Monsters!
This is awesome!
Mom wanted me to drink the juice that they said would make me sleep, but I fake drank it like when mom puts vitamins in it when I'm sick.
So now I can shoot the monsters and mom’s asleep in the basement!
Pow!
Blam!
This is JUST like on my Xbox 360!
...what's that?
Uh oh...they broke a window?
I better not get in trouble for that.
Ew.
These monsters smell.
They're all...runny.
That one looks like the time I fell off my bike and skinned my knee but on his face.
Whoa, that one's on fire!
All right monsters!
Eat hot plasma!
Pow pow!
Pow pow pow!
Hey!
No fair!
I shot you!
I shot you with a PLASMA RIFLE!
You hafta fall DOWN!
I SHOT you!
Why aren't you DYING?
Showing posts with label Paul. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Paul. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Kevin, 16
"-fucked up!"
"Yeah, man," slurred Kevin, "totally fucked up, man!"
"No! There's (schzzzuz) outside the city (zizzz)rything's all fuc(ZZZZIZZZZ)ful, man..."
Kevin was done with this conversation before it had even fucking started.
"Fuckin' a man, I'm out!"
Just before he closed his phone, he heard what might have been "eating".
He wasn't hungry.
At all.
He didn't want to talk to Dingo.
At all.
He didn't want to meet up with Dingo afterwards.
At all.
What he wanted was to get to know the Mystery Girl.
Up close and personal like.
This wasn't his first time in the club, but it was MOST DEFINITELY his first time in the club trying pills.
He liked pills.
He would try them again and again.
"Try some, buy some..." he muttered either in his head or under his breath.
There she was again.
He'd see her when he wasn't looking for her; she seemed to be slowly making her way across the floor through the writhing clump of people, this time she was leaning on the wall near the bathrooms.
He'd seen her here before tonight, but never talked to her.
Well, what the fuck was he going to say to her?
Mumbling "I wanna bone you" usually wasn't the preferred way to get into a chick's panties.
Or maybe it was.
Man, these pills are working like they should.
He suddenly felt cooler in his mind.
Gaw bless Dingo and his little white pills.
That sounds like some song...
He trailed off inside his own head like a balloon on vacation.
He giggled at the image.
And the cool thing was, not only was the girl here without her ever-present flock of ugly ass friends, but SHE looked fucked up too!
She was swaying back and forth, not really with the music and when she swayed too much, she hit the wall and steadied herself before starting to sway all over again.
If they were BOTH fucked up, shit, this is going to be easy!
Despite his chemically induced confidence, Kevin was sweating.
He'd never gotten past first base and here he was planning on...what?
Feeling her up? Fingering her? Getting a blow job?
Oh man...getting a blow job from the Mystery Girl...oh man...
Kevin lost himself in the moment, unaware he was getting a hard on.
He snapped back to reality when he saw her looking at him.
Oh man...oh fuck...
She then lurched into one of the unisex bathrooms.
Oh shit...oh shit...
Before he could stop himself, he was moving across the floor.
He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket and ignored it.
He felt the bass of the nameless, thudding song vibrating in his ribcage and ignored that too.
Suddenly, he was standing outside the door.
Shit, what now?
Do you knock in a situation like this?
He saw that he was standing in a pool of what looked like chocolate syrup.
"Need some golf shoes..." he laughed to himself.
Then the lights strobed for a moment and it looked like red paint.
His dick was throbbing almost painfully now, seemingly in time with the music.
He'd forgotten about the chocolate syrup.
"No, just do it," he said to himself out loud, "She'll see you...and just know what's up..."
Kevin himself didn't know what was up, but as long as one of them did this could still turn out all right.
He stood for a moment with his hand on the greasy knob, feeling the pills nibble at the edges of himself with their icy little teeth, and opened the door.
"Yeah, man," slurred Kevin, "totally fucked up, man!"
"No! There's (schzzzuz) outside the city (zizzz)rything's all fuc(ZZZZIZZZZ)ful, man..."
Kevin was done with this conversation before it had even fucking started.
"Fuckin' a man, I'm out!"
Just before he closed his phone, he heard what might have been "eating".
He wasn't hungry.
At all.
