Short Stories

Steps

2010-02-24T23:51:00.000-08:00

Right now I have three steps in the rest of my life. The first step. The step of certainty. I take it knowing exactly what I want and what I want to come of it. I know that two more steps after this that my life will come to an end. I know that all the torture, the agony, the paralyzing guilt, the dreadful regret will all cease to exist after two more steps. This thought is unbearably comforting as I'm so weary from hating myself that the notion of no longer being able to scream at myself for the things I've done, mentally, sounds like a great relief.

The second step is the step of uncertainty. At this step I know that there is only one left in my life. I am one pace away from nonexistence. This makes me question existence in itself. Has it been worth it? Sure there have been unsavory times, horrible even. But it hasn't really been TOO awful. Sure there were the break ups, the failures, the utter shame, but in addition there were the moments of glory, the first hook ups, the drunken friendships, the adventures that bonded entire groups of people together. That wasn't so bad. In fact it was so much fun that sometimes I'd lie awake at night and just recall the ridiculously hilarious comments my friends had made.

The third step is the step of regret. This is the step that causes gravity to firmly grasp at my torn pant legs and pull me towards the ground that's thousands of feet below. This is the step that makes me think of every first kiss, every hug my mom every gave me, every pat on the back my dad reluctantly placed, and every inside joke my friends and I ever shared. This is the step that will eventually seperate my head from the rest of my body, and will place my organs and bodily fluids outside of my skin.

Right now the Earth's gravitational force is pulling me down. Soon I will be a beautiful collection of human paste, no longer able to feel anything. All the deep introspective thoughts I've had erased in less that one second. All this is hitting me right now as I'm about to die and the only thing on my mind is...

"Shit."

Great Great Great Grandson

2009-08-26T17:20:00.000-07:00

There was a tempest blowing. Waves crashed percussion beats upon the sandy shores, and the few grains that weren't soaked by the ocean were saturated by the pelting rain. The churning navy blue water was frosted with white tips as it sloshed against the land and itself.

Nathan Ahab watched this all in silence from his perch. He stood there marveling at it all, the pure ferocity that was the sea.

"The deep. It is where I belong" he thought, a slow smile curling up the corners of his mouth. His face a history book of scars, each one telling a different story. His hair a mane as thick as a horse's while as silver as a sterling spoon.

He pictured all his adventures. Chasing his prey across the great seas, fighting to survive the elements, swearing revenge on those that wronged him, and wreaking havoc on those that deserved it.

The storm continued to rage, drops of rain collided against the large glass window with a thud, and Nathan sighed heavily. It had been years since he felt truly alive and this downpour had lit a spark that had long been extinguished. Something that had been within his family for generations and generations. The spark inside his chest swelled like the waters of the deep and he knew that he would again return to his passion: the sea.

Nathan stood up, climbed down the ladder, and readied himself to leave. He grabbed his coat, a sturdy article that had weathered many storms more fierce than this one. The doors flung open at his presence, letting the rain wash over his face. Nathan was about to leave and never come back when a harsh voiced called out from the abyss behind him.

"Where do you think YOU'RE going?"

Nathan Ahab spun around and met his challenger eye to eye. He knew he had little hope of leaving with out some confrontation.

"Well?"

"I'm leaving, Stephen, and never coming back" his voice as cold as ice and stern as steel with determination.

"I don't think so. Your shift doesn't end for an hour and fifteen minutes! Get back to work." With that Nathan's manager stamped off, his black oxfords leaving scuffs on the pristine floor.

Filled with a furious frustration that even Poseidon would tremble before, Nathan threw his coat upon the floor and returned to stocking the shelves with printer ink.

Outside of the walls of Nathan's prison, outside the walls of the Office Max where he worked, the storm raged on.

Room Mating

2009-07-05T19:12:00.000-07:00

Walking back to my apartment after going for a run my mind starts to wander. My roommate, Ben has been gone for around three days and gave no warning about his disappearance. He's done this a couple times before and usually just returns randomly and we never discuss where or why he went. I chalk this up to us just being guys and because I don't care enough to ask.

I'm nearing the large wrought-iron gate that is the entrance to my apartment complex and I start wondering what Ben does during these little covert escapades. Since I've been generally apathetic about the on-goings of his life I hadn't really considered what the trips might consist of. Maybe a member of his family is sick and he's visiting for a few days at a time? Probably not, I know his immediate family and a few extended relatives and they're fine. Maybe he's a model and he's going on gigs? Doubt that, though he has been working out pretty intensely for the past few months. I go through a couple more inane possibilities (shooting an adult film or competing in a body building competition) before I land on one that makes me uncomfortable.

Ben's always been a quiet guy and never really talks about what he does in his spare time. When I actually do care enough to ask what he's been up to I usually get a vague "You know. Stuff". Upon prying further he'll either change the subject or just say he doesn't want to talk about it. This matters because I've been watching a lot of horror movies lately and this leads me to believe one thing: I'm living with a serial killer. Or at least a murderer of some sort.

I realize that being a killer of serial status takes a lot of work and repetition. You have to have some sort of recurring theme in your targets. A few examples could be: only killing call girls, obese people, or individuals that love animals more than humans. With this in mind my brain races back and forth as I try to think of things that Ben has shown distaste for. You know his serial thing. I'm dusting out the corners of my head but the best I can come up with is hatred for when people mix up "affect" and "effect" or spell definitely "definately". If he wanted to murder people that did that he'd have to take out the majority of internet users.

With how mysterious he's been, there's no way I could know what kind of victims he daydreams about well, victimizing. And it hits me. Maybe he's been quiet around me because he doesn't like me. And if he doesn't like me why wouldn't I be one of his targets? What if he was just making me think he was gone to throw me off my guard? Great. I'm screwed. Probably. I think.

I get to my apartment and as I'm reaching for the door knob I'm desperately trying to quash thoughts of my finding the severed heads of my family and girlfriend in our refrigerator. Firstly because I'd be horrified. Secondly because I'd probably vomit everywhere, and let's face it, the guy who'd kill someone over mispelling "definitely" is probably the same guy who would make me clean up my own puke before dismembering me.

