Wasted Electric Brain Signals
Hi, chums. More of my start-and-stop fiction. Only this one actually has an ending. I wrote it a long time ago - '04 or '05. Enjoy.
Wasted Electric Brain Signals
By Michael J. Sherry
I think with remarkable rapidity, so you’ll have to make a hell of an effort if you’re going to keep up.
Floor 25: I make the jump and begin a dizzying, swift decent toward the sidewalk hundreds of feet below. Depression? Well, perhaps. To some extent, at any rate. But I’m not your typical suicidal melancholic. That is to say I do not whine, mope, regret, or surround myself by the comforting assurances of self-pity and loathing. Why do it then? Well, to be brutally honest I’m wondering a little bit about that myself. But here I am, plummeting – is plummeting a good word for this? Maybe free-falling would be better? – free-falling through a lot of cold air, feeling it rise sharply to greet my exposed face like a sudden splash of freezing water, and there is at last no way out. Maybe that’s what this is about. I have some trouble with commitment. Work, love, family … the works. I used to call myself a wanderer until I realized how fucking ridiculous that sounded, so I decided instead to dub myself an outlaw. Not that I’ve done anything insane or illegal, but there is a certain appeal to branding oneself with the label outlaw. It banishes certain restraints. Well, that’s romanticizing it, I suppose. What it really does is provide a convenient excuse. You quit another job? Yes, I did. Why the hell would you do that again? Where will your money come from? It’s all OK – you see, I’m an outlaw. I can permit myself to be lax in certain responsibilities, or all of them. But to get back to the relevant point I was making – perhaps this is why I have made the jump. Perhaps I’ve somehow grown so desperate to feel what it’s like to be caught up in something from which there is no conceivable exit that this just seemed to make sense and before I knew what I was doing, there I went. Bowling across the office and nice knowing you all. Yes, all of you with the bewildered, frozen faces. I’ll be at the bottom before you’re even to the window.
Floor 23: But I know that shit ain’t the truth. All this garbage about making a commitment I would be forced to stick with. Not a chance. All a lot of wasted electric brain signals. Nobody wants to die a pointless death brought on from apparent insanity, so maybe I was just trying to paint myself a nice oil-based picture of meaning before ground-inevitability came at me from underneath. But to be brutally honest, I was lying to myself if I honestly believed that. So what was it then? Well, I’m going to have to at least consider the fact that there is nothing remarkably different about this suicide. In fact, if I am to think about it for a split second, I will have to admit to myself that there is a lot I had planned that just never turned out. Oh, this is stupid. Now I am whining. This is self-pity. Well, so be it then, right? I mean, if it’s the truth? But let’s very briefly examine the facts. I say very briefly because, as is becoming increasingly evident, time is a factor here. At any rate, I excelled at school, graduated college Magna Cum Laude, and went on to one of the top graduate schools in the country. What was I going to do eventually? I never figured that out. Teach, maybe. But I realized I didn’t want to teach. I didn’t care at all if the little shits learned anything or not – it’s their own concern. So that was that for that shit.
Floor 21: What is the point of this anyway? I know what happened. I was fucking there. I lived it, you understand? It was me who did those things. Me who floated through thirty or so jobs over fifteen years. Me who dated six girls over that stretch and followed each inescapable breakup with a long dry-spell of self-doubt and astonishingly little sex. Me who drank a lot of whiskey and smoked a lot of cigars and went around telling people I’m the wanderer, and later the outlaw. You want a car? Here’s my card. Stop by the dealership, we’ll talk. I can put you in a new machine today … There’s only six pallots on that truck, buddy. I ordered seven for the department … Plant “17” is secure, boss. I did hourly rounds … Make sure those frames stay straight, the cement will be here any minute … Its two-dollar drafts tonight, boys, but you better leave a decent tip or there’s going to be a lot of head in that cup … You want your driveway plowed now? Its 2 am! … Get that truck out of the way so I can move the backhoe through here. Yah, I was an outlaw. WANTED. Wanted for … for … well, wanted for something at any rate.
