deadpie
May 18th, 2013, 01:55 AM
http://fpcdn2012.fictionpressllc.netdna-cdn.com/image/40271/180/
I've heard of people in the supermarkets saying that they've seen flying cars before and met men that have time traveled from the 1950's. The planet we currently live on has changed into something none of us can describe anymore. There's no more airplanes in the sky, but space exploration still grows on the moon. Driving vehicles is quite dangerous because it makes you an easier target for kidnapping and murder. Although, I let my pickup sit in the driveway with the windows down not fearing what could happen next.
After an entire decade of living in this war of civilians versus government officials I've lost my fear of death and continue to live as I did before. To be honest this war seems to almost be every single human fighting each other. It's hard to tell who is on your side and who is ready to kill you. Every single part of the planet is a battlefield.
I am thirty two years old and my name is David. My dying grandfather lives with me, although he doesn't leave my living room. He sits in his motor chair with an IV of Phencyclidine running through his body for ten hours a day. Without this drug he would die immediately.
More than seventy percent of the population are drug addicts. This morning when I went to grab the mail a neighbor told me the local police department found a group of around fifty armed children living in the sewer cooking and injecting krokodil and methamphetamine. Not too long after that they were all given fifty year sentences in an underground prison named Exotica.
Exotica is practically it's own country with the way the prison is ran and how people live there. It's underneath the entire state of California and not much is known about it sense nobody really comes out of there. Those that typically do are too destroyed in the head to even describe what it's like. I've heard many rumors, but just that. One of them is that the place is infested with millions of alligators and floods up to a foot inside with nasty shit-water.
I support myself working for the Government as a therapist and researcher for military personals that have developed PTSD. They visit me in my house, we share coffee, they talk about their problems, I write information down, then I send the information to an unknown person online. Most of my patients are extremely suicidal and attempting to become 'better people'. Although, it's hard to do so in a World where all humans are at war with themselves.
The time is nine-thirty AM and pot of black coffee is finished brewing. I fill up two cups, one for me and the other for my next patient that has not arrived yet. While I wait I try to solve crossword puzzles that my Grandfather makes for me on folded pieces of toilet paper. The room is quiet and the atmosphere is so soft that you could cut the air with a knife and open a wormhole with it.
A knock at the door reminds me to go find my tie from my bedroom so I can look more professional. Once I have put it on I let my patient Bart come inside and sit across from me at my dining table in the kitchen.
Bart sips his coffee slowly, channeling anxious emotions where sweat dripping from hair meets dried blood from a morning aftershave in the dark. He looks over to see what I'm writing on, casually lights himself an unfiltered cigarette and says, "Do you want me to continue from where we left off yesterday morning?"
"That would be nice."
"Alright", he sighs and leans back in his chair. "I find myself spending a lot more time inside Church, but as soon as someone enters I have to rush out. Especially if it's a child, obviously. Although, when I was at work at the Gas Station this morning I was able to give a young girl a carton of milk that she wanted to purchase. She was gentle and high spirited towards me. What do you think it means?"
"Well, it probably means you simply bought a carton of milk for a young woman that was thirsty."
The thing with Bart is that he was commanded to hunt down three children in Wyoming that had killed an entire police force in their small town. His supporting troops were killed, but he was able to execute these three. Each of them were shot into the forehead with their eyes staring into his. The eyes of these young vicious girls will always be open looking at him in his sleep and in his waking depression. After the mission was complete he grew suicidal and was put off duty until treatment is completed. To be honest, I don't see him coming back to reality. His state of mind is beyond saving.
If anything suicide would probably be the best thing for him, although I would never say he should go forth with that. It's my job to make sure he stays alive trying to fight the flashbacks and nightmares while knowing it'll always be unsuccessful.
"Don't joke around with me", Bart says putting his cigarette out in an ash tray under the table. He keeps his eyes down as if to avoid any eye contact with me, staying calm and keeping quiet. My Grandfather is gasping for air from a different room, which is normal for him on a daily basis.
"I saw a robotic priest yesterday", he continues. "He runs a half destroyed Church that has been used as a burial ground for soldiers. It was strange hearing him speak with his mechanical voice as hymns were crackling through dusted speakers hanging from a single wire above a plastic Jesus on the wall."
"What did the two of you talk about?"