Pulling open the door into my living room I get an eyeful of two tangled naked bodies and start to panic before I realize that it's just Ben having sex with my girlfriend, Rachel. Wait. What?!

I almost tell him to get off of her but am somewhere inbetween being so angry and relieved that he's not a serial killer that I just kind of stand there in awkward silence. And let me tell you, it is awkward. Normal people just don't look appealing when they're getting it on. Or at least these two don't.

It's nearing the one minute mark and Ben and my now whore ex-girlfriend are still going at it. Either they're really into doing each other or they just don't care that I'm here. I don't really want to find out which of the two it is so I throw the nearest thing that I can find at them. Incidentally my couch is now covered in Mr. Pibb.

Apparently getting a Dr. Pepper knock off all over the two of them is the key to getting their attention. It takes a few more seconds before they manage to untangle themselves from each other and a few more before they actually address me.

I've decided that in this situation it's probably best to let one of them talk first. Ben, sitting up on the couch stares at me blankly for a moment and says matter-of-factly "Oh hey, I've been meaning to tell you. I've been banging your girlfriend".

"Oh" is the only word that really comes mind so that's all I say.

"This isn't the way I wanted you to find out, but I suppose it works" Ben muses whilst scratching himself.

Rachel, my ex, keeps glancing back and forth between Ben and I. She looks stupid.

"You seem kind of angry Jesse, you're not going to try and smother me in my sleep are you?" Ben jokes, but the irony isn't lost on me.

"Ben, shut up", apparently Rachel remembered how to talk.

About this time I remember that the two of them are still naked, and that while Ben has made no effort to cover himself, Rachel it seems is frantically searching the room for anything to cover her shame. Ben and I have a pretty simple life style so she eventually settles for covering her top with an Esquire featuring a grinning Lil' Wayne on the cover and a GQ displaying a screaming Christian Bale to go over her crotch. The face on the magazine resting on her lap and I have much more in common than the one pressed against her chest.

I still haven't said anything else.

With the issues of GQ and Esquire held tightly against her body Rachel starts getting up of the couch and edging towards the exit, "Jess, look. I didn't want to hurt you..." By now she's pretty close to the door which I neglected to shut and I can see where this is headed. Turning around, leaning forward, and putting her head down she sprints out of the apartment at break-neck speed.

She calls out "We'll talk about this later!" mid-stride from down the hall.

At this point I don't really feel like ever speaking to her again so I figure yelling "No We Won't!" down the empty hallway is a good decision.

Turning back to Ben, I contemplate punching his face but I just end up telling him that she has chlamydia and that I'm saving it for marriage. Also that I'm glad he's not a serial killer.

He doesn't get it. Sometimes I forget everyone can't hear my thoughts.

Chunks

2009-02-14T02:01:00.000-08:00

Jeremy felt awkward.

He'd been making out with Blair for a good thirty minutes or so and things had taken a turn he wasn't prepared for. It was all going smoothly, very smoothly when Jeremy had finally worked up the guts to work his right hand slowly up Blair's shirt. After going on seven dates with Blair and being her boyfriend for a month and a half, Jeremy had finally worked up the courage to go for the gold. The thing is, Jeremy hadn't thought of the reaction his action might cause. This is what caught him off guard.

Upon finally resting his hand on the desired area Jeremy braced himself for some type of retribution that involved quickly removing it. Instead of this Blair swiftly plunged her hand southward of Jeremy's belt line. Jeremy had no idea what to do.

Being sixteen and a half Jeremy had been teased by his friends for several years about not getting any "action" of sorts. Sure he'd kissed a few girls here and there but nothing even remotely close to what was happening now. This was not quite what he was expecting.

Being new to the area of third base Jeremy had hoped to ease into it. It seemed however that Blair being more experienced (Jeremy was her fifth boyfriend and ninth kiss) had no intention of going anywhere near slow. Her hand now enthusiastically running up and down his boxer region, Jeremy slipped into panic.

Hating himself for not wanting to go forward with what seemed like something his friends would kill for, Jeremy started to wrack his brain for ways out of the predicament with minimal damage. He ruled out telling her the truth, that would make him seem wierd. Who didn't want a rough, through-the-pants hand job in the back seat of a 1987 Corolla? No one Jeremy, no one. He thought maybe if he kissed her harder or put more attention on her she might lose focus. He tried this but quickly found that it only intensifed the already vigorous hand movement being performed by Blair. Jeremy's panic increased correspondingly.

Realizing he had no choice but to physically stop her Jeremy tried to muster the moxie to do so. As he desperately tried to, the poor guy had another realization; he was running out of time. Breathing hard he readied himself to pull her hand away when it happened. And when it did he couldn't believe that it had.

He vomited, and he vomited hard. Blair screamed in horror as her brand new top that she had purchased just to look good for Jeremy, was soaked in his puke. Simultaneously filled with shame and relief Jeremy quickly pulled away and climbed into the driver's seat of his car. He didn't even wait for Blair to follow before he put the keys into the ignition and squealed out of the parking lot where they had been making out.

The fifteen minute ride to his date's house was possibly the most excruciating time in Jeremy's life. Blair, being the sweetheart she was, tried to talk about what happened, but everything she said was returned with only a stony cold silence from Jeremy's side of the car.

Arriving at her home Blair stepped out of the car and turned to her boyfriend one last time to try and say something calming. Their eyes met but before she could open her mouth, Jeremy reached over, slammed the door shut, and sped off. Leaving Blair mouth agape alone on the sidewalk.

They dated five more weeks before Blair broke up with Jeremy because he said My Chemical Romance was better than A.F.I.

In-Flight

2009-01-14T04:00:00.000-08:00

It was when I actually saw the large man in front of me holding the gun that I knew there was a problem.

I had heard him talking on the phone earlier about how he had managed to sneak on the plane this new fangled plastic gun with new fangled plastic bullets. I didn't really think much of it until too late for a few reasons. First of all that just sounds retarded. A plastic gun with plastic bullets? That's Con Air type stuff. Another thing was that he was a burly bald man in a wife-beater with a large handlebar mustache. How can you take anyone seriously with those characteristics? You can't. Thirdly was his pronounced Russian accent. Every other sentence it was "Comrade" this, "comrade" that. Again, how do you take someone like that seriously? And again, you just don't.

