You knew it. You could just tell it was going to happen. Eddie was never quite the same as before after his stint in the Per- sian Gulf. He could never reconcile bombing the fucking Iraqi civilians the way he had been ordered to. It made him sick. Really sick, and this sickness manifested itself in alcoholism, drugs and violence. The combination had gotten him thrown in jail on a number of occasions.
Last time in, he met a social worker named Teri, a sweet lady who always had time to talk to the detainees at the county jail. She took a special liking to Eddie, and after he was released they began dating. Things were going along just fine for a year or so. When Teri told him she was pregnant, he was ecstatic. He felt that everything had finally turned around for him. He quit drinking, just as he had quit doing drugs a few months previous.
The pregnancy was very difficult, though. Teri was a small woman, and the strain of chidbirth was too much. She died from massive hemmorhaging, and Eddie was crushed. Due to his previous history of violence and substance abuse, the hospital people refused to release the baby into Eddie's custody. Eddie was pissed. He was going to the hospital, to get his baby. He pulled the .357 Magnum from the top of the closet, and went to the hospital. =========================================================================
19 year old Stan Jacobs pulled the cardigan sweater over his head to keep him warm on his job as a security guard at Clemens Hospital. It was his first full time job, and he took it very seriously. He had had to qualify to carry a weapon, which he maintained was a very important responsibility. He checked the weapon he hoped he'd never have to use. It was clean and loaded. He went down to the car, hopped in and drove off. =========================================================================
Eddie stood outside the hospital property, and asked himself if he really wanted to go through with this. He decided yes, he *had* to get his baby.
As he watched, a punk in a rent-a-cop uniform pulled up, got out and went inside. No trouble, thought Eddie. A punk kid against a commando- trained battle veteran would be a one-sided battle, to say the least. Hopefully, it wouldn't come to that. He just wanted to take care of his business. He had to get his baby.
He waited for about an hour, until it got dark. Then, he ran in a crouch behind the building and caught his breath, before pushing the door open and slipping inside. ===========================================================================
Stan was just rounding the corner when he saw the man who was obviously trying to sneak into the hospital going through the door. He was pretty sneaky, that guy, but he couldn't outsmart ol' Stan. Nope, Stan was gonna apprehend this guy, just like he had that kid whom Stan had caught spraying the word "FUCK" in big block letters on the side of the building. The kid had had to come down on Saturday to clean up the mess. That'll teach him to screw up in Stan Jacobs' jurisdiction.
He gently pushed the door open and, walking on the balls of his feet, crept in the direction he thought the man had gone. Satisfied he was making no noise, he drew his revolver and slowly advanced. ============================================================================
Eddie's commando training had taught him to recognize the sounds of people who were acting out of the ordinary. He heard the shuffling sounds of some- one who was obviously trying to sneak up on him. He thought how untrained it sounded, like a blind man dancing the fandango. He planted his back against the wall. It must be the security guard, Eddie thought. Eddie would have to kill him. Shame, but Eddie just had to get his baby.
Stan came around the corner and saw Eddie, leaning against the wall of the maternity ward. Eddie had his gun pointed at Stan, and Stan didn't feel like Wyatt Earp anymore. Urine piddled down his leg, and he wanted his mother. He made an attempt to get away, when Eddie fired. The shot hit Eddie as he was turning, and the large caliber bullet took his entire chin off. He dropped his own gun, and fell, clutching at the place where his face used to be. He lay there, bleeding profusely. He was shaking his head in disbelief. He thought if he shut his eyes, everything would go away. He was right. His eyes never reopened, and he died of shock. Eddie went to get his baby.
He went to the crib, where his little boy lay, tiny fist opening and closing on some imaginary thing in it's little baby-like mind. He was blond, with a little pug nose like his mother. "Teri," Eddie whispered. He raised his weapon and said, "You killed my wife. ROAST IN HELL, YOU LITTLE COCKBITE!!!"
He fired into the child, and it's little body nearly exploded, causing the eyes to bulge out. It shook it's head once in each direction, before seemingly realizing that it had been nearly blown in half. Eddie, just for the hell of it, shot it once more in the face, and all that was left was a puddle of blood and various, unrecognizable shreds of meat.
