Audio's Big 'Ol Thread 'O Letters.

[Audioslave]

The forum wipe was so unexpected, I actually lost quite a few of my writing works that I hadn't backed up. That's a bummer. But I did manage to save a lot of the good stuff, and I may as well post 'em on the new forum. I'd appreciate reviews/criticism on any/all of them.

Hands and Mouths

I stumbled through my rent-controlled apartment, the dingy, smelly, unclean apartment that resisted any form of cleaning. I started in the living room, scene of our first kiss. The happy memory spread through the room, as if I was watching a movie. The repulsiveness of the room faded slightly and the sight of our lips meeting made the temperature rise a few degrees. That night, I never knew I could feel so content inside the series of stained walls I called home. I felt light afterwards, as if I was forged by hammer into a new soul. With the moon in the sky, I climbed above my rusted balcony, onto the fire escape, lifted myself to the crumbling ledge and finally hoisted myself up on the roof. Up there was the most beautiful sight of the Halifax sky I had ever seen, the technological radiance of the city just licked at the natural brilliance of the stars in the sky. The next day I climbed back up, several times, lugging supplies. By sundown I had built a garden without flowers and a small pyramid of beer bottles. I sat for a second, roughly kicking the swear from my forehead like I had been by so many bouncers at so many bars in my younger days. I climbed down once more and grabbed the finish touch, one daisy.

Next I went into the kitchen, the backdrop of our first fight. I tried with all of my bruised mind to recall what the fight had been about, but whatever it was just seemed so much more significant at the time. She walked out that night, vowing to never cross the threshold of my rent-controlled apartment again. She came back, two days later with two Keiths and my favorite Slowcoaster c.d she had borrowed. I smiled and stepped aside, appreciating her scent, physique and above all her presence. Both nights I made a trip up to my garden, by then I had planted quite a few: our first time, our first slasher flick, our first game of clue, or first book together, the first “meal” I cooked for her, a flower for each. For the fight I planted an Oleander, and for our first make up sex I planted a Lily.

My eyes unfocused for a few minutes and I found my way to the bathroom by means of my mental map alone. The best memory I had in the crampt little room was one clouded by smoke. We sat in my bathtub, our legs hanging from the side and our faces almost touching. We passed my bong back and forth, giggling like a set of idiots. I expected to hear from the war veteran across the hall about the smoke, but I suspected he got too high to bother. After that, I planted a little marijuana plant that I scored from a friend, although tempted as I was, I never smoked it.

Stepping out from the bathroom, I realized there was only one more place to go, the bedroom, the tin can that we both stored ourselves so neatly inside. I stepped in, holding my breath, as if there some toxic chemical floating inside. I closed my eyes and exhaled, then inhaled again. I was satisfied that the only toxic chemical was the apartment itself. Being inside the bedroom hurt as if I had just stepped inside an Iron Maiden, which was about the same size as my room. As the uncomfortable bed, the worn armoire and the sleeping city outside my window as our witnesses, this was the first time that we said we loved each other. Sitting crossed legged and listening to the concert a few block away, we looked each other in the eyes and said the words we were both wanting and dreading to hear. The next morning while she slept, I rose to met the sun and I planted one red rose.

I climbed out the window my tin can and scaled to the roof above. I dangled my feet over the ledge of the building and pulled out my lighter from my pocket. I looked back to my own little garden, building with flowers. Striking the flint, watching the flame explode and linger in front of me, I sat in silence. I passed my finger through the fire, letting it singe my flesh just a little. I had took her up for the first time, and her face blossomed into a smile that I had never seen so clear and un-diluted,. We stood on my apartment building, looking at the garden our relationship had made, and I fell onto one knee, as if wounded by some invisible arrow. She looked down on me and her smile wilted to nothing. She mouthed some words to me, or maybe she said them, but the reality I was thrown into was a quiet one. She brushed a tear from her eye and lowered herself down the window, and I minute later I heard my door slam. I keeled over and gave up, looking to the stars above. Explosions dotted the sky as naval day concluded with me lying lifeless on my roof.