Course now I wish I had. I imagine it would be pretty easy to have inconspicuously mentioned what I had overheard to a stewardess. The pilots could have been alerted and locked the cabin doors, effectively preventing this whole debacle from happening. But I didn't and I paid for it. Literally. The grizzly Soviet made me give him my wallet. But whatever. There was only twenty-two dollars in there anyway.

By the time I did see the gun pretty much all the damage that was going to happen, already had. He'd gotten up to use the restroom near the cockpit and I was too absorbed in the in-flight movie to notice him enter it. It was Maid of Honor. A mediocre chick flick about a man trying to woo a long time friend after realizing she was the "one". The plot was just riveting.

There were a few shouts, thuds, and one yelp before the Comrade came out of the cockpit holding in his hand the plastic gun. He looked distressed.

Apparently Mr. Russia had been confused about the lethal nature of the gun. Meaning, it wasn't actually lethal at all. The pistol he planned to hijack the plane with only shot bullets that had similar effects to those of rubber ones. Painful, but not fatal. However being the creative thinker he was, the Ruskie proceeded to plant two shots right into each of Pilot One's eyes. Not mortally wounding him, but still making him useless as navigator of our particular aircraft. It's cool though right? There is always a copilot.

Unfortunately, seeing the fate that befell Pilot One, Pilot Two decided he would valiantly attack his coworker's assailant. This resulted in a swift elbow to his temple, courtesy of senor Comrade. The big bad Russian immediately regretted that course of action because both pilots were now out of commission.

This was obviously not part of his grand scheme because upon re-entering the main cabin of the plane he made an announcement in his thick Russian accent.

"I shot the pilot" He boomed. He then proceeded to go about row by row asking people if they knew how to fly a plane. I of course did. For dramatic effect I waited until he got to me individually before I admitted it.

Upon discovery of my talent the mustachioed muscle man blurted "I'm begging you to fly this for me. I do not want to die just yet." I agreed to accept the task, but only because I enthusiastically shared the same sentiment.

He escorted me to the cockpit where he quickly freed both pilot chairs of their bloody occupants. One seat for me. One seat for him. Goody.

I sat down in the chair and noticed the plane was on autopilot. This was because we were only a little over half way through with our journey. I contemplated finishing out our flight to Denver which would save myself and the other passengers the trouble of booking another flight. But then I remembered that this would greatly increase the face time I would have with the now very peevish looking Russian next to me.

I took care of all the necessary things: radio-ing the nearest airport, filling them in, and etc. etc. We landed a little roughly but other than that I was pretty impressed with myself. I had only flown crop dusters.

After we touched down we had to wait fifteen or so minutes before we could get to a terminal where everyone could be unloaded. During this time the husky Ruskie informed me of his plan to escape. He requested my wallet, and after I gave it to him he opened it and gazed intently at my I.D. As soon as I was about to become uncomfortable with him looking at my picture for so long he disappeared from the cockpit and returned with his carry on bag.

He looked again at my driver's license and then dug around awhile in his newly retrieved bag before pulling out a shaggy wig that slightly resembled my hair. He placed the wig on his head and told me that he would be stealing my identity as a means of avoiding the law. Being five foot ten and weighing a measly one hundred fifty pounds, I was what can only be described as "stupefied". At this a stair car pulled up to the plane and the passengers began to unload, including the hijacker.

He was tackled brutally by security guards the moment his foot hit the pavement.

And that was pretty much my Saturday.

Bar Scene

2008-12-23T23:47:00.000-08:00

As I pull my lips from the bottle I'm drinking I notice something I hadn't in the previous four or five sips; it's saltier than usual. Of course this isn't hard because beer isn't usually salty. This really doesn't mean anything to me. I'm drinking a Corona, a relatively cheap beer that's served with a lime. Limes are often drunk with tequila which is often drunk with salt. It would make sense if a lime had somehow come in contact with some salt from a margarita and ended up in my beer; this isn't that fancy of a bar. I piece this all together in my head and justify the brackish taste. I smile to myself and think of asking the bartender why my beer tastes like it does just so he can tell me what I just figured. I don't.

I take another pull from the bottle and there's the salt again. No matter, it really doesn't taste that bad. I look to the left, empty bar stools. I look to the right, four chairs down there's a moderately attractive woman. I'm disappointed she's not a knock out but take solace in the thought that three to five more of these salty brews will make her so. In accordance with what's running through my head I gulp down the rest of the bottle. I steal another glance. Damn. Still a six point five at best. I return my focus to my beverage and suck the dregs of the beer down my throat. Huh, still salty. Whatever.

I ask for another Corona from the bartender who has a surprised look on his face when he sees how quickly I finished the previous one. He turns his back to grab a bottle and lingers for a second. I reassure him I'm not that drunk and that he shouldn't be thinking about whether or not to give me another. I don't think that was what HE was thinking cause he gave me one before I had finished my statement. Honestly I don't really care what he's thinking.

I turn my attention to the slightly-better-than-okay female a few seats down. She's kinda despondent looking, I like that. Course I can't blame her for being blue in a place like this. I swallow hard a few times and down a little more than half the bottle of beer. Man that's salty. I take another look and she's gotten a bit cuter. That's faster than normal, but whatever, I'm not going to argue with the results. I down the rest of the Corona and another before I work up the nerve to talk to her.

The conversation doesn't last long before things start to go wrong. Right after I weasel her name out of her my head starts to spin. God this doesn't feel normal. The taste of salt is strong in my mouth as I collapse to the floor. My heart's beating faster than all the horse's combined at the Kentucky Derby, and I can barely make out the kind-of-cutie's concerned face as I drift in and out of consciousness.