Floor 19: The outlaw plummets. Or what was it I said before? Free-falls? The outlaw free-falls his way down the side of the cliff into the maelstrom of doom below! No, I know. It isn’t like that, but I try to afford myself a touch of glamour before ground-inevitability. Really I’m falling next to an old gray skyscraper and I’m going to eventually go SPLAT! I’m falling very strangely, however, now that I am thinking about it. It occurs to me that most jumpers would have faced outward, toward the rest of the city, backs to the building they had ejected themselves from. Not me. I had led with my right shoulder – maybe a habit born of my old hockey days when I was throwing my body around recklessly, leading with the shoulder – and in so doing I am falling somewhat oddly; sideways, the top of my head facing away from the building and the bottom of my feet facing toward it. I find that by looking down the length of my body toward my feet I am actually catching brief glances into the windows I pass. Nobody seems to notice. I’m plummeting so fast, how could they unless they were already looking out the window? And if that were the case, what an amusing sight that would be, wouldn’t it? You save your file and glance up from your computer to see what’s going on outside for a moment – just a little relaxing escape, even if only for a few seconds – and then here comes this body. Whoooosh. Like that. And then it’s gone, and you’re sitting there – a tad perplexed – blinking your eyes once or twice – and wondering if you actually just saw that.
Floor 17: Well, you did. And it was me. It was my soon to be SPLAT-ed body going whoooosh. And Jesus Christ! its cold out today. That wind is whipping up against me so fast, probably twenty degrees out today. I should have worn a jacket before I leapt. Not that I was thinking about such things. In fact, had I stopped to consider whether or not I should wear a jacket for the fall, I probably never would have been in this situation in the first place. The second it had occurred to me to put on a jacket because it was cold outside it would simultaneously have occurred to me how ridiculous it was to put on a jacket when I was about to become a flapjack on the sidewalk. This would have led me to a subsequent contemplation about what it would feel like to be a sidewalk flapjack, and – more importantly – what it would look like to be such a thing. Dismayed by my gruesome thoughts, I inevitably would have turned back to my computer screen and made the next call. “Good afternoon, sir, my name is Mike Sherry and I’m calling from American Bank for a Mr. Tomlinson. Oh, hello, Mr. Tomlinson. The reason for this call is just to touch base and ensure that you are satisfied with all of your accounts, and to check in with you to see if there is anything we can do to improve your relationship with the bank.”
Floor 15: Fuck Mr. Tomlinson. He was probably some poor bastard anyway. Has an American Bank Express Free Checking account and a debit card and doesn’t want anything else – just so I won’t get paid incentive. And he probably would have told me to stop bugging him. “I hate you damn telemarketers!” “Sir, this isn’t a telemarketing call, we’re employees at one of the bank’s call centers and we’re just checking in to ensure –" “I don’t want to be called again.” Click. Oh, so that’s it, right, Mr. Tomlinson? And what about my feelings? What about the fact that I’m supposed to help you and you just treat me like I’m some vacuum cleaner salesman? Worst of all – what about my goddamn paycheck!? Every day of work goes this way, and I could feel that sense of destiny closing in all about me once again. The feeling that my time at a job was drawing to a close. It was only a matter of time before I sat down with Becky Patterson in her cubicle and politely explained that the job was not working out for me and I was going to need to quit. “Would cutting back your hours help?” Well, to be honest, probably not, Becky. You see, I just don’t feel I’m getting any sense of fulfillment from this job. “So you feel you need to resign?” Um, yah. Resign. Quit. Retire? That would be a good one. But what would I do with myself? Where would money come in from?
Floor 13: I’d thought about this quite a bit. Every time I got some bank customer on the phone who was filling out an application for this or that and they listed their occupation as “self-employed,” I got a hard-on. Jesus, that would be nice. There had to be some way I could make a living without having to “clock-in” and say things like “hold on, let me check with my superior.” That’s what I really hate, I guess. The notion of having a boss. Here’s some fuck – I mean, the guy (or doll) probably don’t even have a college degree, and if he (or she) does, then its probably just a four-year degree from some community college – gonna tell me what to do. Me. With my fucking Master of the Arts degree from a graduate program of national repute. A fucking free thinker. A fucking scholarly and academic light of the community. I don’t need no stinking boss. I don’t need to check with my friggin’ superior. The hell with that. This is why I’d like to be self-employed. But how? Writing? It doesn’t pay. Construction? Not a chance. Not with my soft, feminine hands. Website design? Now there’s a possibility – if every computer I pressed a button on didn’t implode. Prostitution? Well, too late for that now.