Sitting above my rent-controlled, one bedroom, flea infested apartment that housed not only m, but a fruit basket of the best and worst memories I can remember, I weighed my options. I flicked my lighter again and took another side-long glance at my soil bed of memories. I sighed deep, and walked over to the flowers and pocked my lighter. I picked up a poppy and fitted it snuggle on the outer-edge of the box, then turned around, feeling a mix of regret and bitter finality. She stood in front of me with one rose, smiling without hesitation and giving off an aura of a woman with her heart set on something,
“Thanks, but I already have on.” I said with an air of half-playfulness and half-ugly sarcasm.
“I know.” She said gently, and walked behind me to our over-populated box, and plated her rose next to mine. She straightened up and our filthy, soiled hands met each other’s and we kissed on the top of my apartment, below the starts, next to the waterfront and in front of our garden


Happy Hour at The Fossil


They were all happy. As it was happy hour, this was to be expected. The house that housed their mood was The Fossil, and as the name implied, it was indeed a fossil. Thinking about the run-down former speakeasy, Joe wondered quietly if it had changed its name in the past 20 years, or if the title had always been a post dated check, waiting to be appropriate. Joe loosened his collar and swiveled on his weary stool to view the patrons of the antique building. Taking a quick head count, he decided the bar was more full than usual, at least 12 people sat, sipping their drinks and chatting amongst themselves. Each had a different and unnervingly alien cocktail, something that made The Fossil unique. Nowhere to be seen was a Long Island ice Tea or a Manhattan, no, they were too common, the drink at The Fossil were ones from the depths of an alcoholic’s nightmare. Joe had a Zombie. A Zombie consisted of 1 part white rum, 1 part golden rum, 1 part dark rum, 1 part apricot brandy, 1 part pineapple juice, 1 part papaya juice and finally ½ part 151-proof rum, and as a running gag, the bartender had served it with a single (empty) shotgun casing. Joe stared loathingly at the highball glass as he prepared himself for another gulp. As this was his first, Joe did not have the advantage of an inebriated mind to dull the bitter back-hand of the alcohol. Thinking to himself, he could not understand why the bar limited each customer to two, he thought it was rather redundant seeing as one is too many. As a full-blood Irishman, Joe didn’t consider himself a lightweight, nor did he shy away from the drink, yet The Zombie remained his arch-rival, forever there to fool him into falling under the control of the mind-boggling amount of alcohol within. The fruity body of the drink professionally hid a circulatory system of alcohol, just coursing through the glass. Joe had had enough and so he got up to use the restroom. The walls were cracked, yet the room was a clean. It was hardly cozy, yet it was sanitary. He did his business and looked himself in the mirror, before him he saw the effects of the Zombie beginning to take hold. His eyes were bloodshot, bags formed beneath them, he looked catatonic, yet he was ready to go. Go where? Fuck knows. Totally clueless and completely out of control, he burst through the door, back onto the scene.

Joe slipped into a booth next to two of the regular business women who often visited The Fossil after a long day of doing whatever it is that they do.
“Hey ladies,” Crooned Joe “may I buy you two a drink?”
“Well, you’d need to buy us two, as we don’t intend on sharing.” Said the feistier red-head.
“Fair enough.” Replied Joe, rising to meet the occasion. Steadying his legs, he strutted in the general area of the bar, letting his legs lead with his ego following in at a close second. Noticing the disturbing lack of tunes, Joe made a detour to the jukebox. Clicking the biggest, most attractive button, it was not long before the soothing wail of Mick Jagger soon invaded the small pub. But the one thing Joe hadn’t account on was the accompanying lights that the jukebox emitted, first they were blue, then red, followed by purple, yellow, white, green, back to red, then a hazy shade of pink. All this was too much for poor Joe, his eyes defocussing in reaction to the party of colors that seemed to blur together, as if they were lost in the woods and huddling for warmth. Joe’s left foot took to its own accord and went limp and his body was forced to comply with the rogue limb. Soon Joe was staring at the dim, bug-filled lights of The Fossil, and soon after that, Joe was staring at the other side of his eyelids.

[Audioslave]

Vegas

It all started, as my story always does, when I was at the tender age of 6. I was new to the city of sin, and a transfer student at Las Vegas central elementary school, a concrete name for a concrete place. I was timid and shy, I always used my manners and never got dirt on my good jeans. I ate my greens and took off my shoes inside, never once did I complain. Basically my childhood was a dull rasp on life’s door, barely audible over the constant thumping of the world’s impatience. The only one time in my childhood that I rose to meet the choir of civilization was a lonely night in the parking lot of a Quick N’ Save on the desolate end of the strip.

