He crawled into the front seat, then grabbed my purse (which is where my cell was) and said, “No, no, don’t call.” Then he showed me the biggest, most beautiful diamond necklace I’d ever seen and said, “It wasn’t a gun, Gwennie. It was this.”
I kind of gasped. You would have too, it was so beautiful. I said, “Is it real?”
He said, “Do I look like the kind of guy who would show up with a cubic zirconia?”
I looked him over, and he most definitely was NOT the kind of guy who would show up with a cubic zirconia. He had thick, black hair that he’d gelled into a cute fauxhawk, and his eyes were penetrating green, and he was skinny, but not too skinny. He was wearing a brown designer suit with a sharp striped shirt and a really cute tie. He looked like an older version of Robert Pattinson. I said, “No. You look pretty good. How did you know my name?”
He laughed, then said, “It came to me in a dream.” And then he kissed my cheek gently, and it was over.
I don’t want to tell you exactly what we did. I want to keep that to myself. I will say that we didn’t have actual sex, but we did almost everything else. But here’s the weird part. I gave him a blow job, and he came all over the place, even in my eyes a little bit. And it was that blue, that same blue I saw in my period last month. I got my period this morning, and there wasn’t any more red. It was all blue. I was bleeding blue. The same blue as the old guy’s come.
But that’s not the weird part. The weird part is, I don’t care.
xox,
Gwennie
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: re: HE FOUND ME!!!!!
DATE: May 27, 2009
I had my period too. I’m bleeding blue. And unlike you, I fucking care.
I’m transferring schools, and I’m not telling you where. Don’t call or write me anymore. If I see you on the street, I’m going to hurt you, and you can save this e-mail to show to the police. I hate you, and I will hate you until one of us dies.
Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you.
EXCERPTED FROM THE PAPERS OF DR. AARON GILLESPIE,
RISK MANAGEMENT ANALYST FOR THE DEPARTMENT OF
HOMELAND SECURITY
May 28, 2009—I gave them the plan. They loved it, all except for Brian. That is not true, exactly. Brian loved the concept, but he did not want to execute it, as he was nervous about doing anything to “advance the cause” without his runner’s approval.
I wanted to make Brian angry, so angry that he would make a decision that went against his masters. He had come to respect me, and he felt that my opinion of him counted for something, so I called him a coward. I insulted his mother. I questioned his masculinity. For hours. In my experience, this is the kind of thing that can put a Middle Eastern male over the edge. But Brian, to his credit, would not be swayed by name-calling. He simply laughed.
The other men, who had been held down for two-plus years, were itching to kill, maim, and destroy. (Bully for them!) They believed I had hit on the perfect way to simultaneously make a statement and cause some considerable civilian damage, so they went to work on Brian. After hours and hours of what I believed were some quite convincing arguments, Brian would not bend, so they told their soon-to-be-deposed leader that if he was not with them, he was against them, and if he remained against them, they would inform the runner that Brian was a double agent who moonlighted with Mossad. He saw they were serious, and he gave in. Blackmail is never elegant, but it is effective. And besides, like all of us, he wanted some blood on his hands.
Before I came aboard, they had procured four nondescript vans that, as far as the Department of Motor Vehicles was concerned, did not exist. Brian had explicit instructions to save them for future action. Much to my eternal gratitude, he allowed me to use two of them.
At this point, we had a goodly number of homemade explosive devices at our disposal, including several dozen pipe bombs, five suitcase bombs, and, the keynote to my plan, a cyanide bomb.
When I refer to my “plan” as a plan, it makes it sound much more grandiose than it actually was. In reality, all we were going to do was load van #1 with twenty pipe bombs and five canisters of gasoline, set it on fire, and leave it behind the Excalibur, where it would kill somewhere between twenty-five and fifty people, and send the remaining two hundred or so clubgoers out the front door, where they would be met by van #2, which would house the gas bomb. The timer on that particular explosive, as well as the compound, was a masterwork.
It could not have been easier. I drove the pipe bomb van, and Brian took the cyanide vehicle. We arrived at the Excalibur at precisely midnight, when it was at its most crowded. I got out of the van and made a bonfire in the back, then jumped into a car we had planted earlier and drove off. Simultaneously, Brian parked his van across the street from the club, turned on the timer, calmly left the van, and retreated to the subway.
It went off without a hitch. My only regret is that I was not able to see the aftermath.
CHICAGO SUN-TIMES
EXCALIBUR STILL OFF-LIMITS
HOMELAND SECURITY: “NO END IN SIGHT”; CDC CITES CYANIDE
JUNE 4, 2009
BY DONNA WONG
CHICAGO—Three days after the deadly terrorist attack at the Excalibur, the area surrounding the club is still being quarantined.
Homeland Security press officer Lt. Gregor Montone said, “It is going to be like this for the foreseeable future. There’s no end in sight. Despite our best efforts, the air is still deadly. Think of it as Ground Zero. Citizens should avoid downtown like it’s the [expletive deleted] plague.”
The death toll from the disaster has risen to 93, and there are at least 20 others in critical condition, some with third-degree burns and others with respiratory damage from the bio-weapons.
