Parareality Induced By Trauma : Episode 5

We came to an agreement, she would claim self defence, and my name would never be mentioned.

With the selection of bruises I had unfortunately left, I didn’t think it would be a very hard sell.

The walk home was, odd to say the least, I took off the getup, costume, weapon, whatever you want to call it, and walked home in an ill fitting set of jeans and a sweatshirt.

“ Guess I am a giants fan now. “ I say to myself, realizing that, on top of it all, talking to myself is not really a good sign.

It was a typical new york night, an odd mix of silence and racket, folks yelling, folks laughing, and none of them had the slightest clue of the absurd situation that had just transpired.

I got away with it, I find myself thinking, again and again. Somehow, I had turned what was supposed to be a kamikaze run, into the perfect crime. I find myself wondering if this means something, probably not. For all the criminals that get caught before they can draw a knife to mug someone, I guess there has to be someone that is the flip side of that coin.

I walk down the stairs to my door, and something catches my eye, a piece of paper tacked to the door. My first thought is that it is another eviction notice, but I remember this is one of the few months I am all squared up on the rent. My eyes take a second to focus, and on the paper is written one word, in a thick, slashing scrawl.

Stop.

“ Weird” I mutter, taking the paper off of the door, and crumpling it. Probably just some kid , drunk, homeless gent, all are in abundance around here.

First stop is a rummage through the cupboards, and as I thought , between 2 dozen bottles I manage to get a waterglass full of liquor and backwash. I slam it down and sit , right there on the peeling linoleum.

I waited for it to come, that sinking feeling, that crushing of my soul that is supposed to come with having to kill a man. You hear it all the time from war vets, gang members, and anyone else who has had to shrug off the conventions of society and kill.

Hours go by, and nothing. As a matter of fact , the longer I sit, the more I realise that there is nothing wrong with what I did. With maybe the exception of hurting the wife ( to this day, I still refer to them as the husband and wife.) .

Psychosis maybe? I don’t really think so, maybe a case could be made for during the fight itself, but now, I am calm, not eerie dead eyed calm, but normal, boring night calm.

Sleep came, and went, the next few days , I spent nursing the many bruises and cuts I had sustained, not to mention hand washing the outfit. This was my first real epiphany.

Why was I washing it? This was supposed to be a one time thing, even moreso now that being caught red handed wasn’t part of the plan. I should have thrown it out, burned it, hell shredded it and covered it in bleach first. But there I was carefully washing the blood from the clothing, and making mental notes as to where it needed repair.

Day 5 bought another surprise, a phone call.

“ Hello, Giggles the clown, birthday parties , bar-mitzvahs and more, how can I help you. “ I say, my standard opening.

“ I need to pay you.” The voice on the other end says.

“ O…k…, while I am happy to hear that can I ask who is calling. “ I say, not putting 2 and 2 together that quickly at 10 am.

“ You did a, birthday party for me a few days ago, and helped me, with the computer…” It clicks.

My voice is nervous all of the sudden, why is she calling me? Tempting fate when a murder charge is on the line is not the smartest thing on earth.

“ Oh, no problem, I left you a note on the counter, stating that payment wasn’t needed. Don’t worry about it, I wasn’t at the top of my game that day. “ I say, double speed, hoping to end this conversation, and maybe change my number.

“ No, I don’t feel right. I need to pay you. I’ve already taken out the money.” Her tone says more than her words. And I know, that this conversation isn’t going to go where I want it to.

“ Well I am a little busy today, maybe I can stop by next week sometime…” I say, trying to sound as if she is bothering me.

“ Today, in 2 hours, I need to get this done. “ is the last thing I hear as the line goes dead.

I start to get that same feeling I did before the , lets call it , “the event”. Maybe the cops grilled her and she broke, maybe someone saw me, maybe this is just a sting to get me.

But in for a penny , in for a pound, as the cliché goes. And really if the cops wanted to find me, my number would be enough. I have no idea how to run from the cops, hide my identity, get an alias, or any of those things that are second nature to criminals. Here or there, if they want to catch me, they are going to.

2 hours later and I find myself getting an odd sense of déjà vu, I knock on the door, this time in street clothes, a pair of faded jeans and a black dress shirt, with a set of sunglasses to cover up the lingering black eyes.

The wife comes to the door, and motions for me to walk inside. As soon as the door shuts she says , “ So it was you.”.

I genuinely laugh, no secrets between us now, “ Of course it was me, did you think it was a coincidence that it was a six foot clown?”

“ I wanted to be sure. “ She says, while I have been dealing rather well , she seems distraught. “ Here, it’s no where near what you deserve but it is what I can spare. “ For a moment , the word ‘ deserve’ sets me on edge, and I tense as she reaches into a purse on , a new table, by the door. But it is no gun, just a rather thick envelope , I open it, and find 4 grand inside. More money than I see in half a year.

And I take it. While doing good for good’s sake is great from a fictional standpoint, it makes the hero seem more, heroic, in the real world, people need to eat, and more importantly for me , at the moment, drink.

There is a moment of silence, awkward, and I feel the need to break it.

“ So how did things… turn out?” I ask, shifting from one foot to the next a bit.

“ … fine, I suppose. Clear cut case of self defence is what they called it, I have a few more interviews, but everything looks like it is going to be okay.” She is trying to hold back tears, I don’t really know what to say, when I need to cheer folks up, I usually bust out a whoopee cushion, or juggle. And I have a feeling this situation calls for a bit more than that.

“ He was a monster” I say simply, when I see her reaction, I seriously think maybe the whoopee cushion would have been a better idea.

“ I fucking know that!” she screams, “ It isn’t him I am upset about, it isn’t me either, I have no guilt for what I did , fucking none. “

I back off a step.

“ Then , what?” I ask , somewhere between genuinely curious and comforting.

“ Try explaining to a kid, all of this shit. Then try explaining to him that his father, the monster, is dead. That prick had him so mixed up.” she starts crying , heavily, and between choked sobs explains more to me. “ He had him believing this was normal, just what fathers and sons do. And it was all under my fucking nose. He blames me!” she screams, staring at me, almost as if to dare me to contradict her.

“ You told him?” I say , confused. Now it was her turn to be exasperated.

“ Of course not, I told him he fell down the stairs, but its like… he knows. “ My discomfort is at an all time high. What I really want to say is ‘ He is dead, your kid is no longer being raped, count your fucking blessings.’, but I can’t.

“ Listen, this is a fucked up situation, for all of us. But like every fucked up situation from cheating to world war 2, its going to pass. Your better off without him, and for a 40 something year old broad, your not that old looking, or wrinkled, I am sure you can find another old guy. “ I grin, and the shock of the joke breaks her out of the sobbing.

“ I’m 42 you asshole.” she says with a bit of a smile.

“ And I’m 27, your old enough to be my mom.” Humour has always been my first recourse, and this situation is no different.

“ If I was 15 when I had you!” she is wiping tears away, makeup smearing.

“ I don’t judge.” I say condescendingly. And out of no where I add, “ Here is my card, if you need help, like this, or you know anyone else who does, just give me a call and say your cancelling the Bar-mitzvah. Make sure it isn’t from a blocked number. “

My words shock me as much as they do her.

“ You do this kind of thing, a lot?” she asks, curious.

“ Between you and me, I almost didn’t even do it this time. I don’t know what the hell I have got myself into, or for that matter, even what I am doing. But it’s a damn sight better than getting puked on, and called a faggot under the breath of guys like your husband. And, it seems to pay better too. “ I say, feeling comfortable, for the first time in the conversation.

“ You know, in comics, the hero never takes a reward. “ she says throwing a verbal jab my way.

“ In comics the hero has a good paying day job. “ I respond, “ That 40 you were going to give me for the party doesn’t really cover bullet proof vests and Shark repellent. “

We share a laugh , and there is another moment of silence, I use that opportunity to take my leave.

I am home for no more than 10 hours, when I get another call.

“ Giggles the clown….” I am interrupted almost immediately, the voice’s sex is ambiguous, but it sounds a bit shaken.

“ The um… Bris is on, or …off, I think. “ the voice says, though mangled, I understand what it is getting at.

“ Okay sir, well I will have to collect the cancellation fee, where would be a good place to meet?” I say, keeping the conversation non sketchy sounding much better than the person on the other end.

“ How about Tim’s dinner, on 42nd?” it says shakily.