The parking lot was almost clear, the chance of a motionless body lurking in one of the few remaining cards was a very real possibility. Las Vegas was nothing but chances: there was a chance some sucker tourists would win a new life, there was a chance that mom and dad would get back together, and there was a chance I would escape the night without serious emotional ramifications. While I sat in the worn-out car and played with the cigarette lighter, the sound of German-engineered tumbleweed hitting the concrete median of the highway was audible in the distance, at the time I mistook it for a metal monster looming outside the safe confinements of my leather-upholstered steel tomb. As luck would have it, the night would not pass as uneventfully as the stark and uniform blackness hinted. Luck has a clever way of making us believe that it’s split into two categories: good and bad. This is a lie. There is no bad luck and there is no good luck, just luck. As the eerie darkness began to repeal to the dim light of the dawn, luck took over.

Mom had left me in the car to go buy provisions in the grocery store, from the car her figure was clearly visible chatting with the man behind the counter. As life had proven, and would continue to prove, mom would forever be chatting with the man behind the counter. Mom gave the teenage cashier a Visa card, a coy smile and a phone number, as was often the case, before leaving the store. On her trek through the lonely parking lot, mom snapped her fingers and gave me an apologetic smile before dashing back into the store. Reasoning that she had forgotten something, I sat back in my seat and continued fiddling with the overused lighter. Just as the massive building swallowed her whole, I saw another figure approach. The stranger emerged from beneath the shadow of one of the many neon towers. He stumbled slowly towards my impregnable fortress, the one place I felt safe in the city of vulnerability and exploitation. Scrambling, I locked all the doors: an action made simpler some 40 years later by automatic locks. The creature tumbled into the harsh light, faltering and falling to one knee, shielding his face from the unapologetic street light. Rising, but keeping his head low, the man continued towards the car that I cowered within. As he began to close in, my logic took center stage and my mouth released a deafening
“MMMMMOOOOOOMMMMMMYYYYYY”

My scream alerted the man, and I regretted the outburst as the man’s blue eclipses of the stranger’s eyes met mine. The figure, still shrouded in pre-dawn mystery, took a step towards me. After another step, he stood below the pillar of flickering light provided by the street lamp. The alien who was outside my car that night doesn’t resemble the mental picture I have, but I’m contented with the way my 6 year-old mind pieced together the nights events. When compared with a portrait of my father, the image in my memory resembles him a lot more than it does the figure in the parking lot. A shrink might make a mountain out of a molehill when told a confession like this, but I’m not interested in their half-hearted diagnoses. The clean-cut stranger wore a pinstriped black suit, sparkling cufflinks and polished shoes: money practically spilled from his pockets. From his fiercely-clenched hand, bound to his stomach, ruby-colored blood flowed from between his pink fingers. Inside the warm car, I jumped to attention, rapidly unlocking the passenger-side door. Before I scrambled out, the man gave me a shake of his head, “No.” he was saying. I sat back down and watched him. The man smiled, but it was a broken smile that pained him to paint on his face. Oblivious, I smiled back and waved. He waved back, and then fell down. Bye bye.

In the screening room in my head, I replay that night now and again. I’ve dreamed about that night a few times, sometimes I dream that the man who died in the parking lot was my dad, sometimes I don’t.

Before this moment, those words have only ever passed through the coffee-filters of my brain three times.

The first was to a psychiatrist. The name of the robust man was Wilfred W. Winston, but I called him “Quack.” Quack would usher me into his office before lighting a pipe and looking at me thoughtfully from behind half-moon spectacles as though I was a worm, pinned to a tray, waiting to be dissected. “Quack,” I would begin. “I think I have problems.” He would exhale smoke from his mouth and say to me, “Let’s hear them, then.” And I would let him hear them. It was the fifth session before I told him of the parking lot, I started “Quack, I think I have a problem” and he finished “Let’s hear them, then” and I sat down and began to talk. I rambled for twenty minutes before he finally nodded knowingly and said “That’s quite the story.” After that, my time was up and I canceled my weekly appointments with Quack.

I’ve stopped wearing seatbelts. I stopped eating my greens. I’ve started smoking, even though I’ve never had so much as a puff of one before last week. I’ve been told this is self-destructive behavior, I wouldn’t know. Quack would probably tell me this is self-destructive behavior. Since Quack, I’ve stopped believing people with PhDs. PhDs mean nothing, they’re just reassurance that you can read. If only the people with PhDs care about your PhD, what’s the point?

