Nothing quite like love

Ok. This is not a nice story. If you are a nice person, don’t read it. Please.

I guess at the end you can say one thing for Tom Hansen; at least death came quickly for him. Ok. Let’s say two things about him:

1: he died quickly

2: he was a major fucking asshole

Anyway, swift and efficient, death came much like the way Tom Hansen used to move on the football field I guess. I’m guessing because I’m not really much of a sports guy. Sure, I saw him play a couple of times but from where I was sitting he was just another idiot in a helmet throwing a ball around hoping to be able to get a scholarship to get the fuck out of this ass end of the world. But that didn’t quite go as planned. Things rarely do it seems. Instead of being the awe of every cheerleader at Fucktown College, Tom Hansen ended up dead behind the wheel of his beautifully restored 1971 Dodge Charger. Blood and guts splattered all over the leather interior. Unfortunately I never go to see him dead up close and personal but from what I could tell his sternum was pretty much shattered, both arms broken and old Tom Hansen was stone fucking dead. 250 odd pounds of mostly muscles I guess, that’s what spending a ton of hours in the gym will get you. And I guess that’s what you need if your idea of fun is running around with a ball, wearing more protection than a stockbroker fucking the most disease infested hooker in the world, risking that some other half wit weighing as much as you come running into you at significant speed. Never got the whole charm of that thing. I was always more of, well, let’s be nice and call it “the cerebral type”. If you want to be less nice you can always go for geel or nerd or even bookworm if you are feeling up to it. I think Tom Hansen once refered to me as a “fucking weird motherfucker”. That was just after he kicked my chair out from under me in the cafeteria. He had such a way with words, Tom. And now he was dead. And people scream and I leave because screaming is just one of those things that I just can’t stand. Puts my teeth on edge for some reason.

Am I sad at this point? Not at all. I’m wondering if that car might be salvageable though. I really love those old muscle cars, that might seem a bit weird for someone like me but I do. I have idiosyncracies too you know, if we’re going to get along you might just have to deal with them ok? So yeah, that’s what I’m thinking about at this particular point in time. And about how much work it would be to clean the whole thing out. Oh, and what made the big fucking hole in the windscreen and ultimately in Tom Hansen. Things worth pondering you know. Stuff.

So I walk down the street, the sky is that really insane fall blue and there’s a chill in the air. It’s good because it let’s me keep my hoodie up and my head down. Not that anyone notices me anyway. Seriously,I’m one of those people that are just invisible. Sometimes, and I swear this is true, it’s so bad that not even the automatic doors down at Safeway will notice me. I have to wait around until some obese housewife comes waddling along. The housewives that look like they ate some other housewife always get duly noticed by the Safeway door sensors and I can follow them inside. On the other hand, when that happens, when I feel that invisible I usually stock up on small, expensive and easy to carry stuff. Yeah, yeah I know, I’m a “criminal”, it’s a warning since you know if you read the DSM-4, a warning sign for all sorts of bad things. So not only am I a “criminal” I might also be a “bad person”. If I could I would even make those little rabbit ear signs with my fingers now just to annoy you. So what. So what if I steal some of the made-in-the-democratic-joy-happy-place-chinese-death-factory they peddle in Wal-fucking working class oppressors-mart or from Safeway with their overweight counter girls and the pimply bag packer morons with just above single digit IQs? So what? What. Is. It. To. You?

Sorry. Seriously. I ranted. I got on my soapbox and I ranted and totally lost it for a bit but in reality I’m just walking on home, leisurely strolling down the street, minding my own business. Not bothering anyeone, just enjoying a quiet evening out and about. And I’m in a good mood, because Tom Hansen is dead. Life could be a whole lot worse — for one thing I could be Tom Hansen — but I can’t let that stop me from the show that is soon about to start. It’s almost 9 PM and you aaaaaaallllll know what happens at 9 PM right? Thats right. Little Mandy Johansen across the street takes the bra off in front of God and all the world to see. Well, all the world being me and a pair of binoculars I accidentally found somewhere that wasn’t my house. Be that as it may, I wouldn’t want to miss that, no si-ree. That just wouldn’t be good and proper.