"Childhood. I was curious what his was like too, but he wants me to keep that a secret. When I was younger I used to have this extremely short haircut, tucked in polo with blue jeans and white socks with sandals on. I never used drugs or even masturbated. Then when I decided to join the forces the World seemed to fall apart. Everyone's morals did too. I had soldiers hand me a crack pipe, which I smoked, then offer me to have sex with female prisoners that hadn't committed any crimes, which I did. The air was full of smog and debris when I was stationed out in Chicago. We had to wear gas masks all the time. Dead bodies were scattered around the streets and mutated dogs were tearing at their throats. After a while I became the most desensitized person on the planet. Nothing can phase me anymore."
He lights another cigarette, offers me one, which I decline. Instead, I refill our coffees and write down a few random details in a notebook. He peeks over to see what I'm writing about him, but I always take my notes in Hebrew.
I ask, "Why would you go to a Church and think of yourself as a faithful person if you've become the lifeless being that you describe?"
"Unlike most people that believe in a higher power I believe that humans are a failed creation. God has abandoned and possibly forgotten us. I cry out and pray to him because I feel that my emotions have grown to such a strong level that the only person that could possibly understand my sadness and shame would be someone that isn't human. Only a God, creator of emotion, would understand."
"Do you think all humans deserve to die?"
"Of course; now more than ever. Tomorrow our impending doom will be just as important and so on."
He pulls out a black and white Polaroid from his pocket of him wearing his uniform holding a machine gun and a gas mask hanging down from his neck. Bart is looking dead straight at me in the picture and he has the same reaction as I look back at him. I take the photo, examine the foggy background and hand it back to him.
"Every country has its version of Exotica. Most of them are just as extreme. Our only communication with other continents and civilizations is through the internet. Not even the Government knows about what is beyond the sea anymore. The truth is we just can't care at this point. Everyone is killing everyone on their own land everywhere. You know, I knew a fellow soldier that had been stationed to California four years ago. He spent an entire week doing paperwork for executions in Exotica."
My curiosity grows and my caring feelings for my patient die. I lean over the table to get closer, knocking my coffee off the table and could care less. Bart sucks deeply on his cigarette, blowing it out of his nose and goes on, "The place is under construction twenty-four seven. I know that there's only one way in and out of the place and it's practically impossible to escape. In fact, there's a theory that even recruits that live down there to punish inmates are in fact inmates themselves. Could you imagine living in a place covered in walls of mud and shit that fall apart all the time? No sunlight, barely any electricity, and most of the food is hunted out of sewers connected nearby. Inmates are tortured, raped, and mutilated before they are executed. The thing is with the executions is that they're done in a way that you feel humiliated when you die. He told me people were killed by a shotgun inserted into the anus and then the shell would blow part of the backside apart. The worst one he heard was a man hung upside down from his testicles for a day underneath a pit of alligators."
"Go on."
"No. You're enjoying yourself too much."
He laughs while brushing ashes off his coat and I write down more information he tells me. After my hand begins to grow tired I decide to finish my coffee and tell him, "We're done. I'll see you on Tuesday."
Bart stares at me in silence once again before walking out of the house. Once he's gone I open up my freezer, pull out a brick full of coke wrapped in tin foil, place it on the coffee table and slam my face into it.
Grandpa is groaning and mumbling about Bart and how he's an alien. Parts of tin foil are stuck on my cheek as I snort loads of cocaine, which hits me like a fucking missile. My teeth grind back and forth as I feel my eyes pounding ready to explode from their sockets.
Finally, I have the ability to finish my report and write down the information Bart gave me on Exotica. I write everything up on my laptop, send it to my superior and find myself staring straight into the nothingness of the ceiling.
The information Bart gave me will probably end up get him killed thanks to the information I sent. Although, that makes me happy, because he won't have to suffer anymore. I would kill him myself if I could, but I'm too emotionally weak.
After an hour of pacing around the kitchen I head into the living room to check up on my Grandfather. His face is a few inches away from the television, which is playing old footage of World War II. The IV bag in his lap is half empty. Many people think angel dust makes you go insane and kill people. If you're getting it made correctly it turns the person into a delusional zombie.
"There were gunshots all fuckin' night long", Grandpa mumbles in his southern accent. "I couldn't sleep worth a fuckin' damn. You need to tell the kids across the street to shut the fuck up."
"You don't need to be that close to the television, Pa."
