The letter was unaddressed, written in a mechanical turbine opaque black, to Samantha. The letter read:
“The creek at the bend, by the overflow, under the highway, where the birds sing an odd tune, interpreting the roar of machines. At the bottom of the creek bed, within the Catfish hole, you will find the “presence root,” in which you may use to grow an arm.”
Samantha or, “Sam,” as she preferred to be called looked up from the letter while touching the stub of what remained of her left arm, caressing it gently, her eyes squint as the sun gazes down and groans at her. At this point she looks despondently at her shoes then mumbles, “I need boots.” She puts the magically engrossed letter into her back pocket then proceeds up the steps of the porch at her Grandmother’s house, where she resides. When she walks into the house her grandmother looks at her, but doesn’t say a word, yet smiles feverishly. She enters her room, which is plastered with typical teenage girl iconography; the idols she worships are perfect in every sense - long luscious flowing hair, voices like angels and no flaws. She digs through her closet, throwing clothes this way and that way, burrowing like a mole in the night, trying to locate her “adventure boots.” As she is tossing her clothes throughout her room she notices a reeking smell of three day old canned tuna, she frowns and curls her lip as she gags trying not to puke, she grabs the can of tuna, which is partially opened and tosses it for the open window, as she does this her troll scurries from under her bed and jumps up for the can of tuna, he grabs it with both hands and scuttles back under her bed.
“Get out from under that bed, now!”
The troll named Karl peeks his head out from underneath the bed with gristle of tuna remnants dripping down his face and gives her a smirk. He knows he shouldn’t have eaten the three day old tuna, because tuna usually doesn’t sit well on his stomach. He runs up to Sam and gives her leg a hug in an attempt to apologize, Sam looks down at him trying to give him a scolding eye, she breaks and starts laughing at the little guy. Karl runs over to the closet and grabs her boots and drags them over to her, she puts them on and grabs her bag then fills it with the essentials: a canteen of water, crackers and extra rope. She grabs Karl and puts him in the bag, the troll is a woodly-garden troll, a miniature troll which is not to be confused with the ferocious mountain trolls of Nannyboot. Sam heads for the front door, her grandma looks up at her and drools as Sam tells her goodbye and kisses her on the forehead. Thus begins the adventure for Sam’s left arm.
Sam begins her descent through the Wicker hills of Sagglin, the romantic seaside town, home to humans mostly. She makes the educated assumption that the letter is written with the blackest of ink, which is only available to the wealthy, The Kingdom on the Hill, is the nearest castle with a rich King and is about a three day hike on foot, at this point in the adventure she is excited, yet unwary of what she might encounter, a fourteen year old who is as adventurous as Sam may lose an arm or two by the time she is eighteen. As she walks, the sun cascades down the hill top and frowns, as the moon lassos the night sky and pulls itself up it winks at Sam, even though Sam is afraid of the night, her troll Karl hands light up to create enough light to keep the basking flies of Evergreen away. The basking flies of Evergreen, come from the southernmost point of Wakkenshire, the land of fiends and goblins. A place which is dark and cold, not kind to travelers, especially fourteen year old travelers. She keeps on trudging through the mud caused by the slime worms that drip mass amounts of mucus down tree trunks in order to keep the soil free of snagger beetles, ferocious little buggers that enjoy the taste of bark. As the mud gets thicker she decides to stop for a second and grab a swig of water from her canteen, the water drips down her chin and Karl snatches the droplets with his frog-like tongue, as he does this she caresses her nub once again, then she pictures being able to draw and write once again, this makes her mind flow back in time to the nightmare night she lost her arm, a night not like the one tonight, it was during her last adventure on the night of the second twill, a night much more fierce than any other. She suddenly is awakened from her hazy-dream state with a rustling in the leaves. Sam continues towards the leaves as a human sized Jackling Rabbit hops from the brush, she runs towards the Rabbit with a magnificent smile and arms wide open, the Rabbit catches a glimpse and responds with the same effect.
“CHANCE!” screams Sam.
The rabbit named Chance, a dear friend of Sam’s grandmother, back when Sam was just a child, Chance made a pact with Sam’s grandmother to protect Sam when she fell Ill. Well, that was already nine years ago. Chance was there when Sam lost her drawing arm, but could only protect her so long as Chance had to fall back as his voice was taken by the same ones who took Sam’s arm, the Renegades of the South, a group of hobgoblins and witches who snatch body parts and senses from unsuspecting travelers. These hobgoblins and witches sell whatever they steal to the “Wretched bearers,” a group of Warlocks who have the ability to give limbs and senses to those who can afford it, they usually sell the limbs to Kings and Queens who are looking for an extra hand or two in combat against other castles throughout the land. Chance joins Sam in the walk towards the castle on the Hill, just past the horizon, another night’s travel. As they walk a pebble with a note attached hits Sam in the head. A hawk soars and screams over head as it heads towards the horizon. Chance picks up the pebble and unravels the note which he gives to Sam.
In order to retrieve the root, you must slay and feed the first born child of the king on the Hill, to the Catfish who protects the entrance to the hole, which holds the Presence Root, this will be the only way to please the Catfish enough to let you in.
Suddenly this adventure just got a little more difficult than Sam had thought. She looks at Chance as he reads the letter to himself, he gives Sam a confused look and Sam responds with a head nod, as they continue walking into the day light. Sam, Chance and Karl reach the walls of the Castle on the Hill, this is the castle of the King of the Hill, otherwise known as King Tantis. The king has two children, both are boys and Sam knows the first born is twelve years old as the younger child is only five. As she is contemplating how she will go about luring the first born to come with her, she is interrupted by the whistling of a bark flute, she immediately tenses up, Chance’s ears flicker and tighten straight up. The bark flute is the sound of the Renegades of the South. Chance motions to Sam to run and as she does so a giant net grapples Chance, he claws and winces as the net tightens, Sam looks back at Chance as Chance makes eye contact with Sam, she knows Chance wants her to run. Sam sprints as fast as she can to the nearest tall Oak with a buried out badger hole. Sam can hear the hobgoblins and witches cheer as they caught Chance, Sam closes her eyes tightly and hopes he will be okay. There isn’t much she can do at this point but sit and wait. Night falls once again as she wakes from her slumber to notice the sounds of the bark flute to have disappeared as well as the smell of the hobgoblins, who have a very distinct smell, much like the smell of dirty garbage water. Sam comes out of the badger hole beneath the tall oak and heads towards the East side wall of the castle, the place Chance was taken. As she gets closer she notices Chance laying silently and calmly. She yells for him, but he doesn’t move, she gets to him, she immediately falls to her knees and starts to cry. The Renegades of the South took Chance’s heart, the heart of a Jackling rabbit is the strongest and most courageous heart in all the land. She looks up to the sky and notices the moon frowning as she cries in agony, her protector lay slain in front of her and there is nothing she could do about it.
