OR . . .
THINGS TO DO IN HELL .
Get both my arms hacked off by a psychotic teenage girl. Check. Well, that’s out of the way. What’s left on the list of possible forms of excruciating torture? Get burned alive? Nope. Done that. Get Hell God to burrow into my chest with her fist? Done that too! My, I am ahead of the game.
So I suppose that the Hairmeister atones for his sins by sulking and being a lugubrious wet blanket, whereas I, who am apparently too bloody charismatic for my own good, atone by suffering numerous physical tortures on a bi-monthly basis. Seems fair.
I can’t sleep because every time I close my eyes I see the stumps where my lower arms used to be. I have to stay awake and stare at my hands, convince myself they’re really there. I remember the church organ ordeal, and realise that I’d rather be dust than be that Spike again. It’s all about the waiting.
ACADEMIC EUPHEMISMS
FOR MASTURBATING
“I would have come sooner, but I lost track of time re-adjusting the drive head on my new seismic inter-dimensional array.”
“’S alright. We all need a little alone time with our ‘demons’ once in a while, yeah?” She knows exactly what I’m getting at, and rolls her eyes. I’m reminded of Buffy, as fucking usual.
PICK–UP LINES THAT WENT UNNOTICED.
“You scratch my back, I make sure your arms are sewn back on when some crazy slayer girl decides to go all Nightmare on Elm Street on you.”
“ ‘Preciate it Freddy. Cheers.”
INEFFECTIVE LINES DELETED FROM
FINAL REVISIONS OF VIOLENT
BOX-OFFICE HITS.
“It smells kinda funny in here,” Fred says.
“Hospital smell?” I reply, coolly.
“It’s not a hospital . . .”
“Does severed and re-attached limb have a smell?”
“Maybe. Does it smell like bagels?”
SENTENCES I WISH
I HADN'T WRITTEN.
My arms feel like really big sausages, except made of lead, and on the barbeque.
LESS POPULAR BOARD GAMES.
Lose, lose, or die. Those are the options. Like it matters. I just have to embrace what little time I have left. Drink. Drink some more? Yeah, that sounds good. Lately, my ultimate demise is seeming a lot more ultimate and demisey. Being tied up, drugged and de-armed can do that to you.
a MINT FOR ALL OCCASIONS.
“What’s this?”
It’s that Doyle bloke. How did he find out about my little accident?
“It’s a ‘Jesus, that was some fucking horrific shit, but get over it’ mint.”
“Funny. It looks like a bottle of whiskey.”
“Thought you could use a more manly kind of sedative.”
“Yeah. Well, kinda hard to pull off manly when you need another man to hold the bottle up to your mouth for you.”
“That’s why I brought two bottles.”
God does exist.
ASSORTED CHANCES, GOOD AND BAD.
Outlook not so good? Gee. What a terrific get well soon present. Bloody stupid novelty item. What the hell does it know? If I could hold the thing long enough, I’d smash it against the fucking wall.
INFREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS.
“So. You’re hands were chopped off. What was that like?”
I would strangle him with my feet if I wasn’t so pumped with pain-killers. I mean, who does he think he is, this Charlie? At first, I thought he was a decent fellow. But he’s so bloody cocky—and good-looking. Makes you wanna pound his face in, the smug bastard.
“A rousing tour-de-force.”
SHOE-LACING METHODS.
I whisper dirty little words into the dim-witted nurse bint’s ear, and promise her hours of un-fathomable pleasure if only she’ll put my sodding boots on for me. I have to get the fuck out of this place. It does smell. Not of bagels or hospitals, but of prison. Captivity with a capitol fucking C.
She smiles, and picks the left boot up.
My wings may be a bit worse for wear, but they ain’t clipped just yet.
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