I move him back a few feet, sit on the coach and watch him watch TV. His neck twitches every few seconds uncontrollably and a big mole on the back of his neck pops. It reminds me that I need to give him a haircut and probably change his diaper.
Someone knocks on the door softly, but hard enough to get me paranoid and peeking out a tiny hole with my heart ready to pound out of its chest. It's only my friend, Justin, whom is wearing all purple, holding a rifle in one hand and his freeline skates in the other.
"You ready", he asks. "We're going a few blocks down. Should be safe enough if we go the way I went yesterday."
It's trickling down rain on burning forts in the middle of streets and bullet cases cover the ground. You have to be careful where you step, because some douche bags will leave traps and mines in random places not caring who gets killed.
Justin skates around looking for at least a single person to come out from the flames and wretched destroyed homes, but nobody does. Every once in a while he'll sit down and wait for me to catch up.
There's a grand piano in the middle of a blown apart playground. Justin comes over as I move close to it and asks, "You know how to play?"
"No", I answer. "I've always wanted to. Some of my best dreams were of me playing in improvisational jazz groups in front of a crowd of a hundred."
He points his weapon at the piano and fires at it. I close the case of it and we walk away.
Justin points towards a small house covered in the veins of a tree. We enter the house, which is full of different types of growing plants that will eventually be used for experimental medications. His hideouts are where the most modern of all medicine comes from; be it recreational or to save lives. When he brings me over it's only recreational.
"Take a seat somewhere", he says pointing towards the pile of torn up sofa's covered in tree branches and decaying leaves. "Let me find something for you. I'm guessing you need something to remind you that you're alive and breathing as a human. What you're looking for is something psychedelic and mid-spiritual."
Part of the ceiling is opened up and various colors of different beautiful flowers are in bloom from upside down. I almost forget about the genetically mutated oversized purple venus fly trap that he keeps in his bedroom to keep him safe. The moment someone walks in there that carnivore will rip your body to shreds.
His wife is typically in the basement most of the time working on medicine that turns humans into Gods. She invented the cure for all cancers, diabetes, and a medicine that slows the aging rate down to where you can live to two hundred years old. Unfortunately, that type of medicine doesn't work well when you're inhaling toxic fumes from around the world.
After a few minutes of looking around he comes over to me, sticking a syringe into a fat vein in my arm. He says, "This is a sleep inducing drug that will put you into the most extreme lucid dreaming experience you'll ever have. When you wake up we'll be here to serve you food in the morning. You'll be ready for your next patient in time, don't worry. The only downside to this drug is that it makes you dream in black and white."
"Fuck", I moan. "Feels like... uh, you just shot me up with a bunch of dirty tar shit. I'm nodding like a motherfucker right now."
He pulls out one of his homemade beers from a cooler, sits down on a chair and turns on four different cartoons on a vintage projector screen.
Slowly, my body begins to melt into the carpet and become a warm fuzzy blanket. My body pulses in and out to the sound of my heart thumping as I enter the universe of sleep. It's beautiful in its wake; galaxies that curve like oceans, black holes that have pulled me in and spit me out into never ending rooms of exploding rainbows.
Oh yes, I can hear the voice of God. His loud, deep sigh roaring through all. This is the database of our infinite universes. For thousands of miles I float above gazing down at the machines, wires, angels operating certain ones and pulling the plugs from others, which signals the death of an entire universe.
I fly down towards one of these machines that is the size of a skyscraper. The computer screen flashes random hieroglyphics that I've never seen before along with images of trillions of planets inhabited with different living organisms like myself. A bloody wire sticks out from the middle of a keyboard and I already know what I am to do with it. Out of no fear I stick the wire down my throat and download every piece of information from the machine.
Now I have woken up. Justin greets me with a plate of eggs and three sausages. His wife is cleaning dishes and chewing on a sheet of acid. He asks me, "How did it go?"
"Very quickly, but the experience was good enough. Have you used this drug before?"
"Well, of course. I invented it. Eat up."
He cleans his rifle as I devour my food in seconds. I ask Justin, "Do you still own that drug that lets you dream for your entire lifetime even while you're awake or was hit already sold out?"
"There's one more left, but I can't give it to you, because it's being bid on for over a billion dollars. People will do whatever they can to escape reality and live in their own created with their own rules. I'm sure it will be sold to a manufacturer that will give me twenty percent of the profits or some bullshit like that."
