by James Hunt
Sometimes I feel like its partly my fault.... but I never meant to hurt anyone.
james ---- the birth of evil ----
We'd been drinking and we wanted blood.
We needed her to want death.
Our rage was infinite and our compassion was fleeting.
Kristal.
I love you, but
I don't feel anymore.
All I know is that I need you.
But I don't know how to be human.
Please forgive me – I need to destroy myself.
The anger. The despair. The violence. The pain. The judgment. The sorrow. The apathy. The feeling.
Your face. Your hair. Your legs. Your lips. Your tongue. Your warmth. Your absence.
My loss. My failure. My rage. My forfeit.
Nothing matters. Nothing did.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
can
describe
this
torture
and
yet
I
need
it.
Always.
“I'm sick of seeing you cry.”
Chapter 11
First Official
Gathering of the
RoboChildren
“You aren't Hunter S. Thompson, you stupid son of a bitch!”
-Monty Howler
Like I said, I was tired of the stupid games with Zach. He didn't want to branch out and include a third robo tripper, but I did. After considering many applicants, I remembered my trip with Fat Phil, the emo. I called him up, and sure enough he said it was agreeable, considering I had offered to acquire all the necessary chemicals at no cost to him. At this point I had gained a very healthy stealing ability, stealing anything I wanted from our local WallyWhirled. How handy a thing I had discovered. To get something I wanted, no longer did I have to work for hours on end. No, no – on the contrary, all I had to do was invest about ten minutes of my time, wear a hoodie or pants with large enough pockets, and avoid security cameras and people. In any given week I would have stolen at least two hundred dollars in food, dex prducts, and glow sticks. Along with any other little thing I happened to need or want. One time I made it out of there with an entire box of sharpies balancing on my head.
We were picked up from Zach's house by Master Bates [master bates is a fiend of the worst kind, he has a crippled left hand due to a surgical mistake, of the brain sort. He tells everyone he meets he wants to touch their ass, and does so before they can reply. He has a closet with hair he's collected from his sister's combs, which he proudly announces to anyone who will listen. He has three swords in his room and a big painting of a mongoose on his room wall]. He drove us to the necessary stops to acquire our stolen goods. He then transported us to Phil's house where we invited him to stay with a promise very interesting things would happen. Zach also invited his girlfriend and the big tittied friend of hers (who's name had been discovered to be 'Jordan'). His girlfriend couldn't come, as was common since he'd punched her in the face, but Jordan met us there. This seemed strange to me, his girlfriend's best friend showing up to hang out with us but not the girlfriend. I didn't know Jordan that well, considering I had never really hung out with her with a sober mind. In fact, I didn't really leave my house with a sober mind, and that was not a problem for me. I was constantly plagued by my memories of adolescent thoughts: everyone is basically good and courteous to everyone else. I just couldn't handle how corrupt everyone was. Ironic, I think.
Master Bates, Zach, and I arrived, unloaded ourselves from the car and loaded into Phil's house. Zach was reluctant to trip. He was downright scared of tripping with anyone outside his comfort zone: me. Phil reminded us to not mention any of our Robotussin shenanigans to his father who was living there along with another roommate, Joey B. Jordan shook her head and agreed to keep the secret. Phil said to just tell his dad it was acid we were taking. I laughed at Jordan's shocked reaction. It was funny to me, because I had once reacted the same way when I had gone to a party there and his father had come out and smoked pot with us. He even broke out his own stash to throw in. It was fucking weird. I had never seen an adult partake in any drug use before. Phil's father would be ashamed to know we were consuming cough syrup, yet perfectly alright with us consuming a Schedule I hallucinogen such as LSD. It may have had something to do with Phil getting busted for the shoplifting of three-hundred dollars worth of Corocidin in his earlier years. Phil had been doing this shit since he was sixteen. A truly dedicated and experienced member of the Tussin Generation. The godfather of the Tussin Generation, if you will – and you will, because I said so.......
I pulled out the plastic WallyWhirled bag and reached into it, pulling out two eight ounce bottles of syrup, a bottle of cough gels, and two packs of Thin Strips (containing Dex of course) that melt on your tongue. The thin strips work great as a trip booster. Phil had stolen a large amount of
LOOK HERE.
