Midnight Jolt Run

Posted by Fiss on August 14, 2006

Strike Fiss’ Manifesto

August 2002

 

 

 

The Lost Soul Motel

721 1/2 Middle Street

Nowhere, Montana. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To this day, I don’t know what it was that made me stop here.

 

I can only remember the feeling of freedom as I drove.  Endless, but headstrong and foolish freedom.  I dared to drive far too late into the night, and I would say it was simply chance that I would pick that moment to stop my car.  In truth, however, it was something far less occasional and much more strange than that. 

 

The songs had all stopped for the night.  The radio had gone silent, and it was just a touch into three a.m. when I had begun to see civilization again.  It came in the form of a dusty old farmer’s town called Nowhere.  The actual name was shrouded in the dust covering the signs put up by the Montana State Authority, but I remember distinctly that the first run-down maw-and-paw gas station had a sign in the window.  “Welcome to Nowhere.” It said.  Red and blue letters, probably once as proud as the flag, now faded into cardboard clarity. 

 

But it was the tear that stopped me. 

 

About a mile into the little town, for some unknown reason, I felt a lone tear break free from my eyelid.  This was, and I should warn you this was a guess and an estimate at best…but at the same moment, a single drop of rain hit my windshield.

 

Now, I’m hardly a poetic soul.  Far from it.  I’m a bad, hard, nasty soul with too much behind him and not enough ahead.  The worst kind, in retrospect.  But whatever that tear was, it made me stop the car.  My dusty old Ford.  It’s a convertible that I haven’t had to use the roof of ever since this stretch of dry land.  I have just begun to love that Ford, and suddenly, it has all been forgotten as I leave the driver’s seat to stand up and look at a completely cloudless black and star-filled sky. 

 

Where rain could possibly come from, I can’t fathom.  It’s been dry all week in these parts, and if I hit a puddle on the way, it would have been the driest of mud. 

 

As I trace my eyes over the sky to get my bearings, still slightly confused and velocitized (the term the police give a person who is far too familiar with highway speeds, then is forced to suddenly slow down), I see a flickering neon light.  Like a million others that offer shelter on long, endless drives.

 

Motel.  Vacancy. 

 

The tear is wiped from my cheek, and I attribute it to my eyes being tired from the thirty hour long drive.  Chicago is far too far away now.  Perhaps sleep would do this old vagabond well.

 

There is a clerk still awake at the motel as I walk into the office.  She is an old Indian woman.  Eighty if not older.  Watching a movie of some kind…black and white with the sound turned down.  Maybe it doesn’t need sound.  Maybe she’s deaf.  I don’t even have a chance to ring the bell to get her attention, though, as when I look down to the counter in front of me, she has already passed me the sign-in-sheet, leaving me a friendly, wrinkled smile to tell me she isn’t trying to be rude, and welcomes me to the motel. 

 

I smile back, allowing her to continue gazing at…ahh, is it Humphrey Bogart?  Must be.  The pen seems to slip like silk across the paper, and I must admit, the fifteen dollars I place with my moniker is well spent, whatever the state of the room.

 

She slides me the key to my temporary abode, and I find myself in a small piece of heaven.  Heaven being a well-made bed, extra pillows, tiny chairs but clean toilets.  A shower fit for a man filled to the brim with the dust of travel, and even a small potted plant that I am pleasantly surprised is real. 

 

For fifteen dollars a night, I know that I will stay at least one more as I drift off to sleep. 

 

I never dream.

 

But I imagine I was close that good night.  The middle of the desert that could never be a desert, in a heaven I wasn’t even looking for…  I really don’t blame myself for sleeping in so long.

 

I could see myself walking.  Something I did far too much.  A dusty, desert road at morning.  Though I could tell it was myself I was dreaming of, the feeling of pity washing through me was anything but self-loathing.  It felt as if this me was someone else.  Someone better left far behind. 

 

When I woke up, there were birds singing outside. 

 

Also, the sound of a television next door.  The entire morning was lazy, and wonderful because of it.  Sounds of Saturday Morning Cartoons and a radio somewhere off in the distance were a pleasant surprise for my ears so accustomed to hearing gunshots and screams.  Crying from the previous night’s ravaging.  At best…the moans of half a dozen hangovers were just as common, and probably the only thing I’ll miss about Chicago. 

 

Except maybe the skyline.  Rising up from the billboards and decay of the street stood strong and tall monoliths of humanity.  Towers that would make the heavens worry about intrusion.  Lights that could fill the sky with stars…and then some.  Above all of it.  All the dust. 

 

But people from the dust don’t get the nice offices in the highest Chicago Towers.  We get pain.  And worry.  And death. 

 

Once in a while, though, we get peace as well. 

 

But it never lasts long.

 

My peace was ended as I took my shower that morning.  The walls were empty and full of pipes, so the sounds next door could be heard loud and clear, even over the rushing of water.  

 

“Turn that shit off!”

 

It surprised me, actually.  I had to catch myself from jumping.  It was next door.  A moment later, the cartoons turned off.  A sigh escaped my lips.  It was nice while it last…

 

Then the first of the screams. 

 

“Little sluts don’t watch cartoons.” The voice said loudly.  It was followed by a tell-tale smack.  Skin on skin.  Usually in anger. 

 

I know because I’ve caused that sound once or twice.  Part of a past I am still running from.

 

She cries out.  Doesn’t speak, but I can tell she can’t be that old.  Not old enough to be called these names the older man is calling her.  She sounds the age of cartoons.  Cartoons and bubblegum…not dusty motels and horny old men.

 

“I won’t keep some little baby who can’t give me what I want.” The voice continues.  A yelp out in pain, but then, all of a sudden, silence. 

 

Maybe it’s because I’ve left the bathtub and found my way to the sink so I could throw up. 

 

The past is an evil thing.

 

I wish I could feel something more, but instead, the urge to leave is overtaking me once again.  Somehow, even so far away, I’m confronted with the same old shit. 

 

My mind deliberately filters out the sounds next door.  Grunting.  Crying.  All those little sounds you think would never bother you…but they do when you know why they’re being made.  How they’re being made.  The filter can only do so much, but it’s enough to get me dressed and out the door before the images begin to come into my mind. 

 

Very bad images.  Like a nightmare you know will happen…just as soon as you close your eyes. 

 

The old woman is there as I take out my key.  She smiles, and points to the guest book.  Sign out, if you wish, I guess. 

 

To this day, I don’t know why I took out another twenty dollars and placed it down in front of her. 

 

She nodded, then took the money, adding a little squiggly mark next to my room number to indicate I would be staying another day.  The room next to mine…ahh…there it is.  Yes.  It has a squiggly as well. 

 

I don’t bother staying for the change, and find myself driving a moment later.  The convenience store has all that I need.  Gas for my Ford, a pack of cigarettes and a two-six of Southern Comfort.  With a small bag to hold my booty, I am just about to go, when something else catches my eye.  The clerk thinks nothing of it when I ask him to add a roll of twine and some tissues to the bag, and I leave with more than I expected.  The day’s sustenance is found in a day-old cheeseburger in the back seat of my car.  Still tastes like card-board, but I’m hungry enough it doesn’t matter. 

 

A brief drive around the little town reveals no cops.  Wouldn’t really matter if there was a station right next to the motel, though. 

 

I drive back…grim thoughts in my head…but a determined smile when I see myself in the mirror.  Maybe I’ll just leave.  Right now.  Count the twenty I slapped down as payment for reminding me of what I’ve left behind…then continue on doing so.

 

But then I see her.

 

On the balcony.  Legs dangling over as I walk up the stairs to my room.  She looks up at me as I pass, but is completely silent.  She’s hurt.  Her lip is cut and looks like it has been so for a while now.  Her hair is messy, and it may just be the light, but I could swear some of it is burnt or torn out…

 

But her eyes.  She looks at me with the most crystal clear brown eyes I have ever seen.  Her worn, dusty clothes a size too big could be clergy robes in my mind.  All of a sudden, this little angel reads my thoughts, and tells me hers all in the span of a heartbeat. 

 

She’s running too.

 

Just not getting as far. 

 

I see a pig of a man stare out of the window.  I don’t slow down, though I can still imagine that heartbeat lasting hours.  He takes a swig from a half-crumpled beer can, then tosses it over his shoulder into the darkness of the room. 

 

As I close my door and lock it, I hear him bark out something.  “Get back in here.” Or something equally appalling. 

 

 

 

There is a dark part inside me.  It protects me.  Filters the sounds and cuts the images I hear and see.  Tells me that what is going on next door isn’t really happening.  That I am best leaving all this behind. 

 

It saved my life, once or twice in the city. 

 

Moments where…I knew…if I walked into that room and tried to stop what was happening, I would have been shot.  Or stabbed.  Or worse. 

 

Or times where I gave up my wallet willingly…because I could see in the asshole’s eyes that he didn’t care if he killed me right there in the alley. 

 

And, once or twice, the dark part of me told me to get drunk…so what was happening didn’t seem so horrible, and I could wake up and live again when the sun rose.

 

I tried.

 

It tried.

 

The little bottle of Southern Comfort was nearly gone sometimes before ten in the evening.  All I can remember feeling, however, was the rough, itchy texture of the twine as I felt it in my hand.  The dark part of me wasn’t able to handle what I was hearing. 

 

The little girl being raped. 

 

Beaten.  Then again, raped. 

