Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in wizayne's LiveJournal:

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Tuesday, July 26th, 2005
12:49 am	Tyrannical Pt. 4 Paranoia, anxiety and incredible fear - most certainly not a good recipe for the determined human psyche. Since I laid eyes upon the photograph of the cop back at the Don's headquarters my mind has been swimming in a tsunami of worry. I am so Goddamn sick of worry hurting my poor, poor stomach. It feels as though I ate a bowl of maggots and now they are eating me away from the inside. Slow and painful. Ever so painful. Nonetheless, I have a mission that must be accomplished, no matter how shitty my insides feel. Right now, I am faced with the epitome of blackmail, forced to proceed upon an impossible mission in order to stop a relentless bastard from completely fucking up my life. Fucking Rachel. Goddamn slut. I don't have time for this bullshit. I'm a fucking hero, a legend, a role model for those living in generations before my time. The boss can kiss my ass, I dont care what he says, I'm not cut out for this shit. The nickel-plated nine millimeter handgun radiated a strong tingle throughout my gripping palm. Ever since the hefty combat shotgun clutched within my responsive hands fell to the floor after... it, happened, I experienced a constant craving for a filler to consume the new and hungry void. Nothing is quite similar. The power, the confidence, the ultimate sense of invincibility. Nothing else can replace the truly unique feeling. With dexterous hands, I slipped each round, given to me by the boss, one by one in to the shiny clip. The bullets soon to be shot out at my targets seemed to symbolize my life, my existence; fast, purposeful, devastating. My fingers pointing to the sky made the latex gloves snap on with ease. As smoothe as John Travolta in "Grease", I not so much stepped out as I did glide out of my car and began to gracefully walk towards the towering skyscraper ahead. A strange sense of pride pumped throughout my veins. Never, ever, would I have chosen to become a hitman. The truest path of desinty brought me here. People say life is a matter of choice, not fate. Evidently those people have not actually lived their lives. Don't pass on advice unless you know what you're talking about, fucking assholes. My first mark is supposed to be on the roof of the building ahead, right now, patiently waiting to snipe a target that does not exist. Don Giovanni made arrangements for the now futile pawn to be set up with yours truly a couple weeks back. Thousands of pigeons dominated the enormous concrete centrum in front of the building, chirping to one another, ignoring the constant flow of people passing by their temporary territory. The flying vermin were downright fearless, like myself, ignoring the potentially dangerous members trampling onwards. Arrogant businessmen and salicious sluts alike stepped by the birds with a surprisingly close proximity. The sentinel pigeons stood their ground nonetheless and would only move a mere inch or two if one of these mindless beings should happen to stomp too close. I admired the birds. In actuality, the birds are probably too stupid to even realise what's going on around them and inevitably accustomed to the frequent commotion surrounding their unfortunate habitat. Who knows? A smile cracks every time I see them anyway. For only a short moment more I was able to enjoy the pleasant animals. Abrupt as a tremendous lightning bolt striking from a clear blue sky, the courageous pigeons flocked away in two seperate waves, resembling the sea divided by Moses back in the day. No signs of unforgiving weather were present and I found myself wondering "What in the world could scare all these proven pigeons away at the same time?" but continued walking nonetheless. At the other end of the flowing bird wave tunnel was the infamous assassin, holding a black briefcase and standing perfectly still. Unlike the pigeons, I failed to sense any indicators of his menacing presence. It was no coincidence that this modern day warrior happened to to be treading the same level of ground as myself. The boss set me up. But why? Wasn't I the promising lethal prodigy waiting to be let free? Surely the boss wasn't the kind of man to throw away something so potentially valuable. Maybe this is no setup. This is a test. Regardless of the lengthy distance between us, I could see that he was looking directly at me. Even from here, I noticed his face flinch when he caught the sense of familiarity gleam across my eyes. Breathe steady, see your enemy. The assassin dropped to one knee and began to open his small, black briefcase which inevitably contained a monstrous firearm. Let's show em' what you're made of, kid. Hasty as hell, I crossed my arms across my bullet-proof chest and clutched the two handguns resting against my sides. Just as fast, the assassin rised back into an upright stance from his empty suitcase and brandished an astonishing MP5K PDW submachine-gun. I had seen the impressive weapon many times in cinematics, and although those guns were not real, they still precisely immitated the gun's apocalyptic capabilites. People all around started screaming bloody murder. Opposite to the assassin's methods, I dropped down to a knee stance and instantly took a roll to my left side. Machinegun fire rippled around where I previously dropped and began to swerve like a desert snake towards my constantly changing direction. Innocent bystanders fleeing around me lifted off the ground from the sheer force of the rapid bullets ripping throughout their vulnerable bodies. Most unfortunately, I once again experienced someone's hot blood spraying all over my unexpecting face. Gross. Could be worse, I figured. Better them getting hit than me. Human obstacles were my only chance of living through this terrorizing ordeal, so, I traveled deeper into the panicky crowds. At first, I was disgusted by the hordes of people crowding the centrum. Now, they are my only hope. More screams and gunfire polluted the area while I swerved and shoved my way back to the idle car nearby. As if perfectly timed out, the amount of people around me drastically decreased just as the roaring gunfire halted, suggesting the assassin had run out of bullets. In an instant, I spun backwards, still running, and popped off a shot with each 9mm handgun in the assassin's general direction. My weapons seemed inadequate for the demanding predicament. Keep going, don't lose a step. Entering the car casted a much needed sense of relief in me. Now, proteced behind this powerful machine, I had somewhat of an advantage. I started the car and began driving right back to the concrete centrum where my enemy waited. Within a few seconds of wreckless driving, including a few (hopefully) dead bodies being run over, my car was approaching the assassin in mid-reload. He started firing before he had even fully raised the gun and bullets sparked off the hood of my sedan. I accelerated. Continuous gunfire crackled and my eardrums felt like they were going to burst open, creating hideous and bloody wounds. I kept driving. The car glass shattered and produced spiderweb imitations, making it nearly impossible to see where I was steadily going. The true meaning of intsenity filled the rattling car and I bared no more, finally leaning down to the passenger seat while trying to hold my foot on the gas pedal. The crunch of an impacting body shook the utterly destroyed sedan and some sort of intuition suggested it was my target. Still, I kept driving. The car suddenly dropped to a lower level and already I knew that I was headed straight for the descended lobby area of the building. More sounds of shattering erupted as the car plowed through a gigantic glass wall establishing the front entrance of the skyscraper. For reasons only God knows why, I kept driving. My destructive journey abruptly halted when my car crashed into the marble front counter of the building's lobby, fatally crushing the assassin in between. Not quite as smoothe as before, I hesitantly stepped out of the wreck and looked around at all the building's employees staring at me. Always with the staring. I took one last look to verify that the assassin was indeed dead and then I was gone with the wind. Countless people undoubtedly saw my recognizable face. So much for that hero title I was striving to hold. Like I said before, ain't no turning back now. You've got a cop that needs a killin'. Current Mood: crazy Current Music: notorious b.i.g. - respect (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, July 17th, 2005
2:06 am	Tyrannical Pt. 3 Sometimes, I feel a sort of tingling sensation across the tips of my fingers and under my jaw for long periods of time. Like always, I thoroughly anazlyzed the current problem that plagued my problematic life and concluded the mysterious and unexplained medical condition was a result of copious amounts of stress inflicted upon my supple heart. Either that, or I smoke too much and the high level of nicotine in my blood is causing some sort of undesired, physically stimulating high. Right now, I'm almost numb from the unpleasant sensation, indicating that it is a result of anxiety. The massive cherry oak door in front of me towered nearly three stories above and casted a sense of insignificance across my trembling form. This guy was the real deal and I had no idea of what he was expecting from me. All I know is that he's got me by the balls - nice and tight too. I grabbed the thick, silver ring sticking out of the carefully carved lion's mouth and knocked three times on the door as instructed. A well dressed Italian man opened the door and directed me to a room at the top end of a luxurious master staircase. The entire place reeked of wealth and pure evil. Masterful works of art covered the russian white walls to the distant corners that were laced with elegant swirls of gold linings. I never would have guessed yesterday that I would find myself in a place like this today. Man, I'm in too deep. Nervously, I entered the master office of the titanic mansion and stood before a man that was capable of completely destroying my precious life. For some unknown reason, this legendary mob boss has decided to spare me mercy instead of easily releasing the most incriminating of videotapes. A famous hero, spontaneously