Sunday, November 06, 2005

November 6th, 2005 Upload 2 Chapter 8 (13,534 words out of 50,000)


She eats her cookie-dough ice-cream and all I can picture is shoving that fucking cone in her face. Just fucking smashing it right in there until the cone crumbles and little pieces of hardened sugar pierce her fucking eyes and cut her face, she bleeds all over the goddamn promenade as kids run from her in fear – couples look at her in disgust – the stupid fucking bitch that let it get this far. She’s the kind of cunt that you just look at and you know she deserves it – she thinks she’s so fucking smart – putting her nose where it doesn’t fucking belong, stepping on people’s toes who don’t like their fucking toes stepped up. Messing up a good thing, rocking the fucking boat – whatever the fuck cliché you need to realize that this cunt is playing on the wrong goddamn team. You just look at her once and you want to fucking punch her, she has that face that’s asking for it – fucking begging for four knuckles to press down hard against her mouth and knock her teeth down her fucking throat, cutting her esophagus and causing her to choke and die on her own fucking blood. You want to see her rolling around on the floor, clutching at her throat, gasping for air – face turned bright red and her eyes bulging out of her sockets. You want to kick her in the tits while she looks up at you with those big, fucking, eyes of hers – just kick her repeatedly until they fucking rupture and only then move on to swift kicks to her whore, choking face. Step on her neck, punch her in the cunt. Fucking grab her by her hair and drag her across the concrete, a trail of blood behind her as you scratch the perfectly smooth skin off her face.

You just look at her and want to humiliate her. You want to piss on her face while she cries, aim for the open wounds, punch her in the heart repeatedly until she opens her fucking mouth and chokes on your noxious stream of asparagus infused yellow piss. And you just won’t feel bad; you’ll feel like what you’re doing is right, like you’re only fulfilling your purpose on this earth. You’ll feel God shining down on you while Jesus sings Rocky Fucking Raccoon and smokes a bowl. Everything would be perfect, birds chirping and dogs humping and flowers stretching towards the bright sun while this bitch rolls around on the grass in nothing but agonizing pain, begging you to stop, begging you to just fucking kill her and get it over with as if that’s what this is all about. As if she’s not being punished – as if she’s not being taught a lesson.

Me? I’m not even a violent guy and all I want to do right now is beat the fuck out of this cunt. Get her to give it all up, whatever she’s hiding so fucking well. Look at her, just look at that slut. That fucking smile, she thinks she has something on me, I know it. She thinks she has me backed into some type of fucking corner, getting beneath my goddamn skin or whatever this whore likely calls it. She thinks she’s actually playing my game, she think she’s actually winning.

“How’s your ice-cream?”

“Mmm. Cake-batter is what the kids call ‘The Shit’. Good call.” She just keeps pressing on, keeps rubbing it in. With her fucking Old Navy pea-coat and her goddamn corduroys – playing this fucking character – trying to make me fall for it. What the fuck is your game?

“Can I try yours?” She just has this casual thing about her – she has to feel this, she has to feel this seething fucking rage – there’s no-one on this goddamn planet who could possibly be immune to this. I mean, I’m a good actor and all, I have to be, but this has to be fucking radiating off of me. She has to be able to see it, smell it, feel it, sense it, taste it – I don’t even comprehend how she can’t. So, assuming she’s not the biggest idiot in the world and assuming she does know that I’m five-fucking seconds away from pushing her in front of a goddamn bus she either has to believe she’s winning – that she’s controlling this shit – or that her best play right now is to ignore the fact that she’s this close to fucking dying.

Only once – only once - have I felt like killing somebody like this. Fucking high school – I think everyone’s “I wanted to kill that bastard” story takes place in high school. You have the sane dudes, of sane enough, really, who just let it fucking die – suck up the humiliation and roll with it, become content that karma or kismet or serendipity or destiny or whatever the fuck these metaphysical faggots call it will come back to bite the offending party in their goddamn asses. The not sane enough dudes are the one that go fucking Columbine, queering out with rifles and blowing the heads of the goddamn football players and cheerleaders as if whatever the fuck happened was so wrong that it deserved immediate punishment, as if the stars or predetermination or moira or divine fucking decree won’t work out for them. I played fucking basketball in high school and we never goddamn won but whenever we lost to some ghetto-ass school from Utica or some shit we’d just chant, “That’s all right, that’s OK, you will work for us some day.” The Columbine gothic fuck types, they don’t get that. I wouldn’t care, so much, except for the fact that they’re killing my future fucking janitor.