Marlon Wooten of the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta believes the chemical used in the attack was a cyanide composite.
“It is possible it was straight cyanide,” Wooten said. “Normally, something like that would dissipate in several hours. We have no clue how or when this will scatter. We hope that the chemical fingerprint will point us in the direction of the solution and the perpetrators.”
Illinois governor Wilton Jacobs and Chicago mayor Elvin Washington will tour the event zone this afternoon.
http://andidaltrey.blogspot.com
Andi-Licious
The Useless Musings of Sophomoric
Sophomore Andrea Daltrey
JUNE 8
PSOA
I haven’t slept in I don’t know how long and I’m exhausted but it’s okay because I’m happy for that matter happier than I’ve ever been because I walk around in what I’ve decided to call a Perpetual State of Arousal or PSOA and this PSOA is amazing and I wish that everybody could feel what I feel and I’m trying to get everybody to feel what I feel but it’s getting tiring like I sometimes think my pussy is getting destroyed by all the cock it’s been getting but I’m not sure because it feels fine while I’m fucking but it hurts when I’m walking around but it’s kind of a nice hurt and once in a while I even have an orgasm while it’s hurting which is why PSOA is sometimes difficult so I thought it would be a good idea to give it a rest but I needed to come and it’s not the same when I do it myself so I decided to find a girl because it never hurts to experiment so I called my friend jennifer and asked her to come over and she said it’s after midnight and I hadn’t even noticed so I apologized and told her I was going to visit her and she tried to talk me out of it but I told her it was important and I needed her and she said she’d never heard me sound scared like that so I should come on over so I get over there about twenty minutes later and she’s wearing a robe and slippers with nothing underneath and before we got in I told her how pretty she looked and she thanked me then asked me what was wrong and I told her to give me a hug and she did and then I kissed her and then the same thing happened that had been happening which was she melted into me and I think she came right away and
then I pulled her into her apartment and threw her down on the sofa and took her robe off and I was right she wasn’t wearing anything underneath and I licked her tits and they tasted like candy and then I licked her pussy and I’d never tasted a pussy before and it tasted like blueberries and then after she came like three more times I sat on her face and she licked and licked and licked and I came and came and came and then I got up off of her and her face was covered with blue stuff and she looked so pretty and I kissed her on the cheek and then she stopped breathing and I got the fuck out of there and I called 911 and I hid in the bushes by her house and I watched the ambulance take her away and then I called the hospital when I got home to find out how she was doing and they asked me if I was family and I told them that I was her cousin and they told me that she died and I started screaming and crying and I couldn’t stop so I called janine’s doctor and told him I needed him and he came over because they all come over after I’ve fucked them and I fucked him and he came forever and his come was blue and then his face turned blue and then he died and I couldn’t help it but I bit off his ear and ate it and I threw up all over the place and when I was done throwing up I ate his other ear and I can’t believe I’m writing this all down but for some reason I can’t stop but it doesn’t really matter because nobody’s going to think this is real anyhow and I have to make myself come again or else I’m going to die so I’m going to jerk off then I’m going to call that guy I met at coyote ugly and I’m going to fuck him until I kill him and I can’t wait because it will be the most beautiful thing in the world
http://www.thetruthaboutzombies.com
Welcome to the Truth About Zombies
COMMENTS
To all the other folks out there who think they’re going crazy …
You’re not.
I haven’t slept in like a week. I’m afraid to. I’ve guzzled about a zillion cans of Red Bull because nobody sells speed around here anymore. You can get all the weed you want, but good luck finding a handful of pills. As much as I’d love to get baked, I’m afraid that if I fall asleep, I’ll stay asleep. If you could call it sleep.
I’m at an all-night Internet café right now. They say there’s safety in numbers, but based on what I’ve seen, it’s not about where you are or who you’re with. It’s about paying attention. It’s about using all of your senses, especially hearing and smell. Because those fuckers aren’t subtle.
I didn’t know jack about zombie mythology until last week. After you see your brother get attacked and eaten by a gray guy with exploding boils on his face, and after you hear that you aren’t the only one who lost a family member or a friend, you kind of want to see what you’re up against. So I read what Wikipedia had to say about it, and I went to a bunch of horror chat boards, and I skimmed through a Brian Keene book, and I even watched the remake of Dawn of the Dead, and I came to one conclusion: None of these people know shit about zombies.
First of all, they don’t all shuffle. Some of those fuckers can move fast, like Usain Bolt fast. The one that got my brother came after me, and if he hadn’t tripped over the curb, and fallen into an oncoming bus, and gotten his head crushed like a grape, I’d be one of them. Second of all, they function at a higher level than you’d think. It’s not like they wander around with their arms out in front of them and moan, “Braaaaaaains! Braaaaaaaains! Braaaaaaaains!” No, they come after you, and even though they aren’t exactly Einsteins, they can track you down.
Third of all, some of them are scared of us. This is why I stay awake. This is why I swill down all that nasty-ass Red Bull. If you’re awake, you can defend yourself, and if you can defend yourself, that’ll keep at least half of them away from you. Fourth of all, they can be killed, and it’s not like you have to do it in any special way. If you get them in either the head or the heart, they’re toast. And you don’t have to use a platinum axe or a silver bullet to do it.