wasting two loved, innocent teenagers during a drunken stupor. Talk about prime time news shit right there! "Take a seat, son.", the elderly but confident man ordered. I sat in the brown, leather chair placed in front of the impressive desk and asked "What do you want from me?", which sounded courageously direct yet clearly hesitant at the same time. I had just spoken an epitome of oxymorons, but the powerfully radiant man held a stern and unmoved facial expression. Paralyzing fear spread throughout my body every time I dared to look into the man's cold eyes. Why in the world am I in this room with him? How has this happened? "Everything happens for a reason, kid. I'm sure you've got a few questions to ask, but just let me clarify something first. You fucked up, and I caught you. As you and I both know, you got a lot to lose and I can see in your eyes that you don't got the balls to face the potential consequences blocking your promising path. Having considered this, let's make things straight - I'm the fucking boss." he said. "Yes, sir." I replied. "We all make mistakes, son. I know this, and I can accept the fact to a certain degree. However, no matter how much admirable shit you achieved, you have no fucking right to do what you did in that room. Unfortunately for you, it just so happens that I got an underground porn operation going on at that dormitory. A couple cameras planted behind the vents of a graduation ceremony wall can make a whole lot of money. You wouldn't believe how fast these perverts eat this shit up. Let's get realistic here, who wouldn't want to watch a couple of hot teens fuck like rabbits after a hard night of well-deserved drinking? Anyway, let's get to the point here. You move fast, kid. And I like it. The way you operate under intense situations is downright astonishing. I need someone that can move like yourself. My other guy is getting sloppy and it is unacceptable. You, you were born for this shit. I am handing you your destiny on a silver platter. So, you can take what I offer, or you can spend the remainder of your existence in overwhelming regret and shame." I sat silent for a moment and finally said, "Tell me my purpose, sir." I walked out of the building with a tan envelope containing photographs of contracted assassination targets and multiple heavy weapons strapped around my body. The boss says I have to take out two marks in place of the two victims I viciously slaughtered during the graduation party. After that, I'm free to go. Even Steven. Still, this is fucked. I have to kill more people in order to save my ass from previous murders. A strong feeling of sadness dominated my confused, bitter brain. The feeling remindmed me of when I sometimes pictured struggling, single mothers crying over a filthy sink, like when I viewed photographs of cute, fat little boys being senselessly murdered on television, like when I witnessed injured raccoons crawling for a last bit of life after being plowed by an unforgiving truck. This isn't me. How have I come to this? Nonetheless, there is no turning back now. I have been given a mission and I cannot fail. The first photograph in the envelope was of the universal assassin that became infamous by suspectedly eliminating a well-known local drug lord along with a serial killer that reigned supreme over the ineffective law enforcement 'protecting' this land. The second photograph sent chills down my spine. It was a cop, apparently hot on to many trails that lead right to the Don. It wasn't the fact that the mark was a police officer that made my mind race with relentless worry, but the fact that the cop happened to be the father of the english class kid that made me what I am. Current Mood: contemplative Current Music: 50 cent - Outta Control (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Monday, July 4th, 2005
12:18 am	Tyrannical Pt. 2 Would you kill someone to become famous? All the time, especially in history class, I hear of people taking other people's lives just so they can merely be noticed. With the pull of a trigger, a guy can become something instead of wasting away as nothing. People are always looking for the easy way out. Let's face it, they always have and they probably always will. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind. Bring on the conveyor belt sidewalks and mechanical devices that masturbate for you. Straight up, I took the easy way out. But everybody here knows that I wasn't planning on it, and that's the beauty of it all. For most of my life, I went unnoticed, most people at school wouldn't be able to tell you my name if you should happen to ask. That is, of course, before I became a legend. It's been nearly two months since I blew away a monster among men and saved countless people's lives. He came in to my class, you see, and killed these two guys that were involved with his sister's murder or some shit. Talk about being bent on revenge. When it happened, I managed to hurl this chair at him and then I took his ass out with his own fucking gun. Damn straight. Who knows how far he would have gone? Hell, he shot me too! Don't even get me started on how much that fucking hurt. An entire week in the hospital, forced to eat shit food and watch even shittier television. I don't even like television. Nonetheless, you can still find my face in the newspapers, forever praising me and my heroic act. As terrible as it may sound, I'm glad that piece of shit came in to my class with that gun. It was destiny. Nobody else would have done anything, the rest of these kids are sweet like cookies with jam in the middle. I am the protector, the soldier - the unstoppable. Everybody waves and says 'hello' with their stupid fucking smiles when I walk down the street. The best part is the broads. I practically have to battle them off with a chair and whip! Right now, I'm seeing this girl named Rachel. She's pretty fit, definetely a prize-winner, and she just can't get enough of me. Not to mention she's a slut, which is always a bonus. I can always sense her looking at me when my head is turned, but when I turn back to look at her she quickly looks away as if she's being sneaky or something. The thought of it makes me laugh. So anyway, we're at this post graduation party being held at a local college dormitory and things are starting to look promising. Everybody is fucking hammered and having the time of their lives. Pretty much everyone from my entire grade, even the losers, have joined in on this serious party. The scene is like an apartment building hallway except every door is wide open and occupied with a variety of euphoric, inviting drunkards. My room is more packed than a sardine can that was run over by a Mack truck. Rachel is on my lap grinding against my hardon and sipping from a bottle of some prissy cooler drink. I hope that english class kid can see me now from the afterlife. After awhile most of the people leave to retire to their own rooms and I'm alone with Rachel. She pounds the end of her drink and says "Let's go to our room.", referring to the seperate bedroom a few steps away. How sweet it is. We move to the next room and immediately jump on the queen size bed to get down to business. Rachel rolls over and gets on to all fours while arching her back to an astonishing degree, presenting quite possibly one of the hottest asses in existence. She looks back at me and says "I want you to take off your belt and put it around my neck like a leash, baby. Then, I want you to pull on it when you thrust. It feels so fucking good, trust me." I do as she says and drunkenly fumble with my belt, eventually managing to harness it loosely around her neck. Definetely not same shit, different day. She moans and wriggles while slowly pulling her tight, black pants down. I'm so anxious to fuck this bitch I can hardly breathe. I whip it out and mount her from behind, yanking on the leather belt with each thrust like how she asked. This is most definetely one of the best days of my life. Wait till the boys hear about this one. I start to really get into it and pick up the pace, still pulling the belt and occasionally slapping her ass. She starts moaning like crazy and shoves her face in to the pillow to prevent others from hearing her scream with pleasure through the walls. After a few minutes, I go even harder and she practically chokes on her passionate cries. Soon enough, my legs weaken and I arch my back to eject a nice little something that makes the world go 'round. Finally, I stop yanking on the sweat covered belt and feel a rush of relaxation. Rachel doesn't make a sound or move an inch. "Rachel?", I grunt. No response. I pull out so fast that the condom stays inside of her and her lifeless body tilts to the side. Oh my fucking God. What have I done? I begin to unbuckle the belt around her bruised neck and incessantly shout "Rachel!" into her lifeless face. I killed her. She's fucking dead. I pace back and forth while staring at the dead teenage girl laying on my rented dorm bed. This does not look good at all. I'll be charged for murder, I'll have to go to prison, I'll be known as a savage killer, not a hero. There is only one way out of this - I have to burn this place down. No fucking way I'm going to jail because of this sadomasochistic whore. A few liquor bottles are in the kitchen that can be used as fuel. If I pour all the liquor on the bed and light it up with a lit cigarette it will all look like an accident and I'll be scott-free. Time to get moving. Just as I turn to the door it swings open. A drunken idiot, probably lost, stumbles in the room and mumbles utter nonsense. He looks up and his eyes go like dinner plates when he notices the deceased, naked girl stretched out across the bed. The unfamiliar man turns to me and asks "What the hell is wrong with Rachel, man?". My mind begins racing and I glance at Rachel, then quickly turn back to him and respond, "Oh, nothing man she's just sleeping. Had a bit too much to drink, y'know?". He starts to walk over to her and says "What the fuck is that shit all over her neck, man?". Things couldn't have possibly looked worse, considering how I still had the belt in my hands. He leans over to touch her and I run up behind him with the belt prepared for strangulation. I wrap the belt around his neck and we tumble to the ground while he struggles for his life. Two minutes later, I got two dead bodies sprawled out in my room. With haste I grab the various half-full bottles of hard liquor and dart back in to the freshly horrendous murder scene. The smell of the pouring liquor makes me cringe and within minutes the area is completely soaked. I take one last look and light up a Marlboro cigarette. I Take one pull, step out the door, and then flick it right in the streaming booze pool. A mighty flame spread and rose around the crackling corpses. The fire alarm goes off and I run from the burning evidence. The now famous fire destroyed the evidence along with the neighbouring dorm rooms. Fortunately, most of my friends got out alive. Investigators and arson detectives concluded the blaze started from a fallen lit cigarette and the whole incident was a tragic accident. I was clear of any suspicion because everybody just loves the hero. It seemed as though I had gotten away for what I did. Until I got a package in the mail. Inside the package was a videotape that showed me commiting the double-slaying on that terrible night in the dormitory. Underneath the tape was a little note, signed by a guy calling himself 'The Boss' that said "You work for me now." Current Mood: sleepy Current Music: Roll Deep (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, June 30th, 2005