Floor 11: The outlaw free falls. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Well us peons can fall just as mightily. Oops. I’m screaming. How embarrassing. Takes some of the romanticism out of what I’m trying to do. Good thing I caught myself. Its possible the people on the sidewalk below hadn’t heard my cowardly cries yet. I ponder – how do I want to look when I hit the ground? Probably a smile on my face. Wouldn’t that show some sort of defiance? Arrogance? Smiling in the face of death, right? Of course, I suppose that is a touch cliché. What then? A blank face would just show ambiguity or insanity. An angry face might make it look like I’d done this in the throws of passion and outrage, which I hadn’t. And I certainly did not want to appear frightened. Maybe cliché was the only way to go here. So be it. I will hit the ground smiling with insolence. Maybe even laughing. No, that would be overdoing it. That would be leaning toward insanity again. I’m not insane. Let me make that absolutely clear. I am thinking – and have always thought, for that matter – with the highest degree of lucidity.
Floor 9: Boy, I’m starting to get close. I can actually see the faces of the sidewalk walkers. Most of them haven’t noticed me. They are walking along in happy oblivion, with not even the slightest notion that a human body is about to slam into the sidewalk in their midst. Maybe even spray some of them with guts. Oh Christ, I hope some of them get sprayed with guts. The ridiculously pompous, ignorant, astronomically aggravating fools! I just wish I could still be alive to see their faces when it happens. But then, maybe I will be alive. That had never occurred to me when making the jump. You hear these types of things all the time, however. I mean, fuck. People have survived sky-diving with a malfunctioning parachute, why couldn’t I survive falling a piddling twenty-five floors? Well, let’s not get unrealistic here. The odds of me surviving the fall are overwhelmingly stacked against me.
Floor 7: I just wish I could have gotten laid one last time. And not with some fucking cougar either. Not some thirty-five year old booze bimbo who’s always on the prowl. No, something meaningful. Like maybe I could’ve met a girl I’d had a crush on during high school and hit it off. We’d have had coffee to “catch up” … maybe some food … maybe a movie. And WHAMMO! I’d be drilling her. Oh, well I suppose that’s taking some of the fantasy out of it. Maybe we’d go back to her house on the beach and make passionate love all night long. Not that I’d ever cared for “passion” or for “all night long.” Jesus. Maybe some cougar would have done the trick after all. Well, the point is I just wish I could’ve gotten laid one last time. Now don’t think me shallow. I haven’t taken a woman to bed in about six months, and if you want to count times I remember vividly and non-drunkenly, well now it’s more in the realm of a year and a half, closer to two years. I miss it. I have a sentimental weakness for it. I would have liked a farewell-to-the-world fuck before the outlaw jumped.
Floor 5: And also a good glass of scotch and a decent cigar. And I would have liked to enjoy the good glass of scotch and decent cigar at an outside bar – somewhere warm – while I tapped my foot and listened to a live blues band. And undoubtedly, as always, wished I had taken guitar lessons at some point. Honestly – want to hear me descend to the ultimate cliché? – my dream job would be playing the blues in local bars. Self-employment, remember? But I don’t play. And even if I did, you can’t make a living doing that. Ah, the blues, though, ain’t it? Great stuff. I mean, who doesn’t like the blues? Who doesn’t want to play the guitar? Who doesn’t love scotch and decent cigars? Boy, I could go for a cigar right now. Ah, shit! How cool would that have been? Hit the ground smoking a cigar. I would be willing to bet money that nobody’s ever done that before. Fuck. I missed my chance to make history. I can see the newspaper headlines. Cool Guy Commits Suicide: Leaps From Building Smoking a Cigar.
Floor 3: Jesus Christ, kid! Get out of the way! What, are you stupid? You’re going to get killed! Oh fuck, I did not want to go out this way. Taking some innocent kid with me. This is my problem and my way of dealing with the problem, and now this poor little boy is going to die because of it. His family’s lives will be ruined because of it. Oh shit. What have I done? Why can’t he walk faster? Come on, kid, speed it up! I’m yelling, he’s looking up at me now. He seems confused. He is not moving. Oh damn it all!
Floor 1: Oh, thank fucking God, he’s not in my path after all. Close one. He’s probably just one of those who will be sprayed by guts. What a story he’ll have to tell. The rest of his life. “When I was eight, I got sprayed by a dead guy’s guts on the sidewalk.” He can probably pick up chicks if he plays his cards right. Say it’s had some kind of emotional impact on his life. “I just can’t get the image out of my head. Poor fellow.” They’ll think he’s deep. That alone will make this whole thing worthwhile. If one person gets laid because of my death then I wouldn’t take it back for any reason at all. The outlaw has proved he can contribute in some meaningful –
SPLAT!!