So if you’re in the Denver area and you’re having problems with zombies, please e-mail me at [email protected], or call my cell: (303) 846-****. Let’s get a bunch of us together and figure this shit out.
John from Denver, CO
June 8, 12:10 AM
John, I’m outside of Phoenix, and I’m dealing with the same stuff as you.
She didn’t come after me, because I ran away after she turned my parents. How do I know my parents were turned? Because when I got home an hour later, they were gone, and from what I’ve seen, the creatures don’t carry around their victims, so Mommy and Daddy must have left on their own. So I grabbed my Daddy’s Winchester from the box under his bed, took some food and water from the kitchen, went into my bedroom, and locked the door. Great plan, right?
Then I read your posting, and I figured it was time to do my part. It’s not like I had anything to lose. So I put every bullet I could find inside my backpack (and there were a lot, because Daddy was kind of paranoid) and hit the streets.
I took down twelve of them, and it felt great. I’m back home now, but I don’t know what to do. Should I go out and keep killing them? Should I stay at home until it blows over? Will it blow over? The stories on the news are dismissive and barely detailed, so I don’t know if it’s only happening in a few places or if it’s happening everywhere and they’re covering it up.
My e-mail address is [email protected], and my cell is (480) 481-****. And don’t call me just to be an asshole. Call me if you can help, or if I can help you.
Alyssa from Mesa, AZ
June 9, 2:16 PM
ROLLING STONE
6.18.2009
Speed Kills, Now More Than Ever
How Texas Has Become the New Hell
BY KATHLEEN NESBIT
Like most high schoolers, Corky Davidson has facial issues. The craters are a good three millimeters deep. His scars and scabs could’ve been the result of chicken pox, or measles, or a wasp attack. Then there’re the purplish splotches, and the reddish scratches, and those thumbprint-sized yellow things on his cheek that defy description.
I’m going to just go ahead and say it: Corky Davidson’s complexion is fucked.
Now, I’m not the kind of writer to pass judgment on a subject. In 2003, I even wrote an article about the Bush administration that didn’t contain a single discouraging word. (Okay, maybe there were a few discouraging words, but nothing so bad that it required a trip to the principal’s, er, the editor’s office.) So why, you may ask, am I dumping on this poor high school kid from Austin? Why am I using the kind of language and attitude you’d normally only get from the sophomore-class bully? Why, why, why?
Because Corky Davidson is an idiot who deserves to be ridiculed by his favorite magazine. And quit laughing. I’m not kidding.
Corky is 16, the youngest of three. His 20-year-old brother, Craig, is off in Iraq, and his 18-year-old sister, Danielle, is getting ready for her freshman year at the University of Miami. Corky’s parents are as all-American as you can get: Mel Davidson is a history teacher, and his wife, Jori, makes fresh fruit pies at the local bakery. So how did Corky—“the Corkster” to his friends—become such a douchebag?
Simple: drugs.
Now, I have no issues with illegal drugs in general. I’ve done my fair share—a little weed here, a little X there—and I like them. I like them a lot. I think we should legalize the hell out of them.
Well, most of them.
The one mind-alterer that should be eradicated from the face of the earth is methamphetamine, a.k.a. dextrometh-amphetamine, a.k.a. methylamphetamine, a.k.a. N-methyl-amphetamine, a.k.a. desoxyephedrine, a.k.a. the douchebag drug, a.k.a. crystal meth.
I can speak with authority on this. I’ve tried meth. Several times. More than several times. Like maybe several dozen times. And each time I smoked it, or snorted it, or stuck it in a brownie, I became a raging jerk. I screwed over my friends, I stole from my parents, my writing became horrible (some would say it didn’t have far to fall), and I had lots and lots of idiotic sex.
The weird thing about met
h is that even though you know it’s turning you into a piece of trash, you want to share it with your friends. Or, at the very least, sell it to your friends, so you can have some extra pocket change to buy some of your own.
Corky—who, it should be noted, is an athlete and used to be considered one of the big men on campus—first smoked meth after a basketball game in which he was held to six points and two rebounds. (He averaged 10.2 points and five boards. What a traumatic comedown that must’ve been for him. The perfect time to spark it up.) The story then becomes familiar and, frankly, a bit tired: He tried it again, and again, and again; then he got kicked off the basketball team; then his grades took a nosedive; then he started missing classes, then entire days; then his parents threatened to put him in rehab, but, like many addicts, he charmed his way out of that; and so on, and so on, and so on.
Here’s where things went off the rails.
After Corkscrew got canned from his job at Pizza Hut, he met a 20-year-old meth head known only as “Scary Barry” and fell into the manufacturing end of things. Meth is easy to make, and even though his brain was becoming further eroded each day, Corky managed to put together batch after batch, which he sold. Then he used the profits to do whatever it is that moronic meth heads like to do.
One sunny Monday afternoon, Scary Barry—who sounds like a real piece of work himself—brought Corkenheimer a new recipe. Corky says, “I was like, ‘What the fuck, dude, the other stuff was working fine.’ ”
Midnight Movie: A Novel Page 11
