Explanations and Excuses

To whom it may never concern,

Alright, so you’re looking to read some of the stuff that may have recently been posted… I’m sorry, but we just can’t have that.

You see, I’ve finished with the initial Trilogy of stories that I will be entitling as ‘Pseudopsychosis’, a running title anways.. What I’m going to try desperately to get published. I don’t want to concern you readers with the miserable woes of what’s happening between now and publication time because, well, that’s fucking boring. I hate having to read through someone’s diatribe of how it’s not going well for them. I’ll save you from myself.

Bare in mind, I will be busy in these coming weeks, but I do not want to inflict any sort of pain on you because I can’t get you new stimulus. I’ll try as hard as I possibly can to keep new stories up and even those political and sociological rantings known only as Injustice For All. Which you can now easily navigate to be visit the sister site, The World: Insane. I’ll try to seperate my dualing egos as best as I can, we’ll see how that goes.

Thank you for using your heads and defying society by reading my shit. Remember that it’s essential to keep that brain running these days. You never know when it’ll come in handy.

Well, stay locked in… There’ll be new piecesup before you know it.  Just a raunchy, just as tender, and just as insightful as before. Maybe better.

This is Armaggeddon,

-Alex Fuhrmann

 

Mercy. Please.

On top of an already blemished day and fearing the worst possible outcomes for the rest of the week, I answered a phone call that I really never believed I would have gotten. It was my grandmother sobbing, going on about her husband’s lack of health and inevitable death. I know. It’s heavy. When someone comes on that strong, it’s hard to listen, especially when you’re the perverbial black sheep. Granted. I’d paid my necessary dues and left the more difficult and rather unapproachable dues well enough alone, but to be summoned like that was just a tad…well…trippy.

Out of the forces that inhibit the negative souls of that side of the family, I can safely bet they only called because he and I got along without a single confrontation of any nature. He was simple. Old timey and simple. I didn’t mind him one bit, still don’t, but it is with disdain that I felt it was correct to visit him in the hospital. I should’ve planned better, I should’ve known that a gathering of the calloused ones would show me how much they care.

Oh, Pariah, won’t you stand bedside.

Let us go on about ourselves as this man’s light and livelihood shrivel away, we’ll diminish his soul by talking about our triumphs and how sick he is. Truly sick. This could be it. Oh, Pariah, don’t you agree? Just look at him there, right in front of you, next to me, don’t you hear my god awful voice speaking of him but not directly to him? Yes. I sure am glad to have gotten here on time. The doctor told us everything.

That’s right, you carrion, pestilence ridden fools. Sweating while he looks around the room, his voice subdued by laughter and happiness. Inside he’s freezing and all you want him to hear is how lucky you are. Miserable Fuck. I can’t relate how badly drawn the ICU surgical waiting room was. All gathered around, his bed tilted upright like a chair. They all sat beneath and to the side, and as I walked in, they all started talking. Trying to get my attention. 

A new guest, he may be one of us.

I half-hugged and passed by, shoving their shaking hands away, and then to him. He was finally able to talk to someone who would listen. He spoke quietly and calmly, without hesitation over their loud voices. He asked me how I was. Worried. I’m glad you made it.

It was odd. Like I was the last puzzle piece, he’s aura glowed all of a sudden - so much so that it was making me believe that auras exist. He looked up through the ceiling, beyond plastered walls and the setting sunlight.

There was something archaic and artistic about the moment. I can’t place it, but the elements were there. Aligned.

Some fagbag nurse came in and made some jokes, he infuriated me. Join the party. Join us. The hyenas. He left soon but not before saying we had three minutes. The casual bystanders made their leave, one at a time. Each having a last, great sentence to lead them through the door.

You be good, don’t get out of that bed and start dancing around….   Fuck you.

It reclines and everything! Look at all those buttons, you’ll be up all night with ‘em…. He’s not five. Fuck you.

I love you but you gotta stop scaring us like this, rest up and get better…. Yessir Sarge. Fuck you.

I hope you can make it to my game…. He wouldn’t miss it for the world. Fuck you.

The most gleeful of all the happy dancers, my uncle, had been laughing and joking the whole time. He was like some monster re-incarnation of Gomer Pyle on speed.

I couldn’t stand it. Not when he threw up his arms and said good bye to everyone and made an exit worthy of some glamorous nobody, throwing his cape of the left shoulder and being whisked away on a magical drift of wind. I couldn’t stand it when my mother talked on about her plans and future. I couldn’t stand it when everyone was gone and I looked at him and he was tired. He couldn’t stand it either. And I don’t blame him.

 

The Author

Eyes blinking rapidly, glaring into the blank computer screen, the lights out. His fingertips were firmly pressed into precisely chosen keys, he began typing.

[Her tears streamed nightly, silently over a porcelain painted face. Bruised and beaten wouldn't begin to describe her atrocity, in some ways she loved the abuse and sometimes knew she was better than that. Serenity for the damned is priceless in a place where you can get anything]

“GODDAMNIT”, he yelled as he slammed the desktop. Slowly moving his hands from his furrowed brow to the keyboard, feeling for the backspace button and then he pushed so hard to force away his disgust. He was due to finish an epic ficition novel and hadn’t been inspired for the three months alotted time the publisher had given him. He was beyond frustrated, grabbing for the Grandad’s Whiskey bottle resting next to the computer screen. Another open-throat guzzle of the good stuff.

He positioned his fingers again, moving his lips to the typing…

[LIfe seems so dreary on the outside, and it is, however her nearly unwavering lies to herself convince her it's not so bad. She's bled and turned cold from her haunted past, and yet somehow with total control of her destiny she continues to fall]

“Fuck, why can’t I write a decent paragraph” he screamed out expecting a really well prepared answer. He sat for a moment, breathing heavily and weighing the frustration. “I’ll try it”.

[Naturally, in this sort of situation there ought to be someone significant nearby to help pick up the many broken pieces and help her collect herself, but in this particular case - Not a soul remains. She's pushed away those that love and care, stayed sealed]

He pursed his lips and slowly tilted his head back fixing his eyes on the stuccoed ceiling of his cheap ass apartment. “God”, he muttered “I’m a lowly, filthy creature”. He lifted his head back up and moved his hands around his head to barricade his face.

He thought. Maybe add an introduction of some sort to add a history to her?

[A soft knock on a cheap apartment room door, the shit door connecting the walls of a small tenement living 'solution', a small piece in the puzzle of the city. "Come out, slowly", a brute voice swiftly demanded. "Come out slowly, make it sexy", the voice said again a bit harsher. The pale legs of twenty something whore creeped out of the doorway, the further up her thigh were lavish and dark bruises from the night or so before. "Don't you look sweet" the voice said with more compassion]

He continued typing away, for some reason he became intrigued in the character. So immersed in the girl’s life, portraying her thoughts and pains like the canvas artist to his oily masterpiece. Filing in every curved portion and framing her life in tragic queries. She was destined to be a top-seller. He took another swig of the whiskey and typed away.

He typed for hours, fifteen pages turned to thirty, and fifty to one hundred. The quota was going to be met, he was going to get the story published and the procrastination wasn’t bad afterall. “Thank God”, he muttered after he’d typed his heart out. A quick ‘ctrl+s’ and he had a New York Times Bestseller on his hands. The novella was due in a matter of hours and he was incredibly tired but wondered if he slept would he actually wake up on time.

He decided to drink some coffee and wait it out, plus he had to sober up. He walked over to the couch after initializing a print of the new hit, and turned on the tube. CNN, he had an illegal cable feed from a guy who he’d met that was a friend of a whore who was his aunt, they were interviewing a critically accaimed novelist. He got comfortable and envisioned himself in that persons spot, it could be him in just a matter of hours. Then he heard something, his title… The woman on the television said the title of HIS book! What are the odds? He walked over to the table where his pc sat, he plugged away for a few minutes composing another title for the story, then voila he had something. He walked back over to the couch and laid again, watching into the devil woman’s eyes. How dare she plagiarize his masterpiece (despite him being in the fault)! The news anchor asked the woman to read an excerpt from he book. As she began reading, he turned up the volume and tuned his hearing to her voice.  

She spoke “A soft knock on a cheap apartment room door, the shit door connecting the walls of a small tenement living ’solution’, a small piece in the puzzle of the city. “Come out, slowly”, a brute voice swiftly demanded. “Come out slowly, make it sexy”, the voice said again a bit harsher. The pale legs of twenty something whore creeped out of the doorway, the further up her thigh were lavish and dark bruises from the night or so before. “Don’t you look sweet” the voice said with more compassion”.

“HOLY SHIT” the guy yelled! He knew word for word that he had just wrote that without ever being exposed to her work which hadn’t even been released yet. How could this happen, he wondered. He went back to the computer and started typing away at some story about an obese man commited to losing the weight and keeping it off for good. The fatman was trifled by hunger and addiction to Hostess but maintained his steady course to recovery. Our author envisioned it as a self-help book for the fatties of America. He plugged away, the sun started creeping across his floor and he realized what time it was. He got dressed and looking all appropriate went out with a freshly printed script for a novel. It was fifteen words over the expected quota and was typed in half the type of properly produced work. He dropped it off and watied for a phone call from the publishing agent.