 

These things are supposed to happen.  Out in the middle of nowhere.  Some seedy motel. 

 

But this was my little piece of heaven, and that little angel’s eyes still haunted me. 

 

I stood.  Then reached into my pocket to pull out my knife.  It’s small, but useful.  Legal enough to carry everywhere you go, but sharp enough that you can cut through anything. 

 

Absolutely anything. 

 

So, I put on my jacket, opened my knife, but held it in my palm, then walked out and knocked loudly on the door to the left of mine. 

 

The crying stopped.  Scuffling.  I remembered hearing an angry ‘shhh!’.  So…I knocked again.  Loud.  And again. 

 

A growl.  Grumbling.  Mumbling.  The man began to move.  “WHO THE FUCK IS IT!?!”

 

I knocked again.  Loudly.  With much energy.  Under my breath, I wondered what to do if he simply ignored me and didn’t open the door?

 

He opened the door.  I smiled.  Then, I plunged the knife into his eye.  I honestly don’t believe I’ve seen someone so shocked before.  Shocked enough that he dropped the pistol that was in his hand.  As he shakes and screams, I close the door behind myself as I enter the room. 

 

I kick the gun beneath the lamp-table.  The little angel is watching with those same eyes…not surprised, not shocked that I’m here.  I feel slightly embarrassed when I realize I’m looking at her naked, but she doesn’t seem to think anything of it.  Maybe it’s because she knows I’m not like…this.  Him.

 

“WHO THE FUCK ARE…”

 

I remember myself, and kick him right in the face.  It’s more of a stomp, really.  Whatever you wish to call it, I’m certain that it was enough force to knock him unconscious.  Or…maybe he was aware of me tying him up to the shower-curtain-rod, but overestimated his abilities to escape once it was done. 

 

The twine is rough, and it hurts the man as he tries to struggle free…awake enough again to see that I have already started on his legs.  His pants are half on, but they’re not allowing him to slip out of the trap I’ve caught him with. 

 

Soon, he is crying out.  Making noise.  So much noise.  Things like “I’ll do anything!” and “How much do you want?”  and “Please…Please let me go!”

 

The little angel is watching now.  She has retrieved her clothes, but I stop just long enough to give her my jacket as well.  She takes it without word, and returns a moment later with the gun. 

 

I shake my head.  “No guns.”  In this, I strongly believe.  I’ve heard too many bullets hit flesh to think of them favourably.

 

She nods, but continues watching.  Twine is now everywhere.  Had he not been attached to the metal pole, his body would still be quite ridged.  All methods of escape are tied, and the most he can move now is his mouth…still making noise.

 

“Mister…please…you have to understand…This isn’t your business…” he pleads.  “Just go!  Please!”

 

I smile at that, but still, it’s just all noise now.

 

Out of desperation, he said the one thing he shouldn’t have. 

 

“Oh come on!  You’d do the same thing too!”

 

I remembered how worried he looked when I smiled up at him.

 

Then, I took my knife, and as he howled out like a sick, dying monkey, I cut off…no…I gouged out a large section of his reproductive-organs and the area around them.

 

They flopped into the bathtub, then were joined by a large stream of red as he began to bleed to death.  He cries out over and over…horrible things.  Calling me things…calling the angel things.  I don’t think either of us care, though.  We watch with grim satisfaction. 

 

Just before it’s over…

 

I lean up and look him in the eyes. 

 

“You don’t deserve to be in such a wonderful place.” I whisper. 

 

I really don’t know where that came from.  Another mystery I carry from that day to this day.  Maybe I meant this little piece of heaven in the middle of the desert.  Maybe I meant life.  Or being away from the pits where this was common and I had fled from. 

 

He died, knowing that I was right, though.  What truth he heard, I can only guess at, but it made me glad I said it.

 

 

 

The Angel sleeps next to me as I stare up at the ceiling.  She hasn’t said a word since I’ve…no…not ever.  Not yet.  She curls up next to me in a ball.  She smells of shampoo and wonderful fresh rain after her shower, and I am a bit concerned that I barely remember…let alone care…about what I have just done. 

 

I sleep well that night.

 

The Angel visits me in my dreams that night.  She tells me wonderful things…shows me places I will go.  Great things I will do.  Books I will learn from and people I will be taught by.  Her halo is soft and bright, like a morning star lighting the night before the sun makes it’s lazy journey upwards.  Her voice is unreal.  Soft and a hundred times sweeter than honey.  She tells me of a place…not far away.  A place that will become home. 

 

She lets me cry.  Cry on her lap.  She is clothed with robes of soft light, and it makes the pain and the hurt come out…then fills me with joy. 

 

“Why are you crying?” she asks.

 

I honestly don’t know…but I still think some of the reason was because I knew I would wake up and have to leave that morning.  That I would have to see the desert, when I wanted rain.  That I would be like I always was. 

 

 

 

I wake up to a soft kiss. 

 

 

 

She smiles at me with bright, wonderful eyes.  I try…  I try to ask her not to come with me.

 

I explain that I am a bad man. 

 

She smirks at that.

 

I try to say I am off to a dangerous place.

 

Excitement flashes in her eyes.

 

And finally, I try to tell her that she can’t come along…just because.

 

And she is already helping me pack.  With a soft laugh, she runs the room keys back to the old Indian lady and jumps into the dusty old Ford long before I realize I could take off without her. 

 

There is a long pause as we look out at the road. 

 

“Which way should we go?” I ask.

 

She looks to the way I came from…then the way that I was going.  With a grin, she points to the way I was going. 

 

The engine guns, and we fly down the highway. 

 

Somewhere, along the way, the sky opens up and it rains.  Neither of us reach for the button that will deploy the roof.  Somehow, I know that this is right.

 

Tears feel so much different than rain.

 

I’m glad.

 

Strike Fiss, Studio Shinnyo 2002.  Khattam-Shud, EOF.

Posted under Manifestoes, Short Stories

Posted by Fiss on August 14, 2006

Strike Fiss‘ Manifesto

January 2002

Defeat was inevitable. He could see it coming. It was just like a few of the times the people from the little hell would try to get him to stay the night and forget about his heaven.

There became a kind of gravity. His feet were used to pushing against one kind…but not two. His heart had learned how to push against the other…but gravity is a strange thing.

One morning, waking to the bright sun, he found people around him. There were people who thought like him…and came up to be in his nightmare.

They had intruded, but he did not mind much. Why not share what he knew to be beautiful? Why not find out how others would see the night? The hill. The old tree.

They became friends. More came. Some came and went. Some thought they would like to be with him on the hill, and found out they were wrong and simply stopped showing up.

Others remained. The good ones. The best ones. He was happy for them, and happy they were around him.

Those who would look up onto the hill saw the most amazing sight, of the boy and the others, dreaming the night away. Never fearing the morning, but embracing the night away from the little hell.

He would sometimes look back down. And that’s when the gravity happened.

In one of the tiny lights of the little hell with the smoky night-roofs and the barking dogs and invisible S.U.V. thieves, he could see another dreamer.

She, of course, was a she, for this is the way love stories happen. They would talk over the distance. Using the dreams and nightmares. She showed him that her world wasn’t so bad. It only looked like hell as some would think nightmares bad. That being in the Little Hell was okay, so long as you remembered yourself.

And she pulled him in.

Not in some horrible way. He would go willingly. He would still go back to the hill. He would still enjoy the nights. She would join him sometimes, and it was indeed heaven.

The people around him were good friends. The girl was wonderful and he loved her dearly. But one night, he looked around and realized he was no longer on his hill.

When the girl and the friends left for a while, he looked up from his window at the hill…

And all of a sudden, wondered how he got down there.

He goes tonight to decide.

He walks up the first bit of the hill, making fresh footprints in the snow. He can tell nobody else is here tonight, for the snow is so clean. He says an apology to the earth for marking the snow that night. He did not want to destroy the view.

The tree is standing there, cold, withered, but alive as always. He feels warm. Not from the clothes around him, but from the feeling of home.

He can feel in the air, however, that it is impatient. It wants to have a decision. As badly as the boy does.

The boy is no longer a boy now. He peers past his frozen breath, never shivering. The lights of the little hell are warm and safe. The dreams are shared. But here, up on the hill, he is alone in his nightmare. His wonderful, heavenly nightmare.

He will fall asleep late that night. Much too late for his own liking, but before the sun begins to rise again. He will wake up, not to a sunrise, but a new day. He will have to decide how to spend the next night. And the nights after that.

He hesitates to sleep. But dreams an amazing dream.

Maybe just a little longer.

But the nightmare has to end.

It’s just a matter of deciding which one.

Strike Fiss, Studio Shinnyo 2002. Khattam-Shud, EOF.

Posted under Manifestoes, Short Stories

Posted by Fiss on August 14, 2006

Strike Fiss‘ Manifesto

December 2001

He snuck out of bed before the sun came.  It was how it had been all his life.  The sunrise was the beginning of another day in his life.  In life in general.  How could he fight it in bed?

He robed himself in wool.  Soft and warm gifts from countless birthdays and Christmases and the occasional paycheck or two.  He did not wish to bring them, but knew without a bit of comfort, he would be too scared to leave.

As a boy, he was frightened by dreams.  As a boy, he secretly wished to have them.  The nightmares taught him in ways that normal people only wished dreams could do.  They showed him different worlds.  Bad worlds.  Worlds of worry that he did not know.  Pain he never felt.  Darkness he was never allowed to turn off the lights at.  They showed him the horror of the night.