The bartender's face looks relieved compared to bit-above-average's when I start to piece things together again. I'm not really drunk, I'm dying. That salty taste isn't from an accidental lime but rather it's most likely from the subtle amount of rat poison the bartender-who-isn't-really-a-bartender/hitman has been sneaking into each and every one of my beers. I guess this is what I get going to a sleazy bar a couple of hours before I testify in court against a mob boss.

The worst part is my dying sight is the visage of a six point niner calling an ambulance and a moldy roof that has a stain that resembles Bob Hope's profile. God I hope I make it to Heaven. The gin joints there probably have cuter barflies.

We're Still Best Friends Right?

2008-12-17T20:26:00.000-08:00

Hey uh, we're still best friends, right? I mean you haven't returned any of my calls (and there have been plenty of opportunities man). Dude all these years we've been friends and you're going to let one chick ruin that...

Oh good, you picked up the phone!

You remember that time we got drunk in your basement sophomore year in high school? Who am I kidding? Of course you do! Anyway, we had just broken up with our current girlfriends at the time (God rest Katie's stupid whore soul) and you wrapped your arm around my shoulder and said I was all you ever needed 'cause we were best friends.

No dude, you totally said that.

No I swear you did.

Anyway man, you said that and I thought you actually meant it. I made "Friends Forever" wrist bands. You don't want yours? Really? I spent, like, THREE hours making them.

I really can't believe you're letting a girl come between us! No, no, let me talk. I remember a time when we could slap each other's asses and laugh it off, now you can't even look me in the eye. Well I bet you wouldn't if we were in person.

Look dude, I really didn't want this to happen. But seriously it was only one chick. Chill out. Dude. Ashley came on to ME, I swear. I mean I helped you out! You were going to marry that skank. You should be thanking me. But anyway....

You down for drinks later?

A Quick Rap About a Pregnancy that was the Result of a One Night Stand (From the Guy's Perspective)

2008-11-20T15:50:00.000-08:00

If you're the sky and I am the Earth
It's gonna feel like a continent when you give birth.
Look I'm sorry but I don't wear rubbers,
But I am confident you'll make a good mother.
Ha Ha no of course I'm not serious
You're a gutter slut. What're you delirious?
Pop that kid out and give him to me,
If I'm gonna pick up chicks that kid is the key.
What? Just cause you're pregnant doesn't mean we are married.
God you're suffocating me like I'm alive and I'm buried.
Look look look calm down it's okay.
I promise I will be there on David's birth day.
I can't promise I'll be sober, or even not high.
Yeah I'm a little bit drunk right now, why?
Sorry but this is a bit stressful you know?
I'm just calming my nerves with some Jack and some blow.
Wait, wait, you don't like the name David?
I picked that shit out, thought you'd be elated.
What?! No! We're not calling him Trayvon!
No no no stop this, Christ. How about Shaun?
Yeah okay I can work with that, long as it's not Matt.
Now let's do it again before your boyfriend comes back.
....What?

Read This in 00:01:07

2008-11-17T21:51:00.000-08:00

My mom first thought I had a problem when I made a countdown for dinner one night. I think she got suspicious around the time when I made the entire family wait thirteen minutes and forty three seconds before anyone could eat because that's when the countdown ended. I didn't make the rules, and I couldn't help that my mom had finished making dinner earlier than what she had previously said. I just knew that I had started that countdown and that the family should not eat before it ended. That would just be wrong. Why have a countdown if it doesn't matter when it finally reaches 00:00:00?

Though she probably figured I had a problem then my mom didn't do anything about it until she caught me having sex with my girlfriend with a countdown going on my laptop on the bedside table. Even though she walked in I made Lindsey keep going. The countdown was running and I was not going to sacrilege and stop before it ended. That's why there are rules people! Rules that are bigger than me and my girlfriend and my mom!

My mom the passionate woman that she is tried to pull me off her but I just wouldn't let it be. There was still time left on the clock. 00:02:35:17 to be exact. I had to whack my mom with a plastic bat I kept under my bed and occasionally Lindsey. I don't know why they were unreasonable.

So after that ordeal my mom made me see a therapist which I didn't have too much of a problem with. Everyday Friday after chemistry I would get to leave school and start the countdown of 2:00:00. Sometimes Mr. Thirlby my therapist ends it at 0:02:47 so I have to blurt out random embarrassing things to make sure that it ends right on time. I'm not sure what would happen if it didn't end on time but I don't plan on finding out.

I would keep on going but I'm only a few seconds away from the time on my talking about my countdown problem countdown. Anyway though I don't think it's a prob--

On the Over Pass

2008-11-09T20:55:00.001-08:00

We woke up sometime Sunday morning around ten thirty. When we came to, we investigated our surroundings and observed that we were on a bridge. We had been drinking heavily the night before and I didn't remember much of what had happened. I was curious as to why we were both in slacks, dress coats, and ties. From the state of our hair I guessed that at the start of the night it must have had gel in it. Matt's was sticking up in the back and from a reflection in a broken beer bottle I could tell mine didn't look any better.

"Unhhhhh"

That was probably the most eloquent thing Matt could muster right then and I was impressed that he could manage to make any sort of noise. I turned back to the beer bottle to further inspect my reflection and I noticed that both of my eyes were distinctly black. I touched my face to be sure and was met with a dull pain.

"Ow..."

"Yeah I wasn't gonna say anything. You look like a panda"

"I don't ever want to drink again"

I noticed that Matt's clothes were more torn than mine. This was a shame because his were significantly nicer. He always shopped at department stores. I also noticed that he had a cut lip but other than that seemed to be undamaged.

I stood up to discover a shooting pain tear through my leg and I promptly leaned against the railing of the bridge. Looking down I realized that I had an awful headache and that I was nauseous. Then the vomit came.

It was pretty violent but I welcomed the chance to get rid of the awkward sensation that had been filling my stomach. After the contents of my stomach were emptied onto the traffic below I tried standing up straight again. The pain promptly returned to my leg but not in such an acute way. I could walk.

"I think we should get moving" Matt mused as he surveyed the broken bottles of beer and liquor around him.

"Good idea."

Matt took a few wobbly steps forward before plunging to the pavement.

"Shit."