“ I’ll be there in an hour. “ I say and hang up the phone.

So this is it, the more I think about it, the more I think this is my first real…job. “The Event” was more a prologue , a stumblefuck of moral, physical, and mental proportions that lead to this.

I don’t go in costume, but I do take the time to put on a beard, some contacts, and a very well done, if bright red wig. ( looked too real, never found a use for it before.)

And in the mentioned hour , I am there, sitting in a dirty dinner, most of the patrons seem to be nursing coffee , and dressed in faded torn clothing, and the more I breathe , the more I realize that the smell of onions and shit, is probably coming just as much from the customers, as the food.

For a moment I reflect on how terribly un funny actual hobos are, nothing like the clean, but ragged costumes I have donned.

I sit, and as it seems to be the order of the day, order a coffee and drink it ever so slowly.

30 minutes late he arrives, his clothes are old, and he looks worn out, but not to the extent of the homeless surrounding me. He has a dark black beard, short and well kept, long hair but clean. And a nervous demeanour.

He passes me a card.

Theodore Johanson, Pastor, west side united.

“ I’ve been waiting for 30 minutes.” I say trying to sound like I have done this all before.

“ I’m…sorry, I just… wanted to be sure, this wasn’t some kind of…”

“ Police sting?” I say, a bit of a smile creeping into my face.

“ Exactly.” He says looking down, to the side, anywhere but my eyes.

“ Well maybe it is, seeing as if it is, your already arrested, why not explain the problem?” I say, keeping him on edge.

“ We have problems , large problems. A group of men, who choose to… harass some of the members of our church. “ He says, slowly.

My boner is killed, harass? I am not a security guard, I may not know what I am, at the moment, but stopping some people yelling fuck off, is not what I am here to do.

“ Not interested, I suggest a baseball bat and learning some foul language.” I get up , and in that way pastors have perfected, he puts a hand on my arm, stopping my progress as he tosses down an article, faded and yellow from the paper. 2 years old , it talks of 3 homeless men being tied and burned “ Like logs”.
“ Okay, you could have told me you were the world understatement champion.” I say sitting back down.

“ This doesn’t happen all the time, mind you. But it , waxes and wanes , you could say. I just don’t want it happening again, I don’t want them…” I stop him.

“ Okay, I get it. No Falling Down action. “ He looks confused , and I start to wonder if I am the only person who has seen the film.

“ They congregate outside of an alley in front of the church, several of my members have issues, with alcohol, and as we do not let them drink, they chose to… imbibe close by. Leading to , many unfortunate incidents. “ Its my turn to tap him on the hand.

“ Thanks for lobbing me a softball here , I’ll have it taken care of. “ And this time I do leave.

I sleep that night, actually I sleep the next day as well, getting up around 7pm. By now, most of the wounds attained have faded to dim aches. I put on the costume, and as I do, I find myself doing it in the same order, with the same movements that I did before. I realize this is the start of a ritual.

I briefly think of getting…something better than a set of steak knives, and a cut down curtain rod ( obviously, a new addition to the ‘ arsenal ‘ ) , but decide against it. Too much attention, and to be frank, if I could do the job with this equipment, I can certainly scare a few thugs with the same.

I walk to the address on the card, bad area of town, graffiti covering any available surface, garbage blowing about, and the only half functioning sign is the neon one in front of the church, reading “ ned urch” , either this is the united church, or some guy named Ned Urch really wants people to know he lives there.

The alley is foreboding, from the sidewalk, one can barely see the end of it, and out of a dozen or so lights on the side of the buildings only the one at the far end is functioning. I barely make out the forms of about 5 men, too far to tell any defining characteristics, I start to walk down the alley. My body language starting to become that blasphemy of everything I have been taught. A jerking, sweeping walk, hands held low but far out, everything that sets off that primal fear instinct in the human brain.

I am starting to work up a good rage, to feel confidant in what I am doing.

Then I nearly shit my pants.

Suddenly out of seemingly no where, someone is standing in front of me. Not the tallest person on earth, around 5”7 or so, I would guess 150 or so pounds. But dressed at least as strangely as I am.

Over his face is a loose knit kind of cloth, protruding from this is a set of goggles, glowing slightly green. At first I assumed the waist length leather jacket he wore was simply gray, upon further inspection it was an epically faded american flag pattern. His shirt and pants were of a similar fabric, though the pants looking a bit more tightly knit, and with plenty of loops, buckles, and hooks carrying an assortment of items I couldn’t recognize.

“ Stop, now.” He says simply, blocking my way.

I am silent, this is a total curve ball. Who is this guy? One of the gang members? Maybe a friend of the husband? Was this all just a big set up?

“ Go home, burn that shit, and feel lucky you got away with murder, this is your last warning. “ He says, not quite monotone, but sounding very unconcerned.

I take an inhale from the device, getting lightheaded for a moment as The Heavy hits my lungs.

“ Or I could just keep walking, shove your tiny ass out of the way, and do some good here.” I say taking a few steps forward.

He chuckles a bit, not a forced nervous laugh, but a genuine chortle brought about by him believing that my statement was obviously absurd. Needless to say my confidence takes a blow.

“ You could do that, not the smartest idea , but well within your rights. “ he says, not moving at all.

“ Why not just shoot me in the back or something? Is there something important about this speech?” I say, the heavy starting to fade, as my voice starts going back to its normal tone.

“ We aren’t like you. People like you think you can just bypass the entire legal system every time something happens that turns your stomach. I don’t get off on killing , clown, I just have a job to do, and that job is to keep people like yourself, from starting a fire. You think you’re the first asshole to put on a costume and try to fix the world?” He laughs, again genuine, like he has been doing this for a while, “ Not by a long shot , and ever since the first idiot to try this, Uncle Sam has had guys like me here to make sure that you insane fucks don’t turn this country into anarchy. What do you think is going to happen when you actually start doing enough of this shit to get noticed? Some other idiot, is going to put on a stupid costume, but maybe this guy doesn’t have as high standards as you, maybe he starts throwing pipe bombs in porn stores, maybe he knows , in his heart the president is ruining the country, and needs to be stopped, maybe he got beaten by some cops, and decides to pick as many as he can off from a building. No matter what, this new asshole, is going to get followers, and copycats, and on and on it goes. We have cops for a reason, we have courts, for a reason. And we don’t have half insane children’s performers doing these jobs for a fucking reason. “

Any combat is 80% attitude , another gem from Joe Rogan.

“ So what do they call you? Buzzkill? The Slippery Slope? Cheesecloth?” I say, trying to play down the fact that I am slowly realizing I am very, very far out of my element.

Another chuckle, “ Actually, they call me Freeman.” And by the time he starts the last word his hands are up, for a second I think he is giving some kind of surrender. Maybe my one liner hit home or something, but in the dim light I notice two cylinders flying at me, and just as they reach the edge of my peripheral vision. The both explode.

For a second or two I black out, I come to holding my ears and stumbling around in a thin fog, that is starting to burn my eyes.

My back hits a wall, a fist, hits my head, my head hit’s the wall, I hit the ground.

My vision is swirling, which is not helping the situation with the fog, I try to spring to my feet , something I can do in an instant, and have done a thousand times before. Before I get halfway straightened , a boot hits my chest, I manage to stay on my feet , but only barely.

I look around, tears pouring out of my eyes, trying to find where in the hell “ Freeman” went. It isn’t that the fog is that thick, it isn’t that the sting is that bad, and it isn’t that I have been knocked into a stupor , it is the deadly combination of these three things. The thought hits me, that this is exactly what he intended , and again, I realize I am facing someone who, to coin a cliché , really “ Has my number”.

Long before I notice Freeman, I notice his jacket on the ground. And by the time I can even begin to think of why this may be I start to fall to the side. 6 inches shorter than me, at least 40 pounds lighter, ( not to mention the fact that, a life of clownery gives one a decent, if not epic muscle tone.) and still I am being taken to the ground , and there is not a damn thing I can do about it.

I put my hands up defensively , and feel a series of blows, it feels like the man Is swinging a hammer into my versus a fist, I take a few hits to the face, as I move my hands trying to get some kind of handle on what is going on. In the brief seconds I get, I see why his jacket is being left unattended.