The second person to hear my story was a man of dead eyes and a void of compassion. He went by the name of Rocko and I met him in a diner in El Paso. Rocko had the gaze of a blind man and the attention span of a coma patient. I could talk to him for hours and he wouldn’t so much as blink until he heard something about death. When I told him the story of the Las Vegas parking lot, Rocko shut his eyes and said “I once shot a man.”
”I know, Rocko.” I said, just as I always said. Rocko always wanted waffles. Rocko got waffles because Rocko wanted waffles. I once asked him why he ate only waffles: he answered “Because Rocko wants waffles.” I once wondered if Rocko needed help, my next thought was that I would not be the one to give it to him.

The only other person I ever told was named Sally. Sally probably wasn’t her real name, nor was it likely that it was her only name, but it just seemed convenient at the time to call her Sally. Sally had a defense mechanism called idealization. Compensation, displacement, intellectualization, projection, rationalization, regression, sublimation, undoing, humor, introjection and splitting: according to Freud, I display all these defense mechanisms. Idealization is a form of denial where the subject pretends everything is good, great and grand. I met Sally in a piano bar, that is, a bar with a piano in it. I sat at the bar and Sally sat adjacent to the piano. Being sober, I was quite timid talking to girls, yet 5 blurry Nixons later, I was sauntering over to Sally. The first thing to come out of my mouth was “This is a piano bar.” Her indifferent response was “So it is, and a nice one at that.” In film, when there is a gap in the movie that the projectionist has lost, the message “Scene missing” Is put on the screen. In my life, the message “Scene missing” has been projected a lot, this is a case of that. The next thing I know I’m on the 13th floor of the Waldorf, spilling my heart out to a girl that might be named Sally. Sally looked into my eyes and said “That is the nicest story I have ever heard.” We never met again.

A Nixon is a dreadful drink made of one part Bourbon Whiskey, one part Gin and two dashes of peach bitters. I first tasted the drink in an airport bar outside of Washington during a particularly bad snowstorm, the kind where everything should be stopped and people shouldn’t be too far from a fire. I had planned on catching a flight to New York, a plan now buried in a foot of snow. I sat, frozen, to a stool at the hotel bar, drinking a Nixon. Somehow, the TV had reception and was crackling over the dull hum of 25 stranded passengers getting drunk. On the TV was none other than Richard Milous Nixon, shaking hands with Elvis. In my stupor, I found it funny that the drink was invented to commemorate Nixon’s visit to the Queen in ’69, and I drank it as I watched Nixon meet the king in ’70.

[Audioslave]

Vegas cont.
Now I live my life in coffeehouses, sipping from drinks and eying strangers, nervously ogling the cashiers and looking away when our eyes meet. With disdain I’ll shell out $5 for a Mocca-Super-Grande-something-or-other and wander to my table. With regret I’ll sit through the large hoards of people, squawking on cell phones and mashing on hand-held computers, pretending like they’ve got something better to do. With reluctance I’ll open my laptop and start typing, as I do now. And with relief I’ll bustle out of the store onto the street and be swept into a tidal wave of bohemian businessmen.

Attacked by bursts of insomnia, my mood is subject to my sleep. Some days I’ll sleep for 9 hours, grab a coffee and chat up some-young-thing until she’s in my bed, thinking about something else. Some other days I’ll sleep for 2 hours, grab a whiskey and throw up on some-thing of questionable gender until it’s throwing me to the curb, thinking about something else. Most times, I’ll lay in bed, eyes wide, and start thinking about something else. As I read and re-read this jumbled, disorganized mess that is labeled as my life, I try to grab at a single string that unifies my existence, yet I cannot find one at all. Rather than a nicely knitted sweater that always has one lone thread that hangs limply, my life is a array of disconnected yarn that is arranged so as to look like a sweater, but will fall apart when touched. The fragile order of my life is weak, and the slightest nudge will send me free-falling over a cliff of weary insanity. Once, for an entire week I dared not leave my basement because my cat had died, not only that but the lifeless remains of Mr. Fluffy was slumped peacefully over my washer-and-dryer-set I hide behind. Such gruesome tales are the ones I share rarely and awkwardly, at neighborhood parties where the average IQ is low and the average blood alcohol level is high. “What a story.” somebody would say, and “What a story!” is how I would reply.



