Rooks

            I read in a magazine once that a person’s residence is a reflection of their inner being.  Aside from wondering how that applies to kidnap victims in illogically tall towers made of stone, I often wonder what my home says about me.  My home is much like those of Rapunzel, Sleeping Beauty, and other such fairy tale victims, but I chose to be here.   The high walls, the bleak stone, the thick doors, the single spiral staircase in the whole damn place, I love it here!  But what does that say about me?  That I hate the outside world?  That I need to shut them out?  I wouldn’t say that.  I enjoy reading about the goings on of the world via various newspapers as I drink my morning ale beside my fire (I love fireplaces, too).

            If I had to really dig down and analyze why I like living in this tower, it would have to be the power of it.  Nothing will knock this place down; I can always live here.  When I go up to the roof, for lack of a better term, I feel like Simba at the beginning of Lion King, imagining that I am in charge of everything I survey.  It’s exhilarating! Now, in truth, I know I don’t own anything, but it’s nice to get an imaginary power trip every now and then.  It just makes my day all shiny and warm.  It even moves!  I couldn’t really explain the logic or mechanisms by which the tower moves, but it most certainly does!  It’s the damnedest thing!  Every once in a while, I move my tower to a different county.  I love to see the look on my new neighbors’ faces when they discover that a massive cylinder of stone masonry has appeared beside their humble abode overnight.

            Now, with that in mind, imagine my consternation when I heard a knock on the door, only to find a peasant with pizza and poorly concealed pistol at the portal to my tower.  He dared attack me?  These xenophobes were all the same: uneducated, hideously simple, and, I figured this out as I slit his throat with a dagger with the most exquisite garnet on the hilt, terribly susceptible to knife wounds.  I got the knife many years ago, I forgot exactly where now, but the garnet matches the blood that spills across the blade so perfectly, it’s as if it were meant for this very purpose.  The problem with this little hobby of mine, by that I mean killing the human detritus that happens upon me, is that I have to move quite frequently to keep authorities off my back.  Wouldn’t want some rabid bitch of a queen to come roaring up my ass, would I? And I can’t seem to quite quit killing these poor bastards, so I must keep on the move.  I wasn’t entirely honest about my motives of moving, when I told you before. 

            I’m afraid some people in the world just don’t understand the art I am trying to accomplish here.  I pity them as I sweep their foundation out from under them.

Donut Shoppe

            Selena rubbed her eyes, leaned back in the old, squeaky chair that her boss still hadn’t put in a replacement for, and yawned. “Come on, just one more half hour and I’m out of here. “ She said to herself.  Night-shift shift security at a bank really wasn’t what Selena had wanted to do as a child, but it paid the bills and she didn’t need a fancy degree to get the job.  Still, she wished that she could find something that didn’t include watching 7 screens that only gave her insight into how many raccoons lived in the area.  The dullness of the work was numbing.  Her boss bitched more than she did, and he didn’t even have to worry about his chair being a fragile antiquated thing that had trouble even supporting itself sometimes.

            One of the screens blinked for a split second, calling Serena’s attention to it.   Her head piqued with a mix between curiosity and annoyance, she focused on screen 5 and kept an eye on it for a minute.

            Nothing happened.  She rewound the video 4 minutes, as the books called for, and watched again.  Maybe she was imagining things, she thought.  The screen went blank for less than a second at the same time it had before.  As she inspected it closer, she noticed that the clock had advanced 13 minutes in that split second.  To make sure it wasn’t just a system malfunction, she checked the time stamps on all of the other current feeds.  Screen 5 was the only one with an incorrect time, and it remained 13 minutes ahead of the others.  She leaned back in the chair again.  The chair squealed like a dyeing poodle, and she jumped back up to the edge of the seat.  Not a moment after that, there was a knock on the office door.

            “Who is it?” Selena called. She checked the time again. Still 27 minutes left on her shift. Arlen didn’t usually show up early to his shift, he was too busy drinking most of the time.

            “It’s Arlen. Open up, I’ve got donuts!”

            Selena opened up the door, letting Arlen in.  “What brings you in early this time?”

            “Eh, I was bored. The donut shop was open, and I thought you could use some. You’ve stayed here too long, you know.” He said with a grin.  There was something about it Selena thought was slightly wolfish tonight. She couldn’t really be sure, though. It was only a hint.

            “I’m sorry, what?”

            “You’ve been here too long. Relax, I’ve got it.”  Still, that grin.  Something was different about it.

            “I only have about 20 minutes left in my shift, I can finish i-“ Before Selena could finish her sentence, Arlen exploded, taking the entire office with him. 