The cloth of his costume is blurring his form, not completely, but throwing enough visual static, that in combination with the fog, and the fact that I have taken no less than 12 blows to the head, I find it hard to get any bearing, even if I could attack, I wouldn’t know where, all I can see clearly is the outline of the goggles.

My face feels like one gigantic throb, blood pooling on the ground under me.

“ You know, even if we lower the bar to just fucks like you, your still bottom of the barrel.” He says, very matter of factly, as he stops throwing blows for a moment.

That moment, was all I was going to get. But I am used to having to take advantage of a moment, comedy is timing, acrobatics are timing, prestidigitation is timing. Timing, is kind of my thing.

I feel his weight shift, as he grabs my forehead with his left hand and draws his right back for a strike that I am guessing is meant to kill me or knock me out. My calves curl under my thighs, and once my knees clear free of his body , I straighten my legs, throwing myself into a rather painful skid, backwards.

I hear tearing, I feel something sharp dig into my back, but , for all intents and purposes my plan worked. I manage to get to my feet, stumbling backward, as Freeman stands tall and starts to stalk toward me.

“ Really? “ He says, drawing out something from waist holster. “ How much blood you think you can lose asshole? Bet your starting to feel a bit dizzy aren’t you?” He says, as the thing in his hand, some kind of club, or baton, makes a whirring noise.

I start to try to move a bit, loosen myself up, I begin to sway side to side, snakelike, wishing I had some weapon, some real weapon , other than luck , kitchen equipment, and a half assed grasp of psychology. I realize something at this moment though, my only advantage, is that he thinks I am no threat. And by the way this is going , maybe I am not, but I am not the “ Guns N Ammo” “Soldier of fortune” , armchair soldier he thinks either. I am not in this for the thrill.

And then it hits me.

I make a comically loud hocking noise, and hold a hand out in front of me , all of the flash strips in it, I spit, a disgusting massive glob of phlem, saliva and blood. And as I thought I managed to get this oyster onto them before they react with the air. I pretend I am rubbing my hands together , itching for the fight, getting off on the battle itself. Just like he would expect.

I throw my hands up and wide, “ Come on!” I scream, inviting him to take his best shot, which more than likely would turn me into a bloody pile. He shrugs a bit , chuckles a little more and says “ You are the first clown that has actually made me laugh. “ as he charges , his from going from almost defined to almost one with the smoke , in an instant.

He is expecting a punch, and as such starts his swing early, negating a reach advantage, the whirring steel club coming in fast. But I wasn’t going for a punch, in fact what I did could barely be described as a blow.

I roll with the hit from the club, managing to only have my left arm go numb for a second as it connects solidly. But as it does, I rub my hand, lightly across Freeman’s face, the dark red glob standing starkly against his otherwise indistinct form.

I skip to the side, heavily favouring my left arm, I quickstep backwards as far as I can , and instead of pressing he stands , looking at me. His body language couldn’t be more clear, but just in case he begins to speak.

“ So you smeared spit on me…”

“ ….5.…” I say.

“ Really? Why not just give up? You don’t have anything a doctor can’t….” He continues

“ …4...” I continue cryptically. Huffing in a hit of helium.

“ Fix, why not keep it that…”

“…3...” I say, drawing the word out for a long time.

“ What the fuck are you….” He begins to say, but starts to rub at his forehead. “ son of a bitch….” he continues as he starts to try and move the mask around. I grin widely.

Back in the Victorian era it was considered to be a sign of wealth to have a coin shaped scar on one’s hand. Why you ask?

Well clowns, have always had to have a close relationship with prestidigitation. There is only so many times one can get a laugh by getting hit with a rubber mallet, or a pie. And near the end of the Victorian era, the big trick on the block was “ Heated money”. It was half way between a séance, and a magic trick. The effect was blamed on spirits of past owners of the coin, in reality , obviously, it was nothing so supernatural.

There was two ways to pull this off. The first involved knowing what kind of coin was going to be used and soaking it in a glass of cold water, a quick pat dry, and the coin would be overly cold when originally used. Strike up a bit of conversation as you tell your mark to watch your hand, making sure you havn’t switched coins. Toss the coin to the mark, and now instead of feeling like it was a cold coin going to body temperature, they would marvel as it felt it went from normal to quite hot.

This first method required one to be good at palming the coin, creating friction and selling the effect. And like everything, people just get lazy, and this is why the second method was invented.

A strip of treated magnesium was affixed to the back of the coin. The heat from the mark’s hand would start its slow lightless burn. And 9 times out of ten, by the time it got hot enough to hurt them, they would drop the coin.

But lets think about this for a moment. This was the Victorian era, technology, was not exactly perfected, this held just as true for sanitation as prestidigitation. Some folks would get normal Mag strips, untreated, and instead of a slow burn rising to intense, the strip would ignite much faster, heating the coin, and leaving many nobles with a permanent reminder of the performance.

Ironically, these later performers became preferred , as better conduits to the nether realms. As always, losing is winning when you’re a clown.

The mask ignites, mainly in a 2 inch area between the goggles, with a sickening hissing noise I hear the white hot metal hit flesh.

“ Fuck!” he screams , trying to find a handhold in the mask, but whatever it is made out of seems to be melting as the heat reaches its apex. Leaving him with , undoubtedly painful globs of the plastic like substance on his hands.

Within a second , the magnesium itself is out , though a few small bits of mask remain stubbornly smoking or with tiny licks of fire trying to gain a foothold. But distraction was what I was after.

Fuck Joe Rogan, fighting isn’t about attitude, or momentum, fighting is about being able to do the most vicious thing in a given situation. To not worry about “ Fair Play” or “ fighting dirty” , to do as many terrible things to as many soft parts of your opponent as possible.

And some people, just can’t do this. This is why I am still up and fighting. Freeman was more worried about making me see I was wrong, or giving me a chance to give up, when he should have simply planted that club in my skull as I walked by.

I charge, with no fanfare, no quip, no sound that isn’t absolutely required, and take advantage of his distraction. He may he stronger than me, but leverage is a wonderful thing. I pin his head between my shoulder and the wall of the alley and grab the front of his uniform with one hand and the back with the other. I give every ounce of effort I can to pressing against his head, as I pick him up, just enough to get him off the ground. I then start running.

The stride is awkward for a moment, but once I get used to the friction , I build speed. The effect is terrible. First to go is the right goggle, three steps in it gives way, and I notice, not an eye underneath, but what appears to be a port of some kind , with red, inflamed flesh on all sides of it. I keep up the run, knowing that once he gets his bearings, I will have exhausted my only trick that has worked. I hear the noises, of steel , flesh, and bone grinding against the wall, he throws an elbow, from his cramped, awkward position, but it still manages to knock the wind out of me. Knowing the trick is almost played out, I simply heave him straight forward, and a half second before he lands on his feet, he realizes there was a dumpster in his path. The grip that is used for stabilization when it is being unloaded, snaps one of his ribs with a loud pop.

He actually staggers forward a bit before pulling out a long wide combat knife and getting into a low stance. The port where his eye should have been is sending out an off white fluid in erratic spurts , he actually looks hurt, not out of the fight , by any means, but hurt.

“ My timing was off on that one, sorry. It would have been a lot cooler if I got to one before that happened , wouldn’t it?” I say, drawing the steel curtain rod from my coat. I feel like I am brining a cap pistol to a mob war, but it does give him pause.

“ Fuck me, “ he says angrily. “ John!” he screams “ going to need you down here, lucky fuckin’ shot from the clown. “

Suddenly a window explodes, and jumping from it, is the largest person I have ever seen in my life.

7 foot 5 at the very least, and so wide it seemed to beg the question how exactly he got from the window. Unlike Freeman, he wore only a pair of old jeans, torn and faded, held up with a length of thick rope. He was a black man, but to say that, is not doing him justice. His skin was an artificial midnight black, the whites of his eyes were only a slightly lighter black, with the exception of a thin red iris. He was intimidating, imposing , he barely seemed, real. He seemed like what every KKK member would have nightmares about, just a collection of all the most intimidating physical stereotypes attributed to black folks, exaggerated, and put together.

And this isn’t to mention the fact he was holding two hammers, heads easily twice the size of a cinderblock, with thick 4 foot steel handles, he spun them around like they were nothing and pointed one at me.

“ Think your going to get a lucky shot in again?” His voice, completely in contrast to his appearance sounds very intelligent, more fitting for a college professor than, whatever the hell he is.