I bent over to help him and was immediately reminded of my throbbing leg.
I picked him off the cement and helped steady him as we started walking off the bridge. To keep my mind off my swollen eyes and injured leg I tried to remember what it exactly was we did the night before.

"How much do you remember?" I said aloud, almost talking to myself.

"You mean about last night?" Matt responded with a wince, his hands now bleeding from the fall to the concrete.

"Yeah, I don't remember much. Just some flashes here and there."

"Well I remember we were at a bar. We were telling people it was your birthday, people were buying you drinks and stuff. It was pretty cool."

"Oh. That's great. But what about the black eyes?"

At this Matt stopped walking and looked down.

"Well people kept buying you drink after drink after drink. And pretty soon you passed out. By pretty soon, I mean after about sixteen shots."

"Sixteen? That'd explain this headache."

"Actually it doesn't. At least not a hundred percent. I couldn't get you to wake up so I dragged you outside the bar. I was freaking out. I thought maybe if I punched you in the face a couple times you'd wake up. You didn't"

"What?!"

"Yeah anway dude long story short. Got you to the emergency room, they pumped your stomach and we were on our way. Mind you it was only twelve thirty when we got out of the ER."

"Ooh that's early" I quipped, the memory of the night starting to trickle back.

"Yeah it was. So we decided we'd just go to the corner store and buy a few Forties. We did, and we ended the night trying to spit on cars that were passing us under the bridge. We passed out shortly after. "

"Wait why are we in such fancy clothes if we were just at a bar?"

"Well it was at a bar that was part of a bar-mitzvahs. You know the Jewish ceremony where a boy becomes a man type thing" We'd started walking again and Matt tripped while saying this. Nearly missing another meet with the sidewalk.

"So I was stealing the spotlight from the bar-mitzvahs kid because we were lying it was my birthday. What the fuck were we doing at a bar-mitzvahs anyway."

"My cousin, Jerry. He was a photographer there so he got us in. There was free food man."

"Oh. Awesome."

"Yeah that's what I thought."

At this both Matt and I fell silent. My head began to swim again and it looked like Matt didn't feel any better. We walked the seven blocks back to our battered apartment and stumbled in the door. We both went to our separate rooms.

I heard Matt's door slam and then creak back open. It always did that because somebody kicked it in a year ago trying to get into his room. I fell down on my bed and groaned happily as I curled into the fetal position. I instantly fell asleep only to awake a minute later with Matt standing over my head, a thoughtful expression on his brow.

"Dude, what're we doing next weekend?"

I turned over on my side, clamped my eyes shut, and immediately decided I was never changing roommates.

Insurmountable

2008-10-31T16:06:00.000-07:00

It was four in the morning and my eyes felt like what I imagine a rusty boat out of water would. My two friends Jeff and Lars (that wasn't his real name, he just really liked the Ryan Gosling movie) were sitting there wide eyed with mouths open. Both wore braces which is slightly embarrassing seeing as how we're all sophomores in college. The lights in the room reflected off of said braces which tempted me to make a joke about it but I decided quickly that wasn't appropriate due to our current situation.

My parents had left for the weekend and we thought it'd be fun if we tried to have a party reminiscent of the ones we went to in high school. When I say "ones" I mean just one. We weren't losers, we just weren't cool. Jeff, Lars, and I were the kids that if we sat next to a kid further up in the hierarchy they'd laugh at our jokes and occasionally ask the painfully hope raising question "why don't we ever hangout outside of school?" I'm sure if we had an answer to that question we could have hung out with them moved up on the ladder of coolness and proceed to have hot cheer leader girlfriends. Unfortunately for us though we didn't have an answer so we didn't hangout with the cool kids or get hot cheerleader girlfriends which is all just as good because it turns out all but one (she was the slightly overweight girl that was only on the squad 'cause her cousin was the head cheerleader) had some sort of rash on their lady parts.

Anyway as I was saying my parents were gone, we had the house to ourselves, and far fetched dreams of scantily clad drunk girls hanging all over us floated about in our heads much like smog over a large metropolitan city. So without much hesitation (there was some, Lars was worried about being caught even though it was at my house. He actually might have been the reason we weren't cool in high school but enough about that.) we called all seven people we collectively knew, and told them to each call two people, and so on and so forth. Jeff brought up the point that this was an awful lot like a pyramid scheme and that those were illegal. Lars (every time I type this I believe it less and less that we actually call him that) and I countered with the fact that he was stupid and that pyramid schemes aren't illegal. Besides, it was just a party.

So with seven people each calling two people and so on and so forth happening we figured we would have a "bumping party" as Jeff so eloquently put it. Though there really was no preparing us for how many people were going to show up. The startling number being three.

Since we didn't know it was only going to be three others the amount of alcohol we bought was based on the idea of a much larger sum of guests. Needless to say we ended up with more than we needed. So after nearly getting arrested (remember we're sophomores in college so we're not twenty one yet) we made it back to the house with around ten bottles of generic brand vodka.

About thirty minutes after we got back, the first and last guests, our quasi-friend Mike and two of his cronies, arrived. more minutes later we realized that no one else was going to show up. This didn't surprise Jeff, Lars, or I, but the other three seemed genuinely disappointed.

So after everyone having a few drinks and Jeff acting more drunk than he was (he did this every time we drank, especially if there were girls around. Lars and I theorize it's subconscious hopes of impressing them with his lightweightedness) we settled down to watch Big Trouble in Little China. Don't judge us, Kurt Russell is a man among crying, weeping, mice babies.

We were about fifteen minutes into the movie when Mike decided he didn't like the unique brand of humor and style Kurt brought to the 1986 classic and requested we turn it off and do something else. Lars got frustrated and called him a douche but eventually we acquiesced.

It was around twelve forty-five now and it was too late for us to actually make something of the night so I was inquisitive about whether or not he had something to replace the film jewel that was Big Trouble In Little China. Not surprisingly he did have an activity planned, one quite familiar to crush-curious middle schoolers to be exact. The guy had a Ouija board.