Fucking great, now I can get hard? Really?! Why can’t you get up when I need you to? Prick. I just figured out that the pseudoephedrine mixed with sodium hydroxide produces this gas. This is a result of overheating the red phosphorus. I was up all night trying to figure out the right mixture, but I kept coughing up a damn lung, I’m assuming the gas I was inhaling is toxic. This is not bad a for a week’s worth of insomnia. I am getting further into the chemical process of creating a drug strong enough to treat your alcoholism, brother. Good thing you have been here to talk with me today. I’ve been feeling rather strung out; the wife keeps nagging about those stupid pills. I have been avoiding home for the longest time; I am always here in the lab. I can’t stop this shaking though. I’m not sure if I am developing Parkinson’s or if it is from this lack of sleep. I didn’t seem to notice much of anything before. I suppose she’s right; now that I think about it, I am not a very good husband, that’s for damn sure. Shit, my dick doesn’t even want to get hard any more. The pork and beans are useless; they just hang there now all dry and dusty. It is pretty fucking depressing.
I’m sorry you probably don’t want to be hearing any of this any way. I always seem to be complaining about this and that. So how have you been? Has work been treating you well? Yeah, it has been but, I have been feeling fucking low, man. I know I gave you that idea about treating my alcoholism, shit I even gave you the notes I took back when I was sober enough to hold a pen. I just feel like this medication you’re making is mine; you just have the money, time, and resources. You were always pop’s favorite, though. He always respected you while he neglected me. I was the one who developed this fucking sickness! Settle down. Here, do you want to try some of the testers I have created so far? I feel like it may just cool you down, take you down a notch or two. NO! Fuck that, I was up for two fucking weeks, man. Two weeks developing this shit, writing it down in my lab notes, perfecting it. But every time I thought it was perfect, it wouldn’t work. All of a sudden you are able to get the right mixture of this and that to make it work for you?! What the fuck! A week? Really?? That’s bull shit, two weeks I was up failing; then being the coward scum I am, turning to the bottle for a little liquid courage, I was able to keep going. Well, I am not going to let you take this away from me. You are the one who is the alcoholic remember? I am sober enough to mass produce it and possibly take it to the FDA to have inspected who knows; maybe it’s more than a cure for alcoholism. NO! You are not about to fucking take this from me!
I told you not to look at me. I’m a misfit in this land of opportunity. You can conjure up a grand idea out of dog shit. Everything I come up with is more worthless than shit. That’s the way this world works ya’ know? You get to be wealthy with everything going for you. A sexy-ass wife, kids, and a steady job; I’m just a pathetic nobody striving for attention. Your attention to detail is what led me to seek your assistance with this magnum opus. My pencil would scratch at paper eating up the eraser faster than you can say “Abilify.” This reminds me, I haven’t taken my meds today, but I don’t have time for those mental handcuffs now.
By the way, there is nothing you can do, you stole it from me. Days and nights, two fucking weeks without sleep, finally something I could be proud of! I simply asked you to critique it. What do you do? STEAL IT! Really? I was left with one objective: retribution. I thought of that fine piece of ass you call your wife. It was pretty easy; you know I always thought she was kind of a slut. I seduced her, but by the time I got her to your bedroom my Moby Dick wouldn’t get up. It was flaccid like a slice of cold bologna; I was too tired, strung out, and pissed off. I bet you can guess what I did next. I took it all out on her. I grabbed those Wal-Mart bags you kept under your bed and put them over her head. Oh, she struggled alright, scratched my back up real good. You see, my man; I wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t stolen it. You took my sleepless nights of hard work and you pissed on it.
Steal my damn idea will you? Ya’ see what happens when you piss me off? I hope I taught you a valuable lesson. That needy whore of yours came on to me. She was easier than one of those girls in the Red Light District. I’m sorry for that though, I mean really. I was gonna grab those two little girls you have, take them out back to play doctor. Lucky for you, they were at school. What time is it? 3:15, huh? They should be home shortly then. Well I’m sure by now you feel the cold steel of this Glock 17 resting against the side of your skull. The barrel is cold as ice, makes you scared doesn’t it? No matter how big of a man you think you are, when you have a loaded gun held against you, it’s like a light switch: instant pussy. So any last words, before I blast those brains all over your beautiful cream colored walls? You hear that? I think your kids are home. I can’t wait to see their faces, once they find you.
“Daddy?! Why would you do this to yourself?”
*Stan's inner voice = italics
Stan covers Jill’s mouth as she tries to scream. Jill is the captain of the cheerleading squad at Berea College and has developed nicely. Stan grabs his buck knife from his back pack along with the roll of duct tape. He tapes Jill’s legs to one of the support beams underneath the main grand stands by the football field; Jill struggles and flails in a frantic, nervous manner as Stan tapes her arms behind her. Stan pushes his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose, although it does nothing because the sweat pouring from his brow makes them slip back down anyway. It’s three in the morning and no one is awake in the small, desolate wasteland of a town, Berea Kentucky.
“Sssshhhh. Jill, you know, you know why I’m doing this.”
“Oh maybe she doesn’t know, Stan!”
“No, no, no, no. She knows, she knows. You shut up, you. I told you to go away.”
“I am always here with you, Stan. I am you.”
“I can do this without you. I can do this without you.”
“Stan. Stan. No, you can’t. I am your guiding hand; now slit her throat! HAHAHA.”
Stan shakes his head in frenzy and yells in a fit of rage as he slits Jill’s throat. She convulses and blood spills from her mouth, because of this the duct tape falls off and lands delicately next to her floundering body like a dead leaf falls from an Oak in the fall. Stan picks it up and looks at it awkwardly; thoughts of fall rush to him, but quickly disperse when he gets a scent of blooming dandelions. Stan is covered in blood, his glasses stained red. Stan struggles to drag Jill. Her measly 115 pound frame should be easy to drag through the dirt if Stan was John, who is (or was) Jill’s boyfriend. Stan wished he could be John, captain of the football team and an All-American quarterback. But Stan’s 140 pound body wouldn’t be able to take a hit from an angry, sculpted 200 pound linebacker. Stan drags Jill’s body to the hole he dug earlier, which is at the south end of the grand stands.
“I am the death eater, haha. Hey, you there or what!?”
“Yes.Yes. What do you want, Stan?”
“Well, well I don’t know what to do now, now. "
“What? Well, we go home obviously.”
Stan looks down at Jill in the hole and smirks. He puts his hands around his neck and starts convulsing, imitating her and laughing. He puts his blood drenched hands on top of his head to scratch the dry spot as dandruff falls onto his shoulder he looks up to the moon which is bright and full. He then goes back to the area in which Jill was killed grimly to make sure there is absolutely no evidence on the scene at all, Stan was a big fan of the show Dexter, and loved to read forensics analysis reports in his free time, so it was rather easy for this complicated boy to clean up the scene. Stan then continues on and walks home through the woods adjacent to the field; his house isn’t far from the school at all. Once Stan is home he pulls his Journal out from under his bed and begins writing.