            A few seconds later, a raccoon crawled atop the smoking remains of the security office, softly chuckling to itself.  It pressed a button on what remained of screen 5, and beamed the ‘ok’ signal to its brethren in orbit.  Then, it fashioned a chair out of ceiling tiles and muttered to itself, “I told her she had been there too long. Did she listen, noooo.”

You've Stayed Too Long

            “You’ve stayed too long.”

            “What?”

            “I said you’ve stayed too long. Get the hell out of here!”

            Realizing what the security guard said, Randy turned around and walked out of the Petsmart with his head hung in dejected silence. How could this have gone so wrong, he wondered to himself, passing by the cash registers.

            Suddenly, his pants flew about his head.

            “Take your pants with you, asshole. We don’t need them here.”

            “Oh. Thanks. I guess I forgot about those.” Randy half mumbled to himself as well as the guard. Truth was, he had never really liked wearing pants. They had made him feel enfettered by society, and that always got him down. He sighed, and slowly slipped his pants back as the automatic doors opened and closed in front of him, as if they had forgotten him as he had forgotten his pants. He looked at the dogs that passed by and looked at him. They didn’t judge him like the people they came in with did. They seemed as frightened of this place as he was of his proctologist. That thought made Randy shiver a bit, but he continued buckling his pants, anyway.

            “I just really like the vitamins here.” He told one of the cashiers. Her name was Lisa, judging by the nametag on her shirt. “You understand, don’t you, Lisa?”

            “Those vitamins are nice, yes, if you’re a chameleon. I don’t think they work so well for us. Have you tried doing this sort of thing at, I don’t know… GNC?”

            “You know, I just might give that a try. Thank you!” She was surprisingly helpful, Randy thought as he walked out of the store. This new idea might just work. Hopefully he would avoid jail the next time, too.

Out of the cloest

Dear Willie,

            We need to talk. I’ve known you for a few years now, and I have been overlooking a few things for quite some time. It’s difficult for me to say this, so that’s why I’m writing this note. I’m not even really sure that this is any of my business, but could you PLEASE take whatever is hiding in your closet, out of your closet. Seriously, it would mean a lot to me. The emphatic banging at random hours of the day used to scare the shit out me, but I got used to it after a few months.  I didn’t say anything at the time, since it’s your room, and I didn’t want to intrude on your business. The banging stopped a few weeks ago, thank God, but now there’s this horrendous stench coming from your room, and I assume that it’s coming from your closet. I ignored it for as long as I could, but enough is enough. How accommodating do you expect me to be? I don’t know what it is, but please get the contents of your closet THE FUCK out of our apartment. I’d ask what you’re hiding, but I don’t think I want to know. You’ve been a good roommate so far, but this is a big black mark on your record. Take care of this, and we’ll be cool again. Until that time, I’m going to have to prohibit your drunken masquerade parties. At least at our place. I’m sorry, but I hope this prompts you into action.

I’m sick of this,

Tim-Bob

Consequences

            Slaton leaned back in his plush, red recliner, took a magnanimous puff from his stogy cigar, and as he exhaled the smoke in what might have looked like a four-leaf clover in the right light, spoke to his friend, Bart.

            “Here’s my problem, though, see?  I’ve been stuck here for, what, a few months?  Damned peasants down the road can’t handle the fact that I happened across such a lavish lifestyle, while they have next to nothing.  I tried telling them they didn’t have the guts to hold up the right high-end businessmen, but it’s hard to do that without incriminating myself, you know?  Anyway, since I’ve been stuck here, I’ve been thinking.”

            “So you do manage to think! I was beginning to worry, Slaton.” Bart said, chuckling to himself and leaning against the doorway, ever so nonchalantly.

            “I know, surprise, surprise, right? Hardy har-har, I’m trying to be serious for once.  I’ve heard these people from time to time talking about this great plan, or something. I think The Police called it Synchronicity, and that guy with a philosophy degree called it Determinalism.”

            “Determinism you mean, yeah.  So you’re saying a punk band pokes your brain into actually thinking?  What, do you find yourself lost in thought contemplating the deeper meaning of “Roxanne”?  A whore’s a whore, Slaton, that’s it.  Doesn’t matter what color lights she uses, she’d be the same person if she used blue lights rather than red.”

            “No shit, Bart. When did you get an education in analysis, eh?  You won’t even let me get to the point, come on. “

            “It would help if you actually spit it out.” Bart smirked over his teacup.

            “Fine, fine.” Slaton ran his hand through his hair, collecting his thoughts. “What I’m trying to say is, who’s to know what’s right, huh?  These people say that everything happens for a reason, that there are no coincidences.  I find that hard to believe, you know?  If everything is planned out by something and meant to happen, why do I feel like I decide what I do? I don’t feel like a robot following a program, or any shit like that.  And if everything is supposed to happen, why do we punish people for doing things we consider wrong, or regret events in the past?  Does free will not exist? It certainly can’t coexist with this synchronicity idea, because one fucks with the other, you see?  And even so, we can’t really see what would happen if we went back and tried to do something different, so no one’s thoughts on this can be tested! It’s hurting my head, Bart, but it passes the time.”