Bondaged in Fugue

Bondaged in Fugue

Insight into a CEO

” Are you listening to me? I need your disease, I know what you are and your poison is my anti-venom. All the ways that I can hurt someone are all the ways I can make you happy…”

The fucked up promise from a business man, the mindfuck of life. The worst psychotic is the one who isn’t prescribed a medication but evades the watchful eyes of the public’s standards. This is the buttoned down man who takes your phone calls, the clean cut repair man who shows up promptly to fix your cable television, the cook in the back of the restaurant who prepared the finest steak of your life (not because he followed the restaurants ingrediants but because he made it like his ‘pa’), the one you’d least expect. He was talking to the love of his apparant life, the only one who ‘knows’ him. A whore, slut, sex slave, deviant - whatever. Fact is, he loved her (too much for too short a period of time) and she saw a glimpse of who he really was. He stuggled with the concept of a creature as putird as her knowing his dark desires, even someone as disgusting as her. So what? So she could let everyone know; he was a figure of prominant status and could lose all of this - a diseased corporation of filth. She’s a whore? Does it make a difference to anyone? No. Could he lose it all? Of course, people love a winner and loser abused by those high profile executive types. He knew the whore had to die.

“Padded rooms can’t save her from me, ex-marines and bodyguard boyfriends won’t stop me”

He’d practice murdering her while pacing in his high-ceilinged office…

“She immortalized every ounce of my desire, those wide eyes and perfect snarl. She cringed like I prayed she would and panted like the slut I was meant to fuck over. I loved her begging, as autonomous as it was, disgusted as she may have been - I was fucking turned on by the more she was tortured by this facade…”

Every breath he knew she was still breathing seemed to wrack his brain, she should’ve been dead by now…

“Her moaning. after I truly got to her - when she was undeniably ravaged and enamoured by my force- that fucking moaning always echoes in my mind. Who could/would suspect me as being so fucking psychotic, not even under a toxic substance and feeling ethereality. I’m what your mother warned you about. I’m worse then the worst serial fiends, I’ll cease to end your torment and cower at your punishment to further the dramatise. I love the howling.”

Torrents of misplaced anger fueled by undiscloused sorrow, the affinity of our creation can’t be death…

“In your monotone voice, beg for me”

You could see him standing in the mirror, smearing lipstick on his face and reciting cheesy pickup lines to himself…

“Tell me I’m everything you loathe, destroy me… Don’t be afraid to murder the only one you’ve ever loved. Embrace my dying body.”

“You know you’re my bondage, you know that survival without you is insolence-

- mistress does not approve of that”

“Tell me you’ve never wanted a part of everything I am. I’m all you’ve ever dreamed about, you have to know that my existence is the opposite of what God offered, satisfaction without salvation is MY promise”

He knew she could love him, if he paid her enough…

His face etched with the worries of a modern man, the reclining leather office chair clicked as he swayed his weight further into the back of the chair, sweat glistened down his greivous looking face as he pressed the revolver to his temple. His facial features cringed as he began to sob, relapses of the past weeks played over and over again in his mind. “Give me a sign… Give me hope”

The telephone on his desk rang all too abruptly, almost menacingly precisely.

“Hello” the man clammered fumbling, trying to shove the revolver back into the desk drawer.

“Sir, we’re sorry for the intrusion, but we have good news and bad news…”

“I’ll take the bad first” he said in a pre-dispositioned negative tone.

Fast forward to the hour of the revolver and blubbering fat man, to desperation in living and redemotion in faith. In our darkest hours, faith can still come through.

“Sorry sir, that’s not an option. Your daughter’s alive, but barely…” The man continued talking but the CEO shrunk down into his chair and drifted further away from the voice.

Dr. Arcana - Butchered in Effigy

>Arcana “Is it possible to miss something that never existed?” The one thing Dr. Arcana strived for in life was to invoke terror in everyone. If you were able to ask him why, he would most likely blame his desidious father, but in all actuality it was from abandonment. It may be hard to believe such a callous, hideous cerature could in fact be so human, however, such is the case. If a viper could speak he would say only this: “Can you understand living life to only exist. To wake up every morning to just wake up, and after that there’s nothing. It’s not a matter of apathy or motivation, it’s not the years of surmounted pressure. It’s nihilism. Sledgehammer hurling through the air, expanding synapses adjusted to the pulse of your still beating heart as you get blind sided by a massive hammer, thrilling. To wake up without feeling, total disinterest in the modern man’s daily ritual. The hunter-gatherer dies out, the jackyl comes out. Animal, vile and wretched with snarling teeth and emotionless fury caged inside the mind. Desperate for release in the languid vessel of bottled aggression, cold courtrooms could be built around me, the prison cells growing around my bare being”. Diluted madness. “Eviscerated, locked away for an eternity better spent dead. Dead because living has actually become worse then the fear of dying. Out of deperation a new philosophy is born, a scream in the middle of the forest of falling trees that nobody will ever hear. Eclipse the waning moon, give me salvation through my tiresome diadem of broken thoughts and release the sober ferocity. There is no scream without a voice, there is no beast if not a heart and in me; I am nothing, heartless and without a voice. Pity fallen for the disgraced exile, everybody please get one last look before it all becomes a headline. National acclaim of a D.O.A., international credit for a morgue statuette. One last breath before the fall, a final thought passing and the euphoria’s exposed. The last seconds of life are the most bittersweet, the precious grasp of fleeting sensory unkempt, gasping for vanquished emission to solitude. Blacked out forever, a curtain falls over the body and the show is over. The show with no critics, no audience, nobody. The show is over, the blood leaks off the stage and a minuetto performed. A baroque death for a broken soul, a kiss left with ill-fettered prose. Bindings and chains disappear, if only the memory perceieved their existence, then perhaps I was never chained. Possibly, this whole art of death and garbage of life is a lie I’ve coerced, been dealt to face, and plotting against myself is my only game. What’s said is said, and actions cease - the dream is dead and the curtains crease”. But animals don’t have that capability, silence forever remains. And to the world, a cold callous man stands vehementally, angered only by his own measures of living. Dead and gone to everyone he’s ever known. His life goal, having been to invoke fear in all those around him, fate - it seems is not without a sense of irony, the one thing in the world which he treasured and loved most was the one thing that feared him more than anyone else. He used to say during slaughters, or sessions as he calls them, “It appears as if everything around me is dying, in reality I’m the only one afflicted”. While taking a hand saw to a man’s jugular, men in speculation vomiting, tearing bowels out of cadavers only to feel. Sadistic perversion of the most immense disease, Arcana possesed this. A precision cut with a scalpel along the mandible, lifting flesh from muscle tissue and filleting the nerve endings of the victim, then in a non-sequitor, an iron rod beaten against the corpses cranium. Sickness exists, indeed. Is there no salvation from suffering, Arcana hoped to prove there was but became a victim of bloodlust and post-humous fixation. Not so serial, but rather invigorated by the ceasing of life. Then again, aren’t we all attracted to the morbid. Terror is not an adequate reason to look away. Butchered In Effigy “There’s nothing like the loss of hope to awaken a broken dream and resort to tragic extremes” Insomnia, the growing burden of existence without rest pounded him hourly as time passed beside him. The fact of the matter, insomnia, being a disease was a likely enough justification to break into small doctor offices late at night and steal small doses of prescription pain killers to sedate him enough to resolve his calloused mind. The scales weighing his addiction, however, saw his diadem a bit less lavish then he had. The time had come to face inevitable pennance for his actions; not to mention the man’s daily life. He worked tirelessly in the court system, reknowned as “The Man to Set You Free” due to his underhanded way of blackmailing the opposing party in court and thereby having a clean 72 - 0 record, but without the slightest emotion he defeneded pedorasts, drug kingpins, scum bags, murderers and even a few corporate schmucks caught with DUI’s - and all with his knowledge of their wrongdoings only to release them back onto the streets. The address on the doctor’s office that night is not important, the sterile atmosphere of the medical building is irrelevant but what is key about that night is when the man set to break into the office, he was greeted by an open window. He thought as a “turn of luck”, yet rather his opening into a world of pleasure beyond synapse (in the right mindset anyways). He crept through the hallways, scanning thoroughly to find the prescritptions. As he neared this disturbing looking door a sour feeling crept over him, as if fate was stricken with disgust, and then it passed - he opened the door and walked inside. Feeling along the wall for a light switch, the door closed behind him. Surgical devices over a restraint chair with three small lights shining right over it. He walked towards it with a peculiar interest, he examined the small tray with stainless steel surgical instruments aligned so precisely as if arranged by a machine. A footstep. He turned around to see only a pair of goggles and a white mask. “Hello, what have you come in for” the goggles questioned. The man hadn’t prepared an answer. “Drugs? Is that what you want? Have a seat, I’ll fix you right up”, the doctor said. The man glanced at the shiny objects which seemed to stare back at him with a precocious obscurity. “Oh… Don’t mind the toys, they’re just for show.. Sit down” The man sat. “So, what’ll it be this evening?” the doctor said with a tinge of giddiness in his voice. “Anasthesia? Morphine? You came to the right place, we have it all here..” A pause. “Not much of a talker, eh? That’s fine, I prefer my patients like that” The man squinted through the bright lights with a indecisive stare. “Lay back, I’ll give you my personal favorite - works everytime”. The doctor arranged a tank full of some unkown anasthesia, the tube was fed into a jointed seperate tube which was hooked up to another tank with a different gas. He continued fiddling with the apparatus’ for a moment and then brought up a mask hooked up to the two tanks. “Here you go, try that one on for minute or two”, he said as he placed the mask over the man’s mouth. “Breathe deep”. Several hours passed, the man’s mind swirled about in a lucid dream state but he unfortuantly returned to a semi-concious state. His jaw and face tingled, as did his abdomen and thighs. He looked up towards where the three lights had been shining to see one light directly over his reclined state and a mirror with a direct view of his torso. He gasped as he tried to contend with the notion that his stomach was flayed open and gaping with full function to keep him alive. The very sight off the skewed nerve endings and ripped veins would have made him shudder if not for that tingling feeling in his jaw. Another mirror moved towards his face, there in that poloraid horrorscape he focused his eyes on his newly constucted self. The skin around his eye sockets was stripped off, his nose severed like a pig carcass, his ears also detached and his lips literally ripped off. Half of his tongue flopped around in his mouth as he tried to shriek yet only managed to gurgle mouthfuls of sanguine blood, his eyes moved frantically about the room. He looked fearfully back into the mirror of his abdomen, his intestines tourniqueted out of his body, he assumed he couldn’t survive through the night (not that he would want to after this). “The plight of the world is centered in our cultivation of aesthetic, in fact, we do not cultivate - we scorch the plains and burn the skies. Plight indeed”, the doctor moved about him. The manner of his precision ought to have been questioned, but surely not by our patient, he was in no state to point out his errors in surgery. “Quid Pro Quo, my good sir. In Latin, ’something for something’. Tongight you gave me something for my gift to you, you were sedated and I was infatuated by your anatomical design”, he said as he moved his bare fingers over the man’s exposed ribcage. “I’m so delighted you stopped by this evening, I wanted to pay my respects to you - you see, you had defended me just a few months ago. Seems like you may have bargained for much more then you were expecting by merely winning another case. Actions, they speak much louder than words - no you can prove that”, he grinned on that last note and now baring his face as the known “executioner” for several brutal slayings which he couldn’t be “tied to”. The bitter twisting of fate leading to the climatic irony of being spliced after saving the doctor from a possible life sentence into his own demise. “You will live on past this, I fear by allowing you to die would be inhumane and I just don’t have the stomach for that..”

