A slightly disturbing thing I wrote while I was lacking sleep. I’m not that great of a writer though…

People die, right?

There’s no way to stop it either. They’re all going to die at some point. But I personally like order, and so do others. No question about it. So the point of this whole little escapade was to time and organize the deaths of people by a schedule I made up. Two problems arose: the schedule was written on a napkin that got wet, and I had a hell of a shake trying to keep my killing to minimal amount for the plan.

Her name was Cindy. She worked in a detox center for pill addicts, and smack puppies, ugly shit, but not as ugly as the need for order. I was looking out of the window of some jacked Camry or something. She finally got off of work, and I decided that that was the perfect time to catch my little rabbit.

I call Cindy a rabbit since that’s how I killed her. It might have been a sacrifice. I guess it was. It was a ritual to show my respect to death and to the order of it. I guess I was trying to become a little agent for the Grim Reaper- start with small animals, and work you upwards.
First, on a Cindy, you cut a small hole in the lower belly, making sure not to puncture the stomach lining. Skin her, snap her feet, and take off her head that has that surprised face of when I jumped her in the alleyway with the sap in hand.
Cut a V where her tail should be if she were more of the primordial side of her species, and take out the stomach. Clean it, cook it, and enjoy.

I can’t decide if that’s enough, or if it’s just a small taste of what I really more of.

Hell, I mean, the Grim Reaper has to be a fun guy. Maybe I’ll get to meet him. I get a lot of high hopes thinking about this as I find a new mark.

The schedule said that the sacrifice, the death, the blessing had to be in the next 6 hours.
Tim likes to jog.
Jogging is just another sad attempt to prevent the inevitable.
I wait a little while till he’s alone.
Knock yourself out fun, I say.

Tim is strapped to a table in my basement.
I take a scalpel, and make a cut just below the neck, and below the abdomen, with a vertical cut to connect both. I’m reminded of school, but I have more of a feeling of accomplishment doing it my way then the way uncivilized death fearing people do it.
To learn more about a thing, you must dissect it. You must consume it, but with me, I struggle trying to decide between if I should consume in the figurative sense, or if in the literal sense. I give up, and just do both.

Today is the day that my napkin got wet. I lost all my times.
The police started to release reports about a periwinkle blue Camry.
This is the day that I ditched the car after I was chased down by a cop.

Then later I ditched my plan, and shot the cop. Rolling eyes are the best.
I ran away.
I ran away into a happy place, where there was a time and place for everyone to die.
I woke up a day later in a pool of sweat, next to the body of a dead hooker, whose neck has been cut. Her blood was drained, and it seems like someone was starting to skin her from the feet up until her knees.
I have a knife in my hand.

My happy place points out that I have no order, it points out that I’m a failure. It shows me that the Grim Reaper doesn’t actually want to work with me.

I’m mad. I’m mad, and I have an intention of proving my happy place wrong.

I’ve been hiding away for about 4 days now, waiting for a special someone to enter my life.
He’s a senator, and he’s coming into town to declare some political action.
In the end, he’s just lying to people, and telling them bullshit, just to make them feel informed and empowered.
He’s doing this to the people so they feel no fear of death when they’re on their information high.

Bastard, he’s disrespecting the order.
I’m disrespecting the order I say to myself.
I cut myself on the arm for penance. I make the incision right next to a matching pair.

He gets up on stage, and he looks out to the crowd. I look out to his bodyguard, standing 4 feet away from him.
He opens up his mouth to utter words, but they disappear quickly after I rush onto stage from the mob of people. I take off my new jacket to eliminate the constriction. My bloody clothes show, orange by now, but the message still stands: I’m the man in charge.

The guard rushes at me, and I rush at the Senator. I stab deeply into his gut, and I black out.

I wake up in a hospital room, where a nurse looks at me from behind a barred room.
No, I’m in the barred room.

They put me on death row, and I feel a slight relief. At least I got a date for my execution, a fine tribute to my little adventure.