None of us actually believed he would have something as ridiculous as a Ouija board until after he went to his dilapidated old Corolla and retrieved it. We scoffed at the mere idea of using it for a good thirty or forty minutes but eventually we got bored enough to give in.

Jeff, Lars, and I (and the two other guys) had heard about Ouija boards but we didn't really know how they worked. So the guy explained the general idea. Basically you ask it a question and it points to letters that make up a message. Or something like that.

We all sat around like prepubescent girls and started to ask it questions. Would we get laid this year, would Lars ever get over his man crush on Ryan Gosling, and most importantly was Kurt Russell the best actor ever. No, No, and Yes were the answers to those inquiries. So the Board was answering our questions but everyone just figured Mike was doing some trick. We thought this because for one, the idea of spirits or whatever answering inane questions was stupid, and two whenever a question was answered Mike would giggle and do a half grin that was reminiscent of a toddler that had just gotten caught eating dirt.

So assuming that he was controlling everything we just coasted on the stupid questions for a bit. After awhile it stopped working when Lars accidentally spilled a large grape soda all over the board. I don't think ouija board's have any electronics to be ruined by liquids but apparently grape soda is the arrow in its Achilles' Heel. We tried a few times after the soda spilled but all the board did was shake and send a few spark like things out.

Mike was authentically upset that his prize possession was on the fritz but Jeff, Lars and I didn't care because now that the all mighty Ouija board was broken we could get back to watching Big Trouble in Little China. Or so we thought.

It seemed just watching the movie was an insurmountable task for the three guests so they went to the counter where the booze rested and proceeded to tinker with the broken board. Just as Kurt was about to dole out another witty life lesson we heard a loud zapping noise (or something like that. Imagine a comic book Onomatopoeia around the lines of "zraaaackcuhcuh, or wizash!"). Irritated we turned around to see a cheesy swirling vortex of space absorbing my booze. Also the three guys were kind of being sucked in too.

Now Jeff, Lars, and I had always been the type of guys that would make fun of people in movies who froze when something startling was happening. You know the kind of character who'd be faced by a fang toothed chupacabra or some other Hollywood monstrosity and instead of actually using the gun they were holding to shoot it they would just stand there with a look of blank stupidity (maybe the actors thought that's what fear looked like?) and be torn apart. Ironically after all those years of yelling at the TV, WE were presented with an occasion to NOT act this way and we still stared like retarded sheep.

Unfortunately by the time we did get off the plush leather couch all three of them were already partly sucked in. For imagery's sake I'll describe it. They were hanging on to the counter's edge and shrieking girlishly.

It was unlucky that there were three guys getting eaten by the vortex and three guys trying to stop them from getting eaten as we were unable to save my cat from being devoured by the swirly Eighty's sci-fi movie style thing.

My cat being sucked in is important because when I saw it flying towards the mauve maelstrom my knee-jerk reaction was to reach at it with one hand. Unfortunately for Mike (the guy I was holding on to) I never hit the gym and was barely holding onto him with two hands let alone one. To my dismay as soon as he disappeared into the vortex I began to slide into it as well.

Now I'm aware this is going to sound ridiculous (as if the situation isn't ridiculous enough as it is) but Lars, Jeff and I had been friends for awhile. I say that because I don't remember how long we've been friends. But I'm guessing it was just long enough to make them each let go of their respective guys and haul ass over to me and grab my arms. Now I'm not even the slightest bit gay but if those guys ever decided they were and wanted some favors? Well it'd be hard to say "no".

Since Lars and Jeff had let go, the other two guys of course were sucked in. This seemed to be enough for the vortex because it stopped trying to eat me and just turned into a shimmering ball of purple and what looked like cat hair. The purple orb fluctuated in size for several seconds before finally it did something that can only be described as a belch and out popped my cat on the other side of the room. So really it wasn't all that big of a disaster.

As Lars and Jeff were freaking out about what had happened I was consoled by the fact that my cat was alive (how would I explain her disappearance to my parents?). It may seem horrible that we were generally overlooking the incident's seemingly more important side effects, but as it was we didn't really miss the alcohol all that much. Hang overs weren't really our thing. Kidding Kidding. Yes we were worried about the three that were pulled into the voracious violet vortex but the cat had returned to us just fine so we figured (hoped) that they would be too.

Seeing as how we couldn't really do anything about what happened to the guys and after we all realized it was their fault for messing around with the grape soda covered Ouija board we decided the best thing to do was probably clean up the mess. So we did.

Everything was all over the place. Chairs were knocked down, drinks were spilled, and etc. As we cleaned we talked and Jeff made an astute observation that the vortex kind of reminded him of a portal seeing as how it transported my cat across the room. This in turn led to Lars commenting that it was kind of like Kurt Russell's 1994 masterpiece Stargate, where they found a portal that could lead them to another universe. Hearing this I couldn't help but point out that I had that very movie (look, what happened was stressful, and what better way to cope than to indulge in cinematic glory?).

So there we were four in the morning, eyes dry and crusty watching Stargate. The light from a lamp reflecting off of Lars and Jeff's open mouths as they stared at the genius unfolding before them. I was tempted to make fun, but it was getting to the part where Kurt Russell fights the Anubis guard, and I didn't think it was appropriate.

Modest Intergalactic Drug Smuggler

2008-10-23T23:31:00.000-07:00

**Note Listen to Spinning You by mc DJ it's sicker than a cancer ward**

Dear Alyx,

I travel a lot. By travel I mean interplanetary type stuff. Nothing too big or fancy just going between planets like Rigus VII and Zanu X (both in the Ajax Galaxy). I mean sure yeah, I outrun Galactic Police in a flash of light, but that's only because I'm an intergalactic drug smuggler. But really, it's NO BIG DEAL.

Sure just last Yuriday (new unit of time developed for space travel. Equals around two weeks traveling at the speed of light) I was nearly overtaken by my arch nemesis High Chief Nigel Rycliffe of the Galactic Peace Keeping Force (GPFK) during a run from the Herclid to the Madison star system. Yeah he may have boarded my ship the Spinster III with an entire squadron of GPFK troops, and I alone incapacitated them through a form of non-fatal Plutonian Jiujitsu. It wasn't really anything big.

