His father hadn't had time to teach him all the lessons
he needed to know in life, so there he sat at home and looked out
the window. His hair was long and his jacket was leather, but his
age was 16 and his parents understood. At school he was loved by
a few and hated by most, for though he never learned to cook he
could sing like an angel. Too bad he overdosed on crack.
The trial was proceeding smoothly when it was suddenly
revealed that the Judge was the father of the defendant. "I am
not. So ruled. "said the judge, and banged his gavel sharply.
Finally, the old Reverend Goodfellow died. As his soul
wafted heavenward, he looked back over his life and swelled with
pride. All his life, he had abstained from sin, and fought it in
others, despite what those so-called liberals said. He warmed
himself with the knowledge that all those who had called him a
corrupt lunatic would be roasting in Hell and suffering
eternally. Then he got to Heaven and they were all there, every
last one of them. The pornographers, the pinkoes, the Commies,
they were all there. "Haven't you heard?" said John the hated
homosexual. "everybody gets in. " Everybody gets in.
It didn't hurt as much as he had expected it to. It
hardly hurt at all, as a matter of fact, just a pinch and then a
numbness spreading over his body. "Wow." he said before he passed
into darkness. "That's some margarita. "
To stretch his mind and make him the proper moral vessel,
he would find a busy place and sit and watch the people go by,
then he would choose a person and look at them closely as was
polite, and think to himself "this person is as real as I am.
This person feels pain like I do. This person has a soul like I
do. This person is just like me but over there." At first, he
chose at random, but later when that grew too easy he
deliberately chose people who seemed unpleasant or even repugnant
to him.
It was Nietzsche who said "Mistrust all those in whom the
urge to punish is strong". And Mark Fenner was the living proof
of that. First as a prison guard, then as a lawyer, then as a
district attorney, he had lived his life in the pursuit of
acceptable forms of violence, and he clung fiercely to the
philosophies that allowed him to express his deep rage at all his
father had done to him. But his father had been RIGHT and so was
HE and they had to SUFFER.
It was a small wound but it was in just the right place
and he died quickly and without fuss. The knife that had made the
precision wound was quickly cleaned and the kerchief pocketed.
The woman patted her pocket and smiled, They would not find the
body until a week from now. She picked up her cane and headed out
the door. "Is your friend OK, Grandma? " asked Claudia. "She's
just fine now, Claudia dear. "
The first victim was strange enough, someone scalded to
death when somebody melted a clock onto their face. The second
one made the detective suspicious : the victim had been gored to
death on the horn of a ceramic unicorn with a bone heart and eyes
made of flashing lights spelling 'death'... but the third one,
where the victim had been smothered to death under a thousand
tiny pieces of paper that said 'mother', confirmed it. The
detective sighed. He had a surreal killer on his hands.
He liked to live on the edge. Well, not literally on the
edge, but almost. Well, near the edge, But not too near. Within
reach of the edge. Well, in sight of the edge. In fact, he spent
so much time backing away from the edge that he didn't notice
until it was too late that he'd fallen over the edge on the
opposite side.
He prided himself on his heart of steel. Nothing could
get in. Not love, not sensation, not anything, or so he thought.
In reality, the one emotion that drove him into so many brutal
acts, big and small, was that glorious feeling as the emotions
bounced off his heart of steel. He had to prove it over and over
and over.
True, a tree did fall in the forest, but does it make a
sound? Being the writer I suppose I should know. It's my tree and
my forest, after all. But I haven't decided yet. So there it
sits, fallen for sure, but the noise still hangs in the air, so
to speak.
He glared at the rain. Rain was bad because it made the
leather in his boots shrink and made them uncomfortable. Sun was
good. He trudged on through it hating every last drop. He trudged
past dry lawns thirstily gulping down the rain. He trudged past
gardens and flowerbeds. He trudged past the children splashing in
the puddles and the ducks having a party in the duck pond. He
didn't see any of them. All he felt was tight boots and hatred.
Then, as he was about to open his door and go inside he thought
"I could get new boots. Other than that, I love the rain." The
next week he'd quit his job, sued for divorce, and moved to
Florida with the girl next door to sell whale tours.
She wasn't pretty. She wasn't tall.
But she had something to beat them all
She had the charm, the wit, the style
To keep all of the men beguiled.
Her smile was savvy. Her grace, first-rate.
The kind of girl that Revlon hates.
She needed no makeup. She cared not for beauty.
She had no need to be a half-starved cutie.
When you're such a bright and charming lass
The beauty myth can kiss your big fat ass.
It was magical. Their love was like the meeting of two
mighty rivers and the affection and passion seemed to spray up
into the air and fall to wet the others around them. There was
nothing but total devotion in their hearts. There was nothing
the one would not do for the other. Together, they were a
hardworking pair, good at their jobs and well paid for it. A lot
of their money went to help starving children in homeless
shelters, where they also spent most of their weekends
volunteering. But they were both men so the whole thing was sick
and immoral.
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