He didn't want to talk to Dingo.
At all.
He didn't want to meet up with Dingo afterwards.
At all.
What he wanted was to get to know the Mystery Girl.
Up close and personal like.
This wasn't his first time in the club, but it was MOST DEFINITELY his first time in the club trying pills.
He liked pills.
He would try them again and again.
"Try some, buy some..." he muttered either in his head or under his breath.
There she was again.
He'd see her when he wasn't looking for her; she seemed to be slowly making her way across the floor through the writhing clump of people, this time she was leaning on the wall near the bathrooms.
He'd seen her here before tonight, but never talked to her.
Well, what the fuck was he going to say to her?
Mumbling "I wanna bone you" usually wasn't the preferred way to get into a chick's panties.
Or maybe it was.
Man, these pills are working like they should.
He suddenly felt cooler in his mind.
Gaw bless Dingo and his little white pills.
That sounds like some song...
He trailed off inside his own head like a balloon on vacation.
He giggled at the image.
And the cool thing was, not only was the girl here without her ever-present flock of ugly ass friends, but SHE looked fucked up too!
She was swaying back and forth, not really with the music and when she swayed too much, she hit the wall and steadied herself before starting to sway all over again.
If they were BOTH fucked up, shit, this is going to be easy!
Despite his chemically induced confidence, Kevin was sweating.
He'd never gotten past first base and here he was planning on...what?
Feeling her up? Fingering her? Getting a blow job?
Oh man...getting a blow job from the Mystery Girl...oh man...
Kevin lost himself in the moment, unaware he was getting a hard on.
He snapped back to reality when he saw her looking at him.
Oh man...oh fuck...
She then lurched into one of the unisex bathrooms.
Oh shit...oh shit...
Before he could stop himself, he was moving across the floor.
He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket and ignored it.
He felt the bass of the nameless, thudding song vibrating in his ribcage and ignored that too.
Suddenly, he was standing outside the door.
Shit, what now?
Do you knock in a situation like this?
He saw that he was standing in a pool of what looked like chocolate syrup.
"Need some golf shoes..." he laughed to himself.
Then the lights strobed for a moment and it looked like red paint.
His dick was throbbing almost painfully now, seemingly in time with the music.
He'd forgotten about the chocolate syrup.
"No, just do it," he said to himself out loud, "She'll see you...and just know what's up..."
Kevin himself didn't know what was up, but as long as one of them did this could still turn out all right.
He stood for a moment with his hand on the greasy knob, feeling the pills nibble at the edges of himself with their icy little teeth, and opened the door.
Harold, 67
"ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...”
Why in blazes would they have the speaker inside of the God forsaken room? thought Harold.
I know I need assistance, they're the stupid fucking cunts that fucking need TO FUCKING KNOW--
The man in the bed closed his eyes and took a deep, deep breath...held it for five Hippopotamuses...and then let it out, slowly.
This worked when things got red in his mind.
He thought about calling out but although he said "nurse" and heard "nurse" in his head, what came out was a low glottal sound, something like "nnnn".
That was the absolute worst part of all this.
For almost forty years, Harold had taught AP Biology at Pegg High School in Scranton, Pennsylvania.
He knew exactly what had happened to him.
He knew what the doctor's were talking about when they told him he had suffered from a myocardial infarction which had brought on a massive stroke.
He knew that he would never speak clearly or walk without aid ever again.
He might, eventually, with time and exhaustive physical therapy be able to communicate at some level, but, for right now, "nnnn" was "nurse" and no one was coming to help him.
Harold, who had personally helped fifteen students over the years become biologists, doctors and scientific journalists and who had written two books, needed to shit, but he refused to do so until there was someone there who could remove the bedpan.
Stroke or not, he was not going to lie here in his own feces.
The stroke had happened about four weeks ago and, about four days ago he had regained the use of two fingers on his left hand, the index finger and the ring finger.
It was the index finger he was now using to press the Nurses' Call Bell button.
He wasn't completely sure, but he thought he had been pressing it for at least five minutes now.
He looked at the wall clock and confirmed this as fact.
He had woken up from the milky, terrifying images that seemed to be his dreams now at exactly one in the morning.
It was now six past.