This place in which I reside is unfamiliar to my touch as I am to it. I was bound by the hands of what was the enemy. This is my demise, this self-loathing pity in which I have deplored upon myself. I find myself writing and writing, though never finding. A meaning to the war on life the war that has caused great grievance. A confrontation of wretched disturbance was caused upon the land that was once created by some form of energy that cannot be described. Is this idea fictional? Or perhaps, a story written by someone who was in contact with said energy?
This struggle with life, upon a never ending discord of questions came upon me when struggling within the barracks of an unknown. The enemy of one is the friend of many, for it is just a cause and effect. The mind works itself in mysterious ways to disconnect oneself from cognizance. Creating a new world within your old world is a challenge for most, but when done with the greatest of diligence and persistence it is incomprehensible to what the mind can achieve. I have been traveling within minds for some time now, leaping across oceans of brain stimulants. There have been many who have been saved by my will, as well as countless enemies relinquished. Jill’s mind was weak-
Stan is interrupted as his mother calls for him,
“STAN! Dinner time!”
“Tell her you’re fucking busy, Stan, tell her!”
“No balls. No balls. No balls.”
“Cram it. I’m hungry anyway.”
Stan walks down the creaking staircase to the dining room where his Ma’ stands holding a pan of meatloaf, smiling with her curls of blonde hair laying lavishly on her floral spring dress. Stan grabs the meatloaf and kisses her on the cheek. As they both sit down Stan’s Ma, Penny, begins a prayer for the food they are about to consume. Stan digs in and finishes his plate full of potatoes and meat rather quickly. He sits in the dining room chair twitching his eyes and grinning at his Ma. Penny looks up with a smile.
“Stan you look terrible. Have you been sleeping?”
“Ask, ask, ask, you always ask questions, questions.”
“No, Mother. I haven’t been sleeping.”
“Stan you really need to go to bed. Remember what I told you that will help you fall asleep? Deep breathes while counting backwards. “
“Quiz. Quiz. Always with the questions and answers, answers.”
Stan gets up from the dining room table and grabs the steak knife. Reaching over the meatloaf, he stabs the table as hard as he can directly in front of Penny’s plate. Penny’s eyes light up like a deer caught in head lights. Stan places his hand on hers and whispers nothing into her ear, nothing that made sense to her anyway. She swallowed hard as the last piece of meatloaf she was chewing lodged itself in her esophagus. While gasping and reaching for Stan to help her, her eyes roll back white as he looked into hers. The voices in her head were screaming for help and help and help, but there was no answer. Penny’s head falls face first into the leftovers of gristle and potatoes.
“mors comedenti, mors comedenti, mors comedenti, mors comedenti”
“Death eater? Maybe. Maybe death follows me. Haha.”
“Stan, you, you, you are death.”
Stan looks at his Ma’, then grabs her by her blonde curls and lifts her head out of the gristle, grease drips off of her chin into the remnants of potatoes, with no emotion on his face at all, he gazes into her cold dead eyes and thinks about her for a second – but only a second. He pushes her head back; as the weight of her body falls backwards her leg cracks against the table with a loud thud as it splits open. Stan looks at the bone protruding from Penny’s leg and touches it with his index finger, as he does the look on his face becomes puzzled. Stan’s hand reaches for the knife on the table. He proceeds to cut at the bone, and he eventually hacks a piece off. He whittles the bone down, using a skill he learned through practice. He sculpts the piece of bone into a crow’s head and rips the cross necklace from Penny’s neck. He throws the cross onto the ground, then puts the gold plated chain through the whittled bone, then clasps it around his neck.
“What is the significance of the fucking crow head?”
“Well. Well you said, said death follows me. Crows got their reputation symbolically because they were connected with Saturn in the ancient times. Saturn, god of time, time.”
Night falls once again and Stan sits in his bed alone, contemplating death in the family. His Ma’ died hours ago and rigamortis has started to set in on her body. His father died two nights ago and is starting to smell of rotten carcass, reminding Stan of the crow that was hit on the road just outside of his house three weeks prior to. His brother died a week ago and is far more putrid in scent, his skin is pale, a stark white, with stained crimson lips, from dried blood. As he assembles them all around the dining room table, he wonders what his Ma’ thought of the smell; or if she even noticed? Dead, dead, all dead, they’re all dead. Stan looks down at the golden cross and picks it up. With it in his hand, he begins praying. Stan is not a religious boy by any means; he actually finds it funny that people pray to an imaginary man in the sky. Mocking his mother, he alters his voice to sound like that of a female’s and utters a prayer which his Ma’ always said.
Stan sits down in the lazy boy recliner in the living room and closes his eyes for a second and realizes he just killed his entire family. Questions buzz in his head along with the voice that has been telling him what to do since the incident. The thoughts of impending doom bounce back and forth through his mind like a babies rattle. Too many thoughts for one boy to have, a boy that has seen nightmares that no one else has, a boy that has traveled through minds of those who surround him. The never ending endoplasm bouncing, from cell to cell, from brain wave to brain wave, a never ending cycle of dementia. Stan looks down at his feet then scrolls his eyes up the wall and sees red leaking through, building up, about to explode on to him like a geyser. Schizophrenic madness??
Two years prior Stan was walking home from school when a man with a black, cold, steel mask grabbed him, dropping his back pack and leaving his shoes behind as he was swiped into the van. His parents realized he had gone missing and the authorities started their search. After two months of searching, the town gave up looking for Stan. When Stan woke, he was in a state of shock; he woke up tied to a pillar in a basement. The basement smelled of spoiled tuna and sour milk with dirty sewer water lining the floor. Stan opened his crusted over eyes to see five people standing before him. The eyes of the five individuals met Stan’s. The fear in Stan’s eyes could not be overcome and remained until the first individual took off her mask; it was Jill, the captain of the cheer squad.
“You know why you’re here, don’t you, Stan?”
Stan looked up at her with confused eyes and replied with a shaken “no.”
“Stan, you are the one we have chosen to sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice...?” Stan replied with a stammer in his throat.
Jill grabbed Stan by his legs while the man she was with grabbed him by the legs. They tied Stan to a pike and started chanting eerily to what seemed to be some sort of God. Stan was dripping profusely with mass amounts of sweat, at this point the sweat had begun to loosen the rope binding Stan’s arm, creating a lubricant of sorts. As Stan’s hands broke loose from the cinched rope, he unexpectedly dropped to the ground, smashing his head against the pavement. As this happened Jill and her cohort dropped Stan and both looked at each other, then at Stan and quickly went towards him and started screaming into his ear. Stan was not waking up. Jill screamed at her partner, who stood about 6’3” with a packed muscular frame,
“YOU IDIOT, JOHN! How do you not know how to tie a damn rope!?”
“Jill, I’m sorry. What do we do-“
As John was mid-sentence he was interrupted by the sounds of screeching sirens of ten police cars. John and Jill along with the few others who were with them dropped everything and started running the opposite direction of the sirens. When the police arrived on the scene, they found Stan bound and beaten unconscious. Stan was transported to the nearest hospital, which was 45 minutes away via helicopter. Once in the hospital the doctors did everything they could to render consciousness in Stan.