11:59 pm	Pernicious Practice Pt. 2 The boss has given me a serious one this time. This is a real personal matter. Something of utmost importance, and he has chosen me to be his enforcer. What a pleasure. I just pray to God I don't fuck this one up - or I'm finished. The boss'll have me eaten alive by pirahnas. Ah hell, what am I saying? There is nothing to worry about here. I was born without a face. Unless this crazy motherfucker somehow gets the upperhand, everything should turn out just fine. Simple blast, grab and run. Only catch is my mark is supposedly a homicidal maniac and the package is the boss' God damn daughter. The cherry on top is how he specifically requested I use his very own Us Remington Riot shotgun. That cannon going off will be louder than a firework factory explosion. In other words - gotta move fast, real fast. No time to pick up the cartridges or nothin'. I park on the other side of the street out front the mark's house. Something like six girls have gone missing in the past month and this son of a bitch has caused a real storm in the neighbourhood. The boss didn't like the whole deal in the first place, claiming he was insulting his territory and all that shit. Next thing you know, that ballsy moron snatches the boss' very own kid. He didn't take it too well at all. Boss had a few professionals look into it and they found the spot in no time. Don't ask me how, I'm just here to clean up the mess. I put on my black cap and a double-layer of latex gloves. I cock the shotgun, get out the car and walk across the street with the weapon alligned to my left side. The porch is highly decorated and well-maintained. Number thirty-seven, God I hope this is the correct address. I take a deep breath. Hold it. One blast to the doorknob with the shotgun and the door fucking catapults down the hallway. Holy shit. I quickly scale across the main stairway and left wall to what I presumed was the basement door. People are screaming from behind the door, time to shine. Not knowing if whether or not it was locked I kick the door down with brutal force and rip down the wooden stairway. A man is standing in a shroud of darkness across the putrid-smelling basement. Fuck that luck shit, strictly aim. While swinging the shotgun up to aim I drop to a kneeling stance and yell out "This is from Don Giovanni, motherfucker!". The mark raised his hands and said "No! Wait!". I licked off a shot right at his abdomen and he dropped liked a fuckin' beanbag. Serves you right. I look down and see a dead guy with a metal mask on his face and a scalpel sticking out his neck. What the fuck is this shit? The girl is screaming about something but I can't hear a word she's saying because my ears are ringing from the shotgun blasts. Forget it, gotta move. Blood everywhere. I tell the boss' kid to stay still and I shoot the chains strapped to her legs with the Remington. I'm weak from the overwhelming nervousness and find it difficult to pick her up. She's pretty badly hurt and the boss is gonna be pissed. Within two minutes I'm out of the house and getting in to the car with the girl. Then it happens. Police cruisers, three of them in a row, coming straight for me. The front door of the house is blown away and everything. I'm fucked. Can't give up now, you've gone too far. I start the car and accelerate past the flashing convoy, but the car in lead makes a U-turn right off the bat. Great, a pain in the ass car chase once again. I turn to the girl and say "Buckle up, purdy, and hold on tight." I rocket through the street and make a hard right turn on to eighth line. Right after I make the turn, another fucking cruiser flys right in front of me and I ramp off the hood, sending me directly in to the atmostphere. The girl and I squeal in unison. The car does a barrel roll and the roof collapses upon landing. Broken glass fills the interior of the vehicle and the seatbelts hang us upside down. The damn girl started screaming again. After ordering the girl to unbuckle her seatbelt I do my own and drop to the half-concrete, half-suede ground. I grab the shotgun and run around to the other side of the car to get the girl. The cruiser that started following me in the first place swerved on to the street and speeds past the other destroyed car. Two shotgun blasts eradicates the front mirror of the cop car and both officers are carried away, dead, by the still moving, aimless cruiser. I run to the side of some house and stash the shotgun in a plastic garbage bin. The girl catches up and stands obediently, waiting for my next order. I kneel down and say "One day, we will look back on this and laugh. Let's get going, sweetheart." Current Mood: creative Current Music: Notorious B.I.G. - Dead Wrong (2 Comments |Comment on this)
10:58 pm	Vengeance She was the most important thing in the whole world. 'Was', being the key word there. Now that she is gone, it is most important that I seek vengeance on those who have commited this wrong. There shall be retribution. All my life, all my fucking life, I have been alone. Well, except for when Jess was there for me. My dad, a joke cop, my mom, gone, my sister, dead. She was dating this guy named Mike. I fucking hated him. He was one of those gangsta type guys, dressing like he's black, always acting, never being himself - ultimately misguided. Just like every other person I've ever met, he treated me as though he was on a higher level. I always stand below; confused, belittled, unconfident. Jess gave me confidence. What started it all was when Jess had this guy over and they were doing something in her room and I heard the phone ring. Jess picked it up and it was Mike. Judging from what I heard of the conversation, Mike heard the other guy in the background when she picked up and he started flippin' out or something. Without any success, Jess tried to convince him that it was just dad and he had nothing to worry about. I decided to pick up the pointless phone in my room and pretend like I had to make an urgent call, therfore bailing her out. But when I picked up the phone, I heard him threaten to kill her. The next day, he shot her in the side of the head. I know it was him. Always trying to prove something to his friends. I've heard about the stupid shit he does, robbing people, selling drugs, being aggressive to those that are helpless. I refuse to be helpless anymore. It is time that I take this in to my own hands. Dad and his "elite" team think it was just a robbery gone wrong. Wrong place, wrong time kinda thing. What bullshit. Dad hasn't missed a day of work since she died. That heartless bastard. I found his spare gun under his bed. A nickel-plated, snubnose revolver. Six loaded shots and ankle-holster included. Tomorrow, I will walk right in to his class and blow him away in front of everyone. Nothing to lose, nothing to gain. Aside from justice, that is of course. I feel a constant head rush when the gun is in my hands, it pulls the pin on the can of nerve gas in my brain. There is noise downstairs, dad must be home. I might as well start taking out the garbage now because I know he'll ask me to at some point. I grab the garbage and pass dad without saying a word on my way outside. I light up a cigarette and inhale. Hold it in, even though you're not supposed to. I go to the side of the house and lift the large plastic cover for the miniature dump. The light from my cigarette gleamed off of something metal in the surrounding darkness of the inner garbage. I leaned in and clutched the obscure and surprisingly heavy object. Good Lord. It's a fucking shotgun. Current Mood: creative Current Music: Rage Against the Machine - Bulls on parade (Comment on this)
Monday, June 27th, 2005
12:45 am	See Your Enemy A fifty year-old hippy lady gave me a gift when i was heading out for work the other day. I looked at the strange, saran-wrapped shape and felt a sort of malleable texture through holes in the plastic. After unravelling the many layers of wrap I dropped to my knees and felt the absolute power of the marvelous specimen within my hands. It was a gigantic, glowing orange mushroom of the Amanita strainbase. Having previously studied fungus during my experimental years, I was fully aware of the value and magical qualities of the rare and highly potent fungi. The cap (which was the size of my two fists combined) was decorated with multiple blue and white warts popping out of the vibrant surface. I enjaculated in my pants, thanked the hippy and ran upstairs to stash my prized possession like a squirrel would after finding a large nut. One time, I saw this squirrel jump off of my friend's roof and fly right into a brick wall. Pretty funny. I cannot emphasize enough how supreme this mushroom is compared to any other substance you will find on the streets. This mushroom has been named after a mystical Asian god and was commonly used by ancient warriors to provide brutal strength for hunting and war. Back in the day, tribes would trade one Amanita mushroom for an entire deer. "The Koryaks believed a person drugged obeyed the wishes of spirits residing in them. Fabing (1956) and Fabing and Hawkins (1956) was convinced the Berserkers did, indeed, use fly-agaric. It is a very plausible explanation. Going berserk occurred as follows. The Norse took the mushrooms so that the effect came on during the heat of battle or while at work. During the berserk rage they performed deeds which otherwise were impossible. The rage started with shivering, chattering of the teeth, and a chill. Their faces became swollen and changed color. A great rage developed in which they howled like wild animals and cut down anyone in their way, friend or foe alike." Sign me up! So anyway, me and a couple buddies ate some of it in my new house with a huge open spaced living room and smoked while practicing ninja kicks all night. I could smell colors and taste words, I laughed until my eyes dripped with tears, I wrote infinite scriptures across my mind and achieved the impossible. I felt as if I could wrestle a kodiak bear or eat an entire frying pan. After approximately six hours, the enlightening buzz faded and I clouded the nausea with copious amounts of cheap beer. The highlight of the evening was when Notorious Nauss kicked Murda Marshall so hard in the balls that he had to leave and go home. Fabulous. Too tired to go on. Places to go, promises to keep. Current Mood: busy Current Music: none (Comment on this)