Shifting Shitstorm

“A tongue is only a messanger for a lie or relief”

“How the fuck do you get a dick up your ass and no money” a weasle like man spoke, “What ‘cuz the guy was cute? He was probably a shitlicking homo to want to fuck you”. A striking slap against soft flesh, tainted flesh. “I told you… He drugged…me. And raped me… Then left me in the motel room”, a weak voice said intermittenly between sobs and tears. “Aw baby, why ya crying. It’s not like you don’t do that shit for fun. Be a slut on your own fucking time, but when it’s my time you’re a fucking whore” he said intermittenly between swats (he called it “nominal punishment”). He pulled her hair lifting her body with his guiding arm and draped her over a chair. She screamed as he took off his pants began to further defile her once precious innocence. Her mind drifts away as he slams hip to ass harder and crawls deeper into her cave. He continued lecturing. He pulls himself out and pulls out a gun, forcing the barrel in and out of her ass. Then he pulls up his ‘Pant’s - o - Manhood” back up around his waist. Pulling the gun out of her and pointing it against her temple and forced her to get out of his condo but not before a quick pistol whip on her side.

“Learn to be a good fucking whore or I’ll make you into the best slut”. She lay in the hallway crying, a door slam “Fucking cunt”. Gun replaced with a syringe, a quick exchange from vioence to self-destruction, a quick pull from the supply and a needle driving deep into an overly abused vein. Euphoria rushing, and the world stops spinning and stands still. A crack, a tingle in his chest and the blood began to spill from the bullet. He glances down with a last “Oh fuck”.

2 hours prior

“There is easily 13 grand sitting under his bed, he run’s his own girls. He can die and not be missed” a pale 20 something whore said to a man. “Does he have a gun” the man questioned with a furrowed brow, “of course he does, he’s a fucking dirtbag” was the reply.
“How much of a cut do you want”
“I want all of his morphine and 4 thousand”
“I get the remaining and his tongue” The man said.
She just stared at his rough jaw line.

A quiet pause.

“You know sweetheart, what doesn’t kill you can only make you stronger”
“Strength… I feel weak”
“We’ll see after tonight, go home and get your things together. I’ll meet you at his place. Everything will be alright after this”
She grinned and walked out of the smokey bar. Another shot of the ol’ stuff and out the man walked to his beat up Honda. Tonight was his last night he would drive down the corrupted streets, the last time he would kill, the last time he would be himself.

- A Condominium-

She stood, the gun steady in her defiant hands. She walked behind his still standing body and poked the gun to his back and released years of torment, loss and disrepair in a lethal piece of metal. Tearing through his chest like freight train, the agony of humanity dragging through a tiny hole through his carcassed being. “Why don’t you play god with me sometime, fucker”. Another bullet drove into the barely living man. Solitude, bruises turning into un-beaten skin, a metamorphisis like a seraph - wings unfurled hurling through astral plains away from living pain, and then slung back down to Earth. A loud crack this time. Her eyes fade from emerald innocence to black shards of a broken whore. “You could’ve had it all, but you fucked that away, ignorance my ass”

He cut out their tongues, grabbed the cash and headed to his car. Tonight was the last night he would defend someone else, tonight purity had faded a bit further from reality, after tonight he’d be totally selfless, tommorrow he’d be a better man. Holding their tongues, imagining the curtailed flesh, he drove away out of town.

Innocence: Blood of a Dove

A draft blew in sending a shiver up her spine, synapses shooting across her pale, bare skinned back. It was always cold there but she didn’t mind it so much, she was too preoccupied with her perfect little white lines. Arranging them in order, if nostrils could salivate - her’s would be by this point.

Everyday we try a little harder to fit into the mold of societal acceptance, soceity isn’t an indentation therefore we’ll never fit into a mold that isn’t actually there and the silly thing is how we seek solace in finding something that’s not there. In the course of finding ourselves, we learn how easy it is to condemn a God rather than a man appearing as such, but in the end everyone dies - even idols. Out of our melancholy addiction to self-affliction, other addictions are discovered to ease the need for acceptance. Addiction is a broad, enveloping rabbit hole of self-destruction/revelation. For some, the escape from themselves is a catalyst for self-exploration and other’s it is a tad worse.

She went in for a sniff, her spine shot up after one line and she started blinking rapidly. The cocaine overtook her by the third line and cloud nine blew by.

Preservation was a thing of the past, destruction ushered in hope to be free.

Her nostrils flared wide open, the comfortable numbness set in and bravado ignited. Under the right light at the right angle in the mirrored table, a reflection of a beautiful failure could be seen - and through another angle a broken angel replaced the reflection.

Some say every action must be justified by a moral explanation and depending on the morality - a proper reaction must occur to bring an end to the means and restore a balance in the cosmic sphere of everyday living. Her reaction to end her means to fit in would be violent.

A tear glistened down her porcelain cheeks, she wiped it away quickly, as she believed tears were evident to weakness which she was undeniably full of yet repressed. She yearned for that acceptance, for the ability to create something beautiful and be recognized for it and to feel proud of herself. She couldn’t wait to stop being so strong, rather she wanted to stop lying to herself about not being weak. Although she knew all this, no one could hear her crying for hours late at night, the unborn creation she’d never be proud of echoed in her mind. She sometimes walked through the desolate city at night trying to run away from the restless tears, tears that poured over her like sweet sweat for eveyone to see how much pain she was in, nobody cared or noticed.

Sometimes you have to break yourself apart to create something new, sometimes you just need to hit rockbottom. And sometimes you need to have 32 stiches sewn into your wrists after a cataclysmic suicide attempt with a kitchen knife to help you see life a bit brighter, or would the neon world still look just as grimy as before? Maybe filthier.

The almost-suicide scene was a running shower, clotted drain with her hair as she lie in the tub half filled with water and blood. A few minutes longer and the tub would have overflowed and she would have drowned in a literal bloodbath as the cut was so intensely deep that she lost a full three quarts of blood in the incident.

She was found by the landlord, it just so happens he’d gotten his nerve up to demand three months of delayed payments. After having kicked the door down and confiscating the cocaine on the table for himself, he dialed 911 and saved her. After the paramedics had arrived and removed her, after she was identified as the missing daughter of a big time insurance company executive, after he was notified that his daughter wasn’t actually dead but was merely a runaway - her father paid every bill she’d never be able to afford.

Her father arranged for her to stay in a minimum security asylum of sorts, to be cared for under the assumption that everyone else was being treated as well as she was so she didn’t sense his involvement or compassion. She’d be angry if she knew someone cared about her. She’d be angry because she forgot what it feels like to care, because she built herself into mechanism of self-reliability. How could she count on anyone if she didn’t trust anyone, their eyes said it all, all their eyes did was watch how attractive she’d grown with age. She feared the eyes, their desire to love.fuck.abuse.destroy.manipulate.destroy.seduce.destroy.infiltrate.destroy.care for.destroy.fall for.destroy.destroy.destroy.destroy.destroy.destroy.destroy.destroy.destroy.destroy.destroy.
destroy.destroy.destroy….. This was her life, fearing herself, fearing all. A life of fear she’d only admit was developed out of hurt from another that never existed. This was her pitiful life that not a soul cared about. This was her life and it was meaningless because she said so.

Does it really matter as to her flaming little shit of a life? Not statistically. Does it make anyone sad to know a desperate for attention, sad little girl tried to slice the veins out of her forearms and survived? Not a soul cares, so why drag on in a manner of publically acknowledging that someone without faith in nearly living died? People like to hear about suffering, especially if it’s based off semi-factual information… This was her life, it ended before she knew she was loved. This is your life, take from it what you can before you lose it all.

Validation

Everyday, lying there in a cold sweat, the same revelation would pass casually through his mind. His disassociate stare was un-wavering, panning solemnly across the doorway of his room. This was his oblivion; he had no more then this fruitless empire of sloth-esque manner. The daunting reminder that would creep into his head was of his certain death, a death he couldn’t care less about. He didn’t care about dying because he didn’t care about living. In the absence of purpose there is nothing but wishful thinking to die. The same position everyday, the same disgust for the world and a tart case of insomnia. When the essence of humanity can wander in and out of your life, and you see the inane “necessities”others “require”, you can almost appreciate living as a cruel joke or chemistry experiment gone awry. Semen to fertilize, babies to young men, adulthood to death. The routine and consequences are inevitable, the dissonance in his eyes showed that.