Stan has been in a coma for three years now; his parents, and brother are nowhere to be found, gone, missing without a trace. The community Stan resides in have set up charities within the school and surrounding area to help raise money for the hospital costs, as for those involved in the incident, they have all been convicted and sentenced to life in prison except, Jill Hardy. Jill was brutally murdered and buried in the football stadium on campus, an outstanding scholar athlete who was involved in community organizations and the local Baptist church. The police officers and detectives of the area have never been able to locate a suspect due to there not being any evidence on the scene, and are befuddled to the entire situation.
The reality of thoughts and dreams could be a parallel in the universe, jumping from mind to mind, judging those who we seek out, demented amongst dementia. The mind works mysteriously to conduct scenarios in which cause great turmoil or just the opposite, the fabrication of reality could meticulously be played upon within our own brains to seem like it is reality, when perhaps it is only a dream. Who is to say what is real and what is not? Are we all really awake?
My name is Dave Johnson and I just gave my last cigarette to this homeless man to my left,
in fact, that was my last possession, I figured I didn’t need it any more considering I
had nothing else to my name. The simple fact which remains is that I really only own my
name now, that is kind of preposterous to even think, the fact that I no longer own anything. How does one lose everything? Well the simple fact of the matter is I am the unluckiest guy
on the face of planet, perhaps this is why I am writing this book. To share my story
to wondrous youth, to show that good does happen to the unluckiest of people. Most people
I have talked to throughout my many years on this planet did not share the same
theories about the intrinsic pain of karma and luck. Yes the origins of luck are rooted firmly
in the ground of this string theory which I have created. I might as well state my
theory, everything and everyone is tied together by this metaphorical string, one person
does something good and the other does bad, this string is pulled in separate directions,
the person doing good and/or bad are now playing a game of “tug of war.” The more “bad”
one person does in comparison to that person who does “good”, then this
un-intentionally creates a wall of intergalactic stardust which is then compromising the
“good”. This stardust is then directly translated and induced into the individual who is doing
the “good”, meaning the good who do “good” can be then directly consuming the field
of stardust from the opposite bad that is corrupting the area of which these two
individuals exist. Meaning “bad” karma or “bad” luck is possible to only exist in those who
have been doing “good” because the fact remains that people who only do bad have
never experienced good. This logical theory has been put to test, my entire life, for I have
only ever done “good”, and some how bad karma awaits me in the end. The only flaw is
that I am still unaware of the being or individual who is creating the “bad” intergalactic
stardust field which is I have been engulfed within.
My stating of this theory has then proceeded to get me kicked out of the University of
Harvard. Or rather, Harvard University. I was in the final year at Harvard University
and the professor I was debating in my cap stone senior project, began choking on a
hot dog which was then speculated as the cause of my doing, rather, the theory
therefore does exist because when conducting my detailed explorations of my debating
was causing my “good” to be creating bad which in direct correlation caused bad upon me,
by being kicked out of the university, this also then conduced my theory as a revelation
to exist upon the fact being that the end result of the “good” educational debate in which
the professor and yours truly were conducting ended badly for the both of us. Of course
the professor did not end up dying by choking on said hot dog, in fact he then sued
Harvard University and won due to the fact that their hot dogs were “too big” he therefore
was not a validated “good” moral person after all. The University of Harvard speculated
that I caused this to happen to put my theory in favor in front of the students. Of course
this is preposterous and the University could not file charges against me, but they could in
fact throw me out. Now that you know my background and how I have come to this
situation and therefore am now sitting on this sidewalk, I can proceed to tell you about
the good that has just happened to me a week ago. This “good” that has just happened
to me could in fact brings my theory to light but also has created another hypothesis that
doing good for twenty four years of one’s life will eventually lead to one good thing to
happen. This is the story of that one good thing that has happened to yours truly.
For my theory of karma has a simply profound amusement to my fellow peers
and educators. The flaws of humanity is just exceeding at an exponential rate. I for one
cannot sit idly by and watch the world rot. Therefore I will be writing the Doctrine of
Dave or Revelation of the Deceived; whichever you prefer to name it, choice is essential.
This written doctrine will forever change the world and the way we perceive our world as
well as the universe. It was a cold frigid winter night and I was sitting in semen soaked
boxer briefs, with a cup of joe balancing itself on my crotch, I moved suddenly and the cup
of joe maliciously soaked my genitals in scorching java bean juice. I jumped up in
obvious hysteria as my phallus was red with heat. I was using an extremely
diminutive vocabulary which was filled with vulgar, I then attempted to grab a towel from
the corner of my room, which also just so happened to be soaked in semen. It is not
really important to this at all, but it is in fact important that you must know that I am a
lonely man with two very strong working hands. These hands along with this brain know
how to use the internet and well the internet is essentially good for one thing – I think you
get the point. The fact of the matter is, when I was throwing a fit of rage I noticed something
in the corner of my eye. I walked towards the bathroom and that is when I saw it. I saw
him, standing there is a tentacle soaked electrolytes, drenched in putrid smelling slime,
almost like the viscosity of corn syrup. He turned to me and said “Dave, I have come.”
I was sitting in my room twiddling with my beard as this squid like man was talking to me.
His name was Nethel and he is the son of Nehemiah, the God of the Universe. I had
to immediately take a seat because I thought I was going to have a panic attack, I grabbed
my inhaler from the drawer that also inconceivably held all of my expired condoms. I took
a couple of puffs and took a deep breath and realized that this confrontation could change
my perception of the universe, as well as everyone else’s. He began to tell me stories of
his father’s creation. The universe is 13.75 billion years old and started by the thought
of Nehemiah, you Nehemiah was a created son of Nectula. Nehemiah along with Nectula
are a intergalactic species that are only able to create one original idea in their life
time. Nectula created Nehemiah and Nehemiah created the big bang, the idea that
collapsing a negative ion into reversing the conceptually repetitive cycle of a black hole
when collided upon created the universe. I could discuss it further but that really needs
a lot more discussion within itself. Anyway, the single order of the species was created
from one single celled organism, which evolved into the first Squidorian, as they are
called. This squidorian originator then created a companion with its creative mind and
realized that it was unable to conduct any further ability to do anything else. You see the
squidorian race can only come up with one creative thing in its entire life span!
Nehemiah created the big bang which in turn created the universe and the evolution
of organisms as well the cycle of life. Nehemiah did not mean to create life upon Earth as
we know it, everything happened by chance. All though chance and evolution along
with speculation of science, we could have concluded on our own, that we were not created
by a God. Here is the catch, you see Nehemiah caught a glimpse of a specific female squid
in the Atlantic Ocean and essentially raped her. Well life is not all butterflies and tulips,
the squid had a son and that is where Nethel comes into play. Nethel has never met his
father and prefers not to use the term God in anyway. Nethel is about twelve and well he
has the mental fortitude of well, a twelve year old human. Nothing is special about
Nethel except for the fact that he is ugly, drips mass amounts of mucus and smells
like a garbage that has been sitting in the back of an alley on a hot summer day and
that garbage has not been emptied in two weeks, is leaking large quantities of garbage
juice and has a profound tang that you are unable to identify.