It was beautiful.

As a young man…still very much a boy…but also old enough to decide his own path, he began this ritual.

It was simple, and poetic.  He would live during most of the night.  The parts that the light did not touch.  There was a small hill overlooking the suburb.  Nobody knew about.  It was barred off from all but the smallest puppies and kitties by the large fence marked “High Voltage”.  It led to the Interstate, and the land was nothing but grass leading down to pavement that only the odd car would use anymore.

On top of the hill was a tree.  A lone Douglass fir that withered like a drying cactus.  It provided shade.  Shade at night seemed a strange thing to desire, however, the moon was too bright.  The odd car made his stargazing and nightmare dreams end too quickly without it.  He loved that tree.  It stood watch over him.  Guarding his silence.

He watched from his little heaven at the little hell beneath him.  The lights of the town-houses.  The smoke from their hearts, pumping the blood from the earth.  The water to drench the engineered grass.  The tiny hell-hounds barking at the car-alarm demons who would cry out into the night…always when they needed attention.

In the day, when he was forced to come down from his beautiful nightmare, the people would ask him to stay.  They liked him.  They wanted him to stay.

He tried.  But every night, the hill stood outside the fence.  He stood with it.  More often than not, the calm nightmare of the hill would win his heart over the plastic little dreams.

He spent much of his life there.

The oddest thing is…he was happy.

Posted under Manifestoes, Short Stories

Posted by Fiss on August 14, 2006

Strike Fiss’ Manifesto

April, 2001

Smile for me.

The men in the expensive suits always told me to smile.

So I did.

I would look around at all the gloomy faces, seeing them walk down the hall. I would try to avoid them, but they would always hit me…laugh at me…glare at me…frighten me.

So I would smile.

It scared them. I’m not sure why.

Strange that something as playful and carefree as a smile could inspire such looks of distrust around me. Around them. Seeing them react only made me smile for real. So I just kept smiling.

They would always think I was up to something. My friends…while they were limited in even those days…would come up to me and ask what was planned for the day…the weekend…or the month. They would always blink when I told them I had no idea. That I was just relaxing.

Time passed a few grades. Each and every year was like some kind of experiment to me. I really didn’t know why I began to enjoy it. I just did. Like a kind of bad attention that you end up craving.

I’m always surprised when people talk about hate. Or dislike. Or maybe just general pet peeves. How anyone could spend so much time thinking about…and obsessing about…something that one didn’t even like?

As everyone got older, it was less and less surprising to see people like me. The men in the expensive suits never bothered me anymore. Not for the longest time. They’d say ‘hello there, how are you lately?’ just to see if I wasn’t a zombie or something yet.

Sometimes, the other kids…the ones who didn’t smile at all, would see who I was beneath it all. I suppose that’s where I got my first few friends.

Not so much friends…just people who I didn’t need to smile around. And they, in turn, would smile to me, when they would not to anyone else. It was a kind arrangement. I didn’t have to smile around them…but when I was with people like them, I could. Somehow, they knew I wasn’t lying when I smiled at them.

It was nice.

The men in the expensive suits were smart, though. When I was with the people who would never smile, they knew I wasn’t smiling for them.

It made them angry.

It made everyone angry.

I’m still not sure why…I suppose it was jealously. Like how I would welcome the looks and uncertain stares, it was the reverse with these men in the expensive suits.

But, then again, I suppose it was an experiment from day one. They came to me one day. Told me the experiment would end. That now, I should stop smiling. That I didn’t have to smile to strange people. That I could smile to them without forcing it. That smiling to men in expensive suits was a good way to meet people. Business people, and maybe even girl people.

Oh…but it was so much more fun to keep the experiment going.

I felt it was my duty…to show them the err of their ways. And…maybe…just maybe…help the next poor boy who didn’t smile when things were ‘happy’.

What did I do?

I kept smiling. It was fun. In fact, I could put a little spin on it at times. Start off with my normal smile…then smile extra…extra…happy. Just for them. Oh yes…that was fun. And because the men had expensive suits, they had paid thousands of dollars for their expensive suits, and had expensive brains that…once in a while…would notice.

They would notice. Once…twice…maybe every day.

One day, a new kid came in to school.

And he noticed right away.

The odd thing was that…instead of giving me the strange, awkward glare…

He smiled back.

In fact, at first, I saw he was doing the same thing. But then…I noticed…when he smiled at me…it was real. It was that kind of smile that would make me think…maybe just for a second…he was the one who ‘knew what was going on for the weekend’.

I admit…it was just a tad unnerving. But eventually, it was just another part of life.

Then, one day he asked me something.

He asked me if I wanted to kill them.

‘Them’? I asked.

Them seemed to be the people around us. The people who wanted us to smile, and the people who were worried when we did.

I think everyone wants to try it one time in their lives. Maybe just as a joking thought to humor and smooth over a bad time in their minds…but yes…everyone wants to kill at one point. Especially in High School. The Men in Expensive Suits know this…and I think that’s why they hoped I would smile instead of frown.

After all, smiling people don’t kill other people.

I said no. They weren’t worth my time. Besides, I suppose I really had too much fun making them worry with my little smiles.

Then he asked what would make them worth my time. What would be the breaking point?

I couldn’t answer.

It was a nice status-quo, but I have long since decided that it cannot last. Things in life change all the time. Most noticeably, people.

About a year later, me and this new boy had become quite good friends. As much as I let him, I suppose. I really had no need, nor desire to have friends. High School…despite what most people believe…is not the most important time of your life. It’s entire purpose is to introduce you into the cruel world. Be it by knowing cruelty from other students…learning to act cruel…or by getting you ready to go to further Schooling that…hopefully…will make all of life a bit more palatable.

I had no desire to begin my life in High School. Therefore, I simply existed, smiled, and got good grades. Not the best…after all, then the Men In The Expensive Suits might think I was some kind of a genius in disguise…which I’m not. And besides, I’d like to avoid THEIR friendship more than I would anyone else.

But, I suppose even I noticed when a new kid came into class one day. He was big. That’s really the only remarkable thing about him. His eyes looked dim, his hair long and messy, and his smile just a stupid mask to mock the fact…well…that he was one of these things in High School that taught cruelty.

The entire class went through a kind of initiation. It went like this for about three months:

He would walk into the lunchroom, alone, and stand in the corner…looking out at the crowd as they ate. Eventually, he would focus on whatever boy caught his eye. No, not like that, you perverts… He was looking for someone who needed to be broken.

Often it would be one of the boys who looked up at him for just a noticeable frown, then went back to his food. That way, or so I surmise, the new boy knew that they knew he would come for them. The fear and anticipation was more than enough to help his task.

What was his task? He would follow them after lunch, and beat the boy in the stomach until he did one of two things. Join him, or refuse, and get beaten in the head as well. A few boys did actually ‘resist’, but they ended up looking like they were hit by a truck.

Nobody ever told the Men in the Expensive Suits what was happening. That made them mad, but they could do nothing. After all, these children wouldn’t lie to them…oh no…of course not! They didn’t have fake smiles, after all.

And so, this went on for a while. And it seemed every day there would be one more young man who would join him in the corner at lunch, helping him to find the next member of their little gang. They didn’t have to beat anyone up anymore. When it got to ten of them, nobody dared resist.

I can’t say that I was flattered when they picked me and the other boy.

It took a long time…maybe I was one of their last choices. I noticed the ‘gang’ following us down the hall. We really didn’t think much of it. After all, what would we do? Run? Fight back? Neither made sense, so we just let them catch up, then turned around.

I noticed my young friend was shaking.

Fear is dangerous. Still, I suppose there was no way for him to avoid it. He was maybe half this big boy’s size. The good miss Mother Nature intended him to run, but he knew he could not.

The group split up into two, surrounding both of us. I heard him yelp as he realized I wouldn’t be able to help. I just watched. The leader sized me up, and decided I needed a punch. He swiftly delivered, and, while my mind may be at least on par, I must inform you, dear readers, that I’m not an athlete. I fell to the ground, winded.

He laughed at how easy I went down, and then said that maybe I wouldn’t be worthy after all.

At that, I looked at him from the ground…and smiled.

I think I tasted a bit of blood. It must have been quite a smile…I later found out indeed that I had been dripping blood from my mouth, so the effect must have been quite dramatic.

He backed up. His smile was gone. As I stood…still shaking from the punch, he took another step back.

I stared at him, smiling and bleeding, until I saw a bead of sweat fall down from his chin. Then, he fanned being bored, and told the others to leave us alone…we weren’t worth their time.

But not before they dropped my little friend with a punch that was probably greater than the one I received.

He cried and cursed all the way home as I helped him walk. I didn’t smile any more that day, but I didn’t feel bad for him. He needed to learn. After all, this is what High School was for.

He asked me one more time…

And I said ‘No’. They weren’t worth my time. And then, I smiled honestly at him, and walked home so I could lick my own wounds.

I remember laying on my bed that night, staring at the ceiling. I couldn’t sleep. The taste of my own blood had me thinking much too fast to sleep. I didn’t like it, yet, it was something I needed to taste.

That morning, which blends into the night quite well, I got up and went to school like normal.

Strangely enough, the school’s doors were locked.