Then, he put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. He heard, rather than felt, the top of his skuul blow off before everything went black.
Subject: Independence Day
Date: Wed, 5 Jul 1995 06:00:54 GMT
Fuck your 4th of July.
Independence Day is the day that all Americans celebrate their freedom, but that don't have no legitimacy here at the work farm.
And what am I doing here? Well, it was originally a rape charge, which was later unsubstantiated. Unfortunately, while I was being held at the county jail, some punk that had had his wife raped right in front of him went ballistic, and came after me in the chow line. I beat him so severely with the edge of my metal supper tray that they took him out of the chow hall, convulsing seriously. I didn't kill the prick, but he ain't been heard from since, so I must've fucked him up big-time.
Anyway, today's going to be my Independence Day. Colburn's going down.
When I first got sent here, Colburn hadn't heard that my rape charges were bogus, so he and a couple of his boys attacked me in the shower. Beat me, and fucked me in the ass. Things like that, you just don't let them go. So, one by one, I went after them. As a group, they were too much for me, but one-on-one, I was superior. First, I caught Little Bob under the bleachers. I grabbed him under the chin, took two running steps and smashed his head firmly into a 2x4 that conveniently was two inches lower than the top of Bob's head.
Next day, I see Colburn in the yard. He looks me up and down, 'cause he don't know if I just nutted up on Bob, or if I was bent on revenge. It wasn't until I feloniously assaulted Kelly that Colburn knew what my mission was. I found myself alone at the end of my working shift down in the laundry. All the other cats were back in their bunks. Just then, Kelly walks by, and I don't know if any- one else is around, but I know I ain't going to get another shot at Kelly, once he figures out I'm after him. So, as he walked by the hall I was pressed up against, I reached around his throat and cut off his wind, until he went down to one knee, gasping for breath.
When I let up on the choke hold, he was off balance, and I was ready to leap down his throat, if he was stupid enough to try to challenge me. He wasn't.
More's the pity.
Anyway, I explain to him that he's going to catch a beating. Image, and all that. He starts blubbering, "It was Colburn. He's the one that said to get you......"
I cut off this line of reasoning with a sharp slap to the chops, and I tell him that I won't beat his sorry ass to death if he will just tell everyone that I did. He said yes, and then I administered a beating that would have done De Sade proud. They took Kelly away on a fuckin' stretcher, and tried their best to splint and needle-and- thread his body back together.
Again, next day I saw Colburn. He gives me a "C,mere" wave, and I saunter on over to see what he wants. He says, "Let it go. You got your revenge with Bob and Kelly. You come after me, you're gonna get got. And I mean it, Vinnie." I deadeye the fuckstain, and without another word, I walks away. Confidently, and with a new purpose.
And that's why you see me here, waiting in a blind alley for my quarry. He'll be coming down the hall shortly. Just watch what I do to him.
See this? I been workin' on it in the workshop. I've been melding this copper wire together with the acetalyne torch, and it's nearly a perfect substitute for a roll of quarters, and if you know your basic street philosophy, you know I'm going to plant it in the palm of my hand, in order to emulate the premise of having a mitt of steel, before I punch this prick out.
Hush, now. Here he comes.
Look at the surprise on his beefy face, as I crash the strengthened fist into the center of his forehead. How his head waggles on his shoulderblades, as I tie his hands behind his back.
"Vinnie," he says, "Don't do it. There's a lot of cats in this joint that'll off you just for fucking with me." I knew better. I talked to a lot of the spades out in the yard, and they'd have no problem with an environment that didn't have Colburn in it. I also talked to a few of the dudes that Colburn figured as allies, only to find out that they only listened to him out of fear.
I'll tell you, it's hard to take a threat from someone with his hands tied behind his back. A bully, whom everyone hates, but are too afraid to go out after themself. He ain't got nothing in the way of backing. On the contrary, I've got carte blanche to off the prick. That's how he ended up here, in my lap.
Listen to the punk blubber, "I didn't mean nothing. I thought you was bad goods. I thought you was a rapist. If it means anything, I'm sorry!"