If I could walk. If I could get up out of this bed. I'd show you fucking lazy whores a thing or two about fucking your lazy assholes—
Deep breath.
Five Hippopotamuses.
Breathe out.
Regain control of your thoughts.
"They are, after all, your thoughts, Harold."
That had been Adler. Doctor Frank Adler.
He was the one who'd had an inkling about the unique situation Harold was trapped in.
Something about the way Harold's eyes had followed him around made Adler order a third CAT scan.
It was that CAT scan which confirmed what the doctor had suspected.
Harold's mind was undamaged; it was just that the cables connecting his mind to the rest of him had gotten severed during the stroke.
"Harold...this must be torture for you," he'd said at one of their meetings. "You know what's happening around you but you can't do anything about it yet. I say 'yet' because, although you'll never boogie board again, you will get better. I'm going to help you. Pretty soon, you'll get something back. Maybe a finger, maybe a toe, that's the way this works. As soon as you do, you'll feel better because you'll be able to communicate again. I'm hoping this will happen within the month."
And it had.
The doctor was away for the long weekend, but Harold heard from one of the nurses that he would be in at ten o'clock this morning, then maybe these...fugues...would stop.
Adler had mentioned them to Harold after only his second.
God, but the man was perceptive.
"In some stroke victims, the mind will sometimes...'blow a fuse', to be crude. It tries to communicate, just like it's been doing since before you were one year old, and it can't. You may experience something neurologists call a ‘red cloud’. Not only with you be filled with an uncontrollable rage, but, sometimes, the pressure you're exerting can even burst blood vessels in your eyes, actually causing you to 'see red'. These are more apt to occur when you’re alone so the only person that can stop them is you. You and Chillax."
Then, the doctor had drawn a goofy picture of Chillax the Hippopotamus.
He looked over at the table by the door where the doctor had left the drawing.
It was stupid as hell, but at the end of their meeting, Harold had tears in his eyes nonetheless.
"You count five Chillax's...and, nine times out of ten, your red cloud will have blown away."
And it had worked every time.
But this was absurd.
It was now eleven minutes after one and no one had responded to his call bell.
It has to be going off out there. What's the point of it just going in here? It's ridiculous!
"ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED..."
Then, finally, after, his eyes flicked to the clock, fourteen minutes, he heard through the loud, repeating voice, the unmistakable sound of the nurses' paper soled shoes, shuffling up the hallway toward his room.
God these people are lazy. Even their footsteps sound lazy. They're so lazy, they can't even lift their damn feet?
Harold saw a figure approach his room through the pebbled glass wall. She appeared to be listing heavily to one side, but Harold was unsympathetic.
Limp on your own time lady, I'm not going to mess these sheets ag—
Without even slowing, the nurse passed right by Harold's cracked door.
He was stunned.
You...you...fucking....you......cunting.......fuck....
Harold was shaking in his bed. He felt his bowels and bladder let go, felt the warmth spread over his lower body, didn't care.
"ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED..."
Fuuucking....fuuuuuccccckinng....yooouuuu rooootten crrroootch biiiiitch....
Harold blinked and everything in the room was stained with a patina of red. Tears of blood began to seep from the corners of his eyes.
Yyyyyyyooooooooooooooouuuuu...........fuuuuuuuuuccckkkkkkkkiiiiinnnnngggg.....
Suddenly, Harold spoke.
"...cunt...!"
The tiny, rusty word had slipped from his dry and swollen throat.
He blinked, once, twice, the world was now only slightly pink.
I...I spoke. I...spoke!
The blood on his face was joined by his tears.
Stop there? Not on a bet! Not on a fucking bet, you apathetic, club-footed sow!
He took a deep breath, but instead of holding it in, he forced it all out, trying with every fiber of his being to shape a word, but louder and firmer this time.
In his excitement, he'd released the call button and there was only the sound of the nurse's shuffling, paper soled feet and the pounding of blood in his head.
"Nnnnrrrrrr....." he managed before needing to gasp for breath.
He was covered in sweat and piss and shit, but he had never felt more alive.
He stopped panting when he saw the shadow of the nurse of the glass wall pause.
That's right you ditzy troll you, ASSISTANCE IS REQUIRED!