One of the Men in the Expensive Suits was nearby, however, and I asked him why the doors were locked. He shook his head. ‘Didn’t you know?’ he asked. I stated I didn’t, though he should have figured that out if he had been worth his Expensive Suit. ‘There was an accident.’ He said.

Apparently, a big young man, of the same name as the one in our class, had fallen down the stairs and done nasty things to his neck. In fact, it was not certain that he would be able to walk again. And that was assuming he would be able to go to the bathroom on his own again. And, further more, this was all considering if he survived the night at the hospital.

I was curious, so I decided to go to the hospital to see for my self.

He was there, in the room, tired up to and strung out against machines and linen like some kind of half-unraveled mummy. And…while I know now that I was not surprised…I was slightly surprised to see my young friend was there, looking into the window as well.

We said nothing…in fact, we said nothing all day. It wasn’t until the Nurses came by and told us that we had to leave that the silence was broken…but even before then, I knew.

In the window’s reflection, as we stared at the bully, I saw him smiling.

It was a real smile. But…what was truly amazing…is it showed more emotion than I have ever seen in a smile before.

Cruelty.

It was a sick smile…

And now I knew why my smile could scare others.

“It was worth my time.” He said, then walked off. “Don’t you agree?”

I followed him home without a word. He walked with an extra skip in his step that made me sick. I kept seeing that smile in the glass…super-imposed over the all-too-likely, soon-to-be-corpse of our attacker only yesterday.

I saw exactly what this boy wanted me to see. He hoped I was the same.

I wasn’t.

However, I had found something worthy of my time.

The next day, the desk next to me was empty. Nobody thought anything of it, however. After all, I was smiling.

Not fake. Just smiling.

The Men in the Expensive Suits only asked me about my friend once. I told them politely that I hadn’t seen him in a few days, and hoped he was okay. They saw me smile, and let me go with a smile themselves, and a pat on the back for me.

Sometimes I think about it. Why I did it. Why he was worth the trouble to hide forever. To do what everyone thought I would do since before High School. It wasn’t to prove them right or wrong. I think I was just getting sick of smiling.

So I killed him.

It’s something I’ll never do again. That much is certain. But, before I could smile for real, I had to kill what was fake. What was bad. What could have easily eaten me like it did to him.

About a month later, they found him in his house. And I couldn’t help but smile…again…very truthfully, when they found his smile had been cut off his face. A mysterious note next to his body stated what he had done…and why he needed to be killed.

After all, once you start smiling, it’s hard to stop.

Strike Fiss, Studio Shinnyo 2001. Khattam-Shud, EOF.

Posted under Manifestoes, Short Stories

Posted by Fiss on August 12, 2006

Strike Fiss Manifesto

September 2000

 

 

“Open the Trunk…”

 

                -Space Moose, 1994.

 

 

 

Dammit.

 

I knew one day they’d turn on me. 

 

Each and every one of the ungrateful corpse robots. 

 

I’ve been in this room for the last eighty three hours straight.  No light, no food, no water.  I dare not sleep for they seem to know when I do.  I hold myself from pissing in the corner, because I know the smell would just attract more of the fuckers. 

 

Have you ever experienced an eighty hour long rush of adrenalin?  Of fear?  Of contempt for the world around you and hatred for what you have done, become, and been moulded into because of that God-forsaken world?  It’s like being suddenly tossed out of bed after a not-so-peaceful sleep, and then yelled at from all angles and be made to do things that your life depends on.

 

Yeah, that kinda thing.  I’ve felt that for the last few days.

 

But the stalemate cannot last.  I don’t think I could keep this up much longer anyway.  It’s really just a matter of me deciding to sit here, fall asleep finally, and then wake up dead.

 

Hell…I might wake up as one of them.

 

Or…I can stop playing safe and kill as many as I can.  Kill.  Ha.  What a joke.  Whatever it is that I’ll do to them, though, I know it will make me feel a hell of a lot better than dying. 

 

I ran out of bullets a while ago.  But, really, they do shit all.  I would need some kind of an automatic weapon to do anything anyway.  As I was running to this place with them at my back, I had found a club.  Just a nice big stick, really.  That did more than the handgun.  I curse myself for that stupid ‘heroes use guns’ urge that has been implanted in my head thanks to a thousand bullshit movies. 

 

If I had just gone for the stick in the first place, I wouldn’t have almost bled to death. 

 

Bastard came up from behind.  I had used up all my rounds, wasting time I could have looked behind me and noticed.  Shit.  I swear I’ve never seen so much blood come out of one thing in my life.  My arm was not the first choice I would have wished to see it come out of either.

 

Ahh, but I tied it off…it stopped bleeding, though I can’t feel it.  Luckily, I’m right-handed, and that’s not going to stop my stick. 

 

I’ve been resting, mostly.  Once in a while, an arm would smash through the remnants of this room and I’d have to beat it to a pulp before it would go away screaming, but I usually get about ten hours at a time to think and sit and hope I don’t sleep.

 

I might have slept.  I think so…maybe once…my arm felt a lot better, and I wasn’t so light headed after, so I’m pretty sure I can survive this if I can get to the living room.

 

Why?  Car-keys.

 

I have with me some music, thankfully.  Some Matthew Good is great for keeping me awake and ready.  Nine Inch Nails for when I need to fight.  Classical when I’m thinking I might just sit here and die.  Yeah, I have my own little fucking soundtrack. 

 

I swear, I never saw those fuckers move that fast.  You’d think they’d be the slow-assed shit you see in the movies.  The goddamn walking dead.  Drooling over themselves in an effort to reach you.  But no…they can move…they can move damn fast. 

 

Fucking Zombies.

 

The worst part is that I feel like one now.  My mind is foggy with this damn rush…sleep or non.  I know they’re out there…I can hear the pots and pans of the kitchen rattling as they walk through the mess they’ve made.  Ripping up this small house, desiring whatever’s their goal.  I know their goal…

 

I know that, to them, I’m part of that goal.  And that’s why I can feel three of them breathing outside the door…just waiting for me to come out…or die in here so they can come in without harm and take what they want. 

 

The big problem is that nobody knows I’m here…nobody in the outside world.  This is their house…and therefore…they are the kings of their little castle.  Oooh, but that won’t last.  They know it can’t last.  That’s why they need me. 

 

Or maybe it’s just what Zombies do.  Maybe they have no rhyme or reason to be attacking me like this.  They used to be things I loved.  As flawed as they were, they were things I could always count on.  Zombies are very predictable and reliable so long as they’re happy. 

 

Yeah.  I’m responsible.  I should have stopped this mockery of humanity long ago…I could have.  I didn’t.  I saw all the signs, but assumed it would all work out.  I was so fucking stupid.  Now I’m either going to die, or kill them all. 

 

Or maybe somewhere in between.

 

I think a few actually wanted me to join.  Be like them.  But I can’t do that.  Not when I can still think these thoughts.  I would never give them up, no matter how blissfully stupid and wonderful it might be to have a mind like them. 

 

I’m still not sure if I can do this.  The Zombies are tough.  I make no guesses on how many I could defeat on my own.  I know at least two of them have the physical strength to knock me on my ass and feast on my remains.  I wouldn’t even be able to get to the window in time to break out. 

 

No no…this has to be all for all. 

 

And that’s why I’m dulling the one weapon I DO have…a small pocket knife…and carving this stick into a bokken.  It’s oak…it will last.  Used to be part of an overpriced bed set.  This thing will crack some heads.

 

I’m just making it sharper.  Lighter for me to swing.  Stable. 

 

You know, there were documented occasions of Samurai defeating other Samurai with a Bokken versus a Katana?  I’m praying those weren’t just legends.  I’m asking only for the same chance.  The Zombies have a small collection of knives…I’ve knocked away one or two as they’ve cut into my tiny sanctuary here, but I know there must be more.  I would die in a hand-to-hand brawl out of this death trap.

 

And I’m too weak and slow to fight with knives. 

 

It’s getting harder and harder to push my tiny Swiss Army through the wood.  Finally, though, the weapon has taken shape, and I have a wooden sword that just might save my ass. 

 

I can hear them mumbling…milling around the door saying things that only their kind can understand.  I think they think I’m dead.  I haven’t made a peep for the last twenty-four hours. 

 

They test the door. 

 

My brace holds…but they seem pleased that I don’t react to it.  To this moment, I still don’t know how I’m able to slide my heavy ass up against the wall and hold this stick in a ready stance.  My left arm even helps out.  Pain is replaced by a resurfacing fear level.  Fear and desperation. 

 

This is it.  My mad dash for the door.  My car keys and then hope I stay conscious long enough to make it to the hospital.  No songs come to mind as the door is busted down.

 

And I swing. 

 

Hard.

 

For the first fucking head I see. 

 

The oak connects…and the only splintering I see is a wonderful, dull red color across the faces of the next two. 

 

I think I yelled something…probably just a yell…I’m too tired to talk now.  And it’s clear the Zombies don’t even hear me anyway. 

 

My faux sword pokes through the next one’s eye…and back of their skull. 

 

He drops to the floor with the first Zombie bitch.  That one was one of the toughest, too.  My courage steals itself, and I make a crazy dash at the surprised third Zombie. 

 

With the wood against my shoulder, I check him out of the doorway, and the end smears into his chin as we land with fatal weight.  But he’s not dead yet.  I see him raise a knife to end my pathetic attempts, but I roll off of him in time to see it get caught in the floor boards.  My bokken takes off his arm with another spray of blood.  Then leaves a red gash to his forehead as I rap it down upon his skull.