It obviously don't mean shit to me. Watch, as I run the blade of this homemade shiv across the throat of this punk who violated my manhood. Then, watch as I open a slit in his stomach, and grab a handful of his intestines and shove them through the spot where his front teeth used to be, before I punched them out with the enhanced "Fist of Fury." Watch the look of horror on his face, as he realizes that the blood and bile that are pouring down his throat are coming from his own abdomen.
Watch, as the realization of his own mortality shows on his features.
Yeah, they'll bust me for murdering this punk. But, I avenged a wrong, a necessity in this prison life. And, you know what? I got no regrets. I may spend the rest of my days in this hellhole. But, it'll be easy time.
'Cause there ain't nobody else here that's gonna fuck with me. No time.
Subject: Famous last words.
Date: Wed, 28 Jun 1995 04:14:42 GMT
I'm a little pissed.
I took a hostage because they came after me. They act as if they didn't start this shit, but I ain't gonna let 'em get away with this shit, and if they don't quit fucking with me, I'll blow the little cockbite away.
I mean it, too.
Check out the lights. It's making me dizzy, all that fla shing and stuff. Listen to the prick on the megaphone. What's he saying?
"Jordan. Come out with your hands UP!!"
"Fuck you, PIG!!" I shouts out, and the mofo better listen this time, because if he don't, the kid's gonna meet his Creator.
Cute kid, though. Looks a little like me, which is what the cunt on the porch - acting like my wife, keeps tell- ing me he is. Why does she want to do that for?
No, I didn't start this. I was by myself, and this little bastard was playing on that goddamned swingset that that bitch on the porch that claims to be my wife bought him. Now, what the hell happened to make me end up facing Harold? He's been dead for 3 years now.
I know, I was there. I WAS! I killed him myself, when he molested me for what turned out to be the last time, and I stabbed the punk in the heart. Only thing I could figure was that he came after my boy.
I'll kill him before I let him do to him what he did to me. Just you fucking watch.
Watch this, Harold. I'm holding the gun up to the child's (your grandson's) head, and I'm holding the trigger back. Look at the cops, Harold. Watch the motherfuckers tense up, especially that one on the right. He's as afraid as anyone can be. You know why? Because he knows that, no matter what thefuck he does, the game's over. If he rushes me, he'll be reponsible when this kid's brains are blown all over the sidewalk at his feet. If he don't, I still blow his brains out.
Tough shit, eh?
I'm in control. The party don't end until I press the tri- gger, and since I've already accepted the fact of my death, I think I'll just take my old sweet time.
Maybe I shouldn't. I just saw that pig running over to the right of the house, and I think he's trying to sneak up on my blind side. Heh. He has no idea that I don't have a blind side.
So, the trick is to blow this little punk away, and slap the barrel of this pistol in my mouth and pull the tri- gger, before they can get a shot off.
OK, here goes.
I squeeze off the shot, and I'm shocked at the amount of grey matter that shoots across the front of my pants leg. I better hurry, because that freaky pig with the scared eyes has already drawn a bead on me. He jerks a shot in my direction, at the same time I pop off a shot of my own.
Why's it getting so dark in here? There's no feeling on the left side of my face, except for the fluid I feel draining down my neck.
I won, Harold. I got him out of the rotation before you could foul him. I did all I could. I only hope I didn't hurt him too bad.
From: doggiestyle (email@example.com)
Subject: Re: Culinary delights, a.t. style
In article <firstname.lastname@example.org> email@example.com (xxxjoel) writes:
> How does White Castle compare to Whataburger? I'm not sure which has
>more potential for being lethal: W-Burger or Jack-ib-the-Box. Can any AT
>galloping gourmets shed some light onto this one? I don't think anyone's been
>hospitalized after having eaten at Jack-in-the-Box for, oh, about a month
WC is simply the food of the fuckin' gods. Living in California, I haven't had the opportunity to eat many, as I can't bring myself to purchase the frozen ones. It seems a bit of blasphemy to not get these succulent bundles of pimple fertilizer straight off the grill.