I hear police off in the distance. And as I pick up on this I also hear a “ Fuck” from Freeman.

John, turns toward him, “ Police are on their way. Non informed police by my guess. “ he says calmly, as if he has had to have a conversation starting with this, with Freeman , many times before.

“ I know, god damn it. “ he says venomously. “ We’ll be meeting again, fuck face, And your going to wish you took me up on the offer.”

And with that they both take down the alley, the thugs, long since departed, I try to keep up with them, but between the fact that I can barely move without pain, and that they would be faster than me on my best day, I am left in the dust rather quickly.

Parareality Induced By Trauma : Episode 4

And there I was, standing in an unfamiliar house, beaten, hurting, and with a corpse sitting at my feet. The reality of what is going on hits me harder than the thrown bottle. You never see this part in the movies, you never see the avenging angel with a look of confusion and trepidation on its face, wondering if what it thinks is the right thing to do, is actually just some kind of psychotic break.
I feel less like an avenging angel, and more like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Getting caught seems a noble cross to bear , but once it starts staring you in the face, it is a bit harder to keep up the moral fortitude.
Out of the corner of my eye, which is rapidly starting to swell, I catch something, a movement down the hall. My vision blurry, the hall lit only by the faint glow coming from the computer room, I can’t make out who it is.
Something flies by my head, and I hear a smashing noise behind me, the form in the hallway begins to run. This is the point where any plan I may have had goes straight out the window. My best guess is that it is not the kid, the wife , maybe, or maybe someone completely different, a random factor that I couldn’t possibly have known about.
In a few strides I catch up to this shadowy figure, slamming my knee off a small table in the process. My hand grabs a shoulder and spins this unknown person around, I am staring down at the mans wife. That same woman I saw earlier, and the same person that I had made the decision to kill long before I came.
My hand snaps out to her throat, and she hit’s the wall. Suddenly I feel a pit in my stomach, that sound, the sound of head striking wall, throws me off, breaks through this half drunk rage, and makes me realize that what I am dealing with is a human being. I open my mouth, not knowing what to say. I mean, what is there to say? “ Hello, just offed your husband, maybe we can talk this out?”
Something clicks in my head , and before I utter a word, I take a deep inhale from the device. Not helium, a high squeak probably wouldn’t do me any good in this situation, but a deep breath of “ The heavy” as its called in performing circles. My voice comes out as an exaggerated deep rumble, my nerves making the voice sound like a combination of Barry White and Mic Jagger.

“ Did you know?” I ask, trying my damndest to sound calm. She has a reaction, that is for sure, fear, she starts to scream, but no answer is forthcoming.

“ Did , you , know!” I scream, the sound unnerving me a bit, beyond feeling like I am losing my grip, I can hear it in my tone.

“ Know what god damn you!” she screams in my face, her rage, matching my own, but sans the confusion.

And then it dawns on me.

How do I know she is telling the truth? I didn’t think this far ahead, actually I assumed, somehow it would be obvious. That there would be a kind of sixth sense, or something, inspired by my newfound altrusim, that would guide me. But no, I find myself thinking she is lying, but in no way shape or form do I “know”. And a gut feeling, is not really acceptable, when it is lives on the line.
Rage and confusion, the two most powerful emotions , the two states of mind that have fueled, so many of humanities best inventions. We were confused as to what was out in the dark, so we made a torch. We were angry at the neighbour in the next cave, so we invented the spear. Millions of years later, Confusion and rage have given us streetlights and handguns, GPS and ICBM, the scalpel and the bayonet.
What it is giving me, is a headache, and a sense of dread. So many factors are starting to close in on me, the police could be coming, I could have been taped, she might have already pressed a silent alarm….
I grab her by the hair, and drag her to the computer room, her screams do not fall on deaf ears. Far from it, actually, with every shriek, every grab at my wrist, every cell in my body is telling me to let her go. Asking what the fuck I am doing, why am I not simply walking down to a psychiatric ward and checking myself in. But I just can’t, not because of rage, far from it, but because the second I do that, I drop this façade that I have erected , it is over. I am just some lunatic in a clown suit splattered with blood, not….what am I? Vigilante? Psycho? Thief? Clown? All of the above? None of the answers stated?
I throw her into a heap on the floor. She is crying, and trying her best to make it seem like she is overcome with emotion. I know better.
I may not be a lie detector, but in my profession, one has to know how to read people. To tell the kid who is scared of clowns ( avoid at all costs) from the kid who is just entirely too happy to have a clown there. To tell the father who can take a spritzing with a good natured laugh , from the guy who will have no problems punching you in the face if he gets wet. All essential in being a performance artist, of my stripe.
And this woman, is not overcome with anything. She is biding her time, maybe trying to wait it out until I come to my senses. And in all honesty, good call on her part. How much longer can I keep this up?
I jam the thumb drive into the computer, currently displaying a blue password screen, with a flicker and an unpleasant noise, the desktop , in all its glory, is back. I pull her to her feet, pushing her head inches from the screen.

“ This, you stupid bitch!” I say, hearing my voice start to raise a few octaves, surprisingly I manage to hold her in this position with one hand, while inhaling a deep blast of the heavy from my other.

She grasps the situation a tad quicker than I did , and stops wailing. Her breathing gets quick, not enraged, per sae, but overwhelmed in the extreme. The odd sob chokes out of her and I let her go. She is telling the truth. At least to the best of my knowledge. Her reaction is just too… real.
But, isn’t that exactly what one would expect from someone who is manipulative enough to keep her son being gangbanged by her husband and his friends, for god knows how long? To be able to put on a normal face, the same way I put on the face of a killer?

A killer.

That thought hammers the point home, that is what I am. Regardless of reason, regardless of intent, I have made the decision to kill. That is who I am.

A wave of panic hits me, I have never been prone to attacks of anxiety, but there is only so much a person can take. Those thoughts come screaming back in, those harbingers of reality that shit on the parade of the self righteous.

“ I killed a man….” I say, the last word being interrupted by a noise from outside of the room. The wife, still shaking and sobbing, is drowning it out.

“ Quiet” I say simply, craning my neck toward the door.

“ He..l…p….” I hear in an almost drunken slur, I waste no time and slide out of the door, backlit by the now red glow from the computer.

I realize two things at the same time ( literally, if you have never had two simultaneous thoughts hit you at once, it is quite the experience.) , the first is, that while terrible, the skull fracture most certainly did not kill the man , though it may be sending him on his way. And second is that I do have a way to see if the wife is lying.
I say nothing , but I let my footfalls hit the floor heavily, I grab an ankle in each hand and begin to drag the husband toward the computer room. He tries to flail about, he tries to grab at the floor, the overturned table, anything to stop whatever I have planned. But his brain is missing too much, his movements are jerky, and almost random , his pleas are unsensical and slurred. While he was my physical superior 15 minutes prior, now , he is just pathetic.
I should be disturbed, but now is not the time for that. Life hangs in the balance, and I am not just worried about taking the wrong life, that is easy enough to fix by leaving, but if this woman is an accomplice , not just an ignorant housewife, I am just as worried about letting her live. It would defeat the entire purpose of this excursion.
The way I see it, if she is in on the act, she is not going to kill him. Or if she is , and cold enough to want to save her own life , she is going to do it quick and clean, or at least as quickly and cleanly as she can. On the other hand, if this is news, I should be seeing the fury of a mother not just protecting her child, but one that has failed to do so , for a long time.
I walk very slowly to the computer room, coming up with a suitably spooky sounding speech to give the woman, kind of Jigsaw esque. My performers hat donned, I lean against the doorframe with one hand, appearing as a black silhouette, I stay silent for a moment, and hooking my foot under the man’s belt I send him on a short flight into the room.

“ You have…” is all I manage to get out, before she is on top of him. Not a question, not a comment, just a flash of late 40’s fury and she is sitting on his stomach. She has, something, my guess is a piece of broken glass, though I didn’t hear any breaking, and she is plunging it repeatedly into the man. Not causing any long open wounds, but spots, and small tears of red with every few jabs.

