...As I walked along the street with my bloodstained hands clutching my
Deadly weapon, I was stopped by three German tourists. One was your typical blond, blue-eyed Thirty-something male, one was a rather young and attractive dark-haired lady and the third member of the party was a black, fuzzy-haired, man (who remained silent throughout the encounter) with a very sinister grin. The blond claimed that they were looking for "El Gringo’s," I looked at the young lady and she just nodded. Naturally I had never heard of it, so I just directed them to Bambi-Land(aka Mutilation Park). I left them to experience the city for what it truly was. I waved them farewell and wished them a pleasant journey as I returned to the shadows whence I had come.
I looked beside me, she was beautiful and she was mine. I heard that
Strange thumping in my head again and my body began to shake and I could no longer see, but then a blurry object appeared before me. I began to focus. It was my lampshade. I jumped forward in the realization that I had been dreaming, I looked across and she was gone. The thumping returned. It was my front door.
I stood up and walked towards the door. The cool draught from the hallway flowed between my toes as I opened the door. The Hallway was silent, apart from the rhythmic crushing of bedsprings a few doors down. An envelope that lay on my foot worn doormat. I must have done the same thing a thousand times in the last four years. I walked into my pathetically cramped kitchen and poured the contents of the envelope onto the small table that I would have infrequent meals on. The envelope contained a neat bundle of dollar bills, an address written on fine notepaper using a charcoal pen and a photograph. The small bundle of cash contained approximately two grand, the usual fee.
The photo was of elderly man with white hair, glasses and a face you just wanted to kick in. Apparently he lived at six hundred and sixty-six Cromwell street, a street which had meaning for me, for an associate lived on it also.
I`m a cleaner, working for whoever has cash and wants a job done right. I got dressed in my favourite black garments. Suddenly, for absolutely no reason, I grabbed my TV and in a fit of blind rage, threw it out of my fifth storey flat. At that exact moment, the local priest, Fr Brian was visiting the young college girls in the flat below, something he did this on a regular basis. Anyway, the TV hit him at such a velocity that his head exploded and covered the front window of a passing car. This car was being driven by one of the richest men in the area, a young successful businessman called Jim Carter. He was already late for work and he had to drop of his two young children at school on the way. Fr Brian’s brain matter, did infact matter as it prevented Mr Carter’s ability to see where he was driving. Moments later he had hit a nearby lamp post at around 50 mph killing both his young children on impact and causing him to subsequently lose his job, wife and in the following weeks, swan dive off a multi-storey car park downtown.
When I actually manage to sleep, I usually have the same recurring dream. In this dream, I am chained to a cold, stone wall and all my victims are on the floor, chained to the walls and hanging from the ceiling. Suddenly, blood gushes out of their bony eye sockets and then whatever flesh is left on their decayed frames begins to melt and I then begin to drown in a sea of their flesh. Then the dream starts to get really disturbing! The sea of flesh seems to evaporate, when a fluffy- white rabbit enters the room.
The rabbit just waddles in on its hind legs and lies in the centre of the room squinting at me while cleaning its whiskers. After about ten minutes it rolls around in a circular formation, while singing "I’ve got a littl` something for ya!" The rabbit then stops and resumes an upright position and floats upwards for about two Meters from the ground and at this point it appears to have a violent seizure.
After which the rabbit morphs into three, rather large and overly hairy kiwis. These inevitably shoot into my chest, penetrating my Solar plexus. After some excruciatingly painful sensations, it then feels as if my internal organs are slowly melting and that my ribcage is being slowly pushed open and as I look down I see a gelled hair emerging from within me. Eventually an entire head, which bore a remarkable resemblance to Elvis "the king" Presley, had appeared and asked me in a rather dodgy Welsh accent "Is this Woodstock! Mate!?"
My dark greatcoat hung inches above the wet street tempting it to stain it. When I wore the coat I could conceal practically anything within its depths. Tonight I was using this cloak of secrecy to transport my favourite double-barrelled shotgun. Like I always say "double da barrel, double da fun." With my shotgun well concealed, I could walk up to my next victim and blow fragments of his skull over a passing OAP. Naturally the OAP previously mentioned would not
be amused in the slightest by his/her newfound predicament.
While floating past a newsstand I picked up the latest edition of "Weekly World News." The headline was rather basic by my standards: "River, Elvis and Mercury in bizarre, alien sex video scandal." I put the pages of truth on my head for the simple reason that I genuinely enjoyed doing it and also because I thought that it had a
unique affect on women.
It was a busy Saturday night and the streets were filled with people out looking to screw someone, or get screwed. I hated the city on a Saturday night, every pub would stuffed full of nutters and if you did manage get a pint in one,
you’d probably spill it over a meathead murder machine in a brand new Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt. I headed for a quiet place that few knew about. I walked across a busy street and down a dark alley. A homeless man in his 50’s lay leather-bound in a cardboard box. As I walked passed he grabbed my greatcoat and begged me to give him a dollar. I turned around and kicked him in the face. He lay on the ground and squirmed in agony; he then sat up and opened his mouth-zip and blood began to pour out. It was quite the sight to behold, rather pretty actually.