Picture a grey piece of meat, topped with reconstituted dehydrated onions that look much as maggots do. Surround this shit with a soggy bun, pack it up in a cardboard carton, and you're ready for some mighty fine eatin'. A couple of years ago, I went back to St. Louis to watch my dad enter the next level. My stepmom, not much of a cook on her best day, was useless during the time right before he died, understandably. We subsisted on Valium, hard liquor straight out of the bottle, and White Castle hamburgers. No fries, no nothing, just those greasy little goddamned burgers. One can imagine the feculent material my asshole was expelling, but I was a bit too sad and way too fucked up to experience it fully.
I didn't ask how that diet affected her bowel movements. We weren't *that* close.
From: firstname.lastname@example.org (Filthy McNasty)
Subject: Re: Example of internet evil Re: My fantasy of "The Nose"
references: <email@example.com> <firstname.lastname@example.org>
organization: Netcom Online Communications Services (408-241-9760 login: guest)
In article <email@example.com>
firstname.lastname@example.org (Andrew J. Testa) writes:
>I just had the extreme misfortune to run across this article after doing a
>search on the term "spider monkey." This sick bastard wrote a disgusting
>rape fantasy where he imagines himself to be a monkey asaulting a
>stranger. I've spent years working to rehabilitate monkeys
>psychologically damaged by researchers no different from this bigot.
>Animals can be severely damaged by abuse of this kind, and it deeply
>disturbs those of us who have to deal with it on a regular basis. This is
>the kind of filth that needs to be wiped out. By any means needed. The
>damn liberals would let scum like this teach our children and flaunt their
>illness in the name of "progressive non-descrimination." To me, it's an
>abomination that should be burned away. I implore you not to read it but
>to let your legislators and news media know about it.
Now, tell me. Did you really think that the lovely people
in alt.tasteless would be offended by this thoroughly en-
chanting story, fumblenuts? I was rubbing my SnotSausage the whole time I was reading. It's wacko fucks like you that don't have the sense to know that you either have censorship or you don't. You can't
apply it whenever something offends *you*. Everything offends someone. Your call for censorship annoys the fuck out of me, but you have the right to voice your opinion, no matter how stupid it may be. (And it is, dummy, it is) You get anymore good stories, send them our way. Just keep your boneheaded editorials out of them.
Oh yeah, and get rid of that self importance you project.
You're a nobody, your parents were nobodies, and your funky little kids will
grow up to be nobodies. Just like Daddy.
"Profanity is the crutch of inarticulate motherfuckers."
* email@example.com *
In article <drahcirrE1t0v8.Mq4@netcom.com> firstname.lastname@example.org (Rich
>doggiestyle (email@example.com) wrote:
>: How many times do we have to hear this brand new story? It's
>: been running through here for at least 3 years, and probably
>: more. It's gained the annoying notoriety of the burglars
>: sticking toothbrushes up their asses and the dead whale that
>: was blown up on the beach.
>I have a 12 mb avi of the newscast showing the whale being blown up. I
>don't think that the whale story is the same sort of urban legend.
'Snot the point intended. While I know the whale story is true, it seems to pop up about every time some cuntsore gets a new computer, usually from some dweeb like ___, who thinks they are enlightening the masses with something that most of us have already memorized nearly word for word.
Hope that clarifies what I meant.
ObT: As with all long car trips, my daughter and I have a contest to see who can spot the most roadkills. There was a possum laying by the side of the road yesterday, and it wasn't quite dead. My kid, bless 'er, asked my girlfriend to go back and run it over, which horrified the ol' spoogebucket, and she said no. The kid asks why not, and I said it was because girlfriend liked to see small animals suffer. This put my sweetie in the position of not being able to be right, no matter which she did. I was rewarded with a look that'd frighten a snake, and about 40 miles of stony silence. No sense of humor sometimes.
It was 8 in the morning, and Larry Mathis was getting ready to go to work. Well, not really work. He was off to do a stint as Santa Claus at Bay Mall. Larry didn't consider it real work, and he'd done stuff like it before. His last job had been as an Elvis impersonator at a local nightclub, but had to quit when he started getting paranoid that he would die sitting on the crapper, as had the person he was pretending to be.
In fact, paranoia was becoming the dominant emotional characteristic in Larry's personality. Ever since Angie. He'd loved her. She had been a beauty, and she told him she loved him, also. So why had he caught her coming out of that hotel with that young man? He didn't confront her at the time, but when she had come home that night, he was on her, but good. She kept insisting it was her friend from work, and she was just picking up some documents. Bullshit. She was cheating, she had ruined his life, and he had killed her. It was as simple as that. Strangled her and buried her in the backyard. That's what you did with cheaters, you just kill them, don't you?