It takes both forever, and is over in a flash. She doesn’t go for the throat, but just kind of stabs at random, face, chest, stomach ( I am sure if she could hit genitals from where she was sitting she would have.) , and as she starts to hit areas she has before , deeper holes start to emerge. His flailing stops about half way through, the pleas begin to get more garbled, I don’t watch, not in detail at least. Gore has never been my thing, but my guess is that with the stabs to the face, his talking organs are all becoming too damaged to use, even with the bar being set at brain damage.
She sits there, shaking and heaving, and with one final stab, drives the glass ( later found out it was a shattered c.d. case she intended to use to off herself.) through the top of his head, the depressed skull fracture, caused by the well placed bottle. He makes a noise that was a mix of pathetic and disturbing, and with a whiff of shit and piss, dies.

Good enough for me, was my only thought.

Parareality Induced By Trauma : Episode 3

The side of my face explodes in pain and i take a step away from the road as i try and figure out what is going on. I hear an engine rev and someone yell “ why so serious?” and laugh as they peel off.

This shit happens more than you would think.

But there is no blood, a plus, i guess seeing as i am on my way to my third gig today. I have often wondered what makes people feel the need to throw things at clowns. Once i started doing this on a professional basis one of the first things i learned was to watch for missiles from the audience, people on the street, hell, even the guy that hired you will sometimes toss a sandwich or wad of garbage your way. The vast majority of society have trouble with the concept that a clown is a job, not a way of life. We are one of the oldest forms of actors out there, long before people wrote plays , or films, or radio sketches, someone was putting on makeup and making an ass out of themselves.

At times like this i really wish my car hadn’t been repossessed. Waking from gig to gig is pretty much inviting this crap , but what are you going to do? I’ve spent the last 12 years making a career out of this, and to be honest the thought of flipping burgers , or cleaning toilets is more unpleasant to me than people with closeted cases of coulrophobia trying to get over their fear.

And the worst part of it is, it hasn’t always been like this. Up until the past 3 years or so i was having a pretty epic life as far as a modern clown goes. Two guiness records when i was 18 ( most single handed juggled objects, and highest landed backflip. ) , and i invented a product that since 2003 has been in heavy use by every clown out there. A palm sized device that holds helium, carbon dioxide, and pure oxygen. Put simply, it is a way to have an array of funny voices with the added bonus of not dying from asphyxiation. ( believe it or not there is practically a graveyard filled with clowns that have died trying to attain the perfect funny voice with dangerous gasses. ). Only problem was that the mechanism was too simple and i couldn’t get a patent. Now my device is being sold en masse and i don’t receive one red cent. My goal in life is to be laughed at, but this is going a bit too far.

I base my costume on the classic french harlequin with a bit of modern auguste. A loose fitting red suit coat with half sleeves, under this is a long sleeved blue and yellow shirt, my pants are knee shorts with stripped blue and yellow socks showing just above a set of red boots( one of my favorite parts, only a size too big, i find the spray painted army boots to give a nice balance to the rest of the costume.). I tend to stick to more western makeup, as kids seem to respond better to this. I am one of the few clowns who actually avoids a wig, my hair is bright purple, dyed on a weekly basis and tucked under a baseball cap on my days off. ( which lately have been about 2 a month.)

My heart is racing a bit, not from the soda can that hit me, but from what i am going to do today. The past year, things have been really tight, any gig i can get tends to get bargained down to about half price, and the sad thing is that i am happy to take it. In the age of video games and anime, kids really don’t give a shit about clowns. We are the etch a sketches of the modern entertainment toybox. And because of this i have had to supplement my income in a few less than honest ways. A password circumvention program and a good sixth sense as to where to look can get you access to credit card information in about 5 minutes. I don’t take much, usually about 200 from the people, and only if they can spare it. But i still feel like hell about it. This is not how i envisioned myself at age 28, an unknown birthday party performer/petty criminal. If there is one upside, it is that no one suspects the clown. A husband is more likely to assume his wife sneaked some money to go out for a night on the town with the girls, than that the buffoon that came over for his kid’s birthday had the smarts to steal his credit card information.

I stand by the front door and take in a big steadying breath , i actually still love my job. Watching kids get a kick out of a failed backflip, then get an even bigger one as a six foot three clown manages to do a flip over their head , that is the point of being a clown. What isn’t the point is dealing with a cheap prick who wants to bargain you down after the service is preformed. Or a bitch housewife who thinks that the 40 dollars they paid you for a 6 hour party gets her a clown maid to clean up the puke, cake and spilled soda. But it is all part of the game.

I knock on the door and within a minute i see a rather husky looking guy answer, nice clothes, glasses, and in decent shape. This being said the half mullet he is rocking makes me think that he would make a damn fine clown. Juxtaposition is one of the easiest ways to get a laugh.

“ I guess your the clown?” he says. After hearing this a few hundred times it makes me want to reply with a comment similar to “ no, the plumber.” But i have enough trouble getting jobs as it is, so i jump into clown mode instead.

“ I sure am, and are you the birthday boy!?” i say ducking under his arm, which he has baring the door. I give him a big shit eating grin and cock my head to the side. The guy is as tall as myself, and seems pretty unimpressed with my attitude, jovial as it may be.

“ for christ sake....” he mutters , i catch an eye roll as he leads me through the house. A nice three floor affair, it looks like these people have some serious coin to throw around. Which makes me feel better about my current plan. This guy would miss 200 bucks like i would miss 4 crackers by the looks of it.

“ Why ya so sad on your birthday?” i say after taking a puff of helium, the device fits nicely in the palm of one’s hand and i am pleased to say that it did get , if not an amused, at least a curious reaction from this guy. At this point i am just screwing with him. I find nothing more annoying than someone who can be serious around a clown.

I see an opening and hit the floor, propelling myself forward between his legs and standing all in 2 practiced movements ( Clown collage being essentially a giant training camp for gymnastics and learning to hurt yourself.), to end up facing him about 6 inches away, i hold up a small box tied with a bow.

“ Would a present help big guy? No one wants to be sad on their birthday” I grin again, and the guy actually shoves me a bit as he opens a screen.

“ Can you drop the schtick maybe? I am paying you to entertain the kids not piss me off. “ He says as i catch a glimpse of the party.

Not the best, and not the worst, a pretty standard circus themed party, and trust me i have seen a few. Personal opinion is that this guy could have afforded a bit better than this ( and if we’re being honest, me.) for his kid, but who am i to judge? I am a thieving clown that is rapidly approaching becoming an alcoholic.

I take a running start out the door and another puff of helium, i forward flip into a faceplant ( the trick is to hit your forehead and recoil as fast as possible. ) and grab my nose as i stand up. No one knows what to think. I move my hand a bit to reveal some red colored cloth. Everyone gasps, as they make the decision that i really did just smash my nose into a bloody pulp. I wait a moment , just until the mother ( a decent enough looking , though somehow obviously bored with life 40 something. ) goes to put her hand over the kids eyes. And with a flourish i throw up an intricately folded silk cloth that spins in the air showering the partygoers with sparkling confetti. I hold my hands out to the side and say in a jovial, manic voice “ Who’s ready for some giggles!”.

Two hours in i decide its best to get what i need to get done , done. I inform the father ( who has been rolling his eyes enough to generate electricity. ) i am going for a smoke break , and he nods. Out of our interactions today , this was the most pleasant.

It disturbs me how good i am becoming at this, within a minute i find the computer room, and within another two my thumb drive circumvents the password protection. ( personally i am no computer whizz, but in the internet age, all it takes is knowing what to download.). My heart stops cold in my chest. If i were to take off my makeup i don’t think anyone would notice a difference.

For the first second i assume that it is just a normal porn site, but almost immediately i realize it is the fucking desktop. I recognize the father, the other 6 or so people ( all men of pretty much the same age), not so much, but i do recognize the person standing in ill fitting lingerie in the middle of the room.

Their fucking kid.

I am sick, quite literally i can feel my stomach immediately tie into knots. This isn’t some rumor, this isn’t a mistake, this is cold hard proof of one of the most disgusting things i have seen , or fuck, heard of , in my entire life.

I stumble out of the door, and my first instinct is to get out. Just to leave, my breath is coming in gasps, shuddering long gasps. What the hell can i do here? I can’t very well go to the cops, because then i would have to explain how i got on their desktop in the first place, and all it would take is one detective with too much time on his hands to start putting together the pieces and trace a lot of unauthorized transfers of funds to me. And i can’t stay, just being in this place is filling me with such a mix of rage and disgust that the only things i can think of are this guy getting arrested and drinking the biggest bottle of the cheapest liquor i can find. The longer i stay the more likely i am going to make the terminally bad decision to call the cops on this asshole. Which, really is the right thing to do, but i don’t relish getting raped for the next 2-10 years in order to save someone else the same fate. Call me a coward, but can you say you wouldn’t do the same?