Wednesday, June 22nd, 2005
1:36 am	Repent "I be walking God like a dog, my narrative fearless." - Zach De La Rocha So it's tuesday night and im sitting here, in front of a computer, drinking a 40oz. of malt liquor by myself. My life is a city of empty streets; devasted, deserted. The society that inhabited this city has left or died already, due to my lack of human compassion. All of those who cared for me, gone. Deceived, betrayed, destroyed. Roll with me or get rolled over, motherfucker. Greed. Arrogance. Selfishness. The alcohol prevents me from bothering to assess and analyze my relationships with those I care for. Why solve your problems when you can simply drink them away? Obviously I know this is not the answer to any problem a person encounters. However, I must say, it is quite enjoyable. I once hid from the guilt of a terrible crime under a blanket of intoxication, literally eradicating all feelings of remorse or regret over a rather long span of hazy time. For seventeen days straight I was lost in a mystical world of substance abuse. It's almost as if I am rewarding myself for being a bad person, considering how alcohol is an enjoyable substance often consumed in celebration. In my life, every single fucking day is a new year's eve, a birthday, a wedding. Want to join the party? I promise, you'll have a good time, baby. Don't worry about the aftermath consequences, you can drink those away too. My conscience is screaming for help under this whirlpool of poison, begging me to have mercy. "Fuck needles, fuck smoke, fuck lines that make the sinus choke, fuck chasers, trails, fuck raves and rails, fuck hangovers, fuck hallucinations, regurgitations, mandatory sentences and UA tracings'." No, fuck you, you ungrateful bitch. I'm in control, not you. No need to cure the disease, it will heal in time. No time to take action, let fate take the future hold. No fate in this crazy world, looks like you're on your own. I laugh and tap my cigarette ash into the 40oz. bottle cap. There are no good people around here anymore. They all died a long time ago. It is time that my kind and I shine. Current Mood: thirsty Current Music: 50 cent - places to go (Comment on this)
Sunday, June 19th, 2005
3:13 am	Mean Streets Y'see, I'm a normal cat. I've done about as much exciting shit as the next guy, if you can dig it. Well, I suppose that depends on what your bitchass might consider to be normal. Most dudes aren't down with the homicide, but if you ask me, it all depends on the place and the time. I am a man of principles. Challenge a principle of mine, per say, hitting on my bitch, then I'll be runnin' up on your lawn with guns drawn, you know what I'm saying? This one nigga of mine fuckin' wasted this bitch just for lying to him, right in his face, the whole disrespect deal, y'know? The kind of shit that no one could forget. I remember she was fuckin' sobbin' and shit, begging for forgiveness, all that bullshit. He started fuckin' hugging her and shit but I thought to myself, 'man, this don't look like my nigga Mike, this ain't the way he roll.' and God damn nigga, you'll know it if I was right. Motherfucker fuckin' grabbed the bitch, held her body close, wrapped his arms around that bouncy-ass waist, she sprung and slid, diggin' what he was feeling. Man, if only that bitch knew. She fuckin' stood up on her tippy-toes and shit and started kissin' my nigga Mike. Next thing you know, in the middle of this passionate-ass kiss, that crazy son of a bitch fuckin' whipped out his nine-milly and fuckin' shot her right in the side of the head, while they were fuckin' making out. That's some badass shit, man. Fuckin' bitch dropped to the ground and Mike turned to the rest of us, spittin' out the blood that came outta' her mouth and into his when he fuckin' shot her. Damn right, fuckin' broads. Y'all wanna be treated equally, then y'all can fuckin' face the same fire we guys face everyday in this ghost town. Yeah, alright, y'all got the fuckin' right to vote, but don't be surprised if you catch a bullet scar on the way to the booth. That's just the way it goes. If you ask me, that guy shoulda fuckin' hit her up one last time before puttin' it to waste. Shit's like robbin' a convenience store and only jooxin' the cigarette packs but no money. These streets are not for the weak. I got piss and vinegar flowin' through my veins, pumpin, givin' me the energy I need to survive. You probably look down on me, from your fancy fuckin' chateau balcony, clinkin' crystal glasses filled wit' a chardonnay and Alize' mix. Yeah, sure, you can read a muthafuckin' science textbook for four years in a row and feel as though your intelligence is superior to mine, but nigga, I got a grainy yellow pill right here that can match up, straight up. The chemical euphoria I have experienced is beyond anything your fuckin' ass can experience through acadmeic accomplishment. Work hard and sacrifice all those years, I'll pay ten fuckin' dollars and match up, no problem. Fuck the laws tellin' me that ain't right. This is my body. Then again, maybe I shouldn't feel this pride in taking the easy way out. Besides, pride is one of the deadly sins - but you knew that, didn't you, you righteous motherfucker. I am an eighth element. A whole new deadly sin to call my own. I'll fuckin' fuck your sister in your parents' bed while they're fuckin' home making dinner in the kitchen. I'll link you a bag of phat cones but pinch a couple grams before delivering it to you. I am the coke buzz without the aftermath crash. I am the evil alcohol induced act without the regret that follows in the morning. I am the tempting bag of meth without baby laxative cut added to make it look bigger. You know it's good quality if the sun shimmers and shines off the surface. And don't forget, a deep yellow hue is always a key indicator of true purity. Y'know methamphetamines were originally invented by the germans during the second world war. Like the Siberians with mushrooms, german nazi soldiers would consume mass amounts of meth to enhance their natural war capabilities. Shit's fuckin' crazy, if you ask me. Still, I can see what those german niggas were sayin', one fuckin' rail and I'm convinced I can conquer the world. Can you conquer the world? I can. For two-hundred bucks a pop I can be just as powerful as God because I bring death. Feel the infinity. Feel the pitch black plaguing your non-existent form. Feel the worms and maggots eat away at you. Fuck you if you don't think that shit is fair, bitch. No food in my daughter's mouth then I'm runnin' up on your house too. Every day, every single day, somebody dies out here. I got a feeling that I'm next. Current Mood: thirsty Current Music: Big L - Flamboyant (Comment on this)
Friday, June 17th, 2005
7:22 pm	Masterful Creation For the very first time in my life, I regret having gone to medical school. I recall the first week being somewhat overwhelming, intimidating, perhaps even scary - but all that mattered was the end results. I knew this all along, and I like to think that my confidence towards graduation was what got me through the hardest of times. Not once did I doubt myself or doubt what I was capable of achieving. Since graduation I have saved twenty lives from seemingly inevitable doom, two precious lives for each grueling year of school. Fair trade, if you ask me. Hopefully I will be able to save my twentyfirst today. The girl chained to the wall across from me stopped breathing for a moment. I screamed at the top of my lungs, demanding her to wake up and stay strong. A loud stomp on the floor above shook the meat hooks and chains attached to the many links pierced through the grimy ceiling. That was his way of saying 'quiet down, or else.'