He took in another huge breath and was able to get out, "Nnnnrrrrrrsssssss..." before his breath ran out.
He opened his eyes and was beside himself to see that the idiot nurse was now, just as slowly as before, shuffling towards his room.
He took a deep breath, let it all out, took another one.
This is it! You can do this Harry! The doc will be here in about nine hours and you are going to thank him personally for everything. You are going to thank him and he is going to shake your hand!
"NnnnnuuuurrrsssssssAH!"
Sweat and tears, both of blood and water, were streaming down his face. His blood was a roaring wall of static in his head, blotting out all other sound.
He tasted blood on his tongue and in the back of his throat.
One more, one more and then you can rest! You're not done yet!
Harold filled his lungs to capacity and was about to let loose when the nurse finally reached the door and gently pushed it all the way open.
His breath whooshed out of him, producing a small squeak.
This nurse...she was sick.
There was something wrong.
He remembered the limping, shuffling gait she'd had and looked at her feet.
She wasn't shuffling her feet because she was lazy, she's cut her foot badly. Her...Harold's eyes widened, her left heel was all but gone.
Goodness, that poor—
He raised his eyes to the nurse's face.
She's so...pale...and her eyes...
Harold closed his eyes, took a deep breath and counted five Hippopotamuses.
Why in blazes would they have the speaker inside of the God forsaken room? thought Harold.
I know I need assistance, they're the stupid fucking cunts that fucking need TO FUCKING KNOW--
The man in the bed closed his eyes and took a deep, deep breath...held it for five Hippopotamuses...and then let it out, slowly.
This worked when things got red in his mind.
He thought about calling out but although he said "nurse" and heard "nurse" in his head, what came out was a low glottal sound, something like "nnnn".
That was the absolute worst part of all this.
For almost forty years, Harold had taught AP Biology at Pegg High School in Scranton, Pennsylvania.
He knew exactly what had happened to him.
He knew what the doctor's were talking about when they told him he had suffered from a myocardial infarction which had brought on a massive stroke.
He knew that he would never speak clearly or walk without aid ever again.
He might, eventually, with time and exhaustive physical therapy be able to communicate at some level, but, for right now, "nnnn" was "nurse" and no one was coming to help him.
Harold, who had personally helped fifteen students over the years become biologists, doctors and scientific journalists and who had written two books, needed to shit, but he refused to do so until there was someone there who could remove the bedpan.
Stroke or not, he was not going to lie here in his own feces.
The stroke had happened about four weeks ago and, about four days ago he had regained the use of two fingers on his left hand, the index finger and the ring finger.
It was the index finger he was now using to press the Nurses' Call Bell button.
He wasn't completely sure, but he thought he had been pressing it for at least five minutes now.
He looked at the wall clock and confirmed this as fact.
He had woken up from the milky, terrifying images that seemed to be his dreams now at exactly one in the morning.
It was now six past.
If I could walk. If I could get up out of this bed. I'd show you fucking lazy whores a thing or two about fucking your lazy assholes—
Deep breath.
Five Hippopotamuses.
Breathe out.
Regain control of your thoughts.
"They are, after all, your thoughts, Harold."
That had been Adler. Doctor Frank Adler.
He was the one who'd had an inkling about the unique situation Harold was trapped in.
Something about the way Harold's eyes had followed him around made Adler order a third CAT scan.
It was that CAT scan which confirmed what the doctor had suspected.
Harold's mind was undamaged; it was just that the cables connecting his mind to the rest of him had gotten severed during the stroke.
"Harold...this must be torture for you," he'd said at one of their meetings. "You know what's happening around you but you can't do anything about it yet. I say 'yet' because, although you'll never boogie board again, you will get better. I'm going to help you. Pretty soon, you'll get something back. Maybe a finger, maybe a toe, that's the way this works. As soon as you do, you'll feel better because you'll be able to communicate again. I'm hoping this will happen within the month."
And it had.
The doctor was away for the long weekend, but Harold heard from one of the nurses that he would be in at ten o'clock this morning, then maybe these...fugues...would stop.
Adler had mentioned them to Harold after only his second.
God, but the man was perceptive.