 

I forgot…the Zombies have been stuck here for days also.  They have not dared leave, thinking only to attack me.  They must also be weak. 

 

Yes…that thought gives me hope, even though it takes me much too long to stand up.  My back hurts…my body hurts.  I scan around and see another running towards me.  I am hit and fall again painfully…but not before impaling this hoar with my already blood-red weapon, and watching her shiver out of existence even as she tries to bite into my face. 

 

I see a leg.  I hack at it with all my force.  It falls, revealing a howling monster of a man.  The other one I had been worried about.  I crush it’s face with the back end of my weapon, then kneel over top of it to finish the job, letting it squish right through the softer parts of the nose and eye. 

 

At least Zombies have the same bone structure. 

 

With no more of the ‘higher Zombies’ left in my mind…I go ballistic with the rest. Only five more.  Three are resting, sitting in a circle.  They are actually easy pickings.  The last one noticed and finally had time to scream, though, and the last two noticed.

 

I’m out of breath. 

 

I don’t care.  Breathing can wait. 

 

I launch at one of them, cracking my bokken into their neck and shoulders.  They fall.  Then, in one final thrust, I slam the sword into the bottom jaw of the last. 

 

Another colourful red spray hits the roof.  And I fall on the last one…my almost dead arm crashing into their face and drawing blood that is not mine.  I use their own knife to make sure.

 

 

 

I think I slept on that bloody un-dead fucker’s body for at least three hours. 

 

 

I couldn’t help it.  Really no choice in the matter.  The pain made me kinda pass out.

 

When I woke up, the sun was setting. 

 

My arm feels worse than before, but better still than when it got bitten.  My head hurts.  I’m dizzy.  But I’m thinking.  Right now.  My own fucking brain and mind…and I am alive.

 

And this pain is the sweetest sensation I could ever hope for.

 

Fucking Zombies. 

 

“Fucking Zombies.” I say out loud, weakly.  I know they don’t hear me.  Even if a few are still lingering on their un-dead life…they won’t be getting up any time soon. 

 

And then I grab my coat, and find the keys.  And I just barely make it into the emergency room, where the last thing I see and hear is a plump, happy nurse turning to me, her face suddenly turning to a state of shock, and her saying “Oh my God!!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are no frowns or horrible looks from the Men In Blue.

 

They know I’ll probably get enough of those from the families.  Families of my former friends. 

 

The fact that I was cooped up for so long…and they say I was insane when I fought my way out…they said it was all justifiable. 

 

I’m up walking three days later.  My arm is in a sling.  I don’t mind.  I’m alive. 

 

The nurses tell me that three of the Zombies are alive too. 

 

I can’t help but smirk a little at that word associated with their names.  They ask if I want to visit.  Supervised, of course, in case I have some kind of traumatic backlash. 

 

Or so I don’t kill the fuckers.

 

I think about it for a moment, but then decide it would be best if I say hi. 

 

 

 

 

Two of them are still unable to speak.  But one of them, one of the stronger ones that I had been most afraid of, well, he’s awake and relatively happy. 

 

He has one less eye, though, and his face is patched up like a rag doll, but he still manages to smile as I am wheeled, via wheelchair, into his room.

 

“Hey.” He smiles weakly.

 

“Hey.” I reply.  “How you feeling?”  My concern isn’t so much genuine, rather than curious. 

 

“Well…not bad, I guess.” He sighs, looking away.  “Did that weekend really happen?”

 

I almost smile.  I end up choking on a grim frown.  “Yes.  Yes it fucking did.”

 

“You…you know…” he says slowly.  “We…we were just planning on getting stoned, man…I didn’t think it was going to get like that.”

 

“I know.” I know.

 

“You…we…we just wanted you to join in.  You’re always just sitting there, watching.”

 

“I know.” I know.  Damn rights I know.  Just sitting there.  Wishing I could do something more.

 

“You…you know we’re not like that…right?” he looks up at me with pleading eyes.  “I never wanted to do that to you…” he doesn’t make apologies.  He knows what I did and why.  “I didn’t mean for it to get like that.” He tries to smile again.

 

This young man that used to be my best friend.  Who I spent my childhood growing up with.  My second brother.  My partner in crime and my buddy.

 

I try to smile again, but have to look away.  “I know, man…that was just fucked up.”

 

And yet…as I look down at his frail, coke-sniffed, drugged up, withered body…All I see is that same fucking Zombie, looking up at me with dead eyes, and that same, cracked-lipped, gray and decaying smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dedicated to the Seven Hundred Thousand people who will start using Heroin this year in the United States.  To the Thousands of “Ravers” who will willingly cause a chemical imbalance in their brain with Ecstasy every month in this province.  To the Two Million, Two Hundred Thousand Canadians who ‘Toke Up’ every year.  To the people who figured breathing air wasn’t as much fun as breathing China White.  To all you out there who are “Alive To The Universe”, but dead to the world.  To the…hopefully…very few people reading this that cannot read it without chemical assistance to their nervous system.  To all you wonderful crack heads who will steal and kill for your next quick fix. And to all you who willingly give up your very thought to be controlled by a drug.

 

 

Fuck you all.

 

 

This is also dedicated to all us poor bastards who have to sit and watch our friends, heroes, loved ones, and families turn into zombies…and can do nothing about it. 

 

Thank you, and keep trying.

 

 

 

Strike Fiss, Studio Shinnyo 2000.  Khattam-Shud, EOF.

Posted under Manifestoes, Short Stories

Posted by Fiss on August 12, 2006

We’re already dead.

I don’t mean to sound like one of them big philosophers when I say that, but I know that in a hundred years, who the hell’s goinna give a shit about little old Matt? Unless I go nuts and kill a bunch of people, or write a song with my piece of shit guitar, I’m not going to be around when flying cars are buzzing around the sky.

So why should I be giving a shit now? Why on earth am I getting so pissed off at the moment? Who cares? But I do. This is my time to fucking rein and I intend to use every moment of it that I can.

At least, that was before last week.

It was a strange week. I…I really don’t know if it was good or bad. Only that I know it happened. Just like when I die, that week will happen. Life continues. Death continues. Whatever.

And I know this is going to make half the people on earth roll their eyes back into their skulls, groaning about the overuse of this phrase, but I can’t honestly think of any way else to tell you about Scott. And so, I have to start this little story with:

It all started…

It all started last Monday in the food court. For those who I haven’t warned enough already, I’m Matt. Friends call me Matt, enemies call me Matt, parents call me Matt, teachers call me Matt, everyone calls me Matt. Call me Matthew and I swear I’ll rip out your fucking throat. What the hell do I look like? A Matthew? Fuck no. Now shut up and listen.

I live in this shit hick-town called Boyle, just a bit north of Edmonton, Alberta. It’s a nice enough place, I guess, but if you’re smart, you’ll just follow the highway around this place. There’s nothing to do here. I’ve never pretended otherwise. My goal in life is either to die in a big fireball as I take out this fucking town, or move away from it. It doesn’t really matter either way. Burn em all, or leave. I couldn’t care less. I’m still here on my senior year at the high-school, my grades suck ass, and I have no car. It’s beginning to point towards the fire-ball idea.

Anyway, so it’s Monday. I’ve been drunk all fucking weekend. I’m not one to usually drink, but someone owed me for all those beers I swiped from my dad, so fuck it if I wasn’t going to enjoy the fact one of my piece of shit friends finally paid me back for all the good and bad deeds I’ve done for them.

I decided to walk over to the mall that day to grab a bite to eat to ease my hangover. I never go to Tim Hornets. For those Americans in the audience, that’s basically our version of Starbucks. Except they serve good fucking coffee. None of the poor weak shit you guys get south of the border.

Don’t fuckin lie. I’ve had. I know. You guys suck.

But I never go there, because I want to be alone, and everyone else who skips school on Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays and Fridays goes there when they’re hiding out from their parents, hoping the school’s automatic calling system doesn’t record their absences and phones home…or does so when their parents are at work.

Me? I don’t give a shit if my parents know. I fucking said to my mom “I’ll be at the mall” when I left. Hell, I would have stayed at home today except my piece of shit mom can’t make coffee worth shit. If you Starbucks suckers think your coffee sucks, at least it’s the right color. Not like the shit my mom makes.

I love my mother dearly, but I swear she’s going to be one person I’ll be SURE to take out in my Ball Of Flaming Glory.

My dad I don’t give a shit about. I think it would be more justice to let the bastard live. All he does is bitch about stocks all day and walk around the field.

Yes, he’s a farmer. I’m not. And hell, really, he isn’t even a farmer. He’s just a yuppie with an everlasting middle-life crisis who thought it would be good for his heart and soul to ‘get back to the land’ and grow something besides grass. That’s why I’m stuck in this shit town with one Tim Hornets and a mall food-court that’s the only reason to GO to the mall. Because my dad is so attached to his land, and therefore, we’re attached to this damn farming community.

Now, there IS one ray of sunshine in my life. Don’t think all I do all day is sit and plan my flaming death. I only do that on Mondays when I’m really hung over.

I have this friend. Scott. The lucky bastard got a good name. You don’t hear many people saying “Hello there, Scotthew! How’s it going, Scotthew! Wanna suck my ass, Scotthew?”. Besides that, he’s just a good guy. Fuck…the best. One of those friends who talks to you when you want someone to talk to, but then shuts the fuck up when you’re in a shit mood and lets you be however fuckin pissed off you wanna be.