Had he ever lived or been happy or cared about anything? A sideways grimace forms on his face, his sweaty, pale face. The past can never die and the future keeps pressing on, this thought amuses him. Suicide? What’s the point, he’s not selfish and he isn’t crying out for attention (not that anyone would care). He’s transgressed from a butterfly into an apparition of a gray, bony mess on his bed. If you were to speculate exactly how he came to be, you would realize it was a shear waste of time to hear excuses of whose fault it is, because it was anyone’s but his.

That ominous grin is still displaced on his vile face, it begins to form into a scowl, he recalls once feeling trifle avarice for something. He tries to remember, it was something he lived for, something bleak. Retribution? Vanity? Human contact? Maybe, it really doesn’t matter anymore, the shit faced smile has returned. A spark, he knows what to do tonight. Ah, superbia, purpose regained! With an acedial groan he stretches his atrophied body over the length of his bed. He glances around his room and notices how long it had been since he moved. He moves towards an end of his bed and puts his feet into the cushion of cheap carpet. He stands into a full, completely gruesome posture and stretches out his decayed limbs. The feeling of mobility, the pulsing acidic sensation of agility lost.

Disdained by his movement, the desire to return to a paradise lost in his somnolence, his purpose begged him to strive on. The bleak light of the restroom tinted the shower stall a pale gruesome shade of something urinal. He felt for the showerhead; ignited, it bled an even paler urine-esque fluid over his skin. Kneeling, he began to think of blood. He felt the floor; he spoke to it, “My sovereign touch to a wintry face, the squirming pursuit for a breath in the eclipse of hope”. Grinning again, a small glimmer of life and chaos reborn. He stood to finish his business.

In the closet, the hidden past disclosed behind a cheap glass sliding door. He looked on past his reflection, into his foreshadowed evening, into a memory, into a dream? A cold sweat again, he broke free of the trance and moved the door open. A small fishing tackle box sat dead center; he knelt down to examine its insides. A scalpel, a small flashlight, two pairs of gloves (surgical and hardware), a small handsaw, and duct tape. The check list is complete; his car keys are still sitting on top of his fold-up table. Now he will wait.

His truck bed was equipped with bolted iron loops and rough leather straps, his tool box was ready for slicing and he was ready for their cries. The sun was falling, and his prayers for the night’s shade were finalizing.

He drove along the less busy streets, he parked in a small alley, another smile crept as he imagined how cliché his tactic was of picking up a whore and dissecting her disease, but not tonight, tonight he was after himself. The prey was more of a fighter, the prey could bite back.

80 minutes later

He strung his wrists through the makeshift fasteners in his truck bed, still standing over his fighting body he observed the struggle and smiled. He took a heavy tarp and draped it over the enslaved man. He still writhed under the blanket but the smile faded without direct sight of his torment. Car keys jammed into ignition, his excitement was almost overwhelming, boiling inside him. And to the drive of his life… He recalls the beginning; a narration of his explanation develops in his mind:

“As I sat in my portable desolation of a living lie, and spilled the acid over my arm, a sensation coupled with revelation drew upon me. Like a drill bit spinning through my veins, it came in subliminal darkness. My existence, in a constant search to live has been strikingly futile for no reason other then my looking in the wrong place. The world as a complex, entwined barb of balance and disarray is expectant of us to fail at all we do because our driving focus to achieve self-understanding and resolution in our soul purpose is not met. The expansion of my mind in that deafening pain, the skin pealing and turning to bubbling arson, the speculation growing stronger with the pain. There is no life without death, no love without hate, no satisfaction without disapproval. To be whole, to be an entirety means I must no longer search for life, but live for death. Happiness out of sorrow can only pursue, that is the pinnacle of man’s existence” his self-visualized voice drained out into the screams his created, the only scream he soon will manifest.

In the middle of a field, he stopped and set free that sardonic grin. The time had come, again, to be whole. Desire and meaning fulfilled as he tore away the tarp over him, the man that he saw, trying so hard just to be free he knew alone was all he could be without this man’s sacrifice to him - to the mortal god he embodied.

Now to execute; out came the box, first in frenzy - with the gloves on - he began to strangle the man. With the other hand a scalpel, he worked like a surgeon without a purpose. Every time he cut into the man, the soft blade diving into bare flesh and pulling back the crimson stain, every time the man bled he separated himself further from society. He was no longer a person; he was an animal, an unlovable, disgusting, exiled soul in his own oblivion. A cast out only because he threw himself away, he released everyone from him, striving to be alone, no more pain to anyone but himself, no more should he cause pain to the one’s he loved. A tear formed, spilled and fell into his sub-conscious. The man ravaged by a small blade, our man worsened with the flashback, he pulled out the man’s wallet. Exhuming the carcass with the wallet in hand, a badge of protection and courage fastened in his front pocket. This man was a cop and brother to a very wealthy and powerful businessman.

On the man’s side a holstered police issue nine millimeter glock, our man pulls it out, walks toward the center of the field and in total appreciation for the stars gleaming over him, the moon caressing the ground with soft comfort, the breeze flowing over him like the sweetest touch of a linger hand. His finger, absorbing the feel of the trigger, eyes fixed to the bolt action of the grand gun, barrel in mouth and sorrow fleeting. No more. He picked at the trigger with the slightest touch and nothing. He pushed, forcing his finger deeper into the trigger, to the point of touching the backside to the gun. Another click, gun in mouth and nothing. He turned it around, still on his knees, pulling back the bolt action a 9mm round lodged but immovable. He dumped the magazine; he released the bullet and sat in helplessness with a functional bullet in his palm. The shot never fired, the fate sprang irony. The story ends and leaves you in breathless anticipation of an ending, he doesn’t die and he never feels and like so many other’s he pleads for release yet drains out into our human fear of loneliness. There is no balance when all there exists is imbalance.

An Opiate

 

Scene 1

[Small Bachelor Pad, studio apartment with a bed and a coffee table. A non-descript poster hangs on a barren beige wall. Grey carpet with a small window casting the morning sun into the room through cracked blinds. An alarm clock sits next to his bed on the floor.]

Joe wakes up without the alarm going off; he lays there for a moment contemplating as the camera descends from the ceiling closer to his face. He looks to his left and catches a glimpse of the sun and outside world.-

Joe Narrates:

Everyday, lying there in a cold sweat, the same revelation would pass casually through my mind. My disassociate stare was un-wavering, panning solemnly across the doorway of this room. This is oblivion; no more then this fruitless empire of sloth-esque manner. The daunting reminder that would creep into my head was of a most certain death, a death I couldn’t care less about. I don’t care about dying because I just don’t care about living. In the absence of purpose there is nothing but wishful thinking to die. The same position everyday, the same disgust for the world and a tart case of insomnia. When the essence of humanity can wander in and out of your life, and you see the inane “necessities” others “require”, you can almost appreciate living as a cruel joke or chemistry experiment gone awry. Semen to fertilize, babies to young men, adulthood to death. The routine and consequences are inevitable.

-He sits up and hangs his legs over the side of the bed. The camera follows his face and shoulders then pans out to show him sitting. He reaches under the bed for a bottle as the camera follows his hand rummaging underneath then cuts to his hands opening the bottle then a side shot of his face drinking the alcohol. The bottles already less then half empty. He rubs his eyes and stands up slowly, he takes two little shuffle steps over to the coffee table and shuffles through a few pieces of mail and picks up a yellow priority express envelope, he tears it open and inspects the check stub.-

Joe:

Fuckers…. (Under his breath)

-He rests the check back on the table and walks over to the bathroom. -

Scene 2

Joe walks out of the bathroom fully dressed in casual clothes. He walks over to the table, picks up the check and leaves out the front door. The camera directed at the keys inserted into the car door, hand on the handle, keys in the ignition, hands gripping the steering wheel and the car reversing out of the apartment parking lot.

He pulls into a Bank of America parking lot and walks inside. He walks out folding a handful of bills into his pocket with a very smug look on his face, the camera focuses on the smile then rotates to the back of his head and follows him out into the parking lot toward his car.

Scene 3

-He walks up the sidewalk to his apartment, there’s a girl with him, he unlocks the door and the camera is already inside the house as he and the woman enter. He sits on the bed and scrounges for the bottle of the bed, hand to cap, bottle to mouth. Wide shot of the two sitting on the bed, she’s being slightly coy and he doesn’t much seem to buy into it. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small balloon of heroin. He stands up and tosses it on the coffee table and walks over into his bathroom and returns with a belt, a spoon and a syringe. He places them on the table and walks toward the bathroom again.

Joe:

Have fun…

 

Woman:

Oh, I will.

 

Joe:

Uh huh, well don’t do too fucking much, nobody likes a comatose bitch.

-He walks back into the bathroom and takes a piss and the camera takes another wide shot, with both him taking a leak and her back to the camera heating up the heroin with the spoon and fiddling with the belt. Jerking movements with her head as she tightens the belt and slaps her veins hard. The camera never actually sees the needle break the skin, only the back of her body sitting on the floor making the movements. After she takes the belt off, she puts her hands back to support her and just lets the rush come in. By this time Joe has washed his hands, and just started drying his hands, he sits on the toilet and takes of his shoes. He stands back up and looks at his face in the mirror, takes off his shirt and walks out to find a dead whore lying on the ground.

Joe:

Sweet fucking Christ; do not fuck with me!!

-The body lies limp and useless, Joe doesn’t quite panic. He nears the body slowly, bends over, picks up the syringe and facing away from the camera, sticks the needle in his left arm and takes a small, straight hit.