Autum

The warm Autumn breeze invades my nostrils like all the cheesy
ballads said they would. The leaves dance slowly to the ground and the
cool, crisp air snaps at me like a frozen whip. A giggle pierces my
atmosphere and I turn to look at the girl who I so affectionately refer to
as "mine". She teases the daydreams of a fatherless romanticist; my
daydreams. My mental castle-building has long been the subject of
ridicule, a focal point of laughter. We enter the courtyard of her youth, a
place I am not welcome and a place I do not feel welcome. We ascend
the cherry wood front porch of her parent's personal Victorian Cathedral.
She asks me if I'm ready, I respond that I've never been ready, she
giggles and I blush like I always do. My widow mother always told me
that whenever I blush, my father smiled. I blush and she reaches for the
hanging screen door that is held on by only a nail. I blush more and her
father comes to greet her. I blush the most and she confesses her love
for me, and tells her father of our plans to marry. The colors fall from my
face and he quotes the bible and tells of my father's sins. The colors
pool around my feet and he tells of the Lord's plan to rid the world of my
father. The colors fade and he tells me that a man like me will never
have his daughter's hand.

The worst part of the cool, crisp autumn day was when the castles of
my mind were finally knocked down and the sand was kicked in my face.
The weak screen door is blown off it's hinges, it falls to the ground with
a faint sound. I chose the moment to stand up, I chose the moment that
was upon me to tell of my feeling for his daughter. He chose the
moment to give me a queer look and take me to his study. His study was
the only room of the house I had dare not venture to. The study was a
place for army veterans and scotch, not a place for daydreams and
widow's sons. Her father turned to me, with her just outside the door,
and used his old war pistol for the first time since the great war. I float
back to the clouds and see my father once again and we build castles in
the sand and I blush and he smiles.

[Audioslave]

Office Headspace

Win Steelman drudged into his boss’ office with the enthusiasm of an inmate on his way to a shocking end. He stepped into the immaculate room that screamed of lavish decadence, purely in the spirit of an I-can-buy-more-shit-than-you mentality.
“You asked to see…um…me…sir?”
“Where the fuck is this month’s bi-monthly report?”
“I gave you one…um…last month, sir. I’m sure you’ll…um…if you don’t mind me saying, sir…get another one next month.”
“Why the fuck don’t I have it this month?”
“Because, you see…sir, a bi-monthly report comes…um…once every two months.”
“Well maybe my bi-monthly report should come every month, smart-ass.”
“Well…um…wouldn’t that defeat the…um…purpose of calling it a bi-…um…monthly report, sir?”
“JUST GET IT FUCKING DONE!”
”Yes…um…sir.” He stammered as he walked out of the office, on his way back to his cell after the chair failed to fry his brain. He ran (literally) into the look-but-don’t-touch boss’s daughter.
“Was my dad giving you a hard time again, Mr.Steelman?”
“Y-ye-um…call me Win.”
“Win.”
“What?”
“Was my father giving you a hard time?” She said, following it up with a laugh/sigh hybrid.
“Y-yeah”
“Take this.” She offered as she smiled and extended her hand, within it was a small blue pill.
“I-i-i-is this Viagra?” Win replied in a stunned monotone.
“…No, Mr.Steelman.” Said the boss’s daughter, a stunned expression blanketing her countenance and a “What the fuck?” on her lips.
“Win.” He replied.
“Win what?”
“My name.”
“Riiiiiiight,” She said, walking away until she got what she perceived as out-of-earshot, and then muttered “Weirdo.”

Win wandered to the bathroom, took a stall and sat down, staring at the pill. He weighed the pros and cons of swallowing the unknown substance.
Cons: His boring, joyless life could end.
Pros: His boring, joyless life could end or he could pop a woody.
He swallowed the pill.


After 5 minutes, Win felt nothing. Not that figurative “nothing” that’s a hyperbole used for expressing emotional detachment, no, Win Steelman actually felt nothing. His arms and legs were simply parasites living off of his equally detached torso. He assumed that he continued breathing, blinking and doing whatever else humans do, but he was uniformed of such processes. Amazingly, he stood up. He thought to himself; If I’m going to die, I may as well not die in a bathroom. Upon rising, he took a peek down and concluded that he was only rising in one sense of the word. He made his funeral march to the bathroom door, reached for the handle, and then recoiled in horror as the rhinos came in. From the once-erect door in front him came hundreds upon hundreds of rhinos, stampeding frantically into the men’s washroom. Each rhino wore a face of conviction that would cause Gregory Peck to tremble and sob. Win pressed so hard against the window that he melted into it, he was Win Steelman; the translucent man. Once the stampede somehow crammed into the tiny room, Win tugged at each one of his molecules, urging them to leave through the gaping hole where a door once stood. He lurched forward from the inhabited bathroom, right into Rod, his coworker’s, outstretched arms.
“Oh darling, you’ve finally come out! Fabulous!” Win was not certain whether or not Rod was referring to the bathroom or the closet, seeing as how Rod was gay.
“No! No! Rhinos…Did you see the rhinos? There were rhinos…Rhinos…”
“Honey, the only rhino I saw today was Georgina in account before she had her morning coffee.” Really gay.