I laugh to myself, place the plate on the floor and head into the kitchen to check the time. Bart is probably at my house already. Out of sheer fear that I may be fired for being late to an appointment I tell my friend, "I'll be back later tonight, but I'm already ten minutes over schedule."
"Then take my weapon."
"No, I'll be safe."
He nods slowly to me, sits back down and watches more cartoons as I burst out the front door. I sprint through the streets until my muscles grow tired and I'm forced to walk. Bear traps are lay out across a street that we used yesterday afternoon, which means I'll have to go a different way.
As I explore abandoned suburban streets I look inside at demolished houses and broken down bull dozers in people's backyards.
There's a young girl laying next to sewer in tears completely naked and covered in blood. I rush over to her to make sure she's ok and she doesn't say a single word to me. This is normal, but I feel like this is much different than the other children I've seen.
She opens her mouth slowly, revealing her split tongue and teeth made of tree bark. One of her eyes falls out of its socket and she falls down into the sewer. I stick my head under to see if I have any chance of retrieving her, but the alligators are already pulling her body apart into different pieces.
The moment I stick my head out I feel what seems like bee sting around my neck, before realizing that an elder man in front of me has cut my throat. He's dressed with armored gear around his body and stares at me as I start spilling blood onto gravel. The man has no emotion at all.
"Wait", I yell coughing up blood. "Before you leave I want you to tell me who you are."
He kneels down slowly, lighting a cigar in front of my face and stares deeply into my eyes. With this I begin to understand him more. He says, "I am Homer. You have entered my property, which means I have permission to kill you."
"Did you kill the young girl, too?"
"Yes. Children can be quite dangerous as well."
I nod my head, sit down with my legs laying out and keep my hands against the cut from my neck. My breaths have become heavier. He pulls out an image from his pocket of a Polaroid, showing a young man with a gas mask hanging from his neck and fog in the background. I realize that this is Bart's father.
"Thank you for killing me", I say beginning to croak like a fat red frog. He places the picture on my chest, walks away and I stare into the clouds. I whistle to myself as rain falls down on me and let go of my neck.
---
written while listening to this guy (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xhRdw0MTIw8). Completely improvised in one sitting. Did this two or three weeks ago. I have two other new ones I've written but they're definitely too fucked up for VT.
I've heard of people in the supermarkets saying that they've seen flying cars before and met men that have time traveled from the 1950's. The planet we currently live on has changed into something none of us can describe anymore. There's no more airplanes in the sky, but space exploration still grows on the moon. Driving vehicles is quite dangerous because it makes you an easier target for kidnapping and murder. Although, I let my pickup sit in the driveway with the windows down not fearing what could happen next.
After an entire decade of living in this war of civilians versus government officials I've lost my fear of death and continue to live as I did before. To be honest this war seems to almost be every single human fighting each other. It's hard to tell who is on your side and who is ready to kill you. Every single part of the planet is a battlefield.
I am thirty two years old and my name is David. My dying grandfather lives with me, although he doesn't leave my living room. He sits in his motor chair with an IV of Phencyclidine running through his body for ten hours a day. Without this drug he would die immediately.
More than seventy percent of the population are drug addicts. This morning when I went to grab the mail a neighbor told me the local police department found a group of around fifty armed children living in the sewer cooking and injecting krokodil and methamphetamine. Not too long after that they were all given fifty year sentences in an underground prison named Exotica.
Exotica is practically it's own country with the way the prison is ran and how people live there. It's underneath the entire state of California and not much is known about it sense nobody really comes out of there. Those that typically do are too destroyed in the head to even describe what it's like. I've heard many rumors, but just that. One of them is that the place is infested with millions of alligators and floods up to a foot inside with nasty shit-water.
I support myself working for the Government as a therapist and researcher for military personals that have developed PTSD. They visit me in my house, we share coffee, they talk about their problems, I write information down, then I send the information to an unknown person online. Most of my patients are extremely suicidal and attempting to become 'better people'. Although, it's hard to do so in a World where all humans are at war with themselves.
The time is nine-thirty AM and pot of black coffee is finished brewing. I fill up two cups, one for me and the other for my next patient that has not arrived yet. While I wait I try to solve crossword puzzles that my Grandfather makes for me on folded pieces of toilet paper. The room is quiet and the atmosphere is so soft that you could cut the air with a knife and open a wormhole with it.