But his guilt was overpowering him, and her presence in the yard was almost speaking to him, a mental hallucination like something from an Edgar Allen Poe story. He began to fret that someone would connect her disappearance with him. He had told the police that she had said she was leaving town to live with relatives. No, he didn't know why she had left her job without warning. No, she hadn't seemed distraught, only a little sad that she was leaving him. Alone, as he had been when he had met her. No, she didn't have many other friends outside of work that Larry knew of, but Larry was expecting that she would send a letter or phone him when she was settled. The police wrote it off, as no one seemed too concerned as to her whereabouts.
But Larry was. Damn right he was, because if anyone were to find out Angie's new address, they sure as hell weren't going to make Larry's life very comfortable. He wouldn't be alone anymore, no, he'd have a whole slew of roommates at the state prison, some friendlier than he wanted to get.
So, Larry was a bonafide paranoid motherfucker. He manifested that trait in that he was always armed whenever he left his home, even to go play Santa Claus at the local mall. He slipped a switchblade with a six inch blade into the pocket of his coat, and stuffed a .32 caliber pistol into the waistband of his pants, under the coat. You never know what might happen. Then, he shuffled on down to his car, and another day at the mall.
Kenny McCauley and his sister, Heather, were very excited about going to see Santa. Kenny was seven, and really didn't believe in Santa anymore, but Heather did, and Kenny was going, just in case the fat prick was real and was able to grant him his selfish wishes.
When Julia, their mother, told them to get in the car to go to the mall, they just about dashed themselves to death trying to be the first one to the car, laughing and pretty much oblivious to anything but the immediate sense that they were going to see Santa, as kids do.
Larry, fortified with most of a half pint of cheap vodka, mounted the throne for his first kids of the day. They were all about the same, in that they were self absorbed little fucksticks, who thought only in terms of what they could get for free, and Larry pretty much hated them all. Every once in a while, one would ask for something like world peace, and Larry hated them, too, for their naivete and seeming inability to understand that man, as a rule, was a violent, mean-spirited animal, who was only happy killing and maiming his fellow men.
By nine thirty, twelve kids had invaded his space, and he had had to go out to the battered Chevy to finish his bottle of vodka on his break. As he was returning, two little kids waved to him from the seat of a plush Mercury. He waved and tried to smile, but it came out as more of a wince. The kids didn't seem to notice though, as they continued to wave frantically at Santa.
Inside the Merc, Julia's kids were ecstatic that Santa had taken time out to notice them. They thought he was beautiful. She thought he was a grisly looking bastard, and remarked so under her breath. She thought they looked worse every year, as if the Salvation Army or whoever hired these Santas had to venture further into the Skid Rows to find people to do the job. But to the kids, they all looked the same, they all looked like Santa, even when it was obvious to the adults that he was padded and drunk off of his ass.
By the time Julia, Kenny and Heather had found a parking space and then gone into the store, Larry was back on the Santa Claus throne, feeling the warmth of the cheap booze soaking into his body. But it had done little to calm his psyche, and his nerves were jangled from worrying about the cunt in the garden at home and all the imagined slights of his fellow man, and he was pretty tightly strung. In fact, you could say he was ready to snap.
Kenny and Heather were lucky. there were only two kids ahead of them, and the kid in Santa's lap was climbing off. The first kid in line in front of them took his turn, leaving Kenny and Heather with a fat boy with braces and smelling vaguely of grease as the only ones in line. Santa wasn't very busy today, it seemed.
The fat kid said, "Whatcha gonna ask Santa for?" Kenny said he had a list in his pocket, but Heather said her request was a secret. She hadn't even told Mommy. The fat kid just rambled on about all the things he wanted for Christmas, and Julia felt that he was as gluttonous as his appearance testified. She was certainly glad that her children were so much more civilized.