Win scrambled away as Ron said something about him being a “silly goose.” The silly goose ran into the break room as the rhinos charged into the waiting elevator. What the fuck? Win thought to himself. Turning to the fridge, he opened it up and reached for a water. In the fridge was a variety of strange substances, he found a small toy car that somehow managed to combust and continue to burn in the cold enclosure, he found a human hand a switchblade covered in feces, but the worst was the small toy clown. It’s dead, beady eyes rip apart his soul, mended it, and then tore it apart once more. Averting his eyes, he continued his search for the water, only to find that he had, as he probably should have guessed, he latched onto his own hand. Win tried to pull himself into the fridge while at the same time trying to pull himself out. Faced with a dilemma of mind-melting proportions, Win decided to outsmart himself. He let go his own arm and flew back into the room as Fridge Win went back into the depths of fridge-world. All he wanted was a water, a noble quest soiled by trans-dimensional wormholes located in kitchen appliances.

Win ambled back to his cubicle and looked to his computer, only to find that it had indeed turned into a giant helping of Raisin Bran. As Win began to feast on his computer-turned-breakfast-cereal, he noticed something shocking, intriguing and very strange, there were not just two scoops of raisins; there were three. Just as he was pouring milk on the flakes, a voice from the sky called “Win, get to the boss’ office before he gobbles your nuts.” Win thanked god for the message and started towards where he perceived the office to be. Passing the trapeze artists, he walked into his boss’ office. But before he even entered through the threshold, he found a problem; his boss had gotten so fat that he now blocked the door.
“Boss…You’re so fat.”
”Win….What the fuck are you talking about? Get your queer ass in here!” This comment warranted a, “I heard that little Mr. Homophobe!” from Ron.
“I can’t sir…You’re too fat.”
”W-w-w…Get the fuck away!” He protested as Win attempted the gargantuan task of moving his momentous girth.
“Greg, you’re going to have to calm down, I’m just trying to help.”
“My name’s not Greg! Get stuffed, douchebag!” And he was. A soft synthetic fur covered his body, cotton filled his interior, buttons dotted his eyes and stitching replaced his joints. He was now a stuffed Win. His boss was now a stuffed Win’s boss. The rhinos wandering by were now the stuffed rhinos wandering by.
“Your…Your stuffing.” Win mumbled through sewn mouth.
“What are you on about, retard? Did you finally go postal?”
Just then, the stuffed Win’s boss got up, pushed away his chair and jumped trough the rose-tinted glass, falling 40 stories; an amazing feat for such a large teddy bear. Seconds later, his boss rose from the street below, entered through the self-repairing window, retrieved his chair and sat back down.
“Whoa! Do that again!” Win managed, still in awe.
“Do what, tool?”
”That!”
“What?”
”That!”
“What that?”
”That that!”
“Get the fuck out of my office!”
“Yes Captain Clitus!” Saluted Win as he danced his way out of the open door. Upon his epic journey past the mountain of burning Celine Dion records, he encountered the boss’ daughter again.
“Are you a Celine Dion fan?” Inquired Win. That sounds like enquire within, remarked Win. Maybe I can use that for a slogan…
“Yes…why?” responded the baffled creature.
“You might want to put out that fire.” Remarked Win, cool as the coolest cucumber.
“Good to know it worked. Maybe a bit too well...”
“Oh yeah, I totally shot JFK.”
Just as Win uttered this dubious admission, the FBI burst through every space within the office. They came from plants, desks, computers, Win even saw one employee, a receptionist named Greg, swap his New York Yankees hat for an FBI one.
“Traitor!” Shouted the fanatic Win. “They had a shot this year, they really did!”
“Put your hands in the fucking air!” Shouted one particularly homely agent.
“Which one? This one,” Win motioned to his left with his right hand, “or this one?” he motioned to his right with his left hand.
This statement was more disarming than a bullet to the brain. The FBI agent of 10 years dropped his gun (which discharged and destroyed an $11 pot from Pottery Barn), walked from the room, went home and sat in an empty bathtub until he was discovered by his daughter. He now works at a Pottery Barn, ironically the same store where the destroyed plant was purchased at.
“Listen, if this is about JFK, he knew he shouldn’t have visited Houston!”
“Get on the fucking ground?” Questioned the agent, losing his confidence.
“And Bobby should have known better!” Rambled Win, strolling to an officer, patting him on the shoulder.
With a quick pistol whip to the back of the head, Win was unconscious.