I skipped onwards until I reached a wall at the end of the alley. I began to climb a ladder, which was part of a fire exit attached to the exterior of a building. After a few minutes I had reached the roof of the building. The city looked beautiful and I was always amazed by how silent the city appeared from here. I could see the dense smog that hung over the city and the neon lights that illumined the streets below. There was a cool breeze and I began to feel the first signs of a fast approaching winter. I turned to a small door a few metres away that led to stairwell. As I walked towards it, the small stones on the roof began to crunch and grind against the slate covered roof. I tried the round knob on the door and the door creaked open. I entered the stairwell and I closed the door before I proceeded downwards. I must have went down about six floors before I was greeted with a another door that had "Jody’s Joint" frantically painted in red dye, on it. Jody was a complete psycho; maybe that’s why no-one ever came here. I heard that a bunch of American tourists managed to stumble across the joint
(God knows how) and when they asked Jody for six baby shames and a hooch, he almost ripped them apart. He managed to kill three with his bare hands, and he got three more with his lovely, shiny twelve-inch blade and I heard that a wee lass, only six or something, managed to get up unto the roof but she was that messed up that she fell off the roof into the alley below. Legend has it; she was then eaten by rats and some hungry, homeless bloke.
I knocked on the door, and waited. There was no reply. I pushed the
handle-less door, as it slowly opened I heard a young woman scream. I looked around but I could see no-one else in the bar. I approached the small beer-stained counter and rang the small shiny, silver bell that was fastened to the surface of the counter. Jody emerged from a small door at the far left of the counter. He was cleaning his blood-drenched hands with a ungodly white cloth. He didn’t realise that blood was dripping over the counter and onto the floor. When he saw the look on my face, he said "oh sorry `bout da mess, What can a be gettin` ya." "Just give me a bottle of V2." I left money on the counter and picked
up the bottle and took a mouthful of the nectar from the gods. Jody didn’t seem to be in the talking mood as he had disappeared back into the little doorway. I walked towards one of the booths and sat down. Habit made me remove a copy of Ulysses and without realising it, I was being butt-fucked by James Joyce’s imagination.
After several hours I left the bar as I had enter it, empty. Gradually, I made my way up the staircases and I managed to climb down the exterior of the building without meeting an untimely death. Once again in the alleyway, I noticed the homeless guy still lying there. Unfortunately for him he was still alive. I thought that if I could manage to rid the world of this waste of space, then I might actually feel good about myself. I removed my shotgun, eased the tip between the gimp’s lips and I emptied the contents of the barrel. My heart whelmed, I almost cried. "Suppose I better get this job done" and with that thought I found myself walking down Cromwell Street.
I stopped and lay against the fence directly opposite this Mr Major(pain)`s humble Abode. I took out a Benny and lit it using my magic finger which I had obtained from a Polish witch, whom I had encountered somewhere in the Alps. My mate Feddy lived on this street before he got: banged up by the pigs for a multiple murder rap. I really hated the filth; they killed my bro a few weeks back, so what if he killed a few innocent kids.
I threw the dog-end on the cracked pavement, crushed it with the sole of my boot and crossed the street. I walked up the five stone steps which lead to Mr Major’s front door. I knocked on the door with the wooden handle of my shotgun. A squeaky voice within told me to “piss off.” I could have blown down the door and given his living room my own unique style of interior décor, using him as my palette. But I wanted this encounter to be a humorous one, well for me anyway. I knocked again, but this time said "Penthouse subscription for
Mr Major." The door opened and a puny little man emerged. I grabbed him by the neck; he must have been three feet smaller than me. I threw him backwards a good six feet and the poor bloke crashed through his lovely glass coffee table and on his maiden flight. He began to squirm and cry like a bottle-less baby, so I gave my steel-toe boot a tour of the interior of Mr Major’s genitalia. I was going give this loser a good seeing to, he was going to experience new levels of pain he never imagined existed. He was going to beg me to end his worthless, pitiful life.
I placed my trusty double-barrel on his kitchen table and I produced a surgical scalpel from my left pocket. When Mr Major came around after receiving quite a number of blows to the left-side of his skull, he had been tied, naked to his bed (wonder how that happened). He
was far from being in a comfortable state. He looked down he couldn’t
help but notice the fact that I had performed a vasectomy completely wrong. Mr Major’s nice white sheets where by then quite badly bloodstained, but that was the last thing on his mind. Strangely, he didn’t appear to be enjoying the attention and kept fainting, but I couldn’t allow him to miss the excitement, so I waited until he came
around before continuing. In surprisingly short space of time I had successfully managed to remove Mr Major’s reproductive gland.
By this stage he was looking rather pale, but I figured that he’d hadn’t enjoyed being a man anyway, by the large number of women’s clothes hanging in his wardrobe and by the video that been playing in the background throughout the nights events. Anal Apocalypse 2 certainly had a climax. When Mr Major opened his eyes again, his facial expression revealed that he wished he hadn’t, for could now add limbless to his grand title. He began to sob as he noticed the thick river of blood that was coming from openings in his freshly
Conceived bloody stumps. It was rather amusing watching him wriggle in a pathetic attempt to enact some sort of revenge on me. I couldn’t stop laughing, it really was genuinely funny. To make this scene really picturesque I used to scalpel to carve an inverted cross on his chest and the poor blood-drenched, gimp let out an unforgettable scream as he pushed his chest upwards and it split open. It was definitely one of those camcorder moments.
I got bored after an hour or so of playing with his bloody internal organs, although I had made a lot of nice pictures on the walls, I felt I had outstayed my welcome. I had to admit that this had been one of
my more enjoyable jobs. I carefully closed the door and started walking, it was just after ten and I really liked to use the subway at this time of day. The city called and I was helpless to follow.