Nethel has grown fond of me, he also likes my hypothesis on karma. This being said,
Nethel has been the only one good thing that has ever happened to me. He
has single handedly re-organized any thought of any religion in the world. The simple
fact of the matter is, we should all be praising a squidorian that goes by the
name of Nehemiah. The entire human civilization based off of religion is all a fallacy.
And I think that if I were to go forward with this, I would or could be murdered off of
hypocrisy or what have you. This is the chance I’m willing to take to get the truth out
there. Now, as I sit here on my computer typing this realizing the abomination that people
may think I have caused, perhaps their retribution will not come or their resurrection or
even the rapture. None if it is going to happen, ever. Now you might ask, “But, Dave
how can this be? It is all I have ever known.” It is because we are human and we
have to believe something to achieve something. For example to conquer other
civilizations we as humans create new organized religions with slight differences then
over run the minority. It is all a never ending cycle that will never cease. One organization
or religious atrocity is going to out due another one. This discovery will change the world
for this single cause.
My ideas are becoming mocked and everyone thinks I’m an imbecile; this is driving me
to a state of depression, which cannot be undone. My loathing for society is driving into
my heart like a stake. Everyone laughs as I tell them the story of me meeting Nethel
and learning of the truth. I cannot believe people are acting this way, then again I
suppose I should have not expected gratitude. Nethel tells me he is nothing of this world,
void of societal normality due to the way he looks. I tell him that he is right, I was not going
to sugar coat it for him. Society is driven by this arrangement of false idols. Look at who
we look up to as a society, celebrities, and sports stars. This world is mad, my thoughts
were going to save it but alas the world is not worth saving. People are wretched putrid
scum, I have found this hatred for them and I cannot seem to let it go. This new found
good that has stricken my divinity has reason for me to think of new hypothesis about
the absurdity of what I have found. The main point is to prove Nethel’s existence and
not only Nethel’s existence but the existence of Nehemiah. For God does not exist,
but you cannot disprove the notion because he is not seen, but you can also say the
opposite as god does exist because you cannot see him. This thought has complicated
many scientists, historians and philosophers before me and will continue to do so
unless I disprove everything completely and show the world of my findings.
I have been shunned for the ideas of creativity I have brought to this world, not only is it
wrong of me to create a possible new religion, it was mad of me to believe that people
would see the truth, I have been living on in this corner of what is a room not doing
anything, awaiting my death. The world will never know the truth for they are to ignorant
and closed minded. My life is ending for I feel I am getting dementia. Or perhaps
Alzheimer’s, I am not really sure. I have stopped reading, it does me no good for I cannot
go on living, but I still hold on somehow to the idea and fabrication of what could have
been. My life could have been something special if everyone just believed what I was
saying. The years go by, I grow weak, my mind fades along with my rationality of being able
to distinguish anything from anything. Threw me in a home, garbage I am. Depression
rips through my mind and the only things I want to do is sleep and die or maybe I want to
kill and die. I think and think, nothing seems to come to mind, how will I go about getting
the artillery and manpower to burn the world. I cannot, though this idea of burning the world
for my gratification would be exactly what they wanted. I for see nothing good happening
to me but this is the way karma works. The good and the bad always related, this hurricane
of monstrosity I call my mind is becoming void. This Doctrine of Dave will never be fully
written and the stories within will die with me. There seems to be nothing for me left,
what shall I do? Burn it, burn the church, burn the world.
This is the concrete fall of man, a never ending void of futile ignorance due to factors
that cannot be undone. Only the one omnipresent figure can save us from the destruction
and the apocalypse of man. He has been holding us to an eternal conflict which lies in a
deep yearning for individual continuity. His name has not yet been found out and he lives
in a house in the sky. The ancient ones have perceived this through their interlocking
stories displaced by aliens from galaxy Vultron X. I am the only one capable of saving
this lackluster abyss of a world. Struck by illness I have grown scrawny and my mind set
is only holding on by a mere thread of intelligence. The great story of the hermit and
the squidorian made sense to me but not others. I have read them this story many times
and yet there is still no hope for them. The people of the world are struggling due to
high carbon dioxide emissions. The carbon dioxide emissions caused hyper
transfixion asphyxiation that caused the collapse of the kingdom of man and the triumph
and conquest of all that was once man.
I the insect known as a cockroach was the only thing to survive the carbon dioxide
emissions and the self inflicting damage and destruction of the earth which was lead by
the atrocious humans, so I think. They treated this world as if it were doo-doo, perhaps a
more scientifically accurate name would apply, feces, they treated this world like feces. I
the cockroach survived the inter galactic imploding snarl of man and now am perhaps
the only remaining living organism on the earth. I have developed an intelligence almost
as strong as a human, though my brain continues to be perplexed over the situation
of "speaking". I am unable to speak, most likely due to the fact that cockroaches do not
have the proper vocal cord arrangements to speak English. My intelligence allows me to
write and read and I have read philosophy, science and math. This all allows me to speak
to the man in the sky which you would prefer to call “God,” I will call him Jorge, because
it sounds better and that is what his name tag says, but he is dark so he looks like a
Jorge, not to be racist, all though I am a roach, so I suppose I cannot be racist.
I am unable to go to the lavatory do to my constipation. This situation leaves me to ponder
or create a hypothesis that I am Ill. For I am not a doctor, but I am a cockroach, and I read
a book or two. I continue to walk in and out of the lavatory and the man in the sky,
Jorge, continues to tell me that I am not a cockroach but I am in a slight pickle. So
then I describe a pickle to him and think to myself about a pickle and the fact of how a
pickle could not be in a pickle but then I thought that maybe I was in the pickle and the
pickle seeped blood because I was covered in it. Blood? Why was I covered in blood?
Maybe it was due to the man in the sky? It is a perplexing conduction that leaves me
to transfer to another room. I scurried across the floor and pondered yet again about
what it was like to climb up a wall and perhaps it may be a fun delusion to have.
All though I cannot dream because I am an insect, a cockroach, but I do have wings that
could let me fly and stick to the wall. But never the less, I must answer the man in the sky
and continue to try and save to human race so that the circle of life could continue. This
time Jorge, the man in the sky, laughs at me conspicuously as he tells me to prepare for
bingo night? I am unsure why the man in the sky would be laughing at me but I then
scurry back to my den and remove my loafers.
Waking up in the morning to find there is only one thing left to do to my cockroach of a
head it is to...
My toes curl as I hear her scream. Her skin developing beneath my nails, her rouge lips covered in misapprehension, stupefied by my entrails of fear. Her optimistic nature, cut down by me. I bottled up my crude feelings of theistic hopefulness, or as she says, “imagination.” Her heart pumps crimson tide through her pulmonary artery. A stunning thing - the heart, so tranquil in real life, almost hypnotizing. I adorned her skin over her head – like a fleshy veil concealing her whorish cries of agony. I cannot help myself – I pull back the skin draped feverishly upon her and look angelically into her eyes as she writhes in pain.
