Street Justice

I jumped up from my cold, hard mattress, wide awake from whatever hell my mind made for me in my sleep.
It took a few breaths to regain my calm. The sweat dropped my body temperature down, as my apartment was already freezing. Every nerve ending was alive with information, brightening my mind with the sobering sensation of cold.
I looked outside my window and saw the sun setting. I knew it was time to go out and work. I dressed simple. I always had to dress as simply and as nondescript as possible. It just makes the hunt that much easier.

I walked down the street, avoiding the faint orange glow that spills from the lampposts and dully illuminates the cracks and spit on pavement. It was early enough into the night when I found one of them. It seemed like they came out earlier and earlier each night.
So there I stood, watching one of them grabbing a person, some girl with a short skirt... to someone walking by, that's all they would see. But I knew. I fucking knew.
Refusing to let her be consumed by him, I charged and dove, tackling him down. I was immediately disoriented as the bastard pulled us through the wall. I could feel my whole body tensing as we phased through matter. It's like a strong static shock coursing through every fiber of muscle, every bone, every tendon.
We fell for what seemed to be a long time, each one of us struggling to gain ground. The problem was that there was no ground to gain. Finally, he could hold no longer and we landed hard on some tiled floor, at least a few floors below the ground in some building. The sharp pain in my spine and bright white pain in the back of my skull told me that I was the one who had landed on the bottom.
I felt a weight lift off my chest, only to find another swing into my jaw, brightening that hot white pain and spreading it to the front of my head. The blow forced me to roll onto my side. I held my jaw with my left hand and would have continued to nurse the swelling spot, had I not heard footsteps circling me. I bounced to my feet and swung to where the sound was, feeling my knuckles bury themselves into a neck. It knocked him backwards, but he saved himself from a fall by using the momentum to spin around and pounce towards me. I had anticipated this and lowered myself to catch him. I grabbed him by his shirt and threw him against a pillar in the middle of the hallway we found ourselves in. The sterile tube lights that lit the hallway gave me a better look at my opponent. He was thin, very pale and had dark hair. His eyes were as hollow and dark as they all were. I reminded myself not to gaze into those windows, because they were gaping black holes, waiting to consume any and all life that they could see.
Realizing that he wasn't going to feast on me, he swung at me. I blocked and parried his fist with my arm by instinct and then swung with my left, only to find his hit my chest first. I slammed my forehead into his face, letting that bright, painful light fill up my skull for the briefest moment. A split second later, I opened my eyes to see him recoiling with blood gushing out of his nose.
Relentlessness is the only way to win against them.
So I hit his face again with my fist. Then again with my head. And again, and again, and again. He fell to the floor. And as he fell, so did my knee into his chest. His head lifted up in pain, and I slammed it back down with my right fist. Then I swung at it with my left. Then my right. Then my left.
After a while, the gurgling stopped. A short while later, so did the twitching. I was glad, because my knuckles were getting sore and my leg was getting pins and needles from staying in the the same spot for so long. Satisfied that he was dead enough for now, I pulled out my flask and doused the bloody corpse with the contents in it, then lit a match and walked away. Normally I would've stayed to make sure that the entire body was consumed by fire and nothing but ash remained, but there was a victim up there. I had never caught one in the middle of the act before, and if she was still alive, I had to find her.

Sure enough, I found her shivering in the same spot I had left her.
"It's alright, he's gone..."
She still shivered in the corner like a frightened rabbit. I put my hand on her arm. Her head snapped towards me and she began to utter odd sounds while shaking and crying.
My heart sank as I realized that instead of saving her, I condemned her mind to being nothing but a shattered and fragmented version of it's former self. There were only bits and pieces left to process the information that the nerves were feeding her, and probably even less to sift through the thoughts and try to make sense of the world.
With heavy and tired arms, I grabbed her head and twisted as hard as I could. It was enough to snap, and I left her on the ground.

I will clean the entire fucking city of this vermin. One by one, I will hunt them down, kill them and burn them. I will not stop for a single fucking night until every one of those fucking bastards are wiped from this earth like excrement from a boot.

Endless Cycle

So hungry, so tired. Forced to go on. The enemy must not win. Pushing harder, bearing teeth and clenching fists. The young ones are scared, the others watch the struggle. There was so much it took to be here, now, and so far it was always victory. But now it is harder, and the enemy is so much stronger than ever before. Bare flesh and fur matted with blood. Falling. The enemy leaps for that soft spot and bites. Hard.
"I'm saying you're fired, Tom."
"After everything I've done for the company? You're just fucking firing me!?"
"We base ourselves on what's going on now, and right now that means you're fired. Get your stuff and get out or I'm calling security."
"Fuck you, Knells."
Tom grabbed his suitcase and the few little belongings that littered his cubicle and left.
"THIS IS SO BULLSHIT!"
Only empty white hallways heard.