http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b334/_audioslave_/robot.jpg

[Kenneh]

You know, some of your lost works might have been saved by google's cache, you could run a search and click show cache to see google's saved page of the topic before explosm was wiped clean.

[Audioslave]

Kenneh, you are a beautiful, beautiful man.

Here is one of my person favorites, saved by the god with two n's.

...And That's Why I Killed Her.

It all started a few years ago; I'd say about 10, me and her, my wife, were sitting at home enjoying some television. I excused myself to go use the washroom, and, upon entering the room, I noticed something amiss. I could hear the gentle fap fap fap I knew too well from my time spent as a teenager. Considering we had no horny teen males in our life, I was instantly curious. Tip-toeing through the bathroom, I found the intruder; flying solo in my shower. Ripping the shower curtain away I uncovered Piéré, my wife's "Personal shopping assistant". Piéré was from "France" and by "France" I mean he was actually from Toronto, but found it easier to get hired as a shopping assistant if he wore a beret, a fake mustache, over-applied a French accent, and an extra accent to his e which I found simply intolerable. "Wot iz dee meaning of dis?!" Inquired the faux Frenchman.
"What the fuck are you doing in my shower?!"
"Wot does eet look like I am doingz?!" Our shouting match attracted the attention of my lovely wife who walked in with a casual "Oh. Hi Piéré, what's up?"
"I wuz making le amour with miself before your...Husbande interrupted me so...How do you say...Rudely."
"Is this true?" Responded my wife, sending a curious glance my way.
"WHAT THE FUCK! He was masturbating in my shower!"
"That doesn't give you the right to disturb him. Carry on, Piéré" My wife said as she grabbed my arm and tugged me out of the room as Piéré's fapping continued from behind us. A confused looked donned my face and a silent cry from my penis telling me it might be awhile before I got laid.
"I have a...Question for you." I asked my lovely wife. "Are you...Cheating on me?"
"Oh nooo, of course not!" She replied, breaking into a fit of laugher. Upon gazing at my face, her expression changed instantly to one of shock. "You mean....Oh my. Heavens yes...I'm cheating on you."

Two years after the Piéré event, I was still firmly attached to my ball and chain. The only difference was that this ball and chain sat in more laps than a kid at a Santa convention. I vowed to myself to be my wife's only sex toy...Well...At least one of her favorites. I lavished attention on her and gave her all the money she wanted, even if it meant working late. I did whatever she wanted in bed, even the kinky stuff, though most times she said that the thought of touching my limp dick made her queasy. Naturally I started taking Viagra, her response was that she preferred my limp dick. Some nights I considered just divorcing the bitch (especially the nights that she wreaked of urine...everywhere.) but I just couldn't bring myself to give up, I was not a quitter!

About two years ago I came home from working late and found the (large) driveway completely full of cars, I walked up to the front door and opened it, only to find a sort of bouncer guarding the door, clad in leather (ass-less) chaps, ball gag, and nipple clamps.
"hmnhmnmnmnmnmnhmnm?" He said
"...Excuse me?...Oh...ah..." I mumbled as I removed his ball gag, he took a gasp of air then repeated, "Are you on the list?"
"I'm the hostess's wife....I mean husband. Husband." This sentence garnered me a strange look from the hairy S&M he-beast.
"C'mon in..." He grunted. "Cutie." He added, winking. Shuddering, I ventured forth into the dungeon of debauchery formerly known as my house and home. I passed golden showers, towers of power, bears, MILFs, horses, whores, man slaves, boy slaves, Malaysian boy slaves (they came in all nationalities, really), my dentist (coincidently he was giving oral), my proctologist (it felt nice to see him get a rectal exam for once), and finally, my wife. "Honey...What the fuck is this..."
"Oh, I'm just having a few friends over, you don't mind, do ya sweetie?" She said as she hit a busty transsexual with a whip
"Oh...No...I guess not."
"Oh thanks hun. Also, you might need to pick up a new car battery, I think we sucked the juice out of the other one."

