’ve been waiting for someone to point out the hole in my logic, but so far nobody has. Until then, I will believe the point I am making. However, if anyone could correct my logic, I would be delighted to change my mind, as always.
“What he believes is a product of (no offence) his ignorance of the Bible. He’s listened too much to what “Christians” say, and not enough to what God’s Word says.â€
This should come as no surprise. All Christians alter what the bible says to fit their will. To give an example, gay-haters quote from Leviticus, while more open-minded Christians quote passages saying Jesus loves everybody.
I guess it’s true when they say “God is everything.†He even hates and loves gays at the same time.
“Perhaps he hasn’t read the Bible at all! In truth, that would make him just like most people who claim to be Christians.â€
I lost all interest with the book when I read a verse in Leviticus telling me that the cure for leprosy involved killing two birds and pouring their blood into a bowl. Nobody Few people take that seriously, and I’m not one of them.
I’m also sure plenty of Christians don’t read the bible. If they did read it, all of it, like Leviticus, I’m guessing there would be fewer Christians.
“Regardless of what he believes, he only has two options: to be devoted to what God wants, or to be devoted to what Satan wants. I think it’s obvious where he stands. But in truth, I’m sure he doesn’t even know it!â€
This is all preaching stuff. It doesn’t really deserve a response, nor was it meant to receive one. Anyway, I am devoted to neither of the suggested and unproven deities. I don’t serve god or satan. I only bow to evidence and reason, since they have a flawless track record. If god is going to send me to hell (which is impossible, but let’s entertain the thought) for that, then I have no qualms with it. I would much rather go to hell for that, than believe in him when there is insufficient/no evidence.
There was more preaching stuff after this point, which I will not spend time on.
So I’ll close with a couple quotes about a point I made earlier.
“We do not read the Bible the way it is; we read it the way we are.†- Evelyn Uyemura
“No man ever believes that the Bible means what it says: He is always convinced that it says what he means.†- George Bernard Shaw
Filed by kamikaze189 at April 28th, 2007 under Seriousness
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April 7, 2007
They really do. Don’t think I’m just pulling your chain, here. If you are a Christian, and you know a Christian, you have to go kill them right away.
According to the Christian perspective, Jesus died for your sins. That means there is nothing so terrible that you can do that god’ll send you to hell… except not believing in him. If you are going to tell me killing people is sinful, that’s fine. God doesn’t care anymore. He sent himself down to die for your sins, so you can get sinning. In the end, even murder is fine.
Not believing in the One True God is the only unforgivable sin. That is the only thing that would result in a person going to hell, according to traditional Christian perspectives. So the worst thing a person can do, ever, is not believe in the Christian god as that would send them to hell.
So murder is fine. And not believing in god is the only thing that sends you to hell.
If you’re a Christian, or you know a Christian, there is a chance you’ll convert. Converting is THE worst thing you can do as a Christian, as it will result in you going to hell. And if you know someone who is at risk for converting, you should do EVERYTHING, even the most EXTREME thing, to save them from an eternity of torture.
Recap: Murder is fine. Not believing sends you to hell. Christians have to do anything in their power to keep other Christians from hell.
Death, according to Christian beliefs, is also but a momentary thing. It is a transition, not an ending to Christians. And there is nothing to fear from it as long as you are a believer.
Recap: Murder is fine. Not believing sends you to hell. Christians have responsibility to keep other Christians from hell. And death is but a transition to heaven.
So how do Christians save other Christians from the chance that they go to hell? Kill eachother! If you don’t, there’s a good chance they might question their beliefs and end up as atheists or members of other religions. And then they’ll go to hell. So which is worse to do: take your friend’s temporary life and save their eternal soul, or take their infinite soul and save their measly life? If you’re a Christian, you know the right answer. Eternity is more important than this temporary life.
I was once a Christian, and if my family or friends had been smart enough to kill me then, I would be in heaven as you read this. But now I’m an atheist, and I will likely live the rest of my life as an atheist and end up in hell! Be wary! This could happen to a friend of yours!
Kill them all soon!
Filed by kamikaze189 at April 7th, 2007 under Humor
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