A knock at the door reminds me to go find my tie from my bedroom so I can look more professional. Once I have put it on I let my patient Bart come inside and sit across from me at my dining table in the kitchen.
Bart sips his coffee slowly, channeling anxious emotions where sweat dripping from hair meets dried blood from a morning aftershave in the dark. He looks over to see what I'm writing on, casually lights himself an unfiltered cigarette and says, "Do you want me to continue from where we left off yesterday morning?"
"That would be nice."
"Alright", he sighs and leans back in his chair. "I find myself spending a lot more time inside Church, but as soon as someone enters I have to rush out. Especially if it's a child, obviously. Although, when I was at work at the Gas Station this morning I was able to give a young girl a carton of milk that she wanted to purchase. She was gentle and high spirited towards me. What do you think it means?"
"Well, it probably means you simply bought a carton of milk for a young woman that was thirsty."
The thing with Bart is that he was commanded to hunt down three children in Wyoming that had killed an entire police force in their small town. His supporting troops were killed, but he was able to execute these three. Each of them were shot into the forehead with their eyes staring into his. The eyes of these young vicious girls will always be open looking at him in his sleep and in his waking depression. After the mission was complete he grew suicidal and was put off duty until treatment is completed. To be honest, I don't see him coming back to reality. His state of mind is beyond saving.
If anything suicide would probably be the best thing for him, although I would never say he should go forth with that. It's my job to make sure he stays alive trying to fight the flashbacks and nightmares while knowing it'll always be unsuccessful.
"Don't joke around with me", Bart says putting his cigarette out in an ash tray under the table. He keeps his eyes down as if to avoid any eye contact with me, staying calm and keeping quiet. My Grandfather is gasping for air from a different room, which is normal for him on a daily basis.
"I saw a robotic priest yesterday", he continues. "He runs a half destroyed Church that has been used as a burial ground for soldiers. It was strange hearing him speak with his mechanical voice as hymns were crackling through dusted speakers hanging from a single wire above a plastic Jesus on the wall."
"What did the two of you talk about?"
"Childhood. I was curious what his was like too, but he wants me to keep that a secret. When I was younger I used to have this extremely short haircut, tucked in polo with blue jeans and white socks with sandals on. I never used drugs or even masturbated. Then when I decided to join the forces the World seemed to fall apart. Everyone's morals did too. I had soldiers hand me a crack pipe, which I smoked, then offer me to have sex with female prisoners that hadn't committed any crimes, which I did. The air was full of smog and debris when I was stationed out in Chicago. We had to wear gas masks all the time. Dead bodies were scattered around the streets and mutated dogs were tearing at their throats. After a while I became the most desensitized person on the planet. Nothing can phase me anymore."
He lights another cigarette, offers me one, which I decline. Instead, I refill our coffees and write down a few random details in a notebook. He peeks over to see what I'm writing about him, but I always take my notes in Hebrew.
I ask, "Why would you go to a Church and think of yourself as a faithful person if you've become the lifeless being that you describe?"
"Unlike most people that believe in a higher power I believe that humans are a failed creation. God has abandoned and possibly forgotten us. I cry out and pray to him because I feel that my emotions have grown to such a strong level that the only person that could possibly understand my sadness and shame would be someone that isn't human. Only a God, creator of emotion, would understand."
"Do you think all humans deserve to die?"
"Of course; now more than ever. Tomorrow our impending doom will be just as important and so on."
He pulls out a black and white Polaroid from his pocket of him wearing his uniform holding a machine gun and a gas mask hanging down from his neck. Bart is looking dead straight at me in the picture and he has the same reaction as I look back at him. I take the photo, examine the foggy background and hand it back to him.
"Every country has its version of Exotica. Most of them are just as extreme. Our only communication with other continents and civilizations is through the internet. Not even the Government knows about what is beyond the sea anymore. The truth is we just can't care at this point. Everyone is killing everyone on their own land everywhere. You know, I knew a fellow soldier that had been stationed to California four years ago. He spent an entire week doing paperwork for executions in Exotica."