The final straw came last month when I came back for a conference in British Columbia. I walked into my castle with my bags in hand and a "Honey, I'm home!" On my lips. Tripping over a cow prodder, I noticed an empty case of beer next to the door. "Honey," I called out. "did you and your friends drink all the beer?"
"Oh yeah," She said as she walked out in a police uniform. Odd because she's not a cop. "we're fresh out." I planted my feet and flipped my head towards her.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" I screamed, proclaiming my battle cry as I charged at the whore. A stunned expression lit up her cum-stained face as I tackled her. Lifting my fist, I brought it down with force on her perfect nose. A faint cry escaped her cock-sucking mouth as I picked up a near-by chain and proceeded to crack her skull with it. Bloody and bruised, she started to cry as I picked up her body and slammed her into the counter. Opening the cutlery drawer, I grabbed a steak knife and proceeded to plunge it into her upper-thigh. I grabbed her long, auburn hair and dragged her to the screen door, which was open. I slid closed the glass and sent her sailing through it. I stepped over the broken frame, picked her up again and threw her through the second sheet of glass, on it imprinted was an ass that sure as hell looked like her's. "HOW'S THE PANE, DEAR?" I spat, laughing crudely at my own pun. I grabbed her by her foot and dragged her to the stairs, shouting "WHO'S THE DRAG NOW, SLUT?!" where I proceeded to haul her up all 34 steps and throw her down them...Four more times. Barely clinging to life, she cried as I lugged her up the stairs once more, then took her up 4 more flights, finally arriving on our third story. I tugged her body onto the balcony where I then pushed her over the edge where she fell to her messy death. I grunted as I walked back down the stairs, noticing a gimp hooked up to a car battery in my computer room. I walked in, attached the two wires to his eyes, and proceeded to give him all the juice I could. Needles to say, he was soon foaming at the mouth and writhing in pain. I stalked down the rest of the steps, walked out of my house and grabbed my dead wife's corpse, kicked it inside and threw it against the fridge. "DON'T DRINK MY FUCKING BEER, YOU BITCH!" I screamed as I noticed a glimmering bottle of brew in the bottom of my fridge. "Hey, whaddya know..." I said to myself as I cracked it open.


And that's why I killed her, your honor.


Untitled.

It's awfully windy up here. It's a little cold, too. I've been told by many of my (now deceased) friends that jumping is the best way to go. They weren't in any condition to tell me after the fact, though. I can see the cars from up here. the children's toys for adults. The buildings, too. Houses for the homeless. Cages for the working man. I see Hudson river washing away the pollution of man. When I land, the firefighters will come and wash away my life with their water hoses and my blood will run into the river. That's what I want to happen. I want my blood to mingle with the pollution and the water. I am not a sad person. Few believe me when I say it, but it's true. When I tell somebody I'm suicidal, they assume I'm depressed. In reality, I'm just bored. I like change. What's a bigger change than death?

[Tweek]

The stories got more poetic and metaphorical each time, however most of them were anti-climatic. They also seemed overdone in terms of creative language, if you get what I mean.
My favourites were: Untitled - it was short and sweet, but wasn't very interesting. Autumn - good story, the only bad thing in my opinion was the fact that the sentences were too long and wordy. It seemed to stretch itself out into one big sentence.

Good work.

[Audioslave]

The stories got more poetic and metaphorical each time, however most of them were anti-climatic. They also seemed overdone in terms of creative language, if you get what I mean.
My favourites were: Untitled - it was short and sweet, but wasn't very interesting. Autumn - good story, the only bad thing in my opinion was the fact that the sentences were too long and wordy. It seemed to stretch itself out into one big sentence.

Good work.

That's about the most common criticism I receive. I've been working on it. Hands and Mouths is the most recent one I've done, and it's a little less bloated (I think.)

[Oofie]

I don't know about anti-climactic, I think they're just very bleak and fairly cynical, which I like. I really like Untitled, I think it is interesting, just because nothing necessarily happens doesn't mean it's uninteresting.

[BKS]

Very nice. I liked what I read.

I remember Office Headspace from FunkyTown. Back when I posted my stories.


Keep up the great work! Do you plan on doing writing as a career?

[Audioslave]

Tentatively, yeah, writing seems like the way to go. Though with my obvious cynicism, working at a suicide hotline might be a laugh.