It didn't go over well with the family. It went about as well as the job. Tom was too angry at his wife for not supporting him. Tom was not living in this house anymore, this was sure. They were getting a divorce, this was sure. They just hadn't gone through the symbols and motions yet to validate to their minds what was already in their hearts. Walking around town at night was dangerous, but what choice did he have?
The mugger came from the alleyway, spinning Tom around and twitching a small knife in front of him.
"Money. All you got. Now."
And Tom swung his fist directly into it's
furry jaw, sending it sprawling across the grass. It had expected an easy kill. Bleeding and limping and cold. But fight was still left inside, so much anger. Pouncing on it, biting down on the soft spot as hard as possible, and then pulling back, tearing. Blood was pouring.
Bent down and eating, time to replenish strength that was lost. Time to rest. When rest is done, reclamation will begin.

The sun blared through like static through headphones, raping Tom's mind with it's golden rays. Alcohol lubes the cogs of the mind going down, and dries the joints going back up, letting your brain grind against itself dry. Normally this morning would be recovery for Tom, but Tom had too much to do. First, he was going to go back to his home (house) and settle it. Then, he would march to his job and demand it back, or else he'd expose some dirty company secrets.







Rain rains down. Pain does not allow for walking. Retrieving them did not work. Killing failed. Lying in the field, death is near.
Tom finally broke and begged for a dollar on the street. People walked on by, ignorant and deaf. Tom was nothing now.












The story you have heard is based on true events. Names of cavemen and animals have been changed to protect the innocent.

Haven't slept yet

Can't sleep got too much to do slacked off too much now winter's come and the bastards are coming to collect and I can't afford the price of having nothing yet I'm here procrastinating. Amazing.

It is not a place

Stretched out on the cold table, hooks and barbed wire dig deep into the flesh. Stretched and contorted to stomach-churning limits. Screams are only background noise to the constant turning of cogs and the dead-heavy songs of shackles and chains. Death does not exist. This place is not meant for death. This place is meant for pain. Maggots swim in eye sockets of bodies drowning in excrement, lungs burning for air and finding only shit instead. Limbless and squirming, pinned against the wall with old, rusty spikes, struggling eternally against the unrelenting agony. Behemoth blocks rest upon fields of people lying down. Tongues are torn out, eyes are sewn shut. The ears are always open for the music of unbearable suffering to bear it's weight onto hopelessness. A moment is eternity, yet countless eons of pain pass by with every blink. What is here is always here. What is pain is existence.
What is this?
This is love.

Dead House

I live with the dead. I have been for quite some time now. I remember the first time I opened up my closet and saw a corpse standing upright, staring back at me. I should have been terrified, I should have given some sort of reaction like screaming or fainting or gasping or puking, followed by running out of the house, calling 911 (to secure the crime scene or put me in a looney bin) and never return to that place again.
Instead I just hung up my sweater and closed the closet door. It was just some dead guy, hanging out in my closet. And I don't say that in a sense that I'm personifying the corpse; it was actually hanging out in my closet, the way youth will hang out at a mall or bus terminal. It was willingly hanging out. The experience was out of the norm, but life kept going the way it was going. I would go to work at this crappy job, come home to my run-down house, eat what little there was in the fridge, watch whatever signal I could get on t.v., then go to bed. The dead popping up more and more in my house made life interesting and palatable.
Anyways, the dead live with me. It started with a dude in a closet. He would always be there, rotting and stinking and staring, and then one day there were two. They didn't get in the way of me hanging up my clothes, so I didn't get in their way of hanging out in my closet. I never got what their deal was, the only thing interesting in that closet is my cold, heavy death in a brown shoebox. And I know they never touched it, because the dust never moved one bit.
The next one I saw was a head and a hand in my fridge. I know, now you're thinking how much of a fucking health hazard that is, but honestly my milk had never been fresher. The severed head would just watch me with that single, yellow eye reach in, grab what there was to grab, then close the fridge.
Then they started appearing in the hallway, which was really just an empty room that relayed the main door, the stairs heading downstairs, the kitchen, living room and the den. I think at first there were three of them, but I'm not sure. One would be standing up, looking right at the living room, and I'd wave to him every morning. He would continue to look at me until I passed him. The other two were just kind of weird, one was facing the wall where there used to be a painting of A.H., while the other sat (because it had no legs) in the corner where the kitchen and den walls met. This went on for a few weeks. More dead would appear. Some standing, some sitting, all of them always staring. Whatever pizazz this added to my life soon dissipated, because they never did anything, but after a month, I went into my fridge, grabbed some juice, poured myself a glass and then went to put it back in, and the milk that I needed next was handed to me by Chillers (that's the name I gave to the hand and head that were in my fridge. I'm assuming they belong to each other.) Now THIS was going to make things a little more lively.
Surely enough, the dead became very helpful. I'd open my closet to be greeted by my sweater held out by rotting hands, the dude (not to be confused with THE Dude, none of them were famous) by the staircase would hand me my keys, the guy next to the door would open it for me, the one with one leg standing next to the t.v. would fix the reception for me without having to ask him... yeah, life was pretty awesome. Living with the dead. I used to hear ghost stories and stuff, and it made me think that death made you bitter.
Well, I don't know much because I'm not dead myself (at least not at this point,) but I don't think being dead means the end of existence. I really think it's just a life-changing experience, no pun intended. Like moving to another country where the customs are totally different, or like going blind or losing your legs, except with more death. I asked them how it was, dying, but they would just look at me with their thousand-yard stares (but they still looked AT me, but I guess death gives that impression on rotting eyes.) I don't think they could ever talk.