Finally, the fat kid took his turn sitting in Larry's lap, and Larry said, "You sure are a big boy. Are you hungry?" The kid said yes, and Larry gave him a sucker from his pocket. The kid slammed it in his mouth, and without missing a beat, continued to rattle off all the things he wanted. Finally, Larry said that that was enough, because if he had to bring all the things this little prick wanted, the other kids wouldn't get anything. The fat kid said he didn't much care, and Larry wanted to assault and batter the little bastard to within an inch of his life, but thought better of it. Barely.
The fat kid sauntered off, and Heather told Kenny to go ahead of her. No one there knew about the transformation the fat kid had wrought in poor ol' Santa Claus, and there were no indications that he had, indeed, snapped. Kenny adjusted himself in the artificially fat man's lap, and Larry asked him what he wanted. No "Ho Ho Ho's," no "How ya doin's," just "What do YOU want." Kenny thought that a bit odd, but went ahead and told Santa that he, Kenny, needed a million dollars. Santa did something unexpected then, something no other Santa had ever done in Kenny's memory. He told him "NO" and went on to inform Kenny that that was a very selfish, greedy thing to ask for, and that Kenny deserved nothing for Christmas because he was a greedy, bad little boy. Kenny looked at him, all illusions shattered, and said, "You're not Santa." Larry, in his altered state, became indignant, and for a brief moment he actually believed he was St. Nick, and said so in a loud voice, startling Kenny. Julia had wandered over to another area of the store, or she probably would have taken her children away from the frenzied looking man in the Santa suit.
Heather, though, was blind to anything that might be amiss. She had come to make a request, and she wasn't to be denied. So, when Kenny moved off and away from this fraudulent Good Guy, Heather took his place. When Larry asked her what she wanted, she looked him in the eye and said, "I want you to bring my Daddy home." Larry asked her if she knew where he was. She knew, all right. He was dead in the ground, killed in a car accident the previous year. Larry tried to convince her that even Santa couldn't bring dead people back to life, and when she started to cry, he started to get pissed. Julia and Kenny were on their way back to the Santa Claus area, with Kenny explaining that he didn't believe in Santa anymore, because this guy was an obvious fake, calling him names and stinking of booze.
Heather was struggling to get away from Larry, who put an end to her struggling by slipping the knife out of his pocket, snapping it open, and inserting the blade in between her tiny ribs. When Julia rounded the corner and saw the comical look of surprise on Heather's face, she had to smile, and wished she had brought her camera. But when the gout of blood spurted out of her mouth and landed on the floor at Santa's feet, she screamed, and ran toward her daughter. Larry slung the little girl to the floor, stood up, and freed the gun from his waistband. He yelled, "I'm Santa Claus!! I'm not fucking GOD!!" as he pumped two shots into the face and throat of pretty Julia McCauley, who now looked like something off of a horror movie set. Kenny, who had witnessed the whole thing, screamed, and ran toward Larry, fists flailing at the monster in the red suit. Larry shoved him to the floor, very roughly, and popped off two shots into his lungs and heart area, busrting the heart, and causing Kenny to duplicate his sister's feat of spewing blood out of his mouth before he expired. A security guard heard the pops of the small caliber handgun, and rushed to intervene. But, alas, he was unarmed, and Larry dispatched him with a single bullet to the forehead.
Larry reloaded, and shot shoppers at random, killing an old woman who was attempting to get out of the store, but as old people are prone to be, she was too slow. The bullet caught her in the back of the head, causing her to somersault and land face up, eyes wide and her skirt hiked up over her pale, flabby thighs. He blew away a teenage couple while they stood with their mouths open, unable to react due to shock. A small boy who had wandered too far away from his mommy caught three bullets to the upper body, causing him to twitch and dance into a display of tennis shoes before dying with an anguished look on his face.
The police finally arrived, and shot Larry once in the chest and once
in the upper arm before arresting him. He was tried, found innocent by
reason of insanity, and sent to Harbor Hills for the rest of his natural
life. Most days, he just sits and stares out the window. He wears a sad
smile. They never found out about Angie, the cheating bitch buried in the
yard of the house he once lived in, and he feels like now they never will.
But each year, around Christmas, Larry gets a little more active, a little
more social. Every year since his arrival at Harbor Hills, the dour little
man plays Santa Claus at the annual party at the hospital. It's the finest
role he ever played.