My curiosity grows and my caring feelings for my patient die. I lean over the table to get closer, knocking my coffee off the table and could care less. Bart sucks deeply on his cigarette, blowing it out of his nose and goes on, "The place is under construction twenty-four seven. I know that there's only one way in and out of the place and it's practically impossible to escape. In fact, there's a theory that even recruits that live down there to punish inmates are in fact inmates themselves. Could you imagine living in a place covered in walls of mud and shit that fall apart all the time? No sunlight, barely any electricity, and most of the food is hunted out of sewers connected nearby. Inmates are tortured, raped, and mutilated before they are executed. The thing is with the executions is that they're done in a way that you feel humiliated when you die. He told me people were killed by a shotgun inserted into the anus and then the shell would blow part of the backside apart. The worst one he heard was a man hung upside down from his testicles for a day underneath a pit of alligators."
"Go on."
"No. You're enjoying yourself too much."
He laughs while brushing ashes off his coat and I write down more information he tells me. After my hand begins to grow tired I decide to finish my coffee and tell him, "We're done. I'll see you on Tuesday."
Bart stares at me in silence once again before walking out of the house. Once he's gone I open up my freezer, pull out a brick full of coke wrapped in tin foil, place it on the coffee table and slam my face into it.
Grandpa is groaning and mumbling about Bart and how he's an alien. Parts of tin foil are stuck on my cheek as I snort loads of cocaine, which hits me like a fucking missile. My teeth grind back and forth as I feel my eyes pounding ready to explode from their sockets.
Finally, I have the ability to finish my report and write down the information Bart gave me on Exotica. I write everything up on my laptop, send it to my superior and find myself staring straight into the nothingness of the ceiling.
The information Bart gave me will probably end up get him killed thanks to the information I sent. Although, that makes me happy, because he won't have to suffer anymore. I would kill him myself if I could, but I'm too emotionally weak.
After an hour of pacing around the kitchen I head into the living room to check up on my Grandfather. His face is a few inches away from the television, which is playing old footage of World War II. The IV bag in his lap is half empty. Many people think angel dust makes you go insane and kill people. If you're getting it made correctly it turns the person into a delusional zombie.
"There were gunshots all fuckin' night long", Grandpa mumbles in his southern accent. "I couldn't sleep worth a fuckin' damn. You need to tell the kids across the street to shut the fuck up."
"You don't need to be that close to the television, Pa."
I move him back a few feet, sit on the coach and watch him watch TV. His neck twitches every few seconds uncontrollably and a big mole on the back of his neck pops. It reminds me that I need to give him a haircut and probably change his diaper.
Someone knocks on the door softly, but hard enough to get me paranoid and peeking out a tiny hole with my heart ready to pound out of its chest. It's only my friend, Justin, whom is wearing all purple, holding a rifle in one hand and his freeline skates in the other.
"You ready", he asks. "We're going a few blocks down. Should be safe enough if we go the way I went yesterday."
It's trickling down rain on burning forts in the middle of streets and bullet cases cover the ground. You have to be careful where you step, because some douche bags will leave traps and mines in random places not caring who gets killed.
Justin skates around looking for at least a single person to come out from the flames and wretched destroyed homes, but nobody does. Every once in a while he'll sit down and wait for me to catch up.
There's a grand piano in the middle of a blown apart playground. Justin comes over as I move close to it and asks, "You know how to play?"
"No", I answer. "I've always wanted to. Some of my best dreams were of me playing in improvisational jazz groups in front of a crowd of a hundred."
He points his weapon at the piano and fires at it. I close the case of it and we walk away.
Justin points towards a small house covered in the veins of a tree. We enter the house, which is full of different types of growing plants that will eventually be used for experimental medications. His hideouts are where the most modern of all medicine comes from; be it recreational or to save lives. When he brings me over it's only recreational.
"Take a seat somewhere", he says pointing towards the pile of torn up sofa's covered in tree branches and decaying leaves. "Let me find something for you. I'm guessing you need something to remind you that you're alive and breathing as a human. What you're looking for is something psychedelic and mid-spiritual."
Part of the ceiling is opened up and various colors of different beautiful flowers are in bloom from upside down. I almost forget about the genetically mutated oversized purple venus fly trap that he keeps in his bedroom to keep him safe. The moment someone walks in there that carnivore will rip your body to shreds.
His wife is typically in the basement most of the time working on medicine that turns humans into Gods. She invented the cure for all cancers, diabetes, and a medicine that slows the aging rate down to where you can live to two hundred years old. Unfortunately, that type of medicine doesn't work well when you're inhaling toxic fumes from around the world.