We have this understanding. If I’m skipping class, he’ll grab the notes from school for me, and meet me here at the food court after school.

And don’t be calling my buddy a nerd. He’s not. I’ve done the same for him when he skips or is sick, and I think nothing of it. The guy is smart, but he’s no fucking pencil pusher, so if you say anything I’ll fucking kill you.

And he has a cute sister too, so don’t get on his bad side. The key to getting with a cute sister is being nice to her brother. That’s not why I’m in it…I fucking hate the bitch…but I’m sure all you assholes out there who would call Scott a geek for grabbing my notes will appreciate the fact that she’s hot. And besides, that’s part of the story. See? I’m foreshadowing for you, you ungrateful fucks. Now shut up and listen.

Now, here I was, minding my business, sitting in front of Orange Julius all day, checking out the girl that works behind the counter. Damn I love minimum-wage sluts. You know the kind. The ones who work in places like this. Food courts and McDonalds. They wear those cute little uniforms and have their hair all tied back so as not to get into your drinks and burgers. And they all HAVE to be nice to you. They get paid to do so. Damn, I love them. I swear I’ll have a hair-net and uniform fetish till the day I die.

They make okay coffee too. Why couldn’t my mom work in a McDonalds or something? Sure, it would be freaky to have that fetish around your mom, but the coffee would be worth it. I wouldn’t have to drag my ass to the food court every fucking day.

So I’m sitting here on my ass for hours. The one thing I’m REALLY good at. I’ve milked my ‘free refill’ coffee deal so much that the poor minimum-wage slut behind the counter had to call up the head office to make sure it was still okay for me not having to pay after my twelfth cup. Hahaha.

Anyway, I decide to go to the bathroom at least once. When I come back and refill my coffee once more, I decide to ponder elsewhere besides the back of her ass as she bends down to replace the filter in the coffee machine. I’ve already seen it twice today, so I’m getting bored. I finally notice a clock above the exit sign.

Shit! It’s already Four!

I look around, wondering if my silly need for having to piss the one time in five hours was long enough for Scott to come and leave. It shouldn’t be. The guy is smart enough to know when I piss, I REALLY piss. He would have at least stuck around for a few minutes.

Bastard! The mother fucker didn’t even show up?

Oh well, like that bothers me. He’s probably just late, right? Maybe he got detention or something. No biggy. It’s not like I have to go run a fucking marathon this evening.

I wait.

I drink more coffee.

A new minimum-wage slut arrives behind the counter, but she’s nowhere near as cute as the last one, so she doesn’t catch my attention as well.

I still grab 3 more refills, though.

I’m not too pissed off…well, until the security guy comes over to me and points out that it’s nearing closing time.

“No fucking way!”

I turn to the wall, and I almost piss myself. It’s already eight-fifty-three!

Needless to say, as I walk out of that place, I’m pretty fucking pissed off. Stood up by my best friend! I expect that shit from a minimum-wage McDonalds slut, but not Scott! That guy is good shit!

I resolve to get this situation unfucked for tomorrow so he can give me my fucking notes.

Okay, so it’s tomorrow.

I get to sleep just fine after twenty coffees. You try it. The caffeine just holds you for a while, then you crash into your bed before you can turn off the lights. It’s great for getting your sleeping schedule on track after a lot of late nights of parties.

My dad’s bitching as usual as I walk into the kitchen for breakfast. He’s mumbling about bad ground water or some shit, and the gophers eating his wheat. The gophers are the only thing I like about his land. They’re great target practice.

My dad bitches a lot about pretty much everything. I just tune him out. I don’t really give a shit…hell, I do it. I bitch probably more than my dad. That’s one of the things that makes Scott cool, is he never seems to mind. He just shrugs and listens to me bitch all day. At first, I thought he just tuned me out too, but he actually tries to help and he will talk about the shit I bitch about.

“So, you going to the mall again today?” my mom asks me all snotty, like I’m going to be embarrassed she’s bringing it up and be shamed into not skipping class ever again so long as I live.

“Hey! Good idea!” I reply with a smirk.

She just frowns and give me a cup of her shit coffee. I sigh and dump it out right in front of her. “Actually, I gotta go see what’s up with Scott. He didn’t meet me after school at the food court.”

My mom, if she wasn’t already married, I would swear would be after Scott; she loves the kid so much. Not that I’m jealous. Better him than me. “Oooh! How is little Scotty doing?”

Okay, I was wrong. Scotty is worse than Matthew, but at least only my mom says Scotty, so he doesn’t have to hear it all the fucking time.

“Scott’s fine, Mom.” I grumble. “Now I’m goinna run, okay?”

Insert normal morning routine here, and I’m finally free. I don’t need to catch the bus, since my wonderful parents thought of that when they bought this house (further attaching us to this shit town) so close to the schools. The least the bastards could have done is let me have a 10 minute before-and-after ride to school so I could catch up on my morning wood. Now I gotta walk and have my pants all fucked up and tight by the time I get to class.

I don’t hang out in the lunchroom or outside in the smoking area or anything. I don’t smoke cause I’m too cheep. I spend all my money on coffee and booze. Smokes are too expensive, and I refuse to put anything in my mouth that the British call “Fags”.

Isn’t that a lovely word?

Here you are, walking down the street in London, and this homeless fucker comes up to you and says: “Excuse me, sir? Can I bum a Fag off of you?”

Bum a Fag?

Shit, instead of “Smoking can kill you!” they should put “The British call cigarettes ‘Fags’!” on the packs. I bet less people would smoke then.

Anyway, I go right to my locker, then class. I don’t bother wasting the three minutes before then out in the hall talking about shit. Hasn’t been one bit of gossip yet worth three minutes of my precious fucking time.

Right away, though, I see that Scott isn’t there. He’s usually in class early too. That’s actually why we started talking to each other two years ago. We’re both don’t blab like old hens and consider our time best spent where we don’t have to listen to other assholes who don’t think the same.

Fuck! Scott made me come to school when I didn’t even fucking have to? That boy is getting a shot to the kidneys once I see him.

For a while, I think the asshole must have moved or died, but the teacher looks surprised when she calls out attendance and Scott doesn’t answer. So if he is dead, then she doesn’t know, and teachers always get told.

“Oh, and Matt?” the bitch says. “You have detention after school. Gotta get those notes from me.”

I’m gonna kill Scott!

Wednesday. The only good thing about today is it’s called ‘hump’ day. Not that I say that shit. I just like yelling at people who do.

Who was the kindergarten-reading-level FUCK who came up with that bullshit anyway? “Tee hee! Wednesday Hump-Day!” I can just see it now. And all his little retard friends would giggle and say “You said a dirty word!” and then that’s when it got popular.

I may not be the smartest piece of corn on the cob, but for fucks sake, at least I’m a higher FORM of prick.

That morning I actually woke up early enough to walk over to Scott’s house to see if he was alive, dead, or in New Mexico picking me up a thousand sticks of TNT like I asked for so I can put my ‘Flaming Glory’ plan into action.

If that’s the case, I’m not only forgiving the bastard, but I’ll even give him a head start so he doesn’t have to die like all the rest of these pricks.

Of course, if he isn’t, then he’s on my list of people to invite to my ‘going away party’.

Scott’s family lives in a nice house in a nice area of town. The lawn is nice, and hell, his parents aren’t even assholes enough that they’d put pink flamingos on their lawn. Not bad. Hell, his mom makes great coffee too. I hear she used to work at a donut shop, but let’s not get into THAT right now. I’m perverted enough as it is, wishing my own mother worked in a McDonalds.

His dad is some kind of early-retirement guy who made a lot of money back in the 80’s and then moved here so they could live a ‘normal’ life. I suppose it’s not bad since he doesn’t bitch about farming all day and can enjoy the scenery. Even a stuck up asshole like myself can recognize this as a nice town for the scenery.

Back to Scott’s sister. The bitch is hot. I already said. But she’s still a bitch. One of them little teenaged cock-teases who knows they’re hot shit, but never puts out and thinks it’s funny when guys scramble over each other for her. If that was all, I might forgive her, but she’s always blaming things on Scott when the guy doesn’t do them, knowing he’s too much of a nice guy to say it was her own bitch-assed fault. Also, she makes shitty coffee too.

She has long, blonde hair, big pouty lips like that Angelina Jolie babe from the movies, and she’s fairly well built. Usually, she wears tank tops and tight jeans. You know the type. I’m sure, unless you live in an even shittier town than I, that you have a slut like this in your school too.

Well, if I didn’t almost shit my pants when she opened the door.

I mean, she looked like SHIT. And I’ve seen shit. I’ve looked like shit, and I’ve beaten people till they look like shit, and she, my friends, looked like shit. Her lips were all cut and swollen, her hair was ragged…hell, I think there was a bit ripped out on the side, and her arms looked bruised to hell. She looked at me with these hideous, puffy eyes…not from black eyes, but rather from crying or something…and just said “Yes?” like I didn’t notice she looked like shit and answered the door in dumpy clothes 4 sizes too big.

“Damn!” I said. “Uhm…is your brother home?”

She nodded and closed the door on me.

For a second, I must admit, I was almost scared to ring the bell again. Luckily, she wasn’t just being a bitch, and she indeed got her brother.