One day I came home and found them moving. They were walking all around the house, going up and down the stairs, moving around in each room, going all over the place, all looking like they had something to do even though I never saw them doing anything other then walking around. A couple of them remained stationary, like Chillers, Righty and Lefty (the two in my closet,) Micha (the dude who stood next to my broken bass guitar) and Dave the doorman.
You know, at one point I tried naming them all, but them moving around made it impossible. So those that had names were the ones I could keep track of, and those were mainly the stationary ones. The other ones would never stop walking around. They'd move all day and all night. I never saw them not moving. Their shuffling about put me to sleep though. There was no rhythm to it, but it was all in sync, if that makes any sense. It was like a body working together in harmony. The heart may pump in rhythm, but the cells don't. I think that's what these dead were, and my house was more of a vein then a body. They definitely worked in unison, there was nothing random about the way they moved. Some might think that they moved like insects at this point, but ants and bees tend to work for one individual, one mind. I always had the impression that my roommates were all individuals with their own tasks, they just all had the same big picture in mind. I just wish I also had the big picture in mind, or at least an idea of what was going to happen.
The house was as busy as ever, they seemed to double-time their efforts even if their speed never really picked up. Righty, the first one to ever have been in my house (at least that I know of,) looked at me like he always did, staring at me but past me at the same time. But there was something in his eyes that morning, something other then puss and maggots. I didn't like it. When I opened the fridge, Chillers gave me a look of pity and handed me my milk as if filled with sorrow. I was really starting to get down at all this, down and worried.
Dave frightened me the most. Not because he looked sad that day, not because he held the door open with a sense of finality, not because I think I saw his eyes leaking (I think that's how corpses cry,) but because I think he said goodbye. I would have dismissed it as a trick of the mind if I hadn't felt the entire house hesitate as if gasping for the briefest moment, the kind of moments that happen for so short you wonder if you actually caught it. To imagine that something happened is one thing, but to imagine something a second time that confirms your first suspicion takes a damn weird coincidence (which I don't believe in anymore) and a lack of perception.
I had never been so nervous for an entire day in my life. Every moment spent away from home was tugging at me every moment, like hooks dug into my flesh, my bones, my organs, my fucking mind, pulling, pulling, pulling, pulling. Time ticked away like time always does in the worst moment of torture, with such sloth that it feels like each second is a monumental, herculean effort to push forward. Eight grueling hours slugged by, almost burying me in their dense, lethargic movements. Finally, during the last eternal second, I ran out from work, jumped in my car and roared it's old engine to life and broke every speed limit and blew every stop sign I could. My car groaned in protest like an old horse that had too much arthritis. Nothing mattered. Something was happening today. Something big. Something important. Something so horrible that it was going to consume me.



When I came home, my house was empty.



Silent, desolate. Bare, cold. As hollow as I felt. My house that had once been alive with the dead, was now dead with the living. Dead with me. I was so alone. Depression sank in me, replacing all my organs with void. My empty shell of a body was heavy.
I went into my closet past where Righty and Lefty once stood and grabbed my shoebox and pulled out my cold, heavy death.
I stared at it's black eye, and I let it's thunder take me.
At least now, the house was dead with the dead in it.