"In some stroke victims, the mind will sometimes...'blow a fuse', to be crude. It tries to communicate, just like it's been doing since before you were one year old, and it can't. You may experience something neurologists call a ‘red cloud’. Not only with you be filled with an uncontrollable rage, but, sometimes, the pressure you're exerting can even burst blood vessels in your eyes, actually causing you to 'see red'. These are more apt to occur when you’re alone so the only person that can stop them is you. You and Chillax."
Then, the doctor had drawn a goofy picture of Chillax the Hippopotamus.
He looked over at the table by the door where the doctor had left the drawing.
It was stupid as hell, but at the end of their meeting, Harold had tears in his eyes nonetheless.
"You count five Chillax's...and, nine times out of ten, your red cloud will have blown away."
And it had worked every time.
But this was absurd.
It was now eleven minutes after one and no one had responded to his call bell.
It has to be going off out there. What's the point of it just going in here? It's ridiculous!
"ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED..."
Then, finally, after, his eyes flicked to the clock, fourteen minutes, he heard through the loud, repeating voice, the unmistakable sound of the nurses' paper soled shoes, shuffling up the hallway toward his room.
God these people are lazy. Even their footsteps sound lazy. They're so lazy, they can't even lift their damn feet?
Harold saw a figure approach his room through the pebbled glass wall. She appeared to be listing heavily to one side, but Harold was unsympathetic.
Limp on your own time lady, I'm not going to mess these sheets ag—
Without even slowing, the nurse passed right by Harold's cracked door.
He was stunned.
You...you...fucking....you......cunting.......fuck....
Harold was shaking in his bed. He felt his bowels and bladder let go, felt the warmth spread over his lower body, didn't care.
"ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED..."
Fuuucking....fuuuuuccccckinng....yooouuuu rooootten crrroootch biiiiitch....
Harold blinked and everything in the room was stained with a patina of red. Tears of blood began to seep from the corners of his eyes.
Yyyyyyyooooooooooooooouuuuu...........fuuuuuuuuuccckkkkkkkkiiiiinnnnngggg.....
Suddenly, Harold spoke.
"...cunt...!"
The tiny, rusty word had slipped from his dry and swollen throat.
He blinked, once, twice, the world was now only slightly pink.
I...I spoke. I...spoke!
The blood on his face was joined by his tears.
Stop there? Not on a bet! Not on a fucking bet, you apathetic, club-footed sow!
He took a deep breath, but instead of holding it in, he forced it all out, trying with every fiber of his being to shape a word, but louder and firmer this time.
In his excitement, he'd released the call button and there was only the sound of the nurse's shuffling, paper soled feet and the pounding of blood in his head.
"Nnnnrrrrrr....." he managed before needing to gasp for breath.
He was covered in sweat and piss and shit, but he had never felt more alive.
He stopped panting when he saw the shadow of the nurse of the glass wall pause.
That's right you ditzy troll you, ASSISTANCE IS REQUIRED!
He took in another huge breath and was able to get out, "Nnnnrrrrrrsssssss..." before his breath ran out.
He opened his eyes and was beside himself to see that the idiot nurse was now, just as slowly as before, shuffling towards his room.
He took a deep breath, let it all out, took another one.
This is it! You can do this Harry! The doc will be here in about nine hours and you are going to thank him personally for everything. You are going to thank him and he is going to shake your hand!
"NnnnnuuuurrrsssssssAH!"
Sweat and tears, both of blood and water, were streaming down his face. His blood was a roaring wall of static in his head, blotting out all other sound.
He tasted blood on his tongue and in the back of his throat.
One more, one more and then you can rest! You're not done yet!
Harold filled his lungs to capacity and was about to let loose when the nurse finally reached the door and gently pushed it all the way open.
His breath whooshed out of him, producing a small squeak.
This nurse...she was sick.
There was something wrong.
He remembered the limping, shuffling gait she'd had and looked at her feet.
She wasn't shuffling her feet because she was lazy, she's cut her foot badly. Her...Harold's eyes widened, her left heel was all but gone.
Goodness, that poor—
He raised his eyes to the nurse's face.
She's so...pale...and her eyes...
Harold closed his eyes, took a deep breath and counted five Hippopotamuses.
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