He stands silent for a moment after throwing the syringe on the ground.

Joe:

FUCK, fuck, fuck!

-He bends over to drag the body towards the bathroom, the camera still with a clear view of the bed and the bathroom. Shot to the corner of the room, Low angled floor shot, scraping the girls’ body right next to the camera. Dragging the body completely through the view. Then back to the full room side shot, to watch him drag her into the bathroom, then the camera moves from the fixed position to follow his shoulders peering over to see what he’s seeing. As he lifts her up and places her in the bath tub, he turns on the water and seals the drain and sits on the toilet. Side shot of his face, he stands up and walks out but the camera stays there, then peers into the tub as the water starts to fill then moves back into its position as he ambles back to the toilet into the original shot with his alcohol and finishes off the bottle. The bathroom light suddenly goes red; he looks surprised and stands up. He walks out into his main room where the light is red also; he looks outside and glances at the scenery. Everything appears to be ok. Yet the red light still burns. He walks back into the bathroom and looks at his face in the mirror. He’s sweating nervously, and washes his face in the sink. There’s trickling water starting to overflow out of the bathtub.

Joe:

SHIT!

-He shuts off the water and lets a little bit drain out, he pushes her head under the water and walks out of the room. Suddenly he hears splashing and a girl screaming, he runs back into the bathroom and finds her un-moved and very dead. He just stands there and shakes his head.

Joe:

I’m losing my goddamn mind.

-He grabs his keys and walks out the front door, as he walks over to his car a dog runs up to him followed by an owner. He’s a young guy, waving a leash but seeming very polite.

Owner:

Hey, he likes you…

 

Joe:

Yeah….

 

 

Owner:

Well uh thanks for standing there…

 

Joe:

Okay…

 

Owner:

You know if I were in your position I’d just fucking END IT ALL!

 

Joe:

What the hell did you just say to me?

 

Owner:

Thanks, have a nice day?

 

Joe:

Just fuck off asshole.

 

Owner:

Hah you were born to lose.

 

Joe:

What the fuck is that supposed to mean, you pig?

 

Owner:

Take care?

 

Joe: UH huh

-He walks his confusion off towards his car. He gets in and drives out of the parking lot.

Scene 4

-He drives into a parking garage, this is his place to think and get shit together. He holds it with a certain reverence. He drives to the top of the garage, parks, and then walks to the opposite end. The camera stays put by his foot as he steps out of the car and watches him walk to the other side, time lapsed/cut with atmospheric music. When he reaches the other side, the camera slides up quickly on a rolling board. The focusing on the side of his face and peering out over the side of the wall down three levels.

Joe Narrating:

“Well, this could be it. It could be as simple as hopping this wall and a quick little fall. No more shit, just a nice solitude. God knows I’m not doing so well as it is, but that fucking girl. She’s ruined everything. I’m royally fucked.”

-The camera looks down the side again then moves back to his face. He puts his hands in his face and walks back to the car. The camera follows and circles around him then fades to black.

-Darkness…

Joe:

“I’ll go out, [pause] but not before I have a little fun” [smile while saying it]

Scene 5

[A large pit, 5x5x3, filled with logs and wood aflame, Joe sits near the pit, a 9mm gun in his hands, he’s sitting with the gun pressed above his temple. Editing note: Glimpses of fire, him, gun, a body wrapped in white sheets, bloody knife]

[Joe stands up, a blood soaked bed sheet wrapped around a body, and he lifts it up over his shoulder out of the trunk and tosses the body into the flames]

Joe:

If its gonna happen, its gonna happen now…

[He raised the gun to his forehead, taking a last glimpse at the moon, pulls the trigger and click, nothing happens]

Joe:

What- the? [Examining the gun, he dislodges the cartridge and finds his clip completely full]

[He puts the gun to the side of his head and pulls the trigger, click, nothing. He raises the gun in the air, screams and pulls the trigger over and over again until the clip emptied]

Joe Narrating:

“I shot bullets into the stars, I dislodged the fragments of reality, and I couldn’t even kill myself. Maybe I need another drink”

 

Scene 6

Joe:

Yeah, hey man, what chu up to?

 

Eddie:

Ah, the same old shit. How you doin?

 

Joe:

Not too good, I got a little situation.. You busy?

 

Eddie:

Right now I am, I can be over in about three hours, should I be expecting some heavy shit, and if so, how fuckin’ heavy?

 

Joe:

Well, I’ll take a gram of panda, and bring a clean nine.

 

Eddie:

What’ve you done?

 

Joe:

Never mind. I’ll explain later.

 

Eddie:

I’m on my way.

 

Joe:

Thanks

-Camera watches Joe’s face, focusing in on mouth at pivotal moments. Camera on Eddie focuses on the back of his head and upper shoulders but never reveals his face. Fade out.

[Knocking]

[Joe opens the front door]

Eddie:

Man, when I was on my way over here some fucker swerved into my lane and just about knocked me off the goddamn road. I swear drivers in this state suck, myself and present company excluded of course.

 

 

 

 

Joe:

Heh, tell me about it. I don’t think I can drive 5 miles without some dickless bastard cutting me off or giving me some macho static. People like that are the reason I know you.

[Both laugh]

Eddie:

What’s the damage?

 

 

Joe:

Well, it’s been a raging shit storm these past couple days. I get fired, I try to get laid and the bitch overdoses, fuck, I’m down as shit. So bad, I drove out to memorial the other day and burned the cunt’s body in a pit like we used to do when we “associated” with the hombres. I ate some shrooms and I think I tried to kill myself.

 

Eddie:

No shit, well what’re you still doing here then?

 

Joe:

Thanks a lot you concerned prick! For your information the gun wouldn’t go off. I fired eleven rounds into the air but couldn’t budge one into my skull. You should’ve seen how hard I was pulling the trigger.

 

Eddie:

I’m not going to end up with a dead pal if I give you this gun, am I?

 

Joe:

I don’t know. I just feel like I can’t catch a break. I can’t even die man.

 

Eddie:

Bullshit, I guarantee it man. Don’t mess around, alright, this is for protection and protection alone.

 

Joe:

Yeah well, shit, if you don’t believe me, watch this…

[Joe takes the gun out of Eddie’s hands and pulls the trigger with the gun resting in his mouth, the trigger clicks and nothing happens.]

Eddie: Holy shit. I’d call you a lunatic if I hadn’t just seen that. Let me see that thing.

[Eddie takes the gun back and unloads the clip, a full stocked magazine rests in his hands, he slowly moves the gun up to Joe’s face again and pulls the trigger, a surge of blood sprays out of the back of his skull onto the wall. The camera focuses on his face from the gun’s pov then moves onto the wall as the un shoots and sprays a mess of blood over the wall. You hear his body drop and hit the floor. ]

Eddie:

FUCK! Oh my god, what the fuck….

 

Scene 7

-Eddie’s sitting on the end of Joe’s bed, face in hands, freaking out. The camera moves in a circular motion around the room from his face to the blood splattered all over the wall. Music plays in the background, Eddie stands up (35 seconds into the scene) the camera abruptly focuses on his knees as he walks out the front door. The camera stays still, aiming at the door, slowly panning back to the blood on the wall then back to the doorway as Eddie returns. He’s carrying a brown bed sheet which he uses to wrap Joe up in, he then takes the body over his shoulder and makes his way out the door. The camera follows; the dog owner is back walking his dog again.

Owner:

That looks like some serious luggage you’ve got there.

 

Eddie :

Why don’t you mind your own business…?

 

Owner:

Hah, alright, no chance making peace with a doomed man anyways.

 

Eddie:

What do you mean by that?

 

Owner:

Nothing really, it’s just a saying. Just try to have a nice day…

-The dog owner continues walking away as Eddie just stands there, trying to deal with the situation and contemplating what the dog owner may or may not know. He comes back to his senses and walks over to his car and shoves the body in the trunk, gets in and drives off. The camera stays in the car seat next to Eddie, he lights a cigarette and turns on the radio, nothing but static. Fade to black.

Scene 8

-The camera fades back in; his car is parked next to a chain link fence, the camera cuts to him walking down a canal with the 9 mm in his hand. Music is playing. Editing Note: Time lapse walking from the end to front of the canal. When he gets to the camera he sits on one of the sides and reclines his back against the concrete. He looks tired.

Donny:

Hey, where you been?

 

Eddie:

Over to Joe’s, he was into some trouble and I went to give him a hand.

 

Donny:

Yeah? What kind of trouble? How is he?

 

Eddie:

Well, he’s not to good Marco, he’s dead.

 

Donny:

Fuck man, how?

 

Eddie:

Suicide it looks like, 9mm I sold him earlier today. I left, he blew his brains as soon as I stepped out the front door, BAM, I turn around walk back into the house and one of half of his apartment is now a bright red. Shit, I don’t know what’s happening anymore…

 

Donny:

Damn, I haven’t seen that guy in months. He was working for that pharmaceutical company right?

 

Eddie:

Yeah but they fired him for illegal use of company funding. He never really went into detail about what it was they gave him the boot for but it was along the lines of a painkiller with hallucination like effects. That’s as much as I could gather anyways.

 

Donny:

That’d be interesting to get a hold of, did you ever see that movie with Samuel L. Jackson, Formula 51?

 

Eddie:

Yeah with that “I would do anything for love” guy?

 

 

Donny:

Ha-ha yeah, I always thought that shit was cool. I think I might’ve been like Joe and done the same thing if I went to college and did all that shit.

 

Eddie:

Pfft you fucking burnout, you couldn’t pass a piss test let alone get a degree.

 

Donny:

Ha-ha yeah you’re right about that. So, what did you call me over here for?

 

Eddie:

Well, over in my car, in the trunk, is Joe. What should we do with it?