I find a notepad and scribble an excuse about a family emergency. That they don’t have to pay, and that i am very sorry. Within 10 minutes i am at the nearest liquor store buying three bottles of a vodka i have never heard of that happened to be on sale. Another 30 ( and one of the bottles of vodka) and i am at my apartment, a first floor dive that i do my best to keep in a tidy condition.

I sit down and crack open a second bottle , i am still shaking, and a little voice in the back of my head keeps telling me that i should have done something, anything. But the bigger voice, the one that sees the world in cold logical tones tells me i did the smartest thing in the situation. That voice applauds me for my fortitude in not doing anything. That voice is trying to convince me i am a better person for doing what i did.

There can be something to be said for self hate. Those among us who are sure of themselves tend to be the Gacies, the Hitlers, the Albert fish of the world. Those of us who think that we suck tend to think things through in terms of effects on other people. And in this clown’s opinion that is exactly what the world needs more of.

Now if there is anything that can add gas to the fires of self hate, it is alcohol, and as i sit there on my couch i down enough of it to turn my spark of nagging empathy into an inferno of self loathing. A mirrored pyre that reflects exactly what is wrong with me, and to a lesser extent the world itself.

The world has plenty of people willing to do good, but the problem is in our modern age of freedom and equality ( we may not be perfect , but look at how far we came since the 50’s) people expect not to have to take a risk when doing good. Protesters complain about being harassed, young rebels are astounded to find out people oppose them, and people of all stripes think that they should be able to make a stand without any ill effects to them. It’s created a generation of pseudo rebels who would take matters into their own hands, if only they could be assured that nothing bad would come of it.

And i am no different. I have no right to sit here and complain about these armchair Guevaras, i am staring down the face of pure evil and not doing shit.

“ Not doing shit!” i scream tossing the empty bottle at a case of trophies, one of my few points of pride. It comes crashing off of the wall, amid the broken glass and brass clowns, the oak plaques and the purple ribbons ( best auguste 2001, most entertaining slapstick routine, 2002. All meaningless in the grand scheme of things.) , something hits me, and as is often the case with personal epiphanies, it has nothing to do with the subject at hand. I see my most prized possession , a silk tophat with a yellow hatband ( given to me by an idol of mine, though no one you would be likely to recognize.) amid the shattered glass, and the metaphor couldn’t be any more clear.
For a moment i think to sober up, that if this is a good idea, it will be just as good of an idea tomorrow. But sometimes the momentum of a situation takes you. The idea may be your own, but it is only the fuse, not the bomb. Once it’s lit, there is no stopping it.

I take out my “ clown kit” a collection of interesting cloth, buttons, sowing needles, and everything needed to repair or make a costume, and i scatter it on my bed. Taking in whooping drunken breaths i start to pick pieces of fabric, a midnight black, a dark garish yellow, and some red piping. I take out gag straps ( devices used to hold things like seltzer, expanding wands, candy, on the inside of a coat.) and finally i walk back into my livingroom and grab the hat, brushing off the broken glass and setting it in the same pile as the selected fabrics.

It’s been a while since i made a new outfit, and i am not exactly in the most able state of mind. But if being unskilled and drunk stopped any fool with a cause , i don’t think we would have won world war 2. As 2 o clock in the morning rolls around i find myself with many pinholes dripping blood, and a costume that mixes the right amount of nightmare and childhood.

The influence is heavily classic whiteface, and all and all gives the impression of an old tuxedo. In making it i followed what is essentially the “ not to do “ list of making clown garb, There is a fine line between funny and scary, and all of it actually has well researched psychological roots. I can’t help but feel like a blasphemer though. Purposely inverting a set of instructions given to me in confidence by my learned elders.

The elbows and knees are cut to fit slightly too tight. This gives an impression of skin as opposed to clothing, a guaranteed way to not get a return performance. The overcoat is cut much in the same way around the waist, it immediately makes the mind think of a spider ( due to the slight suggestion of a segmented body.). In the ultimate act of blasphemy to humor i combine the deep black in the overcoat and pants, with an undershirt of the dark, just off of bumblebee yellow. You never ,never combine yellow and black , it has been ingrained into our brains that this means danger.

I set it out on my bed, the rest of my kit being scattered around the room. But something doesn’t feel right, like something is missing. I walk to my bathroom and stare at myself for almost a half hour. I see a frazzled individual, pretty drunk, his hair a mess. Generally something pitiable, it somewhat takes the wind out of my sails, but fans the smoldering ashes of self hate. I grab a disposable razor and start to shave my head. I honestly can’t tell you why, but when i think of someone manning up and marching to what may be a horrible fate, i think of a shaved head.

At some point after this i pass out. Mania and anger can only fuel the human body for so long. But one thing i am surprised at is, when i wake up, somewhat more sober, and better off for a few hours of sleep. Not only is the idea still around, but it is nagging at me, like it is angry at any slowdown in the process. I pause long enough to grab a pack of pop tarts, and i put the finishing touches on...... what is this?

I honestly can’t say it is a costume. I have no intent of hiding my identity, as a matter of fact this entire plan is being done under the assumption that i will, fairly quickly be caught by some form of authority. I don’t even know if we have a word in English for what it is. If i had a gun to my head and were forced to explain it i would say it is half way between a symbol and a weapon. I intend it to throw off this twisted prick, and hopefully before i get carted off the the electric chair or loony bin start a legend. Something that may make other people like him think twice before indulging in their fantasies.

I put it on, as much to work up nerve as to see if there needs to be any alterations. As i tie up my boots i come to a kind of horrid realization. What am i going to use to .....do the deed. I don’t own a gun, i don’t even own a can of mace, shit, i am not even one of those guys that likes to collect swords. Buying weapons is out of the question, i have no problem getting caught, but i would like to have at least a few days of freedom before that, and buying a bunch of lethal crap would be putting up a rather giant red flag.

I find myself staring my my butchers block. Up until this point i had a real feeling of transformation, of becoming something that could do some good. Now that i am arming myself with a set of knives that periodically has trouble cutting through chicken bone i am brought back to reality. But people don’t do good by thinking about logic , or how they have a snowballs chance in hell of pulling something off. If 6 steak knives, one butcher knife , a fillet knife, and a paring knife are what i have, so be it. I put them in the gag straps and check myself out in the mirror. No visible bulges, at least i can have the element of surprise on my side.

I mentally run through my plan till late that evening. I run through my strengths and weaknesses , then i run through just my strengths because if i think about my weaknesses i might end up giving up on this.

After countless revisions i come to a final plan. If he is not alone, the wife is going to have to go. I had to run this through my mind quite a few times to warm up to the idea, but the way i see it, is that even if she isn’t supporting it, she has to know. If she hasn’t stopped it, she has helped it. If the kid is there, well i am simply going to knock him out cold. And i am sure if i asked him to trade off a days worth of headache for freedom from his sick fuck of a parent, he would happily agree. As far as the rest, well how hard can it be to kill a man? The only hard part is not getting caught, which i am only giving minimal consideration to. One cannot take a stand if there are no consequences.

I fill my pockets with a few trinkets, magnesium flash strips, a seltzer bottle half filled with bleach, and a pack of smokes. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

The last part of this...transformation? Ritual? Either seems appropriate, takes place in front of the mirror. I slather on whiteface makeup over my newly shaved head, i accentuate my nose and eyes with clown grey a very simple, effective makeup set , and for the final touch i use spirit gum to hold the tophat in place. I would like to think that i come off as scary but at the very least i can say i come off as odd, i don’t think this guy is going to cower in fear, but if it buys me an extra second as he is trying to process who or what the hell i am, that might be all the advantage i need.

I stand in front of my own door for a few minutes, that little voice, the fucking coward who thinks that the world is divided into my problems and everyone else’s is screaming, trying to stop this course of action. But if he could convince me, he would have by now. My pause is not because of being tentative, it is savoring what may be my last moments of freedom, or if i am incredibly unlucky and this guy happens to be a gun nut or something, life.

It is 11 o clock, and if there is one thing that i will say about new york, it is that if you stick to back allies, even walking around in a full clown getup doesn’t get you noticed after 9.