Scott opened the door and smiled at me. “Hey, Matt. How’s it going?” At least he looked normal. Still, though, he seemed really tired. I assumed it was just cause it was morning.

“Um…I’m good.” I said. “What the fuck’s wrong with your sister?”

He just shook his head. “Never mind man. I’ll tell ya later.” he looked outside. “Sorry I wasn’t at school. You ready to go?”

I nodded, still kinda freaked out by the whole sister thing, but when he grabbed his bag (laugh) and walked out the door to join me for school, I let it slide and assumed everything was all swank and hunky-dorie.

And life goes on.

Some strange things about that day, though. I can still see them when I look for them. As they happened, I didn’t really give much of a shit, but now when I think about it, there was definitely some shit happening.

Just little looks. Here and there. Like I had just killed someone’s cat or baby hamster. You know. I distinctly remember one Junior bitch looking at us as we walked in the school, and I just stopped and stared at her back until she turned around all embarrassed.

I just figured they were all staring at my fly or something. I zipped it up and continued living.

It was a busy day in class, so Scott and I didn’t have a chance to yap too much until the end, when I said “Wanna go to the food court?”

He smiled and nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

See? Isn’t he great? No ‘man, I got lots of homework’ or shit. He just says no problem. If I had another two or three friends like that, I would actually feel bad about wanting to blow up the entire town.

Plus, I haven’t had a chance to bitch at anyone who would listen for 4 days now, so I’m a little backed up. I’ll even forgive him for ditching me so long as he listens. Yeah, I know, I have the forgiveness qualities of a Saint. Of course, the fucking church would think it best to call me Saint Matthew, so don’t you fucking tell them that.

Thankfully, my day was looking up from then on. The cutest of the two minimum-wage sluts was behind the counter again, and she even remembered me and got all pissy when I ordered more coffee. Hehe. I think it could be love.

Scott knows why she recognizes me and laughs. “I think she likes you, man.”

“Damn I love these Dairy Queen sluts.” I laugh, and the conversation begins.

We talk about the usual shit at first. I don’t wanna just say ‘Why the fuck weren’t you here on Monday? I stayed all day!’. So, I ask him if he wants a coffee too.

“No thanks.”

Good. “So why the fuck weren’t you here on Monday? I stayed here till the fuckin security guards kicked me out!”

He looks genuinely sorry, so I’ll let him live. “Oh, shit! Sorry man. I had some stuff to deal with.” he pauses. “You know. Taxes and stuff. My dad needed someone to help with the math.”

“Ahh, okay.” I shrug, pausing to get a refill from my minimum-wage slut-cutie.

“Why did you skip a Monday anyway?” Scott asks. “I thought you saved up all your absences till Friday or Wednesday because you don’t like hearing half the retards in the class saying ‘Wednesday: Hump-Day’?”

“I had a really shitty fuckin weekend man.” I explain. “Well, it started off great. Faggot-ass boy finally paid me back for all the Budweiser I kept stealing from my dad for him.”

“You mean, Chad?”

“Yeah. Faggot-ass.” I continue. “Got me a nice big bottle of Silent Sam for my troubles. So, I drug it over to Pizza-boy’s house. He and his brother had this big party since is parents were down in Edmonton for the weekend.”

Scott laughs. “Zza-boy had a party? Shit. That must have been fun.”

“Oh yeah. He kept on saying not to break anything. Of course, HE was the only guy who broke anything. Klutzy mother fucker.”

“So what was so shitty about the weekend, then?” Scott asks. Damn, if I could just find a chick with this kind of attention span to my bullshit, I’ll marry the bitch. I don’t care if she’s not as cute as my minimum-wage serving sluts.

“Well, all Pizza-boy would play on the stereo for the first half of the party was his parent’s Tom Jones’ CD’s. I mean, I like the guy as much as the next, but fuck, three repeats of ‘It’s not Unusual’ is enough. I also saw Gimpy and Barks hitting on my Ex, so I got kinda pissed off about that. Probably just the drinks, but I still got pissed off.”

“So what did you do?”

“Well, I sat there and yelled at them for a while, but then they came over with three of their buddies who hadn’t been drinking yet, so I couldn’t do shit.” I sigh. “That’s why I got so pissed off about it! At least if I wasn’t outnumbered I could have broken their noses and been on my way, but they made it so all I could do is pour myself another drink and glare at them back.”

“Shitty man.” Scott nodded and shook his head. “So then what?”

“Well, then my dad figures that I’ve been the one stealing all his beer when I come home drunk that night, and starts chewing me out. Asshole had me up till six in the morning.”

And he listens and we must have talked for hours. I even forgot all about asking about his sister again. Shit, it was nice. I told him about my shitty mom booking the dentist appointment, my CD player getting fucked up, the fuckin teachers, my dad bitching about his screwed up crops. The works. Hell, he even suggested I talk to the teachers about doing some upgrading on my grades next year. That’s great in case I can’t get those thousand sticks of TNT in time. Good idea too, never thought of it.

Finally, though, the mall’s closing and we part ways to our separate lives. Just before we gotta split up on the walk home, however, he turns to me and smiles.

“What?” I frown and wipe my mouth. “Got snot on my lip?”

“Naw.” Scott shakes his head and laughs. “Just good talking to you.” he says it like we haven’t talked in weeks or something, but I don’t pick up on it.

“Yeah, sure.” I just grin like an idiot. “See ya tomorrow?”

“Yup. Gotta catch up on notes too.” Scott nods. “Have a good one, man.” he waves and is off down the street.

I had a really cool dream that night. I was at Dairy Queen, fucking the shit out of one of my minimum-wage sluts over the counter, and at the end of it all, she got covered in soft-serve iced cream. It was hilarious.

Well, there’s another fetish to add to my list. Damn I’m a sick puppy.

So, it’s Thursday. At least we’re on the down-side to the weekend now, so I’m not too mad at school forcing me to waste my morning wood on the walk over. Thank god we live in a world that only requires us to learn five days out of seven. Less if we’re creative.

I walk into class with my usual air of ‘get the fuck outta my way’….ready to throw my bag under my chair so I can climb in and get ready to ignore the teachers for the next five hours.

However, I stop just before I do the ‘throwing my bag under my chair’ part, as I see half the class already inside the class. I look at the clock, wondering if I’m late, but I’m not. Good thing too, if my watch broke too, I’d be pissed off.

But half the class is already there, and they’re all looking at Scott, who sits next to me, so I notice right away.

Scott, my buddy, is just sitting there, looking in the general direction of a book he’s trying to look like he’s reading, but it’s obvious that he’s not able to with all these stares.

What the fuck happened? Did he just drop his pants in the gym or something?

Fuck it. So, I just walk over to my desk and throw my bag under the chair, straddle up in it and look around at all the faces.

“Hey! You faggots got something better to do than hit on me?”

Gotta love homophobes. One accusation that they’re gay, and they run and jump through whatever hoops you set out for them. The guys instantly laughed all nervously and turned away, explaining that I’m the fag and should shut up. The bitches follow without their testosterone backbone supporting their Scott-watching.

He looks up and shakes his head at me. “Thanks man. I have no idea what the hell’s wrong with everyone today.”

“Neh, no problem.” I shrug. “Just tell them I’ll beat their heads in if they hit on you.” I chuckle. “You’re MY bitch, after all.”

Lunch. Damn I love lunch. Most of the kids here complain about the cafeteria food like it’s the goddamn plague, but I could live off of this shit. I DO notice the occasional ‘look’ at Scott as I eat, but it’s not enough that he notices, so I let it slide.

What the flying fuck is with this school today? Is it ‘stare at Scott day?’

“We’re moving.” Scott says after he finishes his hamburger.

“What?” I blink. “Why???” I must admit, I’m getting a little sentimental at this point. After all, if he was a chick, I’d do him. Why does he have to go?

“Dad thinks it’s time to move.” Scott says with a shrug. “And the university in Edmonton doesn’t have the courses I want, so…”

“Shit!” I gasp. “Uh…so where too? When?”

“Calgary, probably.” Scott says. “And this weekend.”

Well shit on me.

“This fucking weekend?!?!?” I gasp. I must sound like a fag-bitch at this point in time, but I don’t care. “When the hell did you find out?”

“Today.” he says with a sigh. “Sorry man. I know this sucks…if it were any lesser reason, I’d force my old man to stay, but this is kinda important.”

“Shit.”

“Shit.” he agrees.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” I frown at him. “Don’t be fucking with me about this.”

He digs into his pocket and pulls out a set of u-Haul keys. “We’re already half packed.”

Shit.

We spend the afternoon in the office as he waits for transfer papers and the like. I swear the fucking secretary is looking at him weird, though, but I’m too bummed out to care at the moment.

“So what happened to your sister, anyway?” I finally remember to ask.

“She got into a car accident.” Scott explains with a shrug. “She’s fine. Nobody was hurt. It was pretty lucky. Just a few scrapes N bruises.” he turns and sighs. “Listen, I’m sorry about all this. I’m goinna miss you, man. But I can’t leave my dad out to dry right now, and I knew this move was coming eventually.”

“Could have fooled fuckin me!” I say, to the obvious annoyance to the office staff. Fuck them, though. I’ll swear all I want. “Since when?”

“University is coming up soon, man.” he says. “I’ve been thinking about it for a LONG time. You knew that one day we’d have to say ‘later’ and not be able to hang out at the food court all day and yap all day.”