 

Donny:

We? Don’t even get me involved. Oh, and “he” is not an “it”.

 

Eddie:

HE is DEAD, HE is in my TRUNK, and HE needs to go. I called you to help me, now what should we do?

 

Donny:

Fuck if I know. I don’t care; just don’t include me in this shit.

 

Eddie:

Look, he was your friend too, you may have not seen him for awhile but I remember there was a time when he was the only person you or I could count on when we were short on rent or needed a place to sleep off a hang over. Man, you can’t disrespect him like that. Corpse or not, he wasn’t a rat like us.

 

Donny:

If you’re gonna be all serious about it like that… (Interrupted)

 

Eddie:

Fuck you, serious? He’s dead asshole!

 

Donny:

Alright, like I was saying lets take him out to the fields and bury him. Nobody will find him and it’s respectable enough.

 

Eddie:

If he’s fuckin’ a farmer.

 

Donny:

Motherfucker, I don’t hear you coming up with any great ideas. There’s nothing wrong with that, it’s like the ocean of the desert.

 

 

Eddie:

Shut the fuck up, smartass. Walk with me, we’ll take my car and stop by my place to get the shovels.

-They walk down the canal shooting the shit with each other.

Scene 9

3 Weeks Later

 

-Eddie’s over at Joe’s apartment, he’s moving out the bed with Donny. They lift it up from both ends and start to carry it out the front door. The camera stays in the room while they load the bed in a truck and pans over the wall where the blood once was serving as a reminder of what happened. They walk back in and notice there’s a white t-shirt tied around something.

[Eddie walks over to the object]

Eddie:

Hmm what’s this?

[He picks it up and unties the twine wrapped around the white t-shirt. It’s a small medicine bottle with 15 pills in it. No indication as to what it contains]

Donny:

Hey, do you think that’s what got him fired?

 

Eddie:

I do believe so. Let’s get out of here and see what all the fuss is about.

 

Donny:

Sounds good to me.

 

Eddie:

Where are we going to go?

 

Donny:

Let’s just go over to your place

 

Eddie:

Alright

[Fade out]

Scene 10

[Back at Eddie’s apartment, they walk through the doorway. Eddie immediately goes over to his television and turns on the news, just as background filler. They both sit down on his couch; Donny takes the pills out of his pocket and begins examining them.]

Eddie:

You want something to drink?

 

Donny:

Yeah, sure, just water.

 

[Pause while Eddie returns with two glasses of water]

 

Donny:

I don’t know man, I’ll try just about anything once, but I have a really fucking bad feeling about these things.

 

Eddie:

I know what you mean, I’ll tell you what, I’ll try one first and be the guinea pig. If the first hour goes well, then you pop one too… Alright?

 

Donny:

Okay then.

 

[Eddie slams one down and guzzles about half the glass, then gets comfortable in a reclining position]

 

Donny:

Anything?

 

Eddie:

Nah, maybe it’s like mescaline or something… (His voice dies and he starts humming)

 

Donny:

Eddie, what the fuck man?

 

Eddie:

Hmm? Just be very still.

 

 

Donny:

Ha-ha I can tell how the next couple hours are going to be.

 

Eddie: I need a piss..

 

[He urinates on the couch, as soon as Donny realizes he’s relieving his bladder on the same couch as him, he darts up to the otherside of the room]

 

Donny:

Come on, you stupid chicken fucker!

 

Eddie:

He-he I warned you.

 

Donny:

Fuck, that shit must have put you in another place altogether.

 

[From Eddie’s POV, the room’s shaky and every light emanates a red glow.]

 

Eddie:

Man, I’m so goddamn comfortable; it must be an opiate of some sort. This is like fucking heroin and vicodin. I’ve never gotten so out of my skin before either.

 

Donny:

I think I might pass this wonder drug up.

 

Eddie:

Nah, you gotta feel this. I have no control. The lights pour down the lines in my face, the air feels like a wet towel in my mouth, my hands feel sensitized. I’m so small, the rooms so big.

 

Donny:

Fuck, I hope it isn’t long lasting.

 

Eddie:

Put on some music, I want to get that connection feeling, man.

 

Donny:

You got any grass around here?

 

Eddie:

Yeah, over in the pantry, in the oatmeal container.

 

[Donny turns off the T.V. and starts up the stereo, he turns it up midway then walks out of the frame into another room and comes back with a couple joints. He sits down on the floor against a wall and lights one]

 

Donny:

You know, I just can’t get over Joe dying. So sudden too. I mean, I know he was in some shit and life wasn’t exactly green acres for him but damned if that’s the way to go… I mean, he still had some shit going for him, he was brilliant.

 

Eddie:

What?

 

Donny:

Never mind, anything I say now is way over your head.

 

Eddie:

He didn’t kill himself though; I watched my hands pull the trigger. There’s no denying it, I made a mistake but he had tried to die.

 

Donny:

What the fuck are you saying? You murdered one of your closest friends?!

 

Eddie:

Well he put the gun to his own head in front of me and pulled the trigger. Nothing fucking happened! So I thought it was a defective pistol.

 

Donny:

So what? You shot at him.

 

Eddie:

Well, I wasn’t exactly thinking straight. I was kind of confused; the safety wasn’t on or anything. That was un-explainable!

 

Donny:

No but motherfucker, you killed him. You destroyed a life, how the fuck can you just brush it off like that?

 

Eddie:

It was a fucking accident.

 

[Eddie motions with his fingers a gun pointing at Donny then makes a firing sound]

Donny:

Man, I think you’ve lost touch. Fucking PRICK!

 

ASSHOLE!

 

Eddie:

Come on, it was like he wanted me to do it. Kind of…

 

Donny:

Fuck you! There’s no way… Maybe he did have the safety on, maybe your finger slipped but goddamn it, you fucking murdered him.

 

Eddie:

Well, what can we do about it now?

 

Donny:

(Silent for a moment, jokingly) An eye for an eye, take your own fucking life.

 

Eddie:

(He sits up, looking conflicted yet entertaining the notion) Yeahhh, maybeee…

 

Donny:

Ah fuck man, I was just kidding…

 

Eddie:

No, I think you’re right. That guy with the dog even thought so…

 

Donny:

Huh? What the fuck do you mean?

 

Eddie:

No time to explain…

 

[Eddie darts out of the room, runs up the stairs, the camera following two steps behind in rigid motion. He goes into a room, opens a window and jumps out as Donny gets near the window]

 

Donny:

No! You crazy FUCK!!!

 

[Donny runs back down the stairs out the front door and around to Eddie’s body. He checks the pulse, he’ still breathing, Donny lifts him over his shoulder and gets him into the car parked several feet away]

 

Eddie:

Fuck it, man, I’m gonna die. Just take me out the ocean.

 

Donny:

You stupid bastard, you know we don’t live near a fucking ocean! I’m not driving you hundreds of miles away to let you, a dying piece of shit, see the ocean. You’ll probably die from a ruptured organ by then anyways. I’ll take you to the hospital.

 

 

Eddie:

No, fuck no! I’m too stoned, take me over to Joe’s just leave me there.

 

Donny:

Bad fucking idea…

 

Eddie:

Why?

 

Donny:

Without getting too into it what if some swinging dick sees me hauling your carcass ass into his place? You die and then I’m held responsible. No way.

 

Eddie:

Then back to the canals, I always wanted to die there.

 

Donny:

Shit…… Fine…

 

[They drive and the scene fades out with Eddie breathing heavy and whining in pain]

Scene 11

[Donny pulls into Joe’s apartment complex. He gets out and walks over to Joe’s doorway. He lets himself in and walks around the studio; he sits in the middle of the floor and thinks for a bit. The dog owner phrase plays, he thinks, he stands up and walks into the bathroom. He takes a leak. He looks under the sink and in the medicine cabinet, both are empty. He leaves the bathroom and walks out the front door; the dog owner is standing there, waiting. He hits Donny over the head with a lead pipe and hauls him back into Joe’s apartment.]

Fade out

Fade In

Blurry vision…

Owner:

So, where are they? We’ve searched the whole place… You and your friend are the only ones have been in here aside from Joe and that hooker.

 

Donny:

Eddie? Fuck, he’s dead. He killed himself.

 

 

 

Owner:

I’m assuming you haven’t tried them yet. Where are they? You’ve obviously seen the remarkable effects the pills have on the human body. Give them up and you wont die like your friends.

Donny:

Fuck you, remarkable? Like it’s something special? Fuck that! What will you do with them?

 

Owner:

That’s none of your business, this is a federal case and we need those pills. If they go into circulation, there could be terrible consequences when those pills reach the media’s knowledge. Where are they?

 

Donny:

Bullshit, who are you with?

 

Owner:

I’m a correspondent spokesperson from the FDA.

 

Donny:

I’ll assume bashing in peoples skulls are part of the FDA’s protocol.

 

Owner:

Quite.

 

Donny:

They’re gone, I destroyed them, like I’m going to sell those to anyone. I’m not fucking maniac like you rat bastards and your corporate scheming.

 

Owner:

Ah, so you’re one of those paranoids. We want this situation to disappear just like you do.

 

Donny:

Disappear? My friends are dead over this mess you funded him to create. You had to have known, you should’ve never approved him to work on the project,

 

Owner:

He was commissioned to create a cure for schizophrenia; he was allowed to use every resource including illegal substances under close supervision.

 

Donny:

Well what the fuck happened?

 

Owner:

He was deceitful and very secretive about what he began creating.

 

Donny:

What are you going to do now?

 

Owner:

Eradicate the parallels that keep this an open case.

 

Donny:

What does that mean?