. The clinking and rattling awoke the traumatized girl. Thank God. I can't stand to watch one more child die right before my eyes as I lay here bound, helpless, futile. Never would I have imagined that busting my ass for ten years in medical school would grant me this abstruse reward. What am I saying, reward? This is punishment. This is a curse. This is hell. I have become a literal slave doctor, forced to treat his victims so they do not perish before he desires. Once a week, I am presented with the option of preserving a little girl's life, even if only for another day, or I can use my expertise to determine if whether or not there is any chance of survival. No one deserves to witness what I have seen; beatings, mutilations, beheadings, evil in its purest form. The man above once described himself as 'evil incarnate'. Sadly, I have come to agree with his insanely idealistic visions. He suffers from delusions of grandeur, often whispering arrogant soliloquies, dressing how he imagines a God would dress. Hesitantly, I attempted to get the girl's attention, but she only sat there, comatose, not even bothering to wipe the blood trickling down from the laceration across her eyebrow. The door leading to upstairs opened and light poured down the decaying, wooden stairway. For a moment, I lost my own breath. The man childishly hopped on to the handle for the stairs and used his rear to slide down on to our level. A feral grin stretched across his face as he brandished his weapon of choice, a five-inch long scalpel, coated with dried up blood. "You are a masterful creation." the man hissed in to the little girl's ear. She whimpered. I sat there powerless, struggling with the trenchant chains. "I will genuinely enjoy cutting you open and removing the sheath of your ignorance," he said while playing with her hair. With evident contempt I yelled "Leave her the fuck alone, you monster!". He turned to me with a menacing look and yelled "Watch your mouth when in front of the girl!" back at me. The word 'girl' echoed off of the greasy walls surrounding us. I felt hatred towards the serial killer moreso than fear. It had become quite clear that he needed me and I abused that fact with every chance I received. "Come on, she's in a lot of pain, let me take a look at her first." I begged. "You don't know what pain is." he said and motioned the blade around the little girl's head. Looks like someone has been watching too much "Silence of the Lambs". He knelt down and spoke a silent whisper covered by a hand shaped in cup-form around the girl's tiny ear. She started to cry again. He was getting worse; far more sadistic, abusive, creative. He dug the scalpel into her forehead, the girl instinctually swatted at the blade and it flung from his flimsy grasp. The blade glimmering with fresh blood lay on the floor, right in front of the girl, unoccupied. "Kick the knife over to me!" I screamed. The man from above lunged for the scalpel just after the girl effectively booted the weapon in my direction. I reached down and clutched the surgical instrument between my legs and stood up straight, my shadow casting darkness over the merciless predator. If there was any hope for escape, it would be right about now. "Oh, I love this. This is really getting my juices flowing. What are you going to do, doctor? You are a mere pawn. I am eternal." he said while slowly approaching me. Let's see if eternal can survive a puncture wound to the thyroid gland. I bellowed the word "Justice." and whipped the scalpel across the room and hit him directly in the neck. He instantly collapsed to the ground and began to gargle his own blood. The girl and I watched as the legend wriggled in agony on the filthy floor. Finally, he stopped moving. I looked into the twelve year old girl's eyes and said "We're going to be alright.". Current Mood: cheerful Current Music: 50 cent - Wanksta (Comment on this)
Monday, June 13th, 2005
1:40 am	Pernicious Practice I had to be careful with this job, last week's was far too messy. Back in my head I knew that I shouldn't even be out right now, I should be on the low, patiently waiting. For sixty-thousand dollars, I was willing to take the risk. The place has surveillance cameras everywhere, so I gotta be swift, proficient. On the bright side, there are several exits on both wings and that promises an easy escape. A short girl at the front ripped my ticket, handed me the blue stub and directed me to auditorium four. The boss said the mark was an older man named Mike Sanders, apparently taking his wife and kids to a show as compensation for being so busy lately. He's been busy, alright. One of the top fucking dope shifters in the region, walking around in a public theatre, and these incompetent assholes tell me they can't get a single photograph of the guy. Not that it matters anyway, I can see him across the lobby, standing in line, trying to decide upon the grand three item list on the elevated menu board. This guy will be lucky if he manages to finish his meal before I'm through with him. No time to stand around, I have to get to the auditorium and locate a back row seat to ensure I can be behind him. The front lobby is hot as all hell too, my skin beneath the gun holsters is profusely sweating. Several stupid posters decorated the harrowing hallway, reminding me why I've always hated movies. I glanced at my blue stub to see what movie this old bastard and I were watching tonight, it said "Ladies in Lavender", great, this oughta be a blast. I was greeted at the auditorium entrance with a thick stench of mothballs. After passing through the dark hallway I turned and discovered the source of the foul smell - hordes of old people. I felt sorry for the kids Mr. Sanders is bringing along. While walking up to the back row I noticed a large glass panel that was about two meters high on the wall. Some kid was behind the glass, threading film through the enormous projector. When first entering the theatre I overheard an employee refer to the upstairs area as "booth". I wonder if they call it that because of John Wilkes Booth assassinating Lincoln from above in a theatre. This smell is unbearable, maybe I can get a clean shot from behind the safety of the booth glass. There is too many people in here anyway, things could get out of control. Journeying back through the hallway I noticed an elevator on the right side and hopped inside. The doors slide open and the most probable entrance to the room above is quickly located at the end of the left corridor. No cameras in sight. While scaling the wall I spotted a rather inconvenient obstacle, a numbered lock mechanism on the handle of the door. Shit. Incredibly, the troublesome door swings open and a bumbling lanky teenager walks out. I hide behind the door and stealthily roll behind the kid, slipping into the room just before the heavy-sounding door shuts closed. Time to get this over with. I dart through the massive, noisy room and find a projector with the number four labeled above. As I screw the suppressor on to the .44 I think to myself "Sic semper tyrannis!" and laugh out loud. Hell, these fucking projectors are so loud I probably won't even need a silencer. Sanders is square in the middle, surrounded by clueless seniors and bored children. Still, from here it oughta be a clean shot. I raise my weapon and take a deep breath, hold it, aim carefully. Now. The glass shatters immediately after I pull the trigger and Sanders' head splits in two halves. I pop off a second shot and splatter the brain matter, just for the hell of it. Screams erupt out the cavity in the wall. Mission complete, lets get the fuck out of here. I sprint over to a hidden door at the far end and moved so fast down the stairwell that I was practically falling. Two different exit doors. I choose the one behind the stairs and play it Bogart as I casually walk outside. The sun shines down on my face, and I finally exhale. Current Mood: mellow Current Music: Nas - the world is yours (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Sunday, June 12th, 2005
12:32 am	Filthy Little Beast "I'm a shark infested ocean, I dare you to dive in it." -Project Wyze I am the kid that dies of cancer, before getting a chance to lose his virginity. I am the person with admirable dreams, but sits in his basement watching television all day. I am everything and nothing all at once. My opposable hands are designed to assist my life, but all they do is assist in other people's death. Feel life every day like you feel when having sex with your favourite hat still on. That is my advice, but who takes advice from a theatre employee that has consumed more ecstacy tablets than pieces of popcorn? Fuck that salted styrofoam shit anyway, or pay the preposterous costs and enjoy. That is life for you in a handbasket, essentially. You can either fuck it, or sacrifice and enjoy. Work hard, bring home the bacon. Practice, become skilled. Train, prove your strength. Sit around all day with no ambition, rot away like a fallen apple. My spirit is browned and bruised. Stop complaining, Wayne, you fucking hypocrite. The very words I speak make me want to slit my wrists, make me satanistic, make me take the pistol to my face and place the clip and cock it back and let it go until my brains are ripping out my skull so bad to sew it up would be a waste of stitches. Take another shot of whiskey, it burns so bad my saliva drips off my bottom lip. I try to take a deep breath, but my mouth is full of shit and my nose is clogged with cocaine residue. You will probably never understand when I get excited over every white particle embedded in the carpet. This is the expensive price I pay to be content. Have I lost my way, or have I found the answer? Who is to decide? One half of my brain convinces me that I am indefinetely mistaken, whereas the other half assures complete devastation. Not too promising, if you ask me. I found a cancerous growth on my stomach earlier today - eternal sleep is my only destiny. Dying makes me want to become ruthless, relentless, utterly internecine. I want to invade people's homes and kill their entire family in spite of my misfortune. Have my way with the wife and sink a red, hot lead chunk in the back of her skull (before, or excitingly afterwards.). I want to obliterate everything they have worked so fucking hard for, and take it as my trophy. Life just isn't fair, I have come to accept that. It isn't fair how I want to write novels but am too drunk to complete the task, it isn't fair how I want to show my mom how much I care for her but dont have enough money to do so, it isn't fair how I want to bless this girl's life but she isn't willing to let me. I dont deserve a loving mom, I dont deserve a desirable girlfiend, I don't deserve a famous, best-selling novel. God gave me cancer, that is his way of telling me that I do not deserve to exist. Current Mood: crushed Current Music: Kool and the Gang - Hollywood Swingin' (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Monday, June 6th, 2005