I'm just upset it took me three minutes to rend them all unconscious. I knew that only training with the Frieze Monks of Pluto for fifteen years would leave me sloppy. But that's what I get for being impatient and deserting early and not staying the entire 78 years. Typical Uncle Rox right? Cutting out when things get hard just like I did on your Aunt Bethania. God do I miss her. I just wish I'd tried to win her back before she was disintegrated when the core of the Earth exploded. Oh well.

I'd continue to make my point that I'm not all that great but I can see the troops of Gneisla (a volcanic planet where the average temperature a day is close to fifteen thousand degrees Celsius) coming over the horizon. And seeing as how I have the sacred idol of their god Pintuba in my cargo bay it's best that I end this holo-gram. So really Alyx, don't think your uncle's this super talented guy that lives an exciting adventurous life. If you got to know me better you'd see I'm pretty boring. Well they're about to open fire on the Spinster III and my blast shields are still dysfunctional after my run-in with High Chief Rycliffe. So I have to go. But holo-gram back soon!

Love,
-Uncle Rox, Intergalactic Drug Smuggler-

So Close Lisa

2008-10-21T23:27:00.000-07:00

Lisa, gingerly prepared to step out of the shower. It was sometime in the two A.M. when she grabbed the curtain slowly. As a little girl Lisa had always feared that maybe a mummy or zombie might sneak in the bathroom while she showered and hide behind the curtain. Just waiting there to attack her when she got out. Old habits die hard.

According to custom she tugged at the fabric of the curtain timidly and as usual found nothing behind on the other side. Placing her feet on the ground she slipped and fell backwards into the tub-shower combination her low rent, low quality, apartment provided.

Standing up she checked herself to see if the only thing bruised was her ego. "God, I'm glad no one saw that" she thought. She wrapped herself tight in the beige towel hanging on its rack.

Walking from the tub she snagged her tooth brush from the little cup on her sink that had a picture of her best friend making a goofy face. Beneath the photo a caption read "Don't Let the Goobers Get You!"

"I'm such a klutz" Lisa chuckled to herself as she squeezed some tooth paste on to her brush. The mirror was fogged up from the steamy shower, so she looked at an extremely blurred version of herself whilst scrubbing her teeth and gums. The toothpaste foamed around her mouth and she spit.

She stepped back from the sink and wiped her mouth. Grabbing the doorknob to the bathroom door she got the feeling she'd always get before opening the shower curtain. Being a junior in college Lisa thought herself "crazy" and threw the door open.

The door wide, she saw what appeared to be a man. Glowering crimson eyes and milky white skin were all she could see before his teeth were deep in her neck.

She tried to struggle but found that she was paralyzed. Hot blood gently trickled down past her collar bone, and down her chest where the tightly wrapped towel collected it. Before long the ordeal was over and the pale figure attached to her slender neck released her. Crashing into the cold tile of her bathroom floor Lisa still was unable to move.

Shrieking horribly, the man with crimson eyes fled out the window of her adjacent bedroom. Leaving only the memory of his blood soaked face behind.

Lisa lay there, slowly bleeding all over the floor thinking only one thing: "A Vampire? Outside the door?! Can't believe it wasn't a zombie. "

So close Lisa, so close.

Brand of the Dead

2008-10-21T15:46:00.000-07:00

CRASH!
Screams! Screams! Screams!
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Is your rotting skin exposed to the elements expediting the process of decomposition?
Well listen up because Brand of the Dead* (patent pending, all rights reserved) Clothing for Zombies aims to conceal those shameful sores!
Our new Autumn line of Undead Fashion has just arrived and we're having a sale of Massive Outbreak Proportions!
Come check out our plaid cardigans perfect for covering up those nasty skin lesions that just shout "I'm the living dead! Run From Me!"
Don't think those that still breathe won't notice the horrible stench emanating from you! Nothing gives away your presence like a whiff of decaying carcass. Cover up your scent with Odeur De La Vie! They'll be none the wiser when you sneak up on them unnoticed with this classy cologne!
Also pay close attention to the launch of our new line of Sunglasses premiering soon! If you're dead tired of having to deal with your eyes constantly vacating themselves from their sockets reserve a pair today!
CRASH!
Screams! Screams! Screams!

*Brand of the Dead is a Walking Corpse Incorporated Afilliate.*

My Name Is Max

2008-10-19T22:55:00.000-07:00

My name is Max. Or Dan, Lisa, Jean Paul, Harrison, Jake, Paige or whatever.

I'm a murderer.

---

With the popularization of the internet came the widespread ability for millions of talentless people to publicly broadcast their, well, talentlessness. You have sites like myspace, xanga, and blogspot enabling them to "blog". In this day and age I don't believe anyone does NOT know what a blog is, but to be safe I'll explain.

A blog is an online device that allows you to update people constantly of your doings, opinions, and general tastes. Now if you're a secret service agent that is breaking his contract and doubtless numerous federal laws by blogging about his daily life, or maybe a meth addict that is documenting his or her recovery, you probably have nothing worthwhile to say. Yet millions (I wish I was exaggerating when I use the word "millions") log on to their xangas, their myspaces, their blogspots, to keep us posted on just how mundane, listless, and wearisome their lives are.

After prattling on about their meaningless lives via text for awhile, typing just wasn't enough any more. Lucky for these verbose gripers a new site by the name of Youtube exploded onto the internet scene and gave birth to a whole new world of nasally grousing, aptly dubbed VLogging or Video Blogging. These "Vloggers" stormed the tubes relentlessly like a pack of whiny purse dogs and before long there were several that stood out among the rest. That's right. People became famous (moderately so mind you) for complaining about insignificant asinine details. America, almost over night became intolerably vain. Something had to be done. Something swift and horribly gruesome. That's where I come in.