Now, I get inside my room without any hassle, parents are all tucked up in bed fortunately. I’m guessing four-martini drunk as well and mom — old darling Darla, the beauty queen, poster parent of valiums and tooth decay — is most likely completely out behind a melting ice mask after the drinks and a couple of whatever sleeping pills she has got her grubby little hands on today. Not that I’m complaining, thank God for parents on pills I say. The old man snores so much the entire house is shaking; nothing to fear from him. I can sit in the dark and enjoy the show. So I drop my pants, get the lotion out and wait. Mandy’s window is dark. The whole house is dark. No car outside. Fucking hell, not tonight? I get death but no sex? This really pisses me off to no end but it’s late now and even if I could take the car keys and go downtownto get some toothless old crack whore to give me a blow job that simply won’t cut it. Not that I would. I’m just using this as an example. First of all my dad, for all his wonderful lack of parenting skills, is anal asfuck about the car and would notice instantly if I had borrowed it. And fucking someone, anyone in a mini-van? Seriously, what kind of a person do you take me for? I may not be the classiest guy in this shit hole but even I have limits. But there aren’t as many crack whores around anymore. Or so I hear. You see, I’m mostly all talk and no action. Not much of a surprise there, I know. At least I’m honest though. Most of the time.

Anyway.

I need more. I need something better than this and even if I jerk off in the darkness, that warm, wet hunger won’t leave me alone. So it’s back in the saddle again, on with the sneakers — those lovely black pumas,got to love them — and out the door. The neighborhood is empty of course, at this time of night there’s not much happening here. This is suburbia after all and apart from the odd high school football player coming home drunk nothing happens after dark. So I get to have it all to myself. Unfortunately I have no idea whatto do so I just roam around, kicking the shit out of a mailbox that has been annoying me for a while. It’s one of those houses; you know, one of those little plastic fake wood abominations that are made in some little factory in Korea by some slitty eyed fuck who wouldn’t know Americana if Norman Rockwell bit him in his naked yellow ass. Since there is no chance of anything remotely interesting happening I take a piss through the open window of some idiot’s Lexus SUV. Not only is it an ugly piece of machinery, but whoever owns it — some soccer mom probably, one of those road rage inflicted thirty-something women who honk their horn at you as if the three seconds you hesitated at that green light meant life or death to one of their screaming little brats– should be flogged for leaving their window open. Well, they won’t do that again. The seat on the passenger side has those fancy in-seat fan systems and I bet that some dried piss is going to make that new car smell go right out the window. As I walk around the back I notice that it’s one of those hybrids. Somehow that makes it even funnier. Well, after that I am pretty much out of ideas so I just walk back home, keeping an eye out for the cat that lives down the block but no such luck tonight apparently.

Tom Hansen has never been this popular. Ok, that guy probably got his dick sucked more than Bill Clinton but today — damn — people talk about him like he was Jesus, son of God, born again and made from magical fairy cake dust or something. When I walk down the hall, just as invisible as usual, I hear two of the girls talking about him. You know the type, all blond hair and perfect little twenty thousand dollar smiles and perky tits under their jumper sets, skin over flesh that is just waiting for the birthday when they can legally augment it with some silicone. Or preferably a lot if they are looking to get hitched to the football players going for the beamer dealerships.

“Did you hear? Did you hear? Whoever did that must be sick.”

“Yeah, I was all like — what? — when I heard. I mean, like, Tom? He was so, you know.”

“Yeah, exactly. I was completely, you know.”

“Me too.”