“Yeah, but I always thought it would be because of dynamite strapped to my chest.” I sigh, defeated. I may have shit grades and a death wish, but I know grad is coming up and what that means.

Scott laughs and nods. “Me too, to tell you the truth. But I’m afraid I won’t be around to see the explosions. Hope you’re not disappointed.”

“Naw.” I sigh. “Didn’t really want to kill you anyway. Just the rest of the city.”

That gets a nervous look from the office staff, and therefore, brightens my mood considerably.

Twenty-four hours to spend with your best friend before he moves. It’s a shitty deal, but hell, it could have been worse, right? He could be borrowing my money and then taking off with it or something…not that I’d lend the bum any money even if he IS my best friend. Like I said, I have no money. I’m a cheep bastard.

The food court, of course, is the first choice of venue. I bring my thermos and hand it to the lesser-cute minimum-wage slut behind the counter this time. “Fill it up.”

“I’m sorry, sir, we only refill the cups.” she says all snotty.

Scott clears his throat. “Listen, ma’am. He’s either goinna be back here another dozen or two times throughout the day to get refills. OR, you can just fill this up and we don’t have to see each other again till Monday. How does that sound?”

The minimum-wage bitch looks between us and surrenders to our combined manly force. “Fine.” she takes my thermos (yeah, take it like you want it, bitch) and fills it up. Shit, I think I’m goinna have another good dream tonight about this.

“So.” he smiles. “Tell me about your plans for after school.”

I grin and nod. “Well, first of all, I’m goinna get rid of…”

They say story-time moves different than real time. One chapter can take the span of a day, while another can take the span of a month. But that’s bullshit. That’s just reflecting real life

24 hours went by like 24 hours. Of course, all we did was the usual bullshit. I bitched. He listened. We got all sappy and sucked each other’s cocks. Naw, but I bet you were thinking about it. You sick fucks.

And then, we were walking back to his house that morning after spending the whole night out by the rail-way tracks, throwing rocks at cars as they passed by.

I don’t know why I asked or said it, but I think it was one of those thoughts that you get that just HAVE to happen for the cosmic plan to work. Or some shit like that. I know if I didn’t ask, and if he never answered, I would be bitching at you right now for how the asshole just packed up and left.

But, anyway, I asked him:

“How come you put up with me bitching all the time?”

He turned to me as we were walking and just smiled. “Pardon?”

“You know.” I shrug. “I’m always telling you about my Ex, or some little bitch I’d like to fuck but never get any. And my mom and dad being complete retards for various reasons. Hell, you never mind when I bitch about you.”

He nodded. “I dunno. It’s just little stuff. I don’t mind.”

Then I asked the other question that I knew later was part of something spooky and vast and holly-shit.

“How come you never bitch?”

Scott stopped walking for a moment, considering the question. “I guess I don’t have anything worth bitching about, man.” he smiled. “I mean, I’m healthy, and generally happy. I guess that’s all I’d need to bitch about.”

“Oh.” I shrug. “Well, if you ever need to, just gimme a ring. You know the number.”

He smiled and put his hand on my shoulder. “Thanks man. It means a lot.”

I smiled at him and shrugged. “Hey, anytime man.”

I actually hugged the sonovabitch.

“I’ll send you a letter or something once I know where we are.” Scott nods and waves as he walks towards his house and I walk towards mine.

“Good. Make sure you print nice. I can’t read your chicken- scratch pussy handwriting.” I laugh.

“Deal. Night man.”

“Night.”

I guess he had to go sooner or later. We’re already dead, so who gives a shit.

Wasn’t that a fucking touching story?

Fuck you.

Now before you start bitching at me for wasting precious time you would normally be throwing at downloading porn or listening to that slut Brittany Spears, old Matt has one more story to tell you.

This one takes place this week. This day, actually. But also, it takes place a week ago. Last Saturday. How fucked up is that? You still with me? Yeah, I know it’s goinna take some brain power to imagine a flashback, but you stuck with me this long, you got nothing to lose now.

It’s the first day this sorry little town has been without a good Scott for me to bitch at, and I admit, I’m missing the ass already. If it wasn’t Saturday, I’d skip school in his honor, and then go back the next day to yell at everyone for staring at him like he was some raging fag for the last day he was there. Fucking pricks. Like I said, at least I take pride in knowing I’m a higher form of prick.

I was walking to the food court.

At the entrance to the mall, there’s this little newspaper stand. We call it ‘Sir Whack-A-Mole’ because they usually just have prairie farming almanacs and porno. Nice combination. But they also have newspapers of the daily kind, and something caught my eye on the front page as I was looking for the latest Hustler.

“Teen released from murder charges. Self defence, says judge.”

And, shit on me, the picture below was some blurry-assed shit of a kid who looked exactly like Scott, holding his hands in front of his face as he ran off camera.

Even my cheep ass was curious about all this, and I plunked down the fifty cents for the shitty paper.

I’m reading it right now. As I’m telling you this story. Don’t thank me, I don’t mind doing two things at once. Call me naturally gifted, or just used to chewing gum and walking at the same time. Whatever.

Now, the story in this newspaper takes place last week. About the time I was yelling at Pizza-boy to turn the fucking Tom Jones off, and right about the time I was calculating it would take at least two sticks of TNT to blow the fuck out of his rich-silver-spooned-up-their-ass house.

Scott was walking home from the library, it seems. (Call him a geek, and I swear you’re a dead mother fucker) It was late, and he was looking forward to a nice evening of the usual stuff. Food, porno, sleep, whatever it is that Scotts do when they’re not being bitched at by me.

And as he’s walking up to his house, he sees this black jeep that’s pulled up on the lawn. Standard hillbilly shit. Hell, even had a little rebel flag on the fucking licence plate. I’d key the fucker just by being so retarded.

But he figures it’s one of his bitch-sister’s friends and thinks nothing of it.

Turns out it was some of her friends. Except they weren’t too friendly. Even for asshole pricks like me.

Scott walks into the front door and hears some weird shit upstairs. He’s just about to rush up to see what’s the matter, when he passes by the living room.

And he sees his mother, lying flat dead on the floor with her face blown off by a shotgun.

His dad is all but insane-hysterical, tied up with duct-tape, and stuck on the floor next to his fuckin dead wife. He’s been knocked on the head, but is now more than awake enough to realize his struggling has gotten her brains and blood all over his body now as it’s seeping into the carpet around them.

And his dad is screaming for Scott not to go upstairs, but he can’t cause there’s tape on his mouth, and Scott is fuckin zoned out at this point anyway. Someone could be yelling at him to chill out with a blow horn, and he would just think it’s a fly buzzing around his head.

You try keeping together when you walk in and see your parents lying in gore and hear your sister being raped upstairs in your own fucking bed.

If you say you can, I just found myself the world’s biggest fuckin liar.

And so, Scott goes over to the fire-place of his parents swanky nice house, and picks up the fire-log poker. You know what I’m talking about. One of them things the old log-drivers used to use on the rivers, except in a nice metre-long take-home size for your convenience.

He strolls up the stairs with one hand in his pocket. Like he was goinna go check his e-mail or something. His dad’s screaming, but still gagged, so he doesn’t even hear.

Scott opens the door, only looking long enough to find the two fuckers who are making his sister scream like they are. He doesn’t dare look at the whole thing. I doubt even I, with all my damn fetishes, could live with any image of that shit.

He sees two seniors with ski-masks, and that’s all. And then, he jams the fire-poker into the back of the guy’s head who has the shot-gun.

Hard.

That fucker’s last thought was probably that he was the baddest mutha on earth, getting away with the shit he was doing.

Fuck. I wish he suffered.

The second guy did, though. Enough for both of them. Scott just whips the poker around and up into this guy’s nuts, ripping them up all the way to his chest.

He died on the way to the hospital. A good hour and a half later. That was how long it took for Scott to get un-zombie enough to call the cops and get his sister to the hospital.

He was grilled by the fucking RCMP for a day and a half, still in his bloody fucking shirt and pants.

“I guess I don’t have anything worth bitching about, man.”

Jesus.

Now…if this were a week ago? I’d be bitching at you. I’d bitch, saying I wish he told me, so I wouldn’t have acted like a complete ass for his last day here. I’d bitch at all those fucks who stared at him for the last day he could stand it here, looking at him like HE had been the rapists. I’d bitch on and on how much I’m going to enjoy blowing these fucks up with me one day if I ever get the explosives enough to kill them all. I’d bitch at how we’re already all dead anyway, and I shouldn’t even care. I’d bitch that I never got a chance to say ‘shit man…’ or ‘sorry’ to his face. I’d bitch that this shit wasn’t fair, and he was a fuckin hero for ripping those two apart.

Of course…

that was last week….

And now? I think I’m going to be sick instead.

———
Glossary:

———

Bitch (v): to complain about

Bitch (a): to be unfriendly, or actively unkind to others.

Bitch (n): a female dog, or an unfavourable female human.

Hunky-Dorie (a): Synonym for ‘Swank’.

RCMP (n): Royal Canadian Mounted Police. (the cops)

Swank (a): to be well, or good. Very favourable.

Tim Hortons (n): a Canadian donut/coffee shop chain.

Strike Fiss, Studio Shinnyo 2000. Khattam-Shud, EOF.

Posted under Manifestoes, Short Stories