But in high school, there was this one bitch – theater chick, worst kind of bitch imaginable. I was at my friend Joe’s house; he played basketball with me, big fucking kid – power center if the term actually means anything. The type of dude that would throw an elbow at your nose just to shatter it. His girl was coming over this mannish looking chick named Hilary, and she was bring her friend Amy with her. Never gave two shits about Amy but I was backing-up my boy, I had to take her out of the picture for him. That’s the type of shit you did in high school, before learning to fend for yourself – you got each other’s back while you learned the ropes. So I go over to Joe’s house and we hang for a bit, warm up the grill, marinate some fucking steaks and wait for mannish Hillary to bring her friend Amy so I can take the fucking bullet and Joe can get laid. These bitches come over and we drink some beer and smoke a lot of fucking dope and Joe takes mannish Hillary to his room and I’m outside smoking with the no-lipped Amy, she has this scrunchy sort of pug-ugly face that looked sort of like a chipmunk after getting cracked in the grill with a fucking stick. I figure I do my duty, I’m tired, and I have no interest in this chick what-so-ever so I go up to Joe’s brother’s room and get to bed. This Amy bitch follows me in, climbs into bed with my room-spinning sickly ass and tries to make out with me – I just push her away – I wasn’t the desperate type in high school, I was in control of my shit enough to pull ass on an almost routine basis. The next day, though, this Amy fucking whore is going around the school telling people I have no dick – that she reached into my pants (which she might have, I was so fucked up I remember nothing) and realized I have no dick. Not a small dick, not that I wasn’t getting it up because I could hardly grasp what the fuck was going on around me, not that I was generally disinterred because the Northern Lights we smoked was well worth the eighty-bucks we paid for it – she told everyone that I simply had no dick. People were coming up to me the next day and asking me if I knew what the fuck Amy was talking about. I swear to shit when I saw her that day I was more than prepared to sink me teeth into her fucking throat and rip it right off. I was two seconds away from ending her fucking life – but I didn’t; I keep my cool in times like that. But right now, man, I’m so close to killing the fuck out of this bitch. Because I know she’s not worth it, I know I have no chance of beating it – and despite how riled up she’s getting me, despite how absolutely retarded this fucked up bitch is and how insulting it is that she thinks she’s actually on my level, capable of competing with me – the bottom line is she’s still a bitch and there’s no bitch worth giving up the rest of your life for – especially when you have it as good as I do.

That’s alright, that’s ok, she will work for me one day.

And part of me says the investment isn’t worth it – that she’s only a fucking barrister at a goddamn Starbucks – but that doesn’t matter at this point, if there was ever an argument for “the principle” it’s right here, right now. This bitch is the definition of principle.

“I thought you weren’t a mint-chip kind of girl.”

“I haven’t had mint-chip since I was a kid – my mom used to always take me for walks to Baskin Robbin’s after school and get me a mint-chip cone.” Sure she did. I’m sure your mother taught you this little trick as well, the way you lick that ice-cream cone while fucking eyeing me – fucking challenging me to bring it – as if you’re setting the trap and you fully expect me to go for it. It’s like the old comic books, where the villain would set an obvious fucking trap and the hero just waltzes into it in order toe draw the villain out – knowing all along that it’s nothing but a goddamn trap – but it’s the only in he has, the only fucking lead, the only way he’s going to get his arch-enemy to show himself before it’s too late – before the city is destroyed or the girl is killed (even though in reality I’m sure she’ll be raped first, thereby buying the hero more time).

It doesn’t matter. None of this. It’s all formality – it’s the fucking paperwork, academicism. She wouldn’t be the first person I’ve come across who thought she was hot shit and she won’t be the last. It’s all a matter of time.

“Watch out, your cone is melting.”

“Oh man, casualties.”

“Negligence, sergeant - You’re too busy eating my mint-chip that you don’t like.”

We’re just sorting out all the red tape.


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