I was an avid fan of the internet and all of its wonder and glory until I happened upon the Vlog universe. I was innocent, only aware of the apparent evils on the net like the massive amounts of pornography (including, but not limited to: child, bestial, necro, gay, and blood) pop ups, and pyramid schemes involving faulty "natural" male enhancement. With the discovery of vlogging my blithe internet surfing became a dreary experience filled with other people's worries. I began to dread using the computer because whenever I did I seemed to end up watching some sort of vlog. Despite my hatred of these self absorbed ego maniacs I was inexplicably drawn to their misery. I watched hour after hour of their incessant blathering and came to one conclusion: they were my purpose in life. Not going to law school, becoming a doctor, president, or any other typical smoke your parents (and/or teachers) blow through your ears, murdering the vloggers of the world was to be my life's work.

After realizing that I had to put a violent end to every vlogger I could it was easy to find my first target. Most Vloggers practically give out where they live in their videos, and if they don't ninety-nine percent of them are willing to give out their screen name so they can get to know their viewers better. Their mistake.

---

She was twenty-eight, single, morbidly over weight, and most importantly ridiculously self involved. I watched fourteen of her seventy-eight videos before I decided I knew enough about her to get the ball rolling. I began what would become my standard process of befriending and then beheading (not always literally of course). Her name was Karen, her internet boyfriend of five and a half months had recently broken up with her, her mother Yolanda chided her for being a "walrus", and when she was out in public she felt like she was in a glass box that was slowly shrinking. At her job where she worked as an editor for the local business ads she was constantly being harassed by her coworkers for being in love with Harry Potter. Basically I did her a favor.

One quick search for "fat computer programmer" on Google produced the photo of cover identity. I pretended to be Dale, an equally over weight computer programmer for Dell who absolutely loved the "magical" works of J.K. Rowling. Dale also had an overbearing caustic mother and abrasive coworkers. They were perfect for each other. Well perfect if perfect wasn't me masquerading as her possible soul mate/best friend in order to kill her. Cruel right? Doesn't matter she was going to die anyway.

It took about four months (technically it could have been three but I felt the need to err on the side of caution) but she finally told me where she lived so we could send packages and assorted things. Her mistake.

The night she told me where she lived I booked the next flight to her hometown of Pittsburgh Pennsylvania. By sun up I had already situated myself outside her house in my rental car. It was about eight A.M. when she left for work out the side of her house. She had told me during one excruciatingly long I.M. conversation about how her side fence lock was broken, I remembered this because it was out of the blue. It was practically an invitation, so I did the polite thing and accept. I hope she forgives me for not R.S.V.P.-ing.

I spent about thirty minutes in the car before I nonchalantly ambled up her driveway. Her back door was unlocked (she was really making this easy) so I let myself in and hid in her bathroom, waiting for her to return. I was hoping for her to come home during lunch, me snap her neck, put her in a noose, forge a suicide note (though I'm sure she'd already drawn up a rough draft somewhere in the house) and be on my return flight at four-fifty. Unfortunately this particular day she had decided that Wendy's would suffice instead of whatever leftovers she had in the fridge. And I had gotten such a good deal on round trip tickets.

As I sat on her fake porcelain toilet seat I couldn't help but think about how much I hated what she did. Vlogging was like a self scribing tabloid of non famous people. At least with celebrities it's glamorous. People want to hear about the lives of the rich and beautiful because, well, they ARE rich AND beautiful and so unlike the life of an average person. I sat there with my furrowed brow stewing for a good seven hours before she waddled through the front door.

By that time I was hungry and frustrated and no longer impressed by the idea of stealth murder, so I decided I'd be up front with her. I opened her bathroom door and found her munching a lunch size bag of Nacho Doritos. I hate Nacho Doritos.

"I'm going to kill you".

That was promptly followed by her throwing her plump hands to her mouth and shrieking.

"Who are you?! What're you doing in my house?!"

"I just told you"

"I don't understand!"

I wasn't surprised at all she didn't. I thought I'd help her grasp the concept by punching her square in the nose. She fell back in her chair and hit the kitchen tile with a thud. Her eyes widened and her mouth gaped to scream but by then I had my arm around her throat so tight that all that came out was a squeak.

She thrashed a lot more than I expected. Killing someone wasn't as smooth and relaxed as TV makes it seem. It was easy, just jumpier than what I was anticipating. It took several minutes before she stopped twitching and it was several more before I actually let go.

I've heard the act of killing someone put many ways. Some murderers have described it as a sudden rush of God like power. Others a release, or a birthing of sorts. I can't say my experience was anything like that. I was just annoyed by the stains her Nacho Cheese Dorito covered fingers left on my shirt.

I eventually let go of her and stepped back to survey the damage. I realized that my plan of making her death look like suicide was now made more difficult by my punching her in the face. I felt like an idiot.

I grabbed her body and finally appreciated the phrase "dead weight" when I tried to hoist her carcass up on the nearby table. I got the rope I'd brought with me, fastened a noose around her neck, (and with a good deal of effort) pulled her to where she was hanging about three feet off the ground. I started to worry about what I was going to do about her nose when I noticed I had to use the restroom.

I left the room for a few minutes and returned when I heard a sudden pop which was echoed by a thud. The rope I had brought had been ill suited for holding up her impressive frame and had consequently snapped. On her way to the floor her face had collided with her kitchen table and a fresh stream of blood was now trickling out her nose. Beginners' luck I guess.

I waited until I thought it dark enough before exiting her house. Climbing into my rental car I couldn't help but think about how sloppy I had been, but like a student that just failed a test I told myself I'd do better next time. And there was going to be one. Soon.

---

I actually found my next target while sitting in the airport to fly home. This time it was a pimply high school junior from Detroit that wore coke-bottle glasses. I was Jennifer, a moderately attractive girl that was still miles out of his league. He was in desperate need of viewers and more importantly attention. I can still remember the first comment I left on one of his videos: "Wow, I'll never think about grilled cheese sandwiches and thirty minute lunches the same away again. :D".

After I forced back down the bile that rose from writing that I couldn't help but feel excited. I had a new victim all lined up, I'd just made the world a better place and--

Okay I'll have to finish this later. The middle-aged refrigerator salesman (who rants about the deterioration of American values caused by Democrats on youtube) I'm stalking, just came home and I have to be ready when he hangs his coat in the closet I'm in.