Wasted Electric Brain Signals
By Michael J. Sherry
I think with remarkable rapidity, so you’ll have to make a hell of an effort if you’re going to keep up.
Floor 25: I make the jump and begin a dizzying, swift decent toward the sidewalk hundreds of feet below. Depression? Well, perhaps. To some extent, at any rate. But I’m not your typical suicidal melancholic. That is to say I do not whine, mope, regret, or surround myself by the comforting assurances of self-pity and loathing. Why do it then? Well, to be brutally honest I’m wondering a little bit about that myself. But here I am, plummeting – is plummeting a good word for this? Maybe free-falling would be better? – free-falling through a lot of cold air, feeling it rise sharply to greet my exposed face like a sudden splash of freezing water, and there is at last no way out. Maybe that’s what this is about. I have some trouble with commitment. Work, love, family … the works. I used to call myself a wanderer until I realized how fucking ridiculous that sounded, so I decided instead to dub myself an outlaw. Not that I’ve done anything insane or illegal, but there is a certain appeal to branding oneself with the label outlaw. It banishes certain restraints. Well, that’s romanticizing it, I suppose. What it really does is provide a convenient excuse. You quit another job? Yes, I did. Why the hell would you do that again? Where will your money come from? It’s all OK – you see, I’m an outlaw. I can permit myself to be lax in certain responsibilities, or all of them. But to get back to the relevant point I was making – perhaps this is why I have made the jump. Perhaps I’ve somehow grown so desperate to feel what it’s like to be caught up in something from which there is no conceivable exit that this just seemed to make sense and before I knew what I was doing, there I went. Bowling across the office and nice knowing you all. Yes, all of you with the bewildered, frozen faces. I’ll be at the bottom before you’re even to the window.
Floor 23: But I know that shit ain’t the truth. All this garbage about making a commitment I would be forced to stick with. Not a chance. All a lot of wasted electric brain signals. Nobody wants to die a pointless death brought on from apparent insanity, so maybe I was just trying to paint myself a nice oil-based picture of meaning before ground-inevitability came at me from underneath. But to be brutally honest, I was lying to myself if I honestly believed that. So what was it then? Well, I’m going to have to at least consider the fact that there is nothing remarkably different about this suicide. In fact, if I am to think about it for a split second, I will have to admit to myself that there is a lot I had planned that just never turned out. Oh, this is stupid. Now I am whining. This is self-pity. Well, so be it then, right? I mean, if it’s the truth? But let’s very briefly examine the facts. I say very briefly because, as is becoming increasingly evident, time is a factor here. At any rate, I excelled at school, graduated college Magna Cum Laude, and went on to one of the top graduate schools in the country. What was I going to do eventually? I never figured that out. Teach, maybe. But I realized I didn’t want to teach. I didn’t care at all if the little shits learned anything or not – it’s their own concern. So that was that for that shit.
Floor 21: What is the point of this anyway? I know what happened. I was fucking there. I lived it, you understand? It was me who did those things. Me who floated through thirty or so jobs over fifteen years. Me who dated six girls over that stretch and followed each inescapable breakup with a long dry-spell of self-doubt and astonishingly little sex. Me who drank a lot of whiskey and smoked a lot of cigars and went around telling people I’m the wanderer, and later the outlaw. You want a car? Here’s my card. Stop by the dealership, we’ll talk. I can put you in a new machine today … There’s only six pallots on that truck, buddy. I ordered seven for the department … Plant “17” is secure, boss. I did hourly rounds … Make sure those frames stay straight, the cement will be here any minute … Its two-dollar drafts tonight, boys, but you better leave a decent tip or there’s going to be a lot of head in that cup … You want your driveway plowed now? Its 2 am! … Get that truck out of the way so I can move the backhoe through here. Yah, I was an outlaw. WANTED. Wanted for … for … well, wanted for something at any rate.