12:28 am	Subconscious "Beneath these streets are veins that course with energy and meaning. I am that meaning. I am that energy." - Jack the Ripper Some people talk about their problems way too much. Save me the grief and just buy a glass house so people can watch firsthand while passing by. If I owned a glass house I'd mess with people all the time and walk around naked. Wayne - "Howdy neighbour!" Neighbour - "For God's sake Wayne, put on some God damned clothes for once." Wayne - "Talk about nice weather today, eh?" Neighbour - "A bird just flew into your wall." And then I'd put on my robe to fetch my newspaper outside. Maybe I'd grab that bird that hit the wall outside and whip it up for dinner as well. I'll bet sparrow would be absolutely fabulous with canned cranberries and a side of asparagus. I'd invite some girl over for dinner and serve it to her, claiming the tender meat is chicken. Some Girl - "Oh Wayne! This chicken is incredible! I swear, I will marry you if you make this dish for me everyday for the rest of my life." Wayne - "Yeah, whatever you say baby." Then we'd get married and I would never make that meal again. Hell if I'm gonna go hunting fuckin' sparrows every day. That would be a pain in the ass. Knowing my luck with animals, I would probably get my eyes plucked out. Now that is something to complain about. Co-Worker - "Oh my God, Wayne, you'll never guess what happened to me last night. Okay, so, I'm like, at this party, right? And this girl was wearing the same skirt as me, and like, she looked way better than I did but she was a total skank. My boyfriend was there and he was like totally staring at her and I started yelling at him, but like, he kept on looking over at her while I was talking to him and he was being a total ass. He said that I didn't have to worry about how I would look in the skirt soon because I'm steadily losing weight from complaining so much. Blah, blah, blah." Wayne - "Bitch, I got my eye plucked out by a sparrow!" I would spend the rest of my life seeking revenge on that sparrow. There would be a final showdown of epic proportions and then victory would be celebrated with a great sparrow feast. The wife will be so pleased. Current Mood: blank Current Music: Planet Asia - The Professional (Comment on this)
Monday, May 30th, 2005
12:49 am	A Penny For My Thoughts My good friend Jizz called me up on friday and invited me to some dumb broad's birthday party. The night was looking rather bleak, so, I agreed and changed the color of my shoelaces to match my hat. Fix up, look sharp. Apparently, a lot of people were supposed to show and it was this big deal and all. This I never understood because I remembered the girl from elementary school and to be quite frank - she was an utter moron. To ensure a good time, I called up my old pals Murda Mike and Killa Cam with promises of an exciting slammer jammer. Mass amounts of beer and whipped cream were naturally purchased shortly afterwards. Drunken cheers and friendly handshakes were received at the front door. And then the hostess appeared. "Wayne!? What in the hell are you doing here? Last time I saw you, you put a live snake in my microwave, you bastard! That was five years ago and I haven't even seen you since." "The snake was still alive? Shit man, I clocked in something like five minutes. What a trooper! "Yeah, as a matter of fact, it was still alive. That snake bit my grandma when she went to cook some pizza pops." An attractive girl from across the room gave me a lascivious wink and I blurted - "It was Camilo, not me!" After Killa Cam got kicked out, I proceeded across the front entrance in order to locate Jizz. The house was fucking packed. I could hardly take one step without bumping into like a hundred people. Finally, I found Jizz chilling on the back porch and we cracked open beers in celebration of the dumb broad's birthday. A few beers later and I was having a damn good time. I met a number of interesting people and not to mention a couple of remarkably attractive girls. At one point I was journeying through the kitchen to get another beer and some jackass spilled his cocktail all over my favourite shirt. "Oh man, I'm so sorry! It was an accident!" How about I accidentally kill your entire family. "Whoops!" I accepted the harsh reality that accidents did indeed happen sometimes and it was just my time to fall victim to one. Anyway, I went to get the brew and headed back to my designated spot on the highly populated back porch. Murda Mike was pounding a case of beers through the beer bong and I considered pissing in the funnel. Nah, too many people around. He was so drunk you could hit him over the head with a baseball bat and he wouldn't notice. An old friend asked me to roll his pot into a joint and offered a free smoking for compensation. I reluctantly agreed due to doubt in my rolling ability while being so hammered. Overall I did a pretty good job, but I think I spilled like half of his shit on the porch in the process. Oh well, accidents happen, right? The party started to die down after a few hours and I was beginning to say my goodbyes. Just as I stepped out the front door I heard the distinct sound of a beer bottle smashing over a man's head. Across the street, in the middle of a field, several groups of people were battling with intense fury. I darted across the road and attempted to assist anyone familiar on the field. Soon enough, I realised all the guys getting beaten were unfamiliar. My friends were dominating, but one of them was literally squirting blood out of the side of his head. I ran over to him and sat him down because he was too drunk to even notice the massive wound engraved in his skull. He calmed down and we wrapped a t-shirt around his head. "I need an ambulance, man." Nextdoor neighbours heard all the commotion and within minutes police cruisers were flying in from left, right and center. I disappeared into the shadows. I was gone like the wind, baby. After a clean scene flee and a seemingly fast stumble home I noticed that I was completely covered in blood from helping out my friend. When I got inside I made a sandwich and went downstairs to watch television. The sandwich tasted like copper, it reminded me of childhood days when I sucked on pennies. I had completely forgotten to wash my hands of the blood. Gross. A cannibal by mistake, a vampire, a psychopath. Maybe I'm being too hard on myself. Afterall, accidents happen. Now I'm probably going to die of HIV for trying to help someone in a time of need. Figures. How could I possibly forget to wash my god damn hands? I feel like I'm being sent to hell for accidentally stepping on a toad. Oh well, that's just the way it goes, I guess. Hell can't be that bad. I heard Satan has some killer weed. Current Mood: predatory Current Music: keith murray - call my name (Comment on this)
Sunday, May 22nd, 2005
5:10 am	In My Life "Whisper words of wisdom, let it be." - John Lennon I feel like Nicholas Cage in "Leaving Las Vegas". I am drowning in a pool of alcohol, and everytime I indulge in some other drug it is as if someone dropped a hammerhead shark in that pool with me. Somehow, I always manage to beat the shark. Punch the nose, stab the eyes. Deep down, I know that one day the shark will win. You can bet your ass I'll be sitting in my underwear on a lawn chair, drinking a beer, waiting for it to happen. Aside from having to clean up a metric tonne of STAR WARS garbage at work I've had a rather satisfying day. Fabulous poisons were handed to me on a silver platter, I met a girl that seemed to be interested in me, and I found peace with the fire that burns within my stomach. A retina-burning bright light shines ahead, but I have become so accustomed to the shadows that I am afraid to leave. I am safe in this darkness. I am safe in this pool. I am safe behind these lead-paint walls. The walls are crumbling. The pool is overflowing. The darkness is becoming illuminated. I feel like a raccoon trapped in traffic during the unfamiliar sunny day. Please, just let me go home. Current Mood: cold Current Music: Beatles - Let It Be (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, May 17th, 2005
3:06 am	Tyrannical The classmates around me conversed with one another, some grimacing, others whispering, certain individuals snickering over the stumbly teacher that had fallen over during a prior class. As usual, Mr. Stutton was late along with the sassy stoners and apathetic, misunderstood students. It appeared to me as a human science, how people in my particular age group naturally emit a constant and somewhat harmonious commotion across the authority absent area they inhabit. A girl behind me squealed with laughter, a guy named Mike beside me dropped his pencil and knocked over the entire desk in an attempt to pick it up. The body of students responded to the sudden noise with a pause of silence, a rude comment or two, and surely enough the noise commenced once again. They're all idiots, if you ask me. I try not to judge with such haste, but sometimes I just can't help myself. It's not fair really, and you never know what the kid beside you has gone through; how many times his dad hit him, how many loved siblings he may have lost, how many years it took until he finally felt accepted in this grim and frightening world. I never really had a problem fitting in, although I must admit, I keep to myself more than I probably should. I suppose it's a confidence issue, to be perfectly honest. Far too often, I witness relatively intelligent people open their loud mouths and say something stupid enough for me to lose all respect for them. I want to be respected, and as a result I learned to keep my mouth shut. Shakespeare said it best through Hamlet's character Polonious, "Give every man thy ear but few thy voice." I took that one to heart. It seemed to be exceptionally wise advice, even if it was spoken by a fag like Polonious. I noticed this one girl that sat diagonally across from me was wearing a pink mini-skirt. God bless the season of Spring. Northbound birds return to chirp, colourful flowers blossom, and all the chicks bust out the scantily clothes. I experienced an aesthetic nirvana as she bent across the desk to poke a hungover girl in front of her. My inevitable erection seemed to rise perfectly parrallel to the rising skin underneath the frilled, pink skirt. The erection reminded me of a time in grade seven when I was called to the front of the class while experiencing an unexplained and uncontrollable hardon. If only the teacher knew, I would have been saved a lot of embarassment. In light of the shameful memory, I decided to focus on something else while waiting for class to begin. Very soon I would discover that it was already too late. Just as the considerate though crossed my mind, a steel-toed boot cracked the classroom door open with alarming force. A kid from my english class stood in the doorway with a pump-action shotgun clutched within his blood-soaked hands. This had to be a dream. I must have fallen asleep while waiting for the punctually challenged teacher and now I was