 

[The dog owner pulls out a gun and shoots him in the chest twice. Low angled camera shot from Donny’s floor POV]

Donny:

(Gurgling blood over his face) Fucker…

 

Owner:

(On a cell phone) The situation has been neutralized. Send in a cleaner.

Fade out

Scene 12[Eddie’s lying on a bed in a room; it looks like a small makeshift hospital room. A guy walks into the room and sits in a chair next to his bed; he puts a finger under Eddie’s nose to check his breathing.]

Darren:

Shit. I never expected you to be in this position. No sir.

(Pause)

Mom always said I was the wild one, look at you.

( He cracks the slightest smile, somewhat desperate. He tries to shake him awake, he sits for a moment slaps him in the face and startles Eddie awake)

 

Eddie:

Motherfucker, man, I’m trying to sleep.

 

Darren:

You piece of shit, you don’t know how bad you scared the family.

 

Eddie:

(Sarcastically) Well send out some apology letters.

 

Darren:

Very fucking funny. Look Jerry Lee, I came here to see how you’re doing but if it’s gonna be all wisecracks and bullshit you can have one less person in your life who gives a fuck.

 

Eddie:

(Apologetically) Sorry, it’s just rough.

 

Darren:

No kidding. May I ask what it was that inspired you to test Mr. Newton?

 

Eddie:

Ha-ha it was Mr. Murphy.

 

Both:

Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.

(Chuckle)

 

Darren:

Seriously, what happened?

 

Eddie:

It was this nasty shit, something from a lab. You remember Joe, right?

 

Darren:

That goofy looking mongoloid that works over at the 7/11?

 

Eddie:

Fuck no! Back in high school he would take rags soaked in lighter fluid and stick them in people’s plastic mailboxes and watch them melt down, you gotta remember that!

 

Darren:

Oh yeah, how is that cat?

 

Eddie:

Well he’s dead, actually.

 

Darren:

No kidding… How’d it happen?

 

Eddie:

Uh, suicide I heard. Gun to his forehead.

 

Darren:

Fuck. Were you trying to copycat?

 

Eddie:

Very funny. No, as I was saying, he made these pills. Fucking out of this world, and me, being the drug fiend, got a hold of some that he left behind. They were killer, I have the faintest memory about them but what I do recall was this amazing body rush with an occasional numbness. Everything was comfortable but itchy at the same time, but you see that didn’t matter because it felt amazing when you’d scratch yourself.

 

Darren:

Shit, something like that could go pretty high with some of the junkies I know. Pills you say?

 

Eddie:

Yeah, but I’d cut the dosage in half or even in fourths.

 

Darren:

Where are they?

 

Eddie:

Oh, uh, I think they’re over at Donovan’s house.

 

Darren:

(Under his breath) Shit…

 

Eddie:

What?

 

Darren:

You haven’t heard yet…

 

Eddie:

Heard what?

 

Darren:

He was shot down in a drive by. They have a couple thuggish looking guys in custody but no definite culprit. It happened down on Central.

 

Eddie:

When?

 

Darren:

A couple of days ago. Right after you ended up here. I heard they’re going to have a memorial service.

 

 

 

Eddie:

I wish I could go, even if I could walk I still won’t even be able to leave fucking rehab. They’re gonna have me going in this clinic for like two years, they’re guesstimating. Fucking bummer huh?

 

Darren:

Well, in the long run, it’ll be good for you. I’ll send your condolences.

 

Eddie:

Thanks bud.

 

Darren:

Don’t worry about it. I gotta split, maybe I’ll go over snoop around Donny’s place, hopefully the pills weren’t taken when the police searched the house for evidence linking to his murder.

 

Eddie:

You know, it really meant a lot for you to come down here and check up on me.

 

Darren:

Well don’t get all sentimental on me now Typhoid Mary, but it isn’t a problem to come down and check on my little brother. Rest easy kid.

 

Eddie:

Yeah, take care man.

 

Fade out

Fade in

[Darren enters through the backdoor of Donny’s house, he looks around underneath blankets and chairs, behind photos, in the couch seats, in the bathroom]

Darren:

Pfft medicine cabinet.

[He looks inside the medicine cabinet and finds six or seven medicine bottles half filled with various pills. He distinguishes the opiate pills as the only ones unmarked. He stuffs them in his jacket, runs up the stairs and snoops around in his room, going through dresser drawers and his closet and comes out with a handful of cash and a small baggie of cocaine.

Darren:

Score.

Fade out as he exits the room.

Thirteen

There he stood, the nameless man with his shotgun looking out toward the desolation of roaming desert sands and the enemies biding their time until he’d appear. He would show up when they weren’t looking, waiting for them to blink then strike. He brought trouble to every town; the southern towns knew him by his scarred tattoo. More like a brand on the back of his neck; Thirteen. It was given to him when he was a child, out of shame and punishment. He prayed to be strong one day and grow into something terrifying. They said he was the man to kill.

He was noted as being born in the soul of misery, the thirteenth child of an infamous gunslinger. A whore birthed him somewhere in El Paso, TX. He never had much growing up and never knew his father. He had seen him once when he was around ten years old. His father had been riding through town on a black horse; his mother was walking with him down through the dusty streets when he rode by. Thirteen knew this man was a murderer. He’d seen wanted posters and heard from some of her mother’s man friends that she’d been with him and he’d just about killed her. This didn’t shock the boy, he knew his mother wasn’t the ripest peach and had a temper as hot as an August sun. She’d been slapped around a time or two and had heard her shouting at some of her clients. He’d grown used to it.

By the time he was sixteen he had stolen a Smith and Wesson six shooter and a gray horse and made his way out of town. He felt accomplished in doing so, he felt like his father riding off with nothing to lose. For the first time in his life he was more then a boy with no name, at least in the desert he didn’t need a name. He rode for several days before running into another small town. He rode in looking mature for his age but still carrying a boyish guile about him, this would later in life make his nefarious image dangerous and attractive to many women. He tied up his horse in front of a saloon and dismounted, tightening his belt and opening his holster. He was hell bound to start a fight and didn’t care who he had to kill to gain some notoriety, just like his old man. He walked right in, sat at the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender saw the determination in his eyes, he knew he’d come to raise hell. The look was classic; fidgety, wide-eyed, jittery hands and a sizing gaze from person to person. The bartender had no use for the desperado types and was a strict enforcer of the law despite his gambling rooms upstairs. He leaned over the bar and grabbed the boy by the neck subtly, staring him straight in the eyes and with utter passion and hatred for the boy’s dream said, ” If you wanna die or are looking for a draw call out the man sitting upstairs in the room to the left of the staircase. His wearing a brown buffalo duster and is always willing to put a whipping boy into a casket case. He’ll get your name known but know this, by god, if you start some shit in this bar and break a stick of wood I’ll personally reach into your chest and rip out your still beating heart like a goddamn injun savage”. He served the beer to the kid and walked off to tend another patron. He sat there shaken and drank down the beer. He stood and walked down the bar, he tipped his black hat at the bar tender and said, “I’ll collect from you before the next man walks through those swingin’ doors”. The bartender’s jaw dropped as Thirteen marched up the steps. He followed his directions and peered in through the crack of the door. There were four men sitting around the table playing poker. He pulled out his revolver and spun the barrel till it clicked, he kicked open the door and with some inherited perfection shot the man in the forehead just as he made eye contact with Thirteen. He aimed quick and shot the man closest to him in the heart and withdrew to the side of the doorway. Reloaded the two shots, peaked around the corner and shot another man hiding behind a bed and withdrew again. He knew there was one left. He could hear the man’s foot steps behind the door. He shot the door twice from where he was standing opposite it and heard the man groan in pain and fall to the floor. He walked in the room, gathered all the money on the table and checked the men for pistols. There was a shotgun and a pair of silver revolvers strapped to the man in the duster. He took the jacket and the guns and left the room. He gripped the shotgun and threw it over his other arm which held his six-shooter. He walked down the stairs ready for anything to attack him. Instead the room was still and awestruck. He moved powerfully through the crowd watching him, the bartender stood staring at him with disbelief.

“I did it you sonuvabitch and I swore that you’d be dead by the time the next man walked through these here doors”, Thirteen yelled to him. Just then the high Sherriff walked through the swinging doors and with dead precision shot the officer with shotgun and the bartender dead at the same moment. “Damn…” he said, “I’m good”. He left the saloon and saddled up his horse. He rode out of the town as a man infatuated with his aggressive display of valor. He rode on through dusk and into night, his adrenaline burned as he giddied the horse to go faster and faster. He knew another town, Las Cruces, wasn’t far away; there he could rest before news caught up with him and he too became a wanted man. He made it there by noon the next day, his horse was drained and he was in much of the same form.

He went into an inn and paid for a room, that night he slept long and hard. He dreamt of the Wanted poster that in a few days would show his likeness and how he’d be pursued for the rest of his life. He couldn’t wait. He also knew sleeping in a place like this wouldn’t happen again for a good, long time.

When he woke up in the morning, he collected his items and went down to the general store and bought enough food to tide him over for several weeks and a new black dyed blanket. He then went over to the tailor and paid thirty dollars to have a suit tailored specifically to his likings. It was all black leather and came with a pair of brand new rattlesnake-skin boots. The tailor said it would take him a week so Thirteen paid him twenty more dollars to have it finished by the following day. The man said it would be finished.

He went back the next day and got dressed in his new outfit. He took the belt from his old pants and strangled the tailor before he left. Taking the man’s savings which he left sitting in the back room. As he walked down the dusty road several couriers rode into town with posters being nailed to every post in town. He saw this and began running for his horse. He mounted his horse and rode off out of town. He could hear people chattering that the poster was of him as he sped through the road and out into open desert.

He was filled with pride.

The sun was around three o’clock and he wanted to find somewhere to spend the night.