They move down the hallway, completely engrossed in the latest gory stories from the parking lot at IHoP. Tom Hansen’s friends, the broad shouldered halfwits that pass for the athletes at this school, stand around whispering and staring menacingly at anyone who so much as dares come within three feet of their little circles. It’s amusing you know, he wasn’t good enough to go anywhere, he wasn’t going to become a big star or anything and he was too fucking dumb to realize that. So fucking what if he is dead, just one less pointless mouth-breather. These people seem to think he was something special, as if the fact that they knew him before he became a lifeless bag of broken bones and flesh would somehow make them more than they are. And sure enough, when the lunch bell rings the TV vans are outside and all of the morons are out there getting interviewed. I give up. Who cares? A part of me just wants to go home but instead I sit on a park bench in the shade and watch this entire sad spectacle play out. Media mythology. People who I know for a fact, who I can swear on the fucking bible if I thought it made any difference, hated Tom Hansen’s guts are crying in front of the cameras. Hugging. Screaming. What. The. Fuck. I mean, I like a show as much as the next guy but this is just bizarre. Do they believe it? Why are they doing it? Am I really THAT disturbed. I mean I might be, I sure have seen the school shrink a fair amount of times in my hears here. She, the latest one, probably has a nice big file on me that contains big words and possibly even a warning. There must be a warning in there somewhere, hell after the last school shooting two states over they told me to stay the hell away from school for two weeks. Don’t ask me why though. As much as I’d enjoy killing some of these idiots I really don’t find the idea of dying myself even remotely satisfying. Call me crazy but I think I’m far too rational to kill people indiscriminately. If she asks me down to her office again I might tell her that. I’m sure that will go over real well.

I steal a couple of Darla’s Valiums and spend most of the afternoon and evening in one of those nice diazepam induced fogs where nothing matters at all. Watch some TV, nothing makes any sense. Read a comic or two. Nothing makes any sense. Any semblance of caring about anything has just gone straight out the window. And that’s just as well because Mandy’s house is still dark and empty and without the pillsI’d be getting really fucking frustrated. Now it’s more of a dull ache of boredom somewhere behind the bridge of nose.

I fall asleep fully dressed on the bed and wake up hearing that sound again, the high frequency whistle. And sure enough, just a second or two later there is a loud bang, like a stick of dynamite going off or something. I get up and look out the window and sure enough there is a big fucking hole in the middle of the road. Whoever is dumping this shit on us has a really bad aim today apparently. But while I am getting my shoes on to go out and have a look I hear the whistling again, only louder. And then all hell breaks loose.

When I get out of the house I can’t believe my eyes. Then I just can’t stop laughing. Most of the houses as far as I can see have been hit, some of them have been cut in half as if some giant had absentmindedly stepped on them, others are burning and a couple of them are just plain gone. Nothing. Just a big whole in the ground. The air is thick with smoke and it’s rapidly getting worse and I jog down the street to get the hell out of there. People are running around like crazy, I hear sirens getting closer but I have no reason tostick around waiting for the police. It’s mother fucking Armageddon baby! Apocalypse come at last. Some woman is lying on her back in her front yard screaming “JESUS TAKE ME JESUS TAKE ME JESUS”. Rapture nerds. Got to love’em. But this, I mean seriously. Meteor showers — that is just too much. After a couple of blocks the damage just seem to get even worse, and when turning a corner to head down towards the Safeway and the mall — wouldn’t it be great if the mall had been hit — I see the first one.

Jaw. Fucking. Drop.

Some guy who definitely looks dead comes walking towards me. And when I say dead I mean dead. Dead. There is simply no way in hell that he can be alive. He has a big hole right through his chest, you know — where his vital organs like heart and lungs should be if he was actually alive — but sure enough he is walking around like something straight out of a Romero movie. I admit that he is moving a hell of a lot more realistic than the crappy zombies in Night of the living dead but there is something decidedly wrong with someone who has only three quarters left of his right leg and still walks straight at you. He doesn’t seem to be interested in me though, just sort of lopsidedly ambles past me. Weird. On the other hand I don’t have a gun so if he had been one of those flesh eating death zombie types I would have been in deep shit. Either way, as far as I know there is no law against shooting dead people, at least not if they are walking around, bleeding all over the fucking sidewalk. Jaywalking. Time to be an upstanding citizen. So I start running down towards the mall.