trapped in this surrealistic nightmare. A thunderous roar came out of the steel barrel and a thick, red mist exploded out of the back of Mike's head. The sensation of warm blood spraying against my face assured me this was no fucking nightmare. Instinctually I leaped out of my seat and knocked over a group of wooden desks for cover. Several classmates darted around the room screaming while others cowered and hid behind anything they could find nearby. Another deafening blast ripped across my head and the sound of concrete shattering was followed by a loud thud. I quickly snatched a tumbled chair by my side and hurled it over the scattered desks, hoping it would nail the motherfucker right in the head. Instead, the legs of the chair tangled around the shotgun and twisted the firearm from his grasp in a truly bizarre manner. Without hesitation, the killer dropped to one knee and reached for the snubnose revolver strapped to his right ankle. What better time than now? A surge of vengeful energy erupted throughout my body as I rammed across the various obstacles with unstoppable fury. I lashed out at the deranged demon of a man and proceeded to pound his lowered face. I thought I had the advantage until he finally pulled the gun out of it's holster and shot a searing hot bullet into my goddamn leg. I never would have imagined being shot would hurt so much. Sometimes in movies you see a guy get filled with bullets and then start fighting his nemesis immediately afterwards, as if it didn't even happen. Unfortunately, this was no dream, nor was it a fucking movie - the recently shot lead was so hot I could literally feel it burning my flesh from the inside. I cried out in agony and slammed my elbow onto the top of his head. The revolver shot out two more times and sulphurous gunsmoke wafted across my bleeding nose. Automatically I gagged and choked on blood that was seeping down my throat, deep crimson globs spurted out my mouth and on to my opponent's grinning face. I dropped to the floor, each pounding pulse sending a fresh wave of pain throughout my entire leg. This isn't my destiny. This isn't how it's supposed to be. I swiftly grabbed the shotgun laying by my wounded leg and cocked back the pump while staring straight into the eyes of the murderous menace. Once again, the shotgun boomed and the english class kid was sent flying backwards crying out his last pathetic noise. Books from shelves rained on the ground around him and a gleaming trickle of blood dripped from the tip of his nose and into the growing pool underneath his corpse. I wiped sweat and blood off my forehead with a torn sleeve and dropped the shotgun. Survivors stood up from their hiding spots, most of them were sobbing, and all of them were looking at me with curious faces. I looked down and realised I still had an erection. Current Mood: creative Current Music: Necro - Light My Fire (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, May 15th, 2005
4:38 am	Yes I Spit Fire "It doesn't matter when you kill me. Because I'll always be around." - Charles Manson What you gonna do when the people go home And you wanna smoke weed but the reefer's all gone And somebody had the nerve to take the herb up out the doobie ashtray Why they do me that way What you gonna do when ya friends go home And you wanna take a pill but ya end's all gone Somebody had the nerve to take the herb up out my doobie ashtray Why they do me that way You probably don't have a big ol' house on the hill But if you did just imagine how it would feel If your phone got disconnected, no cash, and ya gas cut off And the gal that you had that was helping just stepped the fuck off, she took the kid, the dog, and the kitty And everybody know you're at a low, they feel pity And what's really fucked up is now you're just normal No more hoes, no more clothes, can't go to the show cuz it's formal And you wonder why, why, why, why, why And you resort to gettin high But damn, you can't find ya stash And you never took the time to ask yourself You probably don't have a lot of money But if you did would you find it funny If you lent, and you spent it, and you didn't invest Or put it in the bank so we can gain some interest You just went and copped the biggest car you could find And a couple more just like it so your friends could follow behind Never mind how much it costs, you copped the best weed to smoke And for her a fur coat You got jet skis and boats And next thing you're broke And the yacht that you got, it won't sail or float You look back and try to catch someone's attention for help You made a right at the light and they made a left and you ask yourself Why they do me that way Yeah Hey hey hey Ain't no more doobies in the tray What you gonna do when the people go home Wanna smoke some weed but the reefer's all gone What you gonna do when your friends go home And you wanna take a pill but your end's all gone All gone Picture police mad they ain't got a picture of that. Tonight I consumed three fine lagers, over a dozen shots of swedish whiskey and a gram of cannabis sativa. Oh, and I slipped acid in some guys drink then slaughtered him and ate his flesh. Now that's a buzz. You can practically taste the Ergot seeping through the muscle tissue. Even when drunk my scriptures connect to your membranes like a syringe to a vein. I know you feel it, because I feel it too - it is deep within all of us. The undeniable energy sparkling amongst our inter-connected bodies. I dream of you, and you dream of me. Last night my mom woke me up at 5am because I was crying in my sleep. Have I become THAT suppressed? I am that prior mentioned Coca-Cola bottle, ready to explode. Tonight I watched the love of my life walk off with a group of drunk, horny guys. Feel the burn. Feel it like how I feel it. Feel it like how my cat feels when it attacks the screen door. Let your face peel back and reveal that barbaric, confident grin. Laugh at your obstacles. Take hold of what can be yours. Defeat Gods. Current Mood: crazy Current Music: non-phixion - the cia is trying to kill me (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Saturday, May 14th, 2005
2:20 am	Ready For War Everybody has been so nice lately, I'm running out of pictures to throw darts at. The work atmosphere has become much more enjoyable, friends are just always around ready to party, and after a thorough inspection I cannot say that I have any problems worthy of being worried about. But that's just me being me, I always look at things from the positive perspective. Flip it around. Work? Enjoyable? You stand around looking like a jackass for 5 to 8 hours a day and being a supervisor is just as honorable as having a disease named after you. Friends? For all I know, the assholes could just be using me for my chill pad and sick ride. Problems? You got plenty, bud, you're just too scared to acknowledge and face them. Do you ever just put aside your problems, y'know, wave em' off? Some people do and explode like a shook up coca-cola bottle, whereas I just kinda null them out. They fade with time. Life is too short to plague yourself with worry and regret. As a matter of fact, the stress on your heart from being anxious and worried all the time is more than likely shortening your oh so precious life. Certain emotions are literally bad for your heart. Does that worry you? Then stop complaining, become productive and get to work on some sort of immortality elixir before it's too late. Lots of people around me just complain about their "shitty" life all the time. It is ridiculous. Without trying to sound like some sort of African famine activist, I want to slap those people, send them to Libya for a week, slap them when they come back and then watch them complain about THEIR life. Chances are they would shut right the fuck up after an experience like that. I think the only thing I can really complain about in my life is women. Either I'm trying too hard or not trying nearly hard enough. All around me I see people hooking up and having a fabulous time, sharing tasty milkshakes with two straws and probably having even tastier sex. I've dated a number of girls that were fairly rewarding, but when it comes down to it I just want to have a sexy, reliable, intelligent companion. I want to share a malty milkshake dammit. Is that so much to ask for? At AMC I see guys with incredibly nice and gorgeous babes and I think to myself "Man, I could SO do a better job with that girl. What are they even doing together? Talk about bad mathematics. I should just waste that dude and feed the bitch seedless grapes for the rest of her life." But that's just not the way it goes. Maybe I have trouble with girls because of the bacterial warfare on my face, or the noticeably skinny body, or the lame style in clothing. "Oh I don't care if a guy is good looking. All that really matters is his personality. He has to be nice, funny and smart." Give me a break, bitch. I have people tell me that I'm funny and smart all the time. Still, I go home every night and resort to masturbation. Every time I start to get interested in a girl she sways off and heads in the direction of some next guy with a stylish haircut. I've had such bad luck with girls lately that I would swear I've been sprayed with a girl repellant by some wild plant or something. Horoscopes always promise 'a new and exciting love at the end of the month' but as the month passes I begin to think the horoscope was referring to the 'limited time only' hamburger from Wendy's. Well I would trade all the bacon-mushroom-melts in the world for a person that I could just look forward to seeing everyday. Current Mood: rejected Current Music: Eminem - Got It Twisted (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, May 7th, 2005