I find myself in front of his door quicker than i would have liked, though this time i do not hesitate, i knock loudly and stand, my body surprisingly calm, my mind a storm of fear doubt, pride and rage. After a minute or so he answers the door, the lights in the house seem to be off, except for a dull blue glow coming from the computer room.

“ Who are you?” he says, his voice thick with sleep. He rubs his eyes and something tells him that everything is not right, his eyes widen in shock and i know, beyond a doubt that this is the moment of truth. What happens next?

I freeze , that is what happens. Time seems to slow to a crawl as i think of how to start. I am no serial killer, in fact i am the type of guy who puts spiders outside instead of crushing them, so trying to start the act of taking someones life is something completely foreign to me. For a few seconds we both just stand their, neither of us having a good sense of what is happening or where this is going to go. The weird thing is it is eerily close to trying to pick up at a bar. The hard part isn’t going through once the attempt is made, but rather, starting the attempt to begin with.

It is like Like an electric shock runs through me and i react, i don’t even really know what i am doing until i feel a sharp pain in my hand and see him stumble backward into his house. Of all the things i could have done, i punched him in the face. Maybe not the best opening salvo, actually, to go back to the bar analogy, it is the equivalent of “ nice shoes, want to fuck?” , something that has almost no chance of working, but is better than nothing.

I dash into the house and slam the door shut behind me, something about this gives me confidence, Sun tzu would call it shaping the battlefield, i would call it flying by the seat of my pants. My next instinct is to try and throw him off his game, maybe make him do something stupid, not that i would know what a stupid reaction would be in a situation like this, but i am hoping that i will know it when i see it.

I may not be a fighter, and i am certainly not a killer, but what i am is a performer , in one movement i toss out a flash strip and pull out two knives, at random. The first part goes well, the room for a second is lit like daytime, and if it works out the way i think it will, he will be stumbling blindly. The second part, not so much, i manage to snag the paring knife and one one of the steak knives. Not exactly a combination that makes one confidant.

The room goes dim and i start to move toward the guy, thinking he will be stumbling backward, and hoping he is starting to feel some fear. What i see is the exact opposite. The man is staring straight ahead his posture that of a boxer , lightly swaying from side to side. He is not shaken, he is not blinded, and if i trust my instinct, he is someone used to dangerous situations.

He moves to the left , i do the same and go in for some kind of stab, but it turns out i am not the only one using trickery in this fight. It was a feint , and before i can even register this fact he shifts momentum to the right. I have no defense, or maybe i do, who knows. Last time i was in a fight was in high school, and i certainly didn’t gain any martial wisdom from it.

My entire head snaps back and i can feel my ass hit the ground before i know what is going on, i’m dazed , trying to shake my head to get some form of sense back as he just stands there ready to pick me apart the second i stand up. This is by no means going as planned.
I shift my weight backwards, raising my feet and launching myself back to a standing position. I sway drunkenly, purposefully, it seems the only thing i have going for me is the psychological advantage. Regardless of the shit this guy has seen, i have to be able to find something that will take him off his game. So far i have given up on scaring him, maybe though, i can get in his head another way.

I comically start to sway in a big circle as if i am a cartoon boxer that is seeing stars, i see an eyebrow raise, so i decide to keep it up. I up my fists like a 30’s pugilist and put on an irish accent.

“ Is that all ye got ya big son of a bitch? I’ve seen tougher swings in a playground.” I stumble again into the wall, playing the fool. Regaining my comical boxer’s stance, an imitation of his, i start to try and close the distance. He throws a jab, more to get me into position than to cause damage. This is the point i realize how outclassed i am. There is almost no chance of me avoiding anything he chooses to throw, so my only option is to do what clowns do, get hurt and make people laugh.

I barely feel the jab, but the punch that comes after it, a straight flying right handed blow i do feel, but being ready for it, i manage to keep it from shattering my nose. I stiffen my body and do, what in the industry is called a flat-fall. You’ve all seen it, someone tilts backward like a falling tree and hit’s the ground, it looks painful, but by curving your back at the right moment you can absorb the impact, and if your really good. 4 years of clown collage good, you can turn that into a swift way back to your feet.

As i fall he keeps on top of me, waiting for his chance to start wailing on my face, what he doesn’t expect is the full rotation of my body. As i hit the ground i bring my knees inward and arch my back, rolling into a ball i use the momentum to throw myself back a few feet and land in a crouch as he tries to stop himself. This is what i have been waiting for, i see his boxers pose melt and his arms go out to his sides to keep balance, i waste no time. I throw a wide haymaker with my right hand, hoping to land the steak knife in his chest or stomach, while i wasn’t quick enough for that, the knife goes easily into his forearm. I stand up and toss out a series of unaimed blows with the paring knife, he manages to slap them away from his face, but gains some nasty cuts in the process.

A fight is all momentum , well at least that is what i heard Joe Rogan say during a ufc. So my next move is to try and keep him on his toes. He tries to pull out the steak knife and i rush in, what i intend to do is knock him on his ass, what i end up doing is slamming into what feels like a brick wall. I keep my footing and in a moment of inspiration i bring out the bottle of seltzer and bleach.

Stepping backward i put on a goofy grin “ Here is an oldie but a goodie” i say aiming and pulling the trigger. While this guy may be a marine, or a boxer or something, he doesn’t seem to be the brightest penny in the jar. He pulls out the knife and says “ i hear seltzer gets out blood stains, have fun asshole. “

The stream soaks him from face to chest in one burst, and almost instantly he starts to scream as the bleach gets into all the slashes, and more importantly the deep red would from the steak knife. He stumbles backward and tries to wipe the liquid onto his shirt. I feel something strange at this point, in control. But i know its not going to last long, whatever this guy does when he is not raping his kid, it has prepared him for this kind of situation.

I am starting to get a feel for the fight, and know that i probably don’t have time to go for another knife so i improvise. I expect the seltzer bottle to shatter when it hits , that is always what happens in the movies when someone gets hit with a glass bottle full of liquid.

Just so you know, that is , not at all what happens in real life. My intent was to shatter it and use it as a shank, the reality was well......better than expected.

In place of a shattering noise and a wet pedophile, i hear a sickening sound. Like Styrofoam cracking under jello, combined with the half full dinging noise of the bottle. And this marine, or mercenary, maybe martial artist, goes down in an instant like someone pulled the plug powering him.

I bend down , thinking to see him breathing shallowly , but he is not breathing at all. And there is a rather large half moon indentation in the middle of his skull about an inch and a half deep. I may not know much about fighting, but i do know ( from a lifetime of watching rescue 911.) that no one survives a depressed skull fracture like that.

I stand up, breathing heavily, my face feeling throbbing hard enough to blur the edges of my vision. And i only have one thought.

What do i do now?

Parareality Induced By Trauma : Episode 2

About now i would like to relay to you the story of my first kill. What is that you say, you’ve already heard about that? Well that isn’t entirely true, you have heard about the first person i have caused to die, my first kill was a different situation entirely.

As far as childhoods go, mine wasn’t actually all that bad. Sure it had the normal ups and downs, but no norman bates esque mother, no abusive father, and no secret adoption from a long line of killers. In fact, i can state for the record that my current state of mind didn’t start until about age 13 or so. I can’t pinpoint any incident that caused it, but there have been a few moments throughout my life that i feel opened the floodgates, for lack of a better term.

It was the summer of 1993 and i was 11 years old. When you live in a state like texas, being a kid is like living in a fantasy novel. Hidden caverns, endless deserts, and creatures of all types just waiting around to be discovered. All and all a pretty happy time for me.

While other kids were playing ball, and other serial killers were mutilating cats, i had a different hobby. Wandering the desert has always been soothing to me. The isolation has always just felt, right. I wish i had some way of explaining this, but it is simply an immutable fact, like the sun rising, or a piece of meat going rotten. But being with myself wasn’t the only reason i liked to search the caverns and rocks, i have always, to a greater or lesser extent wanted to make my mark on the world. Something that would say, in no uncertain terms “ i was here”. And in those days i found a rather novel approach to this.

Back in those days a kid could easily buy a can of spray paint. Either idiots hadn’t started inhaling them yet, or people just didn’t care, take your pick. But i found nothing more satisfying on a summer night than finding a secluded place and decorating it exactly as i saw fit. Don’t misunderstand me, i have never been a great artist, never found drawing interesting, but placing a series of smudges, lines and doodles on a cliff face, or in a cave has held a certain tribal allure to me. And with countless miles of desert no one ever complained.