Guns, guns, guns. I blame my parents for being such well meaning pussies, it’s their fault I have no idea what to pick up. Isn’t it just typical — I manage to get into the gun store, the god damn gun store, but I have no idea what to pick up. I’ve seen enough movies in my life to give me some sort of an idea but when I’m standing here they all look the same to me. Incomprehensible pieces of metal. I deliberate for a while and then decide to go for the smooth steely Dirty Harry-style. Big fucking gun, there is nothing wrong with that. Takes me about ten minutes to find the right ammo of course and I have to get a new gun after jamming the wrong kind in there. Twice. Because that’s the kind of genius I am. But by then I have a couple of hundred rounds, snugly placed in a pretty neat backpack, and I am ready for whatever. And sure enough, I don’t even get halfway across the parking lot before I run into the first one, some big fat woman that is walking around in her nightie. Night, night. I walk up behind her, her left arm has been ripped off at the elbow and there is blood all down her left side but when I blow her head to pieces there is hardly any bleeding at all. Not that I have time to notice that, my hand just goes flying into the air, the gun kicks me like some kind of Mexican mule on steroids. But what a rush. Oh man.

Three hours later and I’m working very hard on increasing my kill count. Got myself some batteries down at Chevron and now I am sitting on top of some house listening to Eminem and shooting the shit out of dead people. And damn if there wasn’t a lot of them for a while. I was listening to the radio for a while but it was all hysterical interviews with people who had found their dads walking around dead and wanted the authorities to take care of things. The police drive by every once in a while but they don’t seem to mind the bodies in the street, for some reason they are preoccupied with something else. They were talking about looting earlier and I was thinking of doing some of that, maybe get myself a 60 inch plasma. But if this is Armageddon, what the hell do I need a plasma for. I might need more ammunition soon but that is another thing, they should probably give it out for free. Now and again I hear gunshots in the distance. Mostly single shots but lately there have been bursts that sound like they must come from some sort of automatic weapon. National Guard perhaps. Or the military, what the hell do I know. Maybe police. Maybe just well armed people with non-pussy parents.

Anyway, there comes a point where you can only take so much self absorbed hip hop and now the talking heads on the radio are doing some emergency broadcast shit so it’s the same stupid crap on every single channel. Stay inside, they say, don’t touch your dead relatives and friends. Let the people who are equipped to deal with this stuff do the dealing. Hell, I deal with it. No problem. Only dark cloud on my horizon is that it’s getting boring, the dead people are getting fewer and fewer and I must have dropped atleast fifty by now. So I climb down off the roof and head off towards home, I have an old joint lying around in the bedroom and it would be a shame to let that go to waste, who knows — some future George W National Guard idiot might swing by and steal it. But since I am the luckiest bastard in the world tonight I don’t walk for more than a couple of blocks before I run into Mandy. Alive and well, even though the back of her shirt is all dirty and torn. She just stares blankly into thin air, I wave my hand in front of her but she doesn’t even blink.

“Hey Mandy, honey, how are you?”

No response, she just keeps staring right out into nothingness, so something needs to be done about that I guess, and since I am at this point my most resourceful self I gently take her by the arm and lead her into the closest house.

Ok, so maybe you’re not supposed to rape a traumatised girl but she won’t feel much anyhow. I even take the time to look through the house for some lubricants but apparently it is occupied by some people who don’t have sex so in the end I decide to use olive oil. Yeah, fucking disgusting. But I have to say it works, it works just fine. And it’s just like I imagined, ok not quite. In my fantasy she was telling me that she loved it, in reality she’s just lying on top of dining room table while I fuck her in all the ways I can come up with. I know, it’s a bit too much perhaps but then again as far as I know very few women let you fuck them in the ass. When I am done I sit around on the couch for a while, waiting to see if she is going to snap out of it so we can go at it again only with her a bit more conscious. But after a bit of waiting I figure no such luck though so in the end I just drag her out of there and blow her brain stem to pieces. Who’s going to know, right? I make sure she falls straight onto one of the corpsies as well. If it’s Armageddon no one is going to know and if it isn’t, well, Tom Hansen is dead and I got to fuck Mandy Johansen. Not a bad deal if you ask me. Not bad at all.

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