WE DONT HAVE TIME FORE THIS SHITE!
RIGHT HERE► ●
I CAN'T TAKE THIS BORING EXPOSITION SHIT ANYMORE.
ROBOtussin. TUSSIN. TUS SIN. TU SIN. TO SIN. ROBO TO SIN.
I’m killing time before it kills me, with a butt load of brain lesions. goddamnit. Something has happened. iCan no longer recall the memories to make this story complete.
Phil once told me he couldn't get it up without Corocidin in him.
I have sympathy pains for pregnant horses.
These goddamn metaphors are making my brains itch.
Fuckin' shit.
Have you ever wondered what It would B like to actually.AND QUITE LITERALLY.Fuck shit? It would squish around your genitals like a chunky, off-brand lubricant with a distinked scent.
I'm gonna give you the quick version of this trip. As I have so much information to cover in such a little time--and before all of my memories become so falsified and exaggerated and invisible to my mind's eye that you wont be able to pick out any valuable details. VALUABLE INFORMATION HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
***never spell out a laugh in the “HAHA” fashion, it's not professional***
we ate Robotussin.
We tripped our fucking
brains out all over the house.
His dad thought it was acid.
Jordan insisted it was psychosis.
ZACH fell in love with phil.
They consummated their love.
god.
No.
That’s not right at all.
The ceiling fan fucked
the holes in our brains
with veiny strobe-lighted cock.
Uh huh.
From here we became
the Woo-Town Fucks.
Small town mentality is so warped.
The problem with today's youth is that they [we] were raised
based on the idea of self-esteem boosting.
Their [our] self-esteems were inflated by kind words of encouragement
based on absolutely nothing.
It’s like our [their] mental money had no gold reality backing it,
now we [they] have notes we [they] can't redeem.
We [they] never lived up to our own unattainable standards.
And we [they] never will.
It’s like, when I trip, another version of me comes out and takes control. The time in between this version of me making his appearances is decreasing, yet the time when the sober version has control seems to be too much for the trip version. Now I must watch as my two versions fight for control of my body. I DONT LIKE THE SOBER VERSION. MAKE HIM GO AWAY. PLEASE.
Killing time. How does one kill something that doesn't exist. Or rather, seems only to exist when my mind is waiting for a desirable. How many desirables are there in the world that I will never experience? Too many. Girls. GAPING VAGINAS ON DISPLAY! Dancing before my eyes in a pool of blood. I watch the girl
on the conveyor belt as immense machines of organic origin process her. The conveyor belt takes her around the outside of the machine in an upward spiral. They strip her of her plain white dress and put on her a red evening gown. The straight blonde hair is ripped from her scalp with surgical precision and speed, only to be replaced by the blackness drained from the hearts of the furious. She reaches the top of the organic machine and her brains are scooped out of her skull with massive tubes of an indeterminable substance, but covered in veins and surgical scars. Only the cerebral cortex is left now. Along with a small part of the hypothalamus. She is now a fucking machine. Bent on humping everything that moves. Desiring cock of the donkey. She breaks the souls of the masses and is mass-produced in mass production. She is anorexic and her ribs show the physical hunger not satisfied by the semen of seamen. She is alone. But she is attractive. But she is alone.
..................................................cut here..................................................
i can't talk again. Damnit. Why does this always happen to me? All I can do is sit here and stare at a desirable and think to myself that this is all I will ever see for the rest of my miserable little life. Well... I think to myself I am fine with/
-------------------------------------fold here-------------------------------------
please don't take this too seriously mother. I only ever wanted to do what was best for me! I don't care about anyone else. How can I? I was never taught to love anyone besides myself. But one MUST love another. I love another: my trip version of me.
..................................................cut here..................................................
/please place JACKASS ATTOURNY AT FAULT and PROFESSOR KILLYOURSELF on the backside of the above cut-out with a sharpie and put on your desk to identify yourself/
I wonder how much of the profits of the Robotussin corporation are from fuckers like me?
I wonder how many people I see everyday are tripping on cough medicine?