Startled by a knock on the door, I look up to the calendar; Ash Wednesday. Then I shove her dildo down her throat to conceal her hate. I walk methodically and turn the rusted door knob counterclockwise, looking down at her, my daughter. Stunning as I remember, grown, not wilted like my wife was towards the end of her life.
“Hey Daddy, how’ve you been? Are you ready for Church?”
I turn around and grab my pea coat off of the 1950’s looking coat rack, which I purchased after Delilah passed; a once blossomed messenger of purity.
Penny opens her tarnished car door, which squeals like the young lady in my basement was doing. While sitting in her imported hunk of junk, my mind wanders to create vivid images, which were painted in stark detail within my brain. My back crunches against the recoil of the spring loaded car seat, which instantly kills the mood. We pull into the parking lot, which was covered in snow. White, serenading splendor, which was peaceful, then it was ruined by the sounds of scraping steel as the plow trundles through. The plow wiped away the empty canvas that I was about to paint upon.
We walk up to the cathedral. The steps towards the gates get harder to step upon with every stride, as the sin of the young lady in my basement overcomes my body. I’m holding her sin, so I can release it to the lord and save her soul. My hands clammy, frigid and rigid make the sign of the cross as I enter the lord’s domain. As I kneel, I pray to relieve the sin from the young lady in my basement. Penny clutches my hands within hers and whispers in my ear,
“I will pray for her too Daddy.”
I reply with a chalice drenched grin.
The stench of what was a paranormal tang came from the garbage in the back.
The waste was in the corner of the alley perpendicular from the door which was used
rarely. The snow was starting to melt and cause pools of indescribable flavor, which was
an ordinary feast for the felines who fell from their homes, located directly above the
pub. Perhaps the owners of these critters, these poised, agile felines did not want or care
for them correctly; conceivably they were rubbish as well. Unimaginably speaking
everything in my life is a never ending retrospect of dying worthless garbage. I have
made friends with the felines of feasting pools, though my smell has become more rank
than theirs. I am the Judas of the world, an outcast, an abomination of
incomprehensible dogma. I proceed to take the lid off of the container which is holding in
the rank smell of putridity and awfulness; I then immerse myself within its contents.
Stale aroma, maggots and gristle, wreaks havoc on my gum line, but I need not worry.
A foreboding tale was told of me in the pub which aligns itself with the alley, I call my home.
I am said to be of witch, or shall I say…a warlock? But, I must think myself as more
of a wizard who has thrown himself into the underlying hierarchy of a judgmental society,
the creators of yours truly. This is not my story, for it is the story of the man whose
heart I consumed tonight.
The palpitating heart- beats in my hands to a rhythm that was unknown
before tonight. A lulling lullaby that could put the demons asleep, this was the heart of a
man that love’s cold touch devoured. An impending doom for a man who was unknown
to such desires, has found me in this cold dark alley, located perpendicular from the
door which was used rarely. This underwhelming normality that was often over looked
and infallible to the naked eye. This man using slurs of vulgarity and torment to his
peers because of a male he once lusted for. The thought in which, has tormented the
very fabric of his intertwining soul. He stumbled into the pub with a cold pint of frothy beer,
the pub owner told him to leave the pint outside, and this crushed his morale even more.
He was a baron, plain man with low self-esteem and a loathing for society. A coward with
a low tempered constraint, that seemed to keep him conglomerated to the corner of a pile
of societies disposable sons. He was worthless; a typical bureaucratic type official, with
years of school under his belt and pounds of coin in his wallet, but yet, the look on this
man’s longing face was indescribable.
It is unofficial for me to tell you how he looked before he came into my alley.
This alley has seen many of his type. This longing individual who often was a mere
lame-ass, who could not subscribe to the fundamentals of what society wants him to be.
My mind has lost track of the amount of different individuals that have soaked my pallet
with crimson core. I have tried to forewarn this individual to not make his way to me. For it
was written on the walls by his mother before him, “don’t let it happen to you.” This seems
to easy, now a days, with the way things are going today. And the way in which people
are conducting themselves and throwing their selves at each other, this way and that
way. A lust pool of individuals’ cavorting with each other with no end in sight, no church
in mind. Let the church burn they say, let them have the same rights they say. The grip
the church has had on the nation nearly consumes all of the irrational minds. You see,
the church forbids the lust and love for two men to exist, and this is where I come into
play. Society frowns upon this idea and I feast on it, I feast on the hearts of these men,
for they cannot share their hearts with whom they want. They share it with a false identity,
the mask is worn and society greets them with arms wide open and they live life in
the shadows, in my alley, longing for what they once had, their heart.
time period = late 1880's
*italics = Patricia
*regular = Charles
Patricia, you used to tell me my hair smelt like burnt flesh mixed with formaldehyde. I told
you over and over again that it was probably never going to cease, due to the career I
choose to partake in. You told me over and over again that you loved me for who I was, and
it didn’t matter that my nose was crooked, that I had jagged teeth and a bald spot. You in
fact did love me for my intellectual demeanor and prolonged spirits of unnecessary
babble about a subject you had no interest in conversing over, yet you still managed to
break my heart. You broke my heart and I for one do not know if I could continue my studies
of the human body. You essentially ripped the very fiber of any perseverance that I
could fathom in one sentence. “We need to break up.” That one sentence, that one
sentence was filled with thousands of pounds of memories, feelings and emotions that
my body just could not bear. The weight was over whelming, a feeling of being 20,000
leagues under the sea, pressure over bearing and incomprehensible. Your motives were
rude and not cohesive, the stories did not line up. To throw away four years of
marriage because I was “Obsessed with my work” is a lie that I have hypothesized to
bear more under lying meaning. I am letting you know that I will conduct more research to
find the real reason behind why you have crushed my morale. The truth to why you
hrew everything away.
Oh Charles, I have gone over this situation in my head over and over again, for the last year and a half. For I knew you loved me, but I have felt your love for me dissipate, ever since you started your new career. I no longer could go on being second to your new love. Your career is intriguing and I understand that you could possibly unlock mysteries to unraveling a link,
to what could lead to a serial killer amidst us. This new love has destroyed my love for you
in every manner. There simply is no other way of putting this. The fact remains true, you
are no longer the man I fell in love with six years ago on the cobblestone street in the
White chapel district. This obsession of yours has driven a stake between our marriage.
Your work regarding this fairy tale of a man you call “Jack the Ripper” could simply
be coincidence. I know it is hard for you to accept the fact that I am leaving you Charles,
but there simply is no other way around this, I am no longer happy with our marriage
and I must move on. Please forgive me.
