Having distanced myself considerably from in the intake of
nefarious foreign substances, and not having written anything of significant
value since those days of poisoning myself, I am going to see if I still in
fact “have it”—that is, the ability to write a bizarre tale without the aid of
artificial illumination to light my path of creativity. I also haven’t taken
any psychotropic medication for my schizophrenic illness in over nine months
since the governor of Pennsylvania has decided in a futile effort to balance
the state budget to cut mental health funding, which I actually believe has
benefited me, although I am nagged now by annoying voices that persecute,
ridicule and often times irritatingly comment on my behavior. Anyway, enough of
the complaining bullshit, let’s get to the point. Here is my attempt at
unleashing my eccentricities of the written word. So fuck it. Here we go. This early
morning, I would like to present everyone with a tale that will either prove or
disprove my having retained the capacity to write fiction. Wish me luck, mother
fuckers.
Stan’s Bitter End
Stan Flannery is awoken by not only his alarm clock at three
in the morning, but by the whispers of auditory hallucinations tell him that it
is time to him to get his freak ass out of bed and clean the litter box. It is
one of his routinized chores that he must complete each morning in his recovery
house before going to work. He had been living in a recovery house for the past
year now, and although he wishes that he were back in his home town of State
College, things in York Pennsylvania were becoming more and more comfortable as
he feels himself inch into middle aged tranquility. He works at a restaurant four miles down the
road, and usually opens the store at five thirty in the morning, but luckily,
although is now thirty four years of age, he has still retained all his
youthful agility and in fact feels much better than he ever has before, and is
able to walk about ten miles an hour, so it only takes him half an hour tops to
reach his place of vocational occupation.
He puts
on his work clothes, and smokes a cigarette, then makes his bed, and heads to
the bathroom, where he relieves his bowels, followed by a rigorous brushing of
his teeth, which have begun to erode and chip away a bit. As he looks I the
mirror, he notices that his eyes appear different. They seem to be vacant,
empty, and he stares at himself a while.
He thinks that he looks like cadaver who has been eviscerated, but he
still manages smile, as he knows that he should be grateful that he has a place
to live, and has a tenacious hold on his sobriety. He also has three thousand
dollars in the bank, and a nice computer, which he utilizes in his daily masturbation
sessions and allows him to exercise his creative juices through is writing. He
earned a degree in English from Penn State University, but proceeded to not do
anything productive after college with his degree, and managed to thoroughly fuck
his life up by forming a nasty drug habit, which included heroin, cocaine, and his
once favorite, “Bath Salts,” a highly addictive stimulant, which he used to buy
in the head shop in State College.
“What the fuck have I done with my life and my so-called
endowments? Absolutely nothing, that’s what!” He says to himself, knowing damn
well, that he should have earned his doctorate by now, and be a University
professor, instead he makes omelets and pancakes, and works with a moronic crew
of obtuse individuals, who don’t understand him, or even try to—they simply
discount him as being insane, which is “technically is,” although he thinks the
more operative term is “eccentric.” He just wishes that some extra-terrestrial
race would abduct him some night, and transport him to another planet, some
place where he actually felt a sense of belonging. Christ, he often times
thinks that he is an alien of some sort, and was certain that at one point in a
visit with his schizophrenic mother, she told him that he wasn’t “entirely
human” at all, but more of an alien/human hybrid species. Something he has
pondered many times, ruminating on some of the strange occurrences and missing
periods of time I his life, which seem to permeate with extraterrestrial
explanations.
He looks at his cell phone, and notices that he has spent
the past ten minutes in the bathroom daydreaming about shit that really has no
validity to his current practical situation, which is to go down to the basement
and clean the basement, followed by coming back upstairs to the bathroom, and
cleaning the shower, sink, and mopping the floor. He leaves the bathroom; so he
shakes his head at his irrationality, and goes back into his bedroom to grab a
plastic bag, which he gets out of his nightstand drawer which he has conveniently
stockpiled to collect the cat shit every morning out of the litter box before taking
it out to the trash cans in on the back porch. Every day that cleans the litter
box, he is reminded of the incident when he was carpet surfing for weed that he
had spilled onto the floor over years of habitual marijuana use, only to find a
small piece of organic matter, which he hoped was some hash that he let accidentally
fall out of his pipe, only to find upon lighting it, that it was actually cat
shit. Not good shit.
As he walks out of the room, he swears that he hears
somebody speaking in some foreign language behind him, and although at times
his auditory hallucinations at times speak to him in Italian, this foreign
tongue seemed to be of some Nordic origin. He turns around, and is paralyzed as
he falls into the icy stare of a Reptilian being, that is holding a glowing
pink sphere. Before he has time to say anything, he is eaten by the being that
gnaws on his intestines, and devours his one remaining testicle with its
beastly incisors.
The End
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