I know what it's like to deal with a heavy heart and a numb body. To go through life only because it's routine. If you feel like this, you can be like you were before. You can be happy again. People who try can make it. Death won't bring peace, only pain to those around you.

12212012

cthulhu dawn or new, strange world?


I'm kind of hoping for both.

Violent George

This is a fictional story about a man named George who is violent. Any resemblance to any person living or dead or whoever you psychoanalysts think this is about is just a total coincidence that you're making up for your deluded fantasies about me.




George exits the train, walks off the dock and onto the street. There are many people and many cars, all busy walking and moving and making noises. George is about to cross the street, but a car drives through and almost runs over George's foot. It was George's turn to go, and George knows this. He punches the back of the car, giving the back a big ugly dent on it's shiny white trunk. The car stops and a small man gets out, yelling. The man is clearly not in shape, wears glasses and has a bad comb over. The man is angry that George punched the man's shiny new car. The man is still yelling as George moves closer, and only stops yelling (words) when George slams the man's head between the car and the car door. That feels good.
George does it again.
After a while, the man is no longer yelling. George stops and looks at the bloody face and smiles. The head now has a funny shape, especially with the face all funny looking, crooked eyes and missing teeth. He leaves the man lying on the pavement as people gather around the body, some shouting for an ambulance. George is going home now, and is feeling much better.

George lives in a simple apartment. There is a kitchen, where there is a fridge and a stove and a sink. There is a living room where George has a couch, a window and a television, though it will never turn on. If you ask George why, he would tell you that he doesn't know (because he really doesn't.) Then there is George's room, which has a mattress, another window, a large mirror on a stand and another door. The other door goes to the bathroom, where there is a sink, a toilet and a shower.
George likes living here. He has seen other people's places and there is always too much stuff. It is also always too clean, and people are getting sick because of it, thought they never seem to understand why. George finds people to be really strange. This is why George doesn't like people a lot.
George opens his fridge, eats the apple that is there and then goes to bed. He dreams the dream he always dreams, the place with no sky and endless fields of people being hurt and dying over and over again. George wants to go there one day, but he doesn't know where the place is. All he knows is that the place has no sky, the plants never grow and it is NOT in Norway. One man said it was once, but George went there and never found it. When George got back, he put the man's face into the back of his skull.
George wakes up (never remembering that at the end of the dream, someone is always screaming don't eat the apple) and goes to his fridge, eats the apple that is there and leaves his apartment.

George sits on the bench in the park and watches a squirrel nervously ticking across the grass, scared of everything, forced by hunger towards the small crumbs of bread that lay (ominously, in the squirrel's paranoid eyes) on the path. A pigeon is about to beat the squirrel to it, until George throws a pebble at the pigeon, causing it to flutter away, cooing as if it had been insulted. The squirrel stops a little longer than usual, realizing that something new has happened. It remains frozen until that nothing is moving, then continues to advance. In a flash, it grabs hold of the bread crumbs, nibbles at it quickly then runs back to it's home, deep inside some tree. George wishes he lived inside a tree, but is glad that he is not a squirrel. George likes animals a lot.
George gets up and walks along the path. He sees a person who stinks and is wearing ripped clothes, laughing as he rips off a wing of a bird with a crippled talon. George is saddened by the bird, still twitching and crying, trying to break free. Sadness turns to rage like a sustained violin note turned into a tremolo. The man spouts unintelligible gibberish from his mouth as he is lifted up into the air and thrown against a tree. He gets up, rubs his scrawny sides and charges towards George, who simply raises his arm quickly, violently interrupting the momentum of the man's upper body where the fist connected. Succumbing to the laws of inertia, his legs continue to go forward. Now that his body is no longer supported, he then gets schooled in the laws of gravity, and he gets schooled hard. Something fractures as his spine and the pavement hi-five each other on the down-low, leaving him withering on the ground, holding his back with one hand and wildly flailing the other. George walks over to the dying bird, picks it up and holds it in his palm. The bird seems to calm as George pets it, and he cares for it until it dies a few moments later.
Before George leaves the park, he goes to the withering man and uses his feet to cave in the tunnel between the man's lungs and his filthy face. The man makes a sound a hundred times more haggard then he looks as his eyes bulge. He shakes violently on the ground. The shaking dulls to twitching, and the twitching fades to death's perfect stillness.
The squirrel in the tree returns to it's bread crumb, certain as the paranoid can be that the loud noises were no threat to himself. George will think of the squirrel again whenever he eats a piece of bread, but the squirrel will never remember George, for one cannot remember what one never knew was there in the first place.

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