Several hours later he reached the Caballo Mountains and tied the horse to a tree and rested beneath it with his blanket and slept till the sun came back up.

For the next two weeks he rode from sunset to sundown nonstop. He ached and was hungry; he rationed his food out appropriately and passed several towns for fear of being seen. The thrill of murder had evaded him, he forgot what made him want to do it to begin with and by the time he reached Silver City he had forgotten it even happened. The city was bigger then any he’d been in before. The buildings were bigger and much nicer but it still carried a depressing tone that he had found in the other places he’d been. He looked around for posters, he didn’t find any. He checked into a hotel and went straight to bed. He slept well into the next day and woke up sore. He heard footsteps outside his door. At least three men were gathered in the hall, they were armed deputies.

He heard their clumsiness before they got to the door and was dressed by the time they called for him to open the door. He offered for them to kick it down and propped the bed sideways so he had something to hide behind. Just as the head deputy put his foot to the door panel Thirteen pulled the shotgun’s trigger and blasted a hole through the wood and into his stomach. “You’re all a bunch of dead souls”, Thirteen hollered at them as he arched around the mattress and shot a deputy in the arm. The man dropped his gun and bent over to pick it up but he shot him in the top of the head. He fell backwards. “Just come out and I wont kill your two timing carcass”, the remaining deputy called. “Your bluffing, he yelled back, “what’s the reward fifty dollars”?

“Two hundred”, he replied.

“Well, I’ll be damned”.

He arched around again and with the shotgun blasted through the wall where the man was standing and heard him fall to the floor. He ran around and collected their badges and ammunition. He loaded up and ran out of the hotel. He passed the clerk and shot him in the shoulder as he exited the building. He ran towards the barn and noticed two men running after him from down the street a ways away. He got against the wall and pulled out his silver pistols and took four shots to take them out, they were shot in the same spot - their head and hearts.

He released his horse and rode out of town. He has a long life of heartache and carries it well. The bad luck wind blew across his back as he rode over mountains and hills. He left that slaughter and vowed a change. Something unforgivable dwelled inside him, an internal war that he’d never win. The nameless number rode over vistas and swallowed thousands of grains of sweat and dirt. He became mud.

Years passed by as he skirted death and being caught. He felt absolutely guilty; he knew redemption would be turning himself in and being executed. He could feel the noose tightening around his neck, every day with those rough fibers lacerating his skin. It was so real. He’d done this to himself.

One day as he was riding, he passed by a small tribe of Indians. It was night time and they were eating, he was so hungry. He’d been eating bugs and birds raw. He’d tear a wing off and chew out its underbelly. Nourishment was scarce and it kept him alive. He drew his pistols and went down the hillside on his horse and shot all ten of them. He dismounted, ate, slept and left three days later. He took one of their horses along with and eventually switched. He shot the old one in Casa Grande and buried his baby. For once he’d been grateful for the help, for the service that horse provided. He stood over the horse and felt the grave pulling him in. It rained that night.

He dreamt some nights of his mother, some days wondering if she were dead. Running her mouth off to some lay. He missed her. He’d never see her again. They wouldn’t even recognize each other. They had grown into disgusting figures of moral rust. He was twenty going on sixty-three and she was probably drunk. He still missed her.

At some point he looked down a valley and wished he could stay there forever, it looked like the answer he’d been looking for. After all the killing he wanted pastures and comfort. No rest for the wicked, he knew this. He thought maybe the ocean would be the end. He was headed west and knew it couldn’t be much further; he’d take his own life in the midst of the waves. Fall into the water and float away; an easy way to go.

He knew he’d never surrender but sometimes wondered if that would make him a better person. He’d shake the notion off and say “Who gives a damn” under his breath.

When he had exhausted his second horse and couldn’t walk another step and collapsed, he fell in the outskirts of San Diego. He died close to the ocean, something he had never seen. He died like his father, out run and killed by his own doing. If Thirteen had ever taken the time to learn how to read, he would’ve seen the poster had mentioned his murderous score. Aside from law enforcement, a tailor and cattle rustlers was also his father. The man in the duster, too slow to draw and too shocked to see his young reflection was his father – the ruthless gunslinger. His father deserved what he got but at the hands of his son. The bartender must have figured this to be the case and was appalled when Thirteen strode down the steps after the murder of his father. They looked so much alike that it would’ve shocked anyone.

He killed his idol; a man he’d become a murderer for. Without this inspiration he’d have been just another person in El Paso. Now he was dead in California, face down in the dirt thirty miles away from the San Diego Mission.

Eventually people found his body, took his weapons and tattered clothes, and stole his money. Also taken was his iconic black hat. The spirit of the un-captured gunslinger Thirteen lives on through old west lore. His bravado may have inspired another youngster, be it Billy the Kid or John Wayne.

NARCissus

1. [He’s sitting on a curb in a shitty part of a shitty town with the sun barely coming up, legs placed closely to his body with a cigarette in his hand, he looks over his shoulder in an almost exaggerated yet believable way. He smokes quickly, then lights one after another, constantly. Even later as he’s running, he keeps relighting cigarettes to smoke. Almost comically how quickly he does it. During the narration, while shooting wrap around shots of him, flashbacks of his hands running through the sink with lots of blood going down the drain, shots of an attractive woman laughing and drinking, shots of a handsome man seemingly interested in something, intently listening to a conversation over a table perhaps. Show him drinking a bottle of brandy while looking around a corner and walking under street lights, through a park at night with trees and lamps. At the "coital desires part, flash a glimpse of the woman’s legs wearing a miniskirt on, a shot of her breasts and a seductive face, maybe even lying on a bed. The exhausted breath part, flash his mouth puffing out smoke then inhaling another quick lung full of smoke. The empty gallows part flashes to empty swing sets with swings moving back and forth in the wind under an odd lighting.]

1. Narrator:

“The sun always shines brighter on the morning of revelation, drastic gasps of nicotine to devour the sums of vile intoxication. Narciszoid sat on a curb reflecting in a puddle of his mirror, enveloped in his bitter sorrow contemplating the enraptured evening that had passed hours before. The coital desires fading faster than the ash from his hands, laden dreams lulled away in exhausted breaths and self- destruction. The empty gallows swinging back and forth, awaiting my judgment. The proclamation of the criminally insane, I know this. I feel this. I want this.

2. [Shots of a bloody hand on a door handle opening the door, forearms drenched in blood, collapsing on his bed, shots of a small hatchet chopping with splashes of blood shooting up. Shot of him under a tree eating raw meat, pork for film. The camera moves from behind him and the tree 90 degrees to the left in a circular motion, while moving in closer to find a small pile of clothes, about 50 lbs of pork and a severed head, only showing the hair and a quick glimpse of what appears to be the woman laughing. He’s running his hands through the bloody mess, poking meat and licking his fingers. Shot of a man’s hand moving up the woman’s thigh at the part of slamming his head and things he’ll never see, very quick glimpses moving back and forth between the hand and him grabbing his head in madness while the camera quickly moves around him. Music similar to VAC’s Fun With Drugs, approx. two minutes in. While moving around him, move from his waist slowly scanning upwards to his face screaming without sound, then moving past the tree into the sky with the crescent moon. Then fade out and fade back in to the next scene.

2. Narrator:

The blood couldn't measure his emotion, riding higher on a precipice soon to give out to a tragic fall. Foreshadowing downfall regards him as the soon deceased, stained hands by the crimson splatter of quick scythe slashes. The nocturnal winds still blew over his face; he still sat solemnly over a massacre he'd chase from memory in a Bacchus-like endeavor. Draining strands of curtailed flesh through his hands, hands born of atrocity and flesh dead from betrayal. His mind reeling themes and ideas of how to move on, dreams never to come and memories he'll never have. Instant remorse slammed the back of his head.

3. Flash a shot of a police car, impose sirens over the music. Flash to the rising sun over his shoulders after he stands up, alerted by sirens wailing. He looks quickly down the street then runs violently in the opposite direction. Constantly looking back, smoking the entire time, if it’s not in his mouth then it’s only in his hand for 3 seconds at a time. His arms swinging faster as he legs burn, running faster and faster, his life and freedom on the line.

3. Narrator:

Sirens call his name; the sun burns holes through his darkness as he made a mercurial dash off the curb. Unbridled realization urges into his mind, capture could be release or suicide. Freedom brings back the emotion and thoughts he fights to drown out, but he's not going to prison.

4. He runs under a stairway in a shitty apartment complex, he pulls a gun out of his pants waist, he puts the gun to his head, feeling very nervous and afraid, sweating and gasping but still smoking. It goes out and he lights up another cigarette with the gun still in his hand. He paces back and forth waving the gun and choking down puffs of smoke, maybe a slight tear welling in his eyes. The sirens get louder, the stop as you hear a car in nearby stop and doors open up, running foot steps approaching. He stops pacing and grits his teeth, grinding them together as hard as he can. He puts the gun to his temple, cigarette still in his lips, camera focuses on the finger over the trigger, the click, the explosion of brains and blood on the wall behind him. Fades to black, you hear the body drop. At the god part, flash an image of cross.

 

4. Narrator:

A resting presence of the barrel on his temple, the shaking hands with fingers to release the tremble, his pacing hastens to stand still. His hands commanding the empiricist snap, blowing brains across the wall painting dark red and black, little bits of brain, a nasty stain. Inevitable since his birth was his untimely death, his pervasive eternal death. Ratted and torn from the pages of the holy book, God if there were could hold him close and break away the disease. There is no god.

[Flash Quote: "Internal revolution; a sampled query destined for resolution", hold for 10 seconds.]

Rolls Credits with music, dark wave. At the end, he says, “There is no such thing as an almighty god without an unwavering faith“