Dearest Patricia, please forgive me for putting my work and findings ahead of our
marriage, but if I bring to light that there is a serial killer among us, it could be the
biggest finding London has ever had. For if I even find enough evidence to pin point the
killer or conceivably even his next victim I could save lives. Patricia I could be a hero,
your hero. I could see it in the papers, “Charles Watson Our Savior,” could you imagine
the possibilities? The places we could go, our wealth would be outstanding. The obsession
in which you are alluding to is that I am barely able to sleep at night. Because I keep
seeing your pursed lips glazed in that red shade of rouge, which I love so much. In my
over-analytical mind you lean in to kiss my awaiting lips, a serpents tongue slithers out of
your mouth, and then you screech in an agonizing tone. My eyes awake, my heart out
of rhythm with deep inhales of cold winters chill. My innards long to feel the warmth that
was once fulfilled by your presence. I am sorry I made such a rash assumption that
perchance there was something else that caused your heartbreak and longing for love.
I for one thought that perhaps you have begun to see someone else. I know you were fond
of our neighbor, John Druitt. I only came to this conclusion because I was unaware of
the ramifications that my work has caused. Please forgive me Patricia, I long for your
touch and I cannot bare life without you.
Damn it Charles, I told you enough is enough. Please stop sending me letters, for I
cannot continue to think about you and I no longer want to hear your voice through
your writing. My love for you has extinguished and you need to get that through your
thick skull. You have always been as stubborn as a mule; it was one of the things that I
used to love about you. You would never give up on anything until you have succeeded,
or found what you were looking for. The thing is, this needs to end, you must get over
me Charles. For I have started seeing someone else, as much as it pains me to say this.
To tell you via letter was not my intention, but you have left me no other choice. Charles
you have backed me into a corner. We have been separated now for six months, and your
last letter made it clear that you still have strong feelings for me. I have started seeing
what used to be our neighbor, JohnDruitt, Johnny as I call him. He is a special person and
has a mind that I cannot describe, his complex demeanor has fascinated me, and I am
starting to fall hard for him. I must ask you for the last time, please stop this nonsense
about Jack the Ripper and all of you science, just give up and live your life Charles, I just
want you to be happy.
Patricia, you have now managed to crush me more than I ever thought possible; my love
for you was as real as the ocean swells. The current of love that held together every part
of my very existence, you were my rock, as cliché as that is. I need you Patricia, for I do
not care if you have started seeing John Druitt, my love for you is ever lasting and I cannot
go on devoid of you. You are the air that I breathe; I will suffocate without your touch.
The nightmares I have been having are now more intense, you have been dying in my
arms as I find you ripped to pieces in a bathtub full of your own blood. It is the same
night mares every single night, I no longer sleep at all. I have been driving myself to
the breaking point, trying to pin point Jack the Ripper. And in fact Patricia, I have
succeeded in finding evidence that this really is the work of a serial killer, the killings have
all been in the Whitechapel district, all have been whores, but they all have one thing
in common, divorce. They have all been divorced Patricia, the killer finds these
desperate escorts in need of something more than just a physical touch. They all want to
feel loved…anyway, I have just received a phone call from the Captain, there has
been another murder on Eliot street, which now that I think of it, is where we used to live…
hell, John Druitt still lives on that same street. I cannot believe that this is happening in
our own backyard Patricia, please write me back so that I know you are okay.
*This story is a compilation of 3 different time frames put together to create a "random" assortment to tell an interesting story of a young boy's love.
“Chris, what’s wrong?”
“You realize that I can no longer see you John, for I am in love with another man. We no longer can do what we are doing. “
It is 10:30 in the morning. The priest wakes up with a pounding headache and scoots over to the end of his bed looking for his cell phone. Blaring in his head are the screams from last night; the shrieks are shaking his concentration, which deters him on where he might have put his “wretched phone.”
“In the name of the father, the son and Holy Spirit. Father, for I have sinned. I know that the lord will forgive me for anything I do as long as I am sorry and that I actually one hundred and ten percent mean the apologies. Well…I definitely sinned; I know it is looked down upon. Father I have been trying to get around this for the last four years but I simply cannot shake it. My mother tells me it is just a phase all young men go through, and that I can choose to like girls like the other boys my age. Needless to say, I think I am attracted to boys; specifically my friend, Chris. I don’t know what it is, but I get this fluttery butterfly feeling, and father I think, I think I might be a gay. I have tried to tiptoe around the situation, but maybe the lord can help me?”
John. John. John! Wake up dear, you are going to be late for school. Breakfast is on the table. I have fixed your favorite, pancakes and bacon. Of course it was prepared with the Lord’s love and of course your mothers’, whom I might add, is bathing in the glory of Jesus on this beautiful Monday morning.
Son, it is the Lord’s choice on how he puts an individual together. You are not alone, for many young men your age are in your position. The Lord thinks that you are strong enough to overcome Satan’s desires. The bible forbids the love between two men to coexist. If you come to me after mass, we could further discuss this topic and I can show you pieces of scripture that can lead you to the right destination in action. For your penance, say ten “Holy Mary” prayers and five “Our Father” prayers and you will be absolved of your sin, now go now in peace with the Lord.
The radio blares of Christian worship by means of song. She sings along cavorting herself into indescribable atrocious and almost vile range in voice. This being said, her voice is not like that of an angel and in fact, she knows this. But on her run home she Is now upset and rather unaware of her surroundings due to the fact that she has to make a stop at the local grocery store to pick up a new batch of cookies because her son called.
Chris’s speech at the ceremony; “Heartbreak is a never ending cycle that masquerades our minds with deep intentions of overbearing wake. For I loved him, he was more than a friend to me. He was my lover. And I’m deeply saddened that John has taken what we hold most dear, his life.”
The cookie tumbles to the ground along with the rest of the pan that was acting as a restraint, suppose to hold the mongrels off before dinner, due the amount of shaking that the table was being put under, stressed and shook, it broke leading to a display of uncoordinated dance that lead to the both of them being on the floor. “My mother is going to be so upset with me now.” They both laugh.
Corinthians 6:9-10 - "Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor male prostitutes nor homosexual offenders nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God."
ABC news blares on the 51” plasma TV centered on the living room wall as the entire family gazes as if paint were drying, “The State of California finds defendant Father Armey Jones guilty of "statutory rape", under Penal Code 261.5, unlawful sex with a minor. The defendant will be subject to four years in the California State Prison, and $10,000 in fines. Court dismissed.”
Love has a never ending hold which we all hold dear. Regardless of whether it is between man and woman or man and man, etcetera. A powerful bond that can make or break the very fabric of our inner soul. God has forsaken me to eternal hell for the damnation I have committed, the love of a minor boy, and the death of another; I am soaking in crimson putridity.
4) Terrible person
Firstly, I will note that there are essentially four words used to describe players, or also called “man whores”, (in women logic.) And one term that is well…sometimes used. These types of men usually get blow jobs, or some other form of sexual interaction with a sequential list of individuals who are basically used as sexual rendezvous. Meaning, there are no strings attached, in the man whores perspective. This list of terms may or may not have been names that I have been called by women, but that is not really important at this point. Nevertheless, I have proceeded to create a logically sound relation between “hurtful” name calling and the way a player or “man whore” or whatever the hell you would like to call yourself, err…them, would go about sexually and emotionally attracting an individual. I’m assuming these concepts would also work with gay and bisexual men as well. Anyway every man is a man whore in some way; well at least I would like to think that. But at any rate, this is the list of names that have been spoken to a preconceived man whore, or also known as a, "user" of women…The proverbial stew of feelings that make up a women’s mind is not comprehendible. So please bear with me.