I wonder what it's like to be normal?
I wonder when I'll die.
I wonder why people believe in god.
I wonder what happened to my true friends.
I wonder if people are wondering what I am wondering.
Unfortunately the memories from the night have been rearranged in my head like slides ripped out of the projector and replaced in an “incorrect” order so chronological order is (very much so) out of the question.
When I become a lawyer im going to fuck the shit out of this son of a bitch judge. DONT JUDGE ME! WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU JUDGING ME IF YOU ARENT EVEN REAL?!?!?! I HATE YOU!!!!! jesus christ was a nigger. Holy fuck. Where in the shit did that come from?
>>>>>>>i would like to make note of the fact that facts are now fiction and vice versa as far as the I can C.
I can C U
I can C,can U?
I can C U
omg. I need to go the ICU?
Jk
don't fret, oh mighty frettOIRE.
LMFAO.
My cell phone is fuzzy.
You;re a cool kid and have scored
very well on the cool kid rating scale.
You can roll with my gang through my hood any day, doug.
I blame rap for most things that are bad. THAT'S OK. Oh thank god.
Why am I crying? Omg stfu. Lmao txt me ltr... @wMART cum fck me in the broom.
Am I really puking in this bucket or is it just filling with my tears and saliva????
Yesterday I fucked kristal in the bathroom at her Pizza Buffet
don't worry about a thing, im taking care of it right now you sob.
I'm starting my own religion. AND THAT’S FINAL!
LS-3D.
My personality is becoming one with Robotussin. Is there anything wrong with that?
Please call 1-800-382-5633... or 1-800-382-5968
1-800(fuck-off) 1-800(fuck-you)
Chapter 12
Drama of The
Chashier, The
Waitress & The
Cop of Bratenahl
***The Cashier***
Setting: A single counter top is present on stage. A sign suspended from the visible rafters above says “THE MART OF WALLS.” The cashier is scanning many items across her register and placing them in a paper shopping bag.
Characters:
The Cashier-Red head with a large nose. Any age will do. Must have bitch in her blood.
The Customer-White man with white hair in his late 40s. Average. Red shoes.
james- fat motherfucker with a contemptuous attitude and massive sideburns.
Phil- Tall, skinny bastard with a bald head and thick glasses.
Zach- No specific specifications. Must be a terrible actor.
[Begin scene before curtains open.]
Cashier:
Jesus Christ!
Customer:
Pardon?
Cashier:
You see those three fuckers there? [points to james, Phil and Zach]
Customer:
Yeah?
Cashier:
They come through here every goddamned day buying at least three bottles of cough syrup! EVERY DAY!
Customer:
You're talking very loudly, ma'am...
Cashier:
DAMN RIGHT! Maybe you should call the cops to notify them of a possible narcotics issue.... The chemical in cough medicine is scheduled and it has alcohol in it, I can only sell 2 products containing this chemical to each customer... These kids must be extracting this chemical and isolating it to produce the various forms of meth, crack and heroin! I try to ID these punks when they try to buy off of me but they lay some bull shit story about how their father is dying of a cold... plus they flash a silver 454 Casul and push it into my face... that tends to force my hand in their favor...
Customer:
I'm sure. They probably just slip you a Lincoln, eh?
Cashier:
[picks up a phone]ATTENTION WALLYWHIRLED SHOPLIFTERS!! The honky motherfucker in lane 7 with the blue shoes rapes and murders children and should be slapped around! Thank you and have a lovely day!
Customer:
I don't appreciate your attitude, but because this is a small town and the dialog is written like a comic book with all of our thoughts verbalized as if hinting at some form of cleverness, I'm going to let it slide this time.
james:
Jesus fucking Christ, Phil, did you just hear all that??
Phil:
Huh?
Zach:
No... Did you really actually and positively hear anything at all YOURSELF? What if you just thought you heard the inner ramblings of that pet mongoose over in the corner there? Have you considered that?
james:
Of course, what do you think I am? Some kind of amateur?! Now shut up before they catch on to us...
Cashier:
Do you see what I mean? Did you even just hear what they just said? Of course you didn't, you ignorant prick bastard! Sex?