After a few minutes of looking around he comes over to me, sticking a syringe into a fat vein in my arm. He says, "This is a sleep inducing drug that will put you into the most extreme lucid dreaming experience you'll ever have. When you wake up we'll be here to serve you food in the morning. You'll be ready for your next patient in time, don't worry. The only downside to this drug is that it makes you dream in black and white."
"Fuck", I moan. "Feels like... uh, you just shot me up with a bunch of dirty tar shit. I'm nodding like a motherfucker right now."
He pulls out one of his homemade beers from a cooler, sits down on a chair and turns on four different cartoons on a vintage projector screen.
Slowly, my body begins to melt into the carpet and become a warm fuzzy blanket. My body pulses in and out to the sound of my heart thumping as I enter the universe of sleep. It's beautiful in its wake; galaxies that curve like oceans, black holes that have pulled me in and spit me out into never ending rooms of exploding rainbows.
Oh yes, I can hear the voice of God. His loud, deep sigh roaring through all. This is the database of our infinite universes. For thousands of miles I float above gazing down at the machines, wires, angels operating certain ones and pulling the plugs from others, which signals the death of an entire universe.
I fly down towards one of these machines that is the size of a skyscraper. The computer screen flashes random hieroglyphics that I've never seen before along with images of trillions of planets inhabited with different living organisms like myself. A bloody wire sticks out from the middle of a keyboard and I already know what I am to do with it. Out of no fear I stick the wire down my throat and download every piece of information from the machine.
Now I have woken up. Justin greets me with a plate of eggs and three sausages. His wife is cleaning dishes and chewing on a sheet of acid. He asks me, "How did it go?"
"Very quickly, but the experience was good enough. Have you used this drug before?"
"Well, of course. I invented it. Eat up."
He cleans his rifle as I devour my food in seconds. I ask Justin, "Do you still own that drug that lets you dream for your entire lifetime even while you're awake or was hit already sold out?"
"There's one more left, but I can't give it to you, because it's being bid on for over a billion dollars. People will do whatever they can to escape reality and live in their own created with their own rules. I'm sure it will be sold to a manufacturer that will give me twenty percent of the profits or some bullshit like that."
I laugh to myself, place the plate on the floor and head into the kitchen to check the time. Bart is probably at my house already. Out of sheer fear that I may be fired for being late to an appointment I tell my friend, "I'll be back later tonight, but I'm already ten minutes over schedule."
"Then take my weapon."
"No, I'll be safe."
He nods slowly to me, sits back down and watches more cartoons as I burst out the front door. I sprint through the streets until my muscles grow tired and I'm forced to walk. Bear traps are lay out across a street that we used yesterday afternoon, which means I'll have to go a different way.
As I explore abandoned suburban streets I look inside at demolished houses and broken down bull dozers in people's backyards.
There's a young girl laying next to sewer in tears completely naked and covered in blood. I rush over to her to make sure she's ok and she doesn't say a single word to me. This is normal, but I feel like this is much different than the other children I've seen.
She opens her mouth slowly, revealing her split tongue and teeth made of tree bark. One of her eyes falls out of its socket and she falls down into the sewer. I stick my head under to see if I have any chance of retrieving her, but the alligators are already pulling her body apart into different pieces.
The moment I stick my head out I feel what seems like bee sting around my neck, before realizing that an elder man in front of me has cut my throat. He's dressed with armored gear around his body and stares at me as I start spilling blood onto gravel. The man has no emotion at all.
"Wait", I yell coughing up blood. "Before you leave I want you to tell me who you are."
He kneels down slowly, lighting a cigar in front of my face and stares deeply into my eyes. With this I begin to understand him more. He says, "I am Homer. You have entered my property, which means I have permission to kill you."
"Did you kill the young girl, too?"
"Yes. Children can be quite dangerous as well."
I nod my head, sit down with my legs laying out and keep my hands against the cut from my neck. My breaths have become heavier. He pulls out an image from his pocket of a Polaroid, showing a young man with a gas mask hanging from his neck and fog in the background. I realize that this is Bart's father.
"Thank you for killing me", I say beginning to croak like a fat red frog. He places the picture on my chest, walks away and I stare into the clouds. I whistle to myself as rain falls down on me and let go of my neck.
---
written while listening to this guy (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xhRdw0MTIw8). Completely improvised in one sitting. Did this two or three weeks ago. I have two other new ones I've written but they're definitely too fucked up for VT.