3:42 am	With The Energy "Earth calling, pilot to co-pilot. Looking for life on this planet sir, no sign of it. All I can see is a bunch of smoke flying and I'm so high that I might die if I don't buy it. Let me out of this place, I'm out of place. I'm in outerspace, I've just vanished without a trace. I'm going to a pretty place now where the flowers grow, I'll be back in an hour or so." - Marshall Mathers I feel it is necessary that I mention I am extremely intoxicated right now. My words are weapons, sharp like a dagger with a jagged edge. When most people come home from a long day at work, or whatever it is they do to fill their day, they think "Ahhh, home sweet home!". When I come home I find myself contemplating if whether or not I should keep my shoes on - in case if they attack and I need to flee out the back door. I wouldn't want to have to do that without my shoes, so, more than often I will be lounging in my living room with a fresh pair of Adidas strapped tight. I used to sell drugs and as a result I developed some kind of obsessive paranoia disorder. Everytime I went out to meet a member of my clientele I was expecting a SWAT team to swarm around me and lay down inevitable justice. Fortunately, I got out of that risky game. One time I was walking home from school and I was surprised with a massive SWAT wagon parked right in front of my goddamn house. I nearly died from intense worry. They had finally caught up and it was time that I went out guns'a'blazing. I might go out in a bodybag, but never in cuffs. I gripped the cold steel peacefully resting against my right-side ribcage and focused on everything in the world that pissed me off. Fuel for war. Siberian warriors traditionally consumed psilocybin-fungus before going into battle because it enhanced their senses and brought out the natural, primeval war skills that every human unknowingly possesses. I needed those mushrooms. Before exploding onto the scene and making history I decided to ask one of the many wandering cops what all the commotion was about. Apparently, there was a hostage situation down the street and they decided to use my front lawn as a headquarter base. Some guy lost his wife and he decided it would be a good idea to hold a nailgun against his daughter's head in order to get what he desired. Phew, close call. Still, I can't help but suspect everyone within my various surroundings. They're all out to get me. Every man with a cell phone, every idle car near mine, every exceptional glance I receive from a stranger, my muscles cannot help but tighten. My mind becomes sharp. I become incredibly observant, I plot escapes, I calculate all possible threats and thoroughly analyze the danger. I think that technically I am officially insane due to this constant tendency. But then again, who decides what is to be sane and/or insane? Guys in ties and suits? Spoiled brats from private schools? Bitch, please. I like to tell myself that I am just a very careful person. You can just call me a boyscout because I always go out prepared; one can of 5% oleoresin capsicum mace, dual 9mm Walther semi-automatic P99 handguns, an aluminum baseball bat, and a Navy Seal-issue combat knife. I also have a mexican whip and a dragon-head handled katana, but those weapons seem somewhat impractical to carry around. Imagine you got in an argument with some dude and he pulled out a fucking samurai sword. "Oh shit!" Do you think I'm crazy for being equipped to that degree? Police officers carry the exact same amount of weaponry when they patrol the suburban streets. Like that chick from "Bowling For Columbine", I am just cutting out the middleman. Why do people call police? Because they have guns. One of my favourite sayings - a gun is like a condom, it is better to have one and not need it than to need one and not have it. I'll be damned if I don't stand up to some malicious menace that endangers me and my loved ones. I'll be damned if I fall victim to some other mothefucker that thinks he has the right to claim vengenace upon the world. Picture me scared of a man that breathes the same air as me. I will not be beaten. I cannot fail. This is survival. My mind is of an ancient warrior's, my body is an unfortunate mistake foolishly placed in modern times. Sounds silly? Soon you'll be paying for groceries with DNA codes in your vocal chords, so hang on tight. At this very moment I decided I will no longer take drugs. I don't even enjoy them anymore. I just wake up feeling like shit every morning. Although they have provided infinite inspiration and motivation in the past, I feel as if I am beyond the problematic clutch that used to be oh so tight. Stephen King, one of my favourite authors, wrote nearly a dozen novels while under the influence of a ten year cocaine binge. He claims that he does not even remember writing them. I want to remember. I want to be nostalgic and grateful for the past behind me. But sometimes the past can be haunting. Current Mood: crazy Current Music: Billy Talent - nothing to lose (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, May 6th, 2005
2:31 am	Roll Right "The very existence of flamethrowers proves that sometime, somewhere, someone said to themselves, "You know, I want to set those people over there on fire, but I'm just not close enough to get the job done." -George Carlin Is a criminal born the way he is, or is it the world of influence that turns him into the monster that he has become? I lost my innocence in kindergarten when I stole all the chocolates that were taped to the valentine cards on top of my fellow classmates' desks. After eating my designated chocolate, I felt as if the other children did not deserve the cherry-filled delicacies that blessed my tantalized tastebuds - the caviar of childhood. Although im not sure if it was the unfamiliar feeling of guilt or the very fact that i had just eaten roughly thirty chocolates, I felt bad. I'm the type of person that would not hesitate to kill a man but still avoids stepping on sidewalk-exploring ants. Perhaps this could be because as a child i made a habit of killing insects. I was ruthless - a merciless God that reigned supreme upon my helpless victims. And as horrible as that may sound, i learned so much from my sadistic past. After years of savage killing I came to appreciate what I had originally despised. Now I'm not necessarily saying that you have to murder hundreds of people in order to appreciate them, but moreso that an individual must sometimes experience the dark elements of life in order to simply be real. Every little thing that you experience, whether good or bad, trains you to become an overall better person. Experience helps you to understand, and thus grants you wisdom. Never will you be able to effectively judge a murderer until you have killed and undergone the aftermath effects as well. Guilt. Paranoia. Anxiety. Regret. Repent. There is always a lot more to it than it seems. If there really is a heaven and hell, then what happens to a changed man that dies in his jail cell? I for one do not believe in God or any of that business. I like to think that when we die we are forced to roam the earth as spectating spirits, watching carefully over those who are still lucky enough to be alive. And when that murderer or rapist finally meets his fate, he will be stuck with the all-seeing entities that witnessed his heinous crimes. An eternity of shame, ridicule and disgust is promised. How fitting. How appropriate. How ideal. Be sure to think about that one while you're masturbating. Quite frankly, my concept seems a lot more realistic than per say being judged and sent to hell by a harp-toting, white-bearded God. A hundred bucks says the "virgin" Mary just got knocked up and didnt want to admit it to her strict and unforgiving parents. "Oh shit! I knew I shouldn't have slept with that filthy wiseman! Now I'm pregnant and my dad is going to be so pissed! Wait, I got it! I'll just tell everyone that I was impregnated by God! Yes, that's the ticket." If any woman tried to pull that off in this day and age she would be sent to an asylum immediately. I hope you enjoy electrotherapeutics, babe. Did you know that religion-influenced murder has killed more people than cancer? Don't get me wrong, I am indeed an athiest, but in no way am I anti-religion. Jesus and all those other religious figures provide hope for those that cannot find hope anywhere else, which is righteously wonderful. Religion unites us, but it also divides us. It has the power to save lives and take away life as well. Religion is undoubtedly the best reflection of it's practicing society. It displays our beliefs, values and morals - still, we must all acknowledge the numerous flaws that have yet to be worked out. Sounds familiar? I guess it all comes back to what I was originally trying to say around the beginning of the entry - regardless of our sincerest intentions and good-willed achievements, we will never be perfect until we all come face to face with what is labeled to be evil. A life of conformity is no life at all. I guess we can't blame ourselves for being so ignorant. I mean, think about it, the very religious systems that establish what is right and wrong is in essence the source and motive of almost all our baneful actions. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world. Current Mood: lonely Current Music: eminem - if i had (7 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, May 5th, 2005
12:36 am	Epiphany Inhale. Exhale. I feel the poison swirl around my head, it seems majestic yet frantic, as if trying to make the most of it's short life in the atmosphere. Soon I will have to decide on what i want to be when i grow up. That sounds silly, I'm only eighteen, but I feel grown up anyway - so it's weird to hear myself say "when i grow up.". I never really thought about it, to be honest. As an adolescent I just figured I would become an assassin and take out marks for about $20,000 a head. Purchase a suppressed .50 calibre sniper rifle and a pair of nine-millimeter berettas from some faceless people, rid myself of all human compassion, next thing you know, I'm set. My coiled hands around this firearm are lethal. One day I would eventually get setup by a false contract, gunned down by some tactical unit, and the only thing that would matter is the copy of "Catcher in the Rye" clutched within my bloody hands. Do you ever desire to become legendary? How would you go about achieving such a thing? If you commited suicide, would you leave a note? If so, what would it consist of? Think deeply about that one. My heart is racing, but my mind is dull. An unstoppable force trapped within an incapable form. I am a human caterpillar, waiting in my cocoon, anxious to reveal my new fantastic form, but a spider has wrapped a web around my shell. I can't break the shell. The shell is breaking me. I need to escape this darkness that I have become so familiar with. Current Mood: anxious Current Music: Billy Ocean - Loverboy (6 Comments |Comment on this)