Ah, “the dick,” a name derived from the phallic device on a male used for sexual prowess. In a way you should take pride in being called a dick because, well you have a dick and well at least you’re not called a vagina or “puss,” which in relation would be the exact opposite of being called a dick, for If you are called a puss, pussy or vagina, those names would most likely be used by your “friends” or fellow male companions, because well, you probably were “dick-less,” when it came to the individual you were either A. “seeing” or B. ”hooking up with”. When you hear the term “dick” in a sentence it will probably be somewhere along these lines: “You are such a dick; I cannot believe you would do this to me.” Or something like that…Needless to say you have potentially hurt the individual you had cavorted with in some manner either by A. You had Sex with the individual and stopped talking to her or B. you had some sort of sexual gratification by the individual and now do not talk to her and/or you fail to recognize that she exists in any way. By being called a dick, the individual you “hurt” recognizes the fact that you have sexually pleased them in some form, whether it is by sexually stimulating the female clitoris or by being attracted to you by either personality or looks, or in some cases, both. You have done wrong to that person in their eyes, because they did not obviously have the same thing in mind as you did. You have hurt this individual, but you have also had some sort of sexual contact and the individual is now comparing you to a phallic instrument used in fornication. Congratulations, you physically pleased the individual but sadly, mentally scarred them.
Well, you have been called an ass and or an asshole, well it is not the end of the world by any means. You are now being called a name in which the individual you “saw” relates you to the part of the body which releases fecal matter. Now there are really no positives to this because well, you are now an ass. The ass is not quite a dick, because the individual was not yet sexually pleased by you. You were called an ass because A. you hung out with the individual a few time or B. You might have “dry humped” or “made out” a few times and were going to go further, but the individual most likely stopped you, because he or she was prude in some way… I mean you probably hung out with the individual…oh I don’t know at least three or four times, and they all probably just so happened to be on nights where you have been drinking. You are being called an ass because the individual that you “saw” was mentally damaged, but you did not give it a chance to be physically scarring, because you most likely stopped talking to them because it was either A. To challenging or B. The individual wanted to “date” before going “further.”
The jerk is more of a playful term than anything else. The individual you were either “seeing” or are still currently “seeing” has called you, or is calling you a jerk, because you are continually speaking down to them in a not so mild manner. You might have said something like this: “Hey, I can’t hang out tonight, because I have to do manly things. Like sports.” The individual may have replied with, “God, you are such a fucking jerk.” Then you might have either A. Stopped talking to the individual or B. Said “aww, I’m just kidding…” The ladder of the two or in other words, (B), usually works in getting the individual to forgive you, because you were simply kidding. You may also follow with “sorry,” that usually works as well. The term “jerk” will be used loosely and most likely is not harmful to you or your current “situation.”
4) Terrible person
The terrible person is not a name that you ever want to be called. Now this one is a little more serious. You have been called a terrible person because the individual you were “seeing” was extremely “in” to you physically, emotionally and mentally. In every possible way you had that individual on a metaphorical string (you obviously also sexually pleased this individual with a multitude of orgasmic sexual contacts.) This individual was basically in your back pocket for use. Essentially could be called a “booty call” or the “go to” at the end of a night. You then ended things with this individual because once again things were getting “too serious” and the individual needed to back off. You may or may not have said: “I cannot continue to see you because I do not have the same feelings that you have for me.” The individual will most likely cry, perhaps not in person but you could tell via text message, because the messages would be extremely painstakingly obvious that you crushed the very fiber of that individual’s soul. This being said, you would then continue to ignore that individual’s desperate plea for help and longing, because well…you are a man whore.
If you are being called “nice” in any way, you have not yet broken the individual’s heart yet, or they have not yet found out, through the grape vine, that you are a man whore. Or you actually like the individual more then on a physical level (which could actually happen to some man whores). Or you are in a relationship and have never been associated with being a man whore in any way. The term “nice” is usually referred to an individual who is getting “some” from their girl friend, wife, or what have you, or is not getting “any” ever, and is in the “friend zone.” But the friend zone is a completely different subject and I am not about to get into that right now.
In conclusion, there are no positive connotations with being labeled as a “player” or a “man whore.” Sorry for the bad news, because I know you cared so, so, so much. If you are a man whore you probably have, no “feelings” or “emotions.” Or maybe, you just have not yet developed those, “feelings” and “emotions” for an individual yet. Or maybe, you just have lots of “feelings” and “emotions” for a multitude of individuals. Nonetheless, our society is full of man whores, so always wear protection.
My father’s penis grew from the tree which was latent with women’s desires. A curse of procreation had been shamed upon my family for generations, slain from the field of the Neverlands, the virgins of Nehemiah. Their lust for nothing but the loins of my family, for because of this I wished death upon my father, who is bigger in the bulge than most, therefore, he is harder to deceive.
In my culture, the younger son has to attempt to kill the father, once the son’s bulge is equal to that of the father’s. The ancient book of the Nehemiah culture states that the son is to use trickery on the father to show that the son is now the more intelligent one in the family. Once the son has killed the father, the village in which the family resides in has a celebration in which the dead fathers penises are cooked then eaten by the females that gave birth to whichever son has prevailed in the slaying of their father. This tradition has been going on in our culture for centuries. If I am unable to kill my father I would have been exiled from the village, never to return again. So in other words my penis needed to grow a lot within a few days as I prepared my trap for the slaying of my father.
My father is the leader of the Nehemiah tribe and has countless sons trying to take his throne, hell, I don’t even know if he is my real father, or that my thirty something brothers and sisters from another mother are even related to me. So, I am not alone in the proceeding of the throne. For my father has procreated with an unfathomable amount of females. I must find a way to make my bulge grow, so that I can fulfill the prophecy, the prophecy that the wise arch elf Shindor has written about. “The one of leading loins must rise out of the pit bathed in the father’s blood, to re-establish Nehemiah as the strongest and most resilient of the entire world.” I believed that I was that prophet.
After countless days of struggle and searching, I finally located Shindor in a cave on the south side of the village. He told me that I was not the prophet, due to the lack in size of my bulge. That angered me greatly, red with rage I took off for my residence. I then grabbed a rope, securely fastened it to my penis and tied off the other end of the rope to a boulder. I then dropped the boulder down the dark abyss of a well we have in the center of town. I then blacked out, I believe for I woke up cold and feeling nothing, where there used to be sensation. I then woke up in mass hysteria as I looked down only to notice that my penis was no longer attached to my body, in fact there was a massive pool of crimson blood covering me. That is about the time I panicked for I do not want my village to know I am now penis-less , for that would bring great shame to my family. So I run away, bleeding profusely and has lead me here to this…
”wait a second this is not real?”
“You are a tree…”
“But you were talking to me, You said you were a Christian?”