Floor 19: The outlaw plummets. Or what was it I said before? Free-falls? The outlaw free-falls his way down the side of the cliff into the maelstrom of doom below! No, I know. It isn’t like that, but I try to afford myself a touch of glamour before ground-inevitability. Really I’m falling next to an old gray skyscraper and I’m going to eventually go SPLAT! I’m falling very strangely, however, now that I am thinking about it. It occurs to me that most jumpers would have faced outward, toward the rest of the city, backs to the building they had ejected themselves from. Not me. I had led with my right shoulder – maybe a habit born of my old hockey days when I was throwing my body around recklessly, leading with the shoulder – and in so doing I am falling somewhat oddly; sideways, the top of my head facing away from the building and the bottom of my feet facing toward it. I find that by looking down the length of my body toward my feet I am actually catching brief glances into the windows I pass. Nobody seems to notice. I’m plummeting so fast, how could they unless they were already looking out the window? And if that were the case, what an amusing sight that would be, wouldn’t it? You save your file and glance up from your computer to see what’s going on outside for a moment – just a little relaxing escape, even if only for a few seconds – and then here comes this body. Whoooosh. Like that. And then it’s gone, and you’re sitting there – a tad perplexed – blinking your eyes once or twice – and wondering if you actually just saw that.
Floor 17: Well, you did. And it was me. It was my soon to be SPLAT-ed body going whoooosh. And Jesus Christ! its cold out today. That wind is whipping up against me so fast, probably twenty degrees out today. I should have worn a jacket before I leapt. Not that I was thinking about such things. In fact, had I stopped to consider whether or not I should wear a jacket for the fall, I probably never would have been in this situation in the first place. The second it had occurred to me to put on a jacket because it was cold outside it would simultaneously have occurred to me how ridiculous it was to put on a jacket when I was about to become a flapjack on the sidewalk. This would have led me to a subsequent contemplation about what it would feel like to be a sidewalk flapjack, and – more importantly – what it would look like to be such a thing. Dismayed by my gruesome thoughts, I inevitably would have turned back to my computer screen and made the next call. “Good afternoon, sir, my name is Mike Sherry and I’m calling from American Bank for a Mr. Tomlinson. Oh, hello, Mr. Tomlinson. The reason for this call is just to touch base and ensure that you are satisfied with all of your accounts, and to check in with you to see if there is anything we can do to improve your relationship with the bank.”
Floor 15: Fuck Mr. Tomlinson. He was probably some poor bastard anyway. Has an American Bank Express Free Checking account and a debit card and doesn’t want anything else – just so I won’t get paid incentive. And he probably would have told me to stop bugging him. “I hate you damn telemarketers!” “Sir, this isn’t a telemarketing call, we’re employees at one of the bank’s call centers and we’re just checking in to ensure –" “I don’t want to be called again.” Click. Oh, so that’s it, right, Mr. Tomlinson? And what about my feelings? What about the fact that I’m supposed to help you and you just treat me like I’m some vacuum cleaner salesman? Worst of all – what about my goddamn paycheck!? Every day of work goes this way, and I could feel that sense of destiny closing in all about me once again. The feeling that my time at a job was drawing to a close. It was only a matter of time before I sat down with Becky Patterson in her cubicle and politely explained that the job was not working out for me and I was going to need to quit. “Would cutting back your hours help?” Well, to be honest, probably not, Becky. You see, I just don’t feel I’m getting any sense of fulfillment from this job. “So you feel you need to resign?” Um, yah. Resign. Quit. Retire? That would be a good one. But what would I do with myself? Where would money come in from?
Floor 13: I’d thought about this quite a bit. Every time I got some bank customer on the phone who was filling out an application for this or that and they listed their occupation as “self-employed,” I got a hard-on. Jesus, that would be nice. There had to be some way I could make a living without having to “clock-in” and say things like “hold on, let me check with my superior.” That’s what I really hate, I guess. The notion of having a boss. Here’s some fuck – I mean, the guy (or doll) probably don’t even have a college degree, and if he (or she) does, then its probably just a four-year degree from some community college – gonna tell me what to do. Me. With my fucking Master of the Arts degree from a graduate program of national repute. A fucking free thinker. A fucking scholarly and academic light of the community. I don’t need no stinking boss. I don’t need to check with my friggin’ superior. The hell with that. This is why I’d like to be self-employed. But how? Writing? It doesn’t pay. Construction? Not a chance. Not with my soft, feminine hands. Website design? Now there’s a possibility – if every computer I pressed a button on didn’t implode. Prostitution? Well, too late for that now.