            Bart sipped his tea, calmly.  Swishing the tea around in his mouth, he seemed to be considering his words carefully before saying them. After a few minutes, he replied.

            “It’s an odd mix of the two, I think.  You may think that the two ideas can’t exist at the same time, but think about it a little harder.  You choose what you do, that is a given.  I won’t try to deny that we have free will, and can make decisions for ourselves; I think that is too obvious to ignore.  However, looking at your life, is everything you do not a reaction to something else?  You can put the smartest person in the world on a roof, and he will fall when you push him, regardless of his will or decision making abilities.  You could also make him decide to come to the roof by holding his prized possessions hostage until he does as you please. He’s making a decision, yet the result was almost predetermined, anyway.”

Cheese

I’ve never done this before,

But I’ve always wanted to.

I never knew what was in store,

And some pretend they always knew.

I’ve talked to them,

I’ve talked to you,

I thought chances slim,

Of doing what I wanted to.

So now, I’m still nowhere,

Exactly where I was before.

I wonder if I should really share

My time with life’s bores.

Do they have my interests in mind?

Maybe, who’s to say? And why?

I hope to find someone in kind,

To share the lack of reality and fly.

Shooting Park

            As they had all signed up on the waiver, they really didn’t have much of a choice in this matter. Sure, if a single one of them had any more balls, they might have had the sense to back out, but what’s the point of that? As it stood, the park was ready to go. Launch was destined for 2 minutes in the future.  The contestants checked their preparations. Bandoliers, magazines, any holsters that they cared to bring were checked for spontaneous defects that always seem to spring up at the worst possible moment. This fan was about to be consumed with shit.

            The time became 12:02, and Randal was the first to open fire. His army-surplus submachine gun raking the benches where he assumed people had been hiding to make the drop on him. Sadly, he was wrong, and a family of possums paid the price for his mistake. No one noticed at the time, and they wouldn’t have cared if PETA sent them a letter about it later, complaining about such loss of life. 

            It was an appropriate way to begin the Shooting Park, though. 

            Passers by most likely would have appreciated some sort of forewarning of this event, but as none were given, things became very loud very quickly. Not just the gun fire screamed across the little sanctuary of grass and dog shit, but actual screams were released in reckless abandon as confused park-goers ran found themselves in a gun fight armed with only their clothes or Pomeranians. There was one clothed Pomeranian, but it died somehow. No one was happier about this predicament than it was.  Pomeranians despise clothing of any sort. It makes a mockery of their culture. Death is preferable.

            Quite quickly, though, the screams were not only uttered by terrorized citizens fleeing the scene, but also by willing participants experiencing the installation of brand new holes in their bodies.  Sometimes, these holes resulted in catastrophic system failures in the bodies, but that was bound to happen. No one was surprised or deterred by this. Waivers take care of everything, after all. It’s surprising, the power a pen wields, isn’t it?

            One of these participants was Fredereick, who was tired of people misspelling his name.  Hiding in a bush, he saw this as proper training for a militia, in case the federal government got too greedy with their power. Chaos would be their only defense against the organized oppression created by the power hungry government. His only hope was that chaos was enough, and that the others looked at this opportunity exactly the same way that he did, despite his lack of expressing this idea to a single one of them.  He survived the experience, only to go back to his previous occupation of selling people lottery tickets at a gas station. 

            He never got his rebellion against a draconian government, but he did get shot in the face during a robbery 3 years later, as is tradition for anyone that works at 7-11 for any longer than a decade.  As he stared down the barrel of his assailant’s puissant pocket pistol, he couldn’t help but feel like he missed the point of the Shooting Park, that one time he went.

            And still, the shooting continued as Fredereick hid in this bush, pretending to be the strategist. This release of tension was necessary among those with the wherewithal to join, as life doesn’t always seem satisfactory, and Hollywood always glamorized violence. Indeed, a few witty remarks were heard among the booms and blasts of guns, including, “Die, fucker”, “We see you have boom-boom stick. So have I,” and the staple remark of, “Oh God, the bleeding!”

            This particular Shooting Park stopped when the few left decided enough was enough, around 4:53 the same day.  Some reporters asked the local mosquito population what they thought of the occasion, and the buzz was felt worldwide, yet the news people continued their tradition of not stating the facts. That being said, everyone was happy about that, as facts are tedious. Tears are much more tangible than facts, so they run with that. Those that survived ran more Shooting Parks, and none of them noticed in any way the similarity between Shooting Parks and fight clubs. Not a one of them.