-Well. That was eventful. I understand that my sarcastic voice has become my regular voice... in the former sentence, I was being sarcastic. So, he brings the woman into the house, I just want to taser it a few times and eat it, but noooo... it's always got to be such a big show. You see, if it were my world, which is not at present and cannot be because it's no where near the Apocalypse... everyone would just spontaneously die except for myself, Mr. I-Can-Kill-Things-With-My-Fingernails and Christopher Walken. And possibly... Bret Easton Ellis. And Dr. Joyce Brothers because I'd like to see if my umbrella would fit- sorry. Phone rang. It was my porn-broker who says he'll drop my to give me the latest so I can sell it for twice what he charges me. You begin to wonder after a while, what you're actually doing selling pictures of girls your own apparent age to balding fellows with lisps so that they can wank off while listening to old Tina Turner songs, remembering their first orgasms which occured pressed against some girl in a queue who was too polite to run screaming the other way. Then I remember.. oh, yes. Prada doesn't grow on trees. Unless... it does. In which case, bollocks, because I hate environmentalists -almost- as much as I hate feminists. I like minks, but only when they're dead and fuzzy and... and angora. I like that too. It's soft. It makes for good smothering material and when you're small, you have to smother things a lot. Asphyxiation first, mutiliation later if you need a good thrill. Feminists... yes.. why did.. oh, yes. I believe in the degredation of society. There's no faster way to shove these sods in a handbasket destined for we all know where than to get them on their knees first, praying to someone -else-... soemone materialistic to can't save them. Funny how they all beg God and he never intervenes. I'm beginning to wonder what I'm afraid of. I am afriad I might be making very little sense and I have but one thing to say in my defense... I'm on an awful lot of Thorzine... possibly mesacline. It ends in an 'ine'. Amphetamine... Phencyclidine? I'm not quite sure, I only know that it makes everything look very effulgetn and either it's the man down the hall's stereo or the British Invasion is playing in my brain. Anyway... as I was trying to say, he brings in the girl, I want to eat it, he has to have it first... I am looking for a firepoker or something to billy club him with when he proffers me it's femoral. Her femoral. Don't get edgy about pronouns. That accomplishes, I realise...she's on an awful lot of Thorzine... possibly mescaline. Something that ends in an 'ine.' And then... then I'm not even in the mood to slice and dice and I can't make her whine and moan about her pathetic 'got knocked up on a baby-sitting gig, my ass is my best asset and I can't even keep it clean, I got syphilis from an elevator shaft' excuse for a life... because she's unconscious. Again. I feign a yawn and kick the body a few times, hoping it'll wake up, but it doesn't so I had him some salt and tell him to make the orfices non-orifice-ish. That was today. One day... I'll kill something worth killing. I'm thinking about him... but I think a lot. My stream of consciousness toddles onward and unfortunately for you...it toddles away. I loathe you.

-- Viv (scarlet_dusk@hotmail.com), July 21, 2002

Answers

*whiiiistle* Damn good. THIS is what creepy narratives should be about...

I'd be insulted by the hack piece of fiction that preceded this, if I were you.

-- Davey! (nephandous@lztx.net), July 21, 2002.

It's a real damn shame that people grovel all over the crap fiction but you don't have any comments on yours.

-- Davey! (nephandous@lztx.net), July 21, 2002.

-kick-

-- Viv (scarlet_dusk@hotmail.com), July 21, 2002.

Very good.. I liked the way the other was told a little beter, but this is still great.

-- ArchPyro (ZemoruePyxil@aol.com), July 22, 2002.

See, this is why you kick ass. This... This is evil. Pure. Undiluted. The other... meh. It's a little too... self-concious. Too vain. Too over-the-top to be believable. Killed her mother at five? Nono. Not feasible. This, though... this talks about killing as if it were... everyday. Routine. Boring, even. Definite shudders. Rawkin'.

-- Das Elise (blyndmuse@hotmail.com), July 22, 2002.