Floor 11: The outlaw free falls. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Well us peons can fall just as mightily. Oops. I’m screaming. How embarrassing. Takes some of the romanticism out of what I’m trying to do. Good thing I caught myself. Its possible the people on the sidewalk below hadn’t heard my cowardly cries yet. I ponder – how do I want to look when I hit the ground? Probably a smile on my face. Wouldn’t that show some sort of defiance? Arrogance? Smiling in the face of death, right? Of course, I suppose that is a touch cliché. What then? A blank face would just show ambiguity or insanity. An angry face might make it look like I’d done this in the throws of passion and outrage, which I hadn’t. And I certainly did not want to appear frightened. Maybe cliché was the only way to go here. So be it. I will hit the ground smiling with insolence. Maybe even laughing. No, that would be overdoing it. That would be leaning toward insanity again. I’m not insane. Let me make that absolutely clear. I am thinking – and have always thought, for that matter – with the highest degree of lucidity.
Floor 9: Boy, I’m starting to get close. I can actually see the faces of the sidewalk walkers. Most of them haven’t noticed me. They are walking along in happy oblivion, with not even the slightest notion that a human body is about to slam into the sidewalk in their midst. Maybe even spray some of them with guts. Oh Christ, I hope some of them get sprayed with guts. The ridiculously pompous, ignorant, astronomically aggravating fools! I just wish I could still be alive to see their faces when it happens. But then, maybe I will be alive. That had never occurred to me when making the jump. You hear these types of things all the time, however. I mean, fuck. People have survived sky-diving with a malfunctioning parachute, why couldn’t I survive falling a piddling twenty-five floors? Well, let’s not get unrealistic here. The odds of me surviving the fall are overwhelmingly stacked against me.
Floor 7: I just wish I could have gotten laid one last time. And not with some fucking cougar either. Not some thirty-five year old booze bimbo who’s always on the prowl. No, something meaningful. Like maybe I could’ve met a girl I’d had a crush on during high school and hit it off. We’d have had coffee to “catch up” … maybe some food … maybe a movie. And WHAMMO! I’d be drilling her. Oh, well I suppose that’s taking some of the fantasy out of it. Maybe we’d go back to her house on the beach and make passionate love all night long. Not that I’d ever cared for “passion” or for “all night long.” Jesus. Maybe some cougar would have done the trick after all. Well, the point is I just wish I could’ve gotten laid one last time. Now don’t think me shallow. I haven’t taken a woman to bed in about six months, and if you want to count times I remember vividly and non-drunkenly, well now it’s more in the realm of a year and a half, closer to two years. I miss it. I have a sentimental weakness for it. I would have liked a farewell-to-the-world fuck before the outlaw jumped.
Floor 5: And also a good glass of scotch and a decent cigar. And I would have liked to enjoy the good glass of scotch and decent cigar at an outside bar – somewhere warm – while I tapped my foot and listened to a live blues band. And undoubtedly, as always, wished I had taken guitar lessons at some point. Honestly – want to hear me descend to the ultimate cliché? – my dream job would be playing the blues in local bars. Self-employment, remember? But I don’t play. And even if I did, you can’t make a living doing that. Ah, the blues, though, ain’t it? Great stuff. I mean, who doesn’t like the blues? Who doesn’t want to play the guitar? Who doesn’t love scotch and decent cigars? Boy, I could go for a cigar right now. Ah, shit! How cool would that have been? Hit the ground smoking a cigar. I would be willing to bet money that nobody’s ever done that before. Fuck. I missed my chance to make history. I can see the newspaper headlines. Cool Guy Commits Suicide: Leaps From Building Smoking a Cigar.
Floor 3: Jesus Christ, kid! Get out of the way! What, are you stupid? You’re going to get killed! Oh fuck, I did not want to go out this way. Taking some innocent kid with me. This is my problem and my way of dealing with the problem, and now this poor little boy is going to die because of it. His family’s lives will be ruined because of it. Oh shit. What have I done? Why can’t he walk faster? Come on, kid, speed it up! I’m yelling, he’s looking up at me now. He seems confused. He is not moving. Oh damn it all!
Floor 1: Oh, thank fucking God, he’s not in my path after all. Close one. He’s probably just one of those who will be sprayed by guts. What a story he’ll have to tell. The rest of his life. “When I was eight, I got sprayed by a dead guy’s guts on the sidewalk.” He can probably pick up chicks if he plays his cards right. Say it’s had some kind of emotional impact on his life. “I just can’t get the image out of my head. Poor fellow.” They’ll think he’s deep. That alone will make this whole thing worthwhile. If one person gets laid because of my death then I wouldn’t take it back for any reason at all. The outlaw has proved he can contribute in some meaningful –
SPLAT!!
posted by Il Pazzo @ 6:22 PM
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