Matt Parkinson was disgusted with himself.  He was sick of his frail old
man's body, he was sick of his growing impotence, and, perhaps most of all,
he was sick of his receeding hairline.  A few more clumps had fallen into
the sink this morning, after a quick morning shave.
	He took a long hard look into the mirror, seeing the deep flesh-pockets
which resided below his eyes, his gaunt form staring back at him with a deep
resentment.  His eyes became accusatory, blaming not nature for his growing
fraility, but his own stupidity.
	"I hate you, Matt Parkinson." he heard himself whisper.
	The funny thing was, his lips had not moved.  Somewhere deep within his
mind, a voice had spoken.  The voice became more and more malicious,
repeating over and over how it (he?) hated the old man.
	As Matt listened to the voice rave on about how much it hated him, he
dimly became aware of the fact that he had grabbed a straight razor.
	He had tightly wrapped his fingers around the blade, and the edge was
cutting deep rivers of crimson into his palm.  He felt no pain, feeling
detached, separate, from the pathetic old man with the straight razor
clenched tightly in his right hand.  He watched the blood run slowly down
his wrist.
	Matt began to giggle as this other person began to cut deep red canyons
into his left arm.  He laughed hysterically as the blade swooped down,
carving his flesh as a butcher would carve up a cow's carcass.
	Chop, chop, chop.
	He was quite amused that his entire left hand was a mass of caked blood
and lacerated flesh.  He continued to chuckle as the blade shaved off the
millions of worms which writhed upon his skin.
	Wait a minute... Worms?  Matt Parkinson laughed even more hysterically as
he realized that millions and millions of worms were writhing over his body. 
He felt a few hundred squirm about in his underwear, and he began to get a
hard on.
	It's like getting a handjob from ten women at the same time, he thought
with sour amusement.
	The other Matt began to remove all the hair from Matt's body...

	It began with his head.
	
	Roughly, it stripped his scalp clean, leaving only a trail of nicks and
cuts, as the razor tore through the tender flesh beneath.  And then his
eyebrows, his mustache, his sideburns, and the prickly shorthairs on his
neck.
	And then, his hand stopped.
	Matt was still giggling uncontrollably at this point and failed to notice
his right hand reach into the medicine cabinet for a pair of tweezers.  It
began to pluck out his eyelashes, one by one, carefully depositing them in
the sink.
	Suddenly a wave of reality washed over Matt.
	"What in God's name am I doing?  Have I gone insane?" he thought.
	"Yes, I do think you have." another part of his mind answered.
	"LIGHTS OUT, MR. PARKINSON!!!" the voice screamed at him as it plunged the
tweezers into his eyeball.  With a loud splurching sound, he felt his visual
receptor being usurped from its throne.
	His eyeball was impaled on the tweezers, looking obscenely like a
meatball punctured by the tines of a fork.  He watched with a sort of morbid
curiosity as the eye landed in the sink with a splurch... sounding like a
wet grape hitting a wall.
	As the tweezers removed his other eyeball, Matt was no longer laughing,
he was whimpering.                                                                          
  	
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