Do you ever hear someone tell a story, and they start it off with “ I knew something weird was going to happen.”? Those people are lying, when something weird happens, the reason it is weird is that it is unexpected. If one expected it, it would cease to be weird.

So, needless to say, i was ready for another in a long line of nights under the stars, and scrambling back to my house at the stroke of ten o clock. I packed up the can of paint ( dark purple in case your interested) a few sandwiches, and of course, plenty of bottled water. When your traversing a desert, that goes from a convenience item to a survival item.

The day was like.... well any other summer day in Texas, hot. By the time i had opened my gate and started my trek my back was already soaked in sweat.

But the sky was clear and i had nothing else to do, the joys of being a child.

The more i walked that day, the more i wanted to walk. I passed many sites of my previous adventures in non urban graffiti and something kept pushing me farther. By 3 o clock i passed a cave with bright green around the entrance, the farthest ( but not last) place i had been to. Whether it was out of nostalgia or hunger i decided to stop and dip into the ration of sandwiches, gummy worms and water i had brought with me.

As i downed the third sandwich i spotted something in the distance. Something, that until now i had never noticed, a large almost perfectly dome like rock just before the horizon.

One of the major problems with a desert is the fact that your sight range is greatly extended. What you think is a 20 minute schlep is more than likely 2 hours of walking. No matter how much experience you have with this, your ability to judge distances out in the wasteland is compromised. I can only imagine the amount of bleached skeletons that were people thinking “ i am sure i could get there.”

That being said by the time i reached the rock it was nearing 6 o clock. Much past my “ point of no return “ time. Which is to say the distance i could walk and still be home at the appropriate time. But the day was feeling epic ( If you forced me to guess i might conclude this was because of sunstroke. ) and i could deal with the beating with a nail studded belt, while i was forced to wear my dead brothers favorite shirt that i would get when i got home late.

You really did think i was serious there didn’t you?

I was breathing heavily, and mindful that i did need to hurry up , while i wouldn’t get beaten with the aforementioned belt, i still didn’t want to worry my parents. So in a flurry of vandalistic activity i started to cover the rock with sweeping lines, and imperfect circles, zig zags and filled in squares. And it was the last of these that got me in trouble.

There was about a quarter of the can left, and i had the thought to simply empty it in one area , make a solid color patch, and this went fairly well, until i noticed a piece of the colored patch move slightly. For a moment i thought that my eyes were playing tricks on me, that is until i felt three pinpricks on my hand and instinctively dropped the can.

I felt a sudden flush come to my face, and the world started to spin. I shook my head to try and clear away the feeling of floating i was getting. And with my last moment of lucidity, managed to put together what happened. Standing in front of me was a raised patch of purple, a raised patch with a curled stinger and two nasty looking claws.

My breathing started to get labored and a sense of irrational fear came over me. As i turned my head i saw the world sort of bleed together, and every step i took felt like it was on legs that were not my own. I had no plan in mind, but my poison addled 11 year old brain was screaming at me to run, and run i did.

To balance out my commentary on people lying i would like to point to something that people generally consider a lie , but that is actually %100 true. When you push your body to the limits you trigger your fight or flight reflex. One part of this that very few people think of is the vomit reflex. Sure crapping yourself, or pissing yourself in terror are more common. But when your body knows it is fighting ( or thinks it is fighting.) versus running away a completely different action takes place, you vomit. The reason for this is that you are constantly expending energy to digest food, and in most cases this is good, because one needs food to live. But in certain situations even that small percentage of your bodies energy could mean the difference between life and death. Next time someone tells you that they ran till they puked, you can be pretty sure they are telling you the truth.

Now i cannot say that my plan was to get back to the cave, but on some level, some instinctual level i must have known that it offered the best chance of survival. But it was a long run to get there.

During the last hour i found myself vomiting every 30 feet or so, this sent me into some tumbles that opened up a few nasty cuts on my body. But running, running in any direction seemed much more important than worrying about being encrusted with puke, blood and sand, so i simply sprang back to my feet every time and kept up my sprint to ......somewhere.

I hit the wall of the cave before i noticed i was anywhere near it. My vision was plagued with blotches of color, and things that may or may not have been alive watching me. My hearing was no better, for 10 minutes i found myself having a conversation with my mother about how sorry i was for staying out so late, but slamming face first into solid rock brought me back to my senses , for a moment anyway.

The opening no longer looked friendly, in fact the first image the bright green colored cave entrance brought to mind was of the mouth of a giant snake. I started to back up, thinking maybe to run , but a moment of lucidity hit me, if i didn’t stay here , i would die. And this, truly was my first moment of understanding death. Sure i had seen my grandfather in his best suit sitting in a pine box. ( and for the record, i did cry. ) But when your a kid, this doesn’t really click. However, having poison surging through your veins in some of the most unforgiving territory in america does a lot for your maturity level.

What i remember was not entering the cave, the image that will always stay with me is sitting at the back and looking into the fading daylight outside. And seeing him, i have always just called him the man. He was huge, in height and girth, nothing overly sinister about him, just what one would describe as a typical farmer , a red checkered shirt, some blue overalls and a beard that could use a trim. But the sense of dread he instilled in me, the sense of absolute doom has never left me. I had never seen him before, and have never seen him since, but that man, just standing there will stay with me till the day they slip the lethal injection needle into my arm.

I don’t know how much time passed, but it felt like years, a symphony of my own nightmares swirling around me as the poison tried to run its course. Nothing specific, no goblins or giant spiders ( ironically i am sure there was some fairly large ones in the cave) just pure emotion and fear hitting me like a wave as my vision would shift to a perfectly opaque color, colors, i will also always remember. Red for fear, yellow for sadness, and a shimmering sickly green as despair hit me like a kick to the stomach. I could hear everyone i ever knew dying in one moment, and the same group laughing at me the next. I have a feeling whomever thought up the idea of hell, was bit by a scorpion.

But as every user will tell you, no high lasts forever. And i finally came back to reality. One would expect me to be scared, to desperately want to get home, to cry on my mothers shoulder. But that couldn’t be farther from my state of mind.

This was the first time in my life i can remember ever wanting to kill something. Not in the way that a kid wants to see what happens if he throws a firecracker at a frog, not in the way a kid wishes his brother would die because he broke his nintendo, but in the way that a jilted husband wants to kill the guy sleeping with his wife. I knew the consequences, i knew it was stupid, but that insect tried to kill me.

My mouth tasted like sugar and mushrooms, and my entire body ached. I couldn’t run, and by my guess it was about 2 in the morning. But that feeling, that anger.... no, anger is not quite the right word. It was more a feeling of challenge, something from that hunter gatherer part of me that wants to do nothing more than thump its chest and show it is the best carnivore on the block, kept me going.

I dragged the stick the entire way, which took 3 hours, all the while thinking of the horrendous things i was going to do , once i found the scorpion. I could go into detail, but i am sure most of you have lives to get to, let’s just say if it involved a scorpion and anything found in your average house, i thought of it.

I’ve never been a lucky person, and my childhood was no different. But one thing i can say is that even at 5 am in the creeping morning light, a purple scorpion is pretty easy to spot. It stood on the rock, facing me, like it had been there the entire time, just waiting for this squishy bi-ped to return for round two. As i approached it lowered itself slightly, and i didn’t give it time to react.

That isn’t to say i hit.

The stick hit to the left of the creature and splintered, wood in a desert isn’t exactly the strongest stuff out there. I don’t know if the scorpion recognized me , or for that matter if a scorpion can recognize anything other than prey and rocks, but it is my opinion that it knew, as far as scorpions can be said to know anything, that we were now playing for keeps. The high noon bell had rung and we were in a duel between man and beast. Fighting a scorpion the way one fights a man may seem silly as an adult, but as a child it was my first serious experience.

As the stick shattered the thing bent low, and was ready to spring. My hand was at it’s mercy, but my other was free, i had one shot, and truth be told, not a very good one.

He scuttled toward me in a purple flash, something about a creature so deadly in such a garish shade made its intimidation factor worse, but to my credit i didn’t shake, i didn’t miss and i didn’t get stung again, ever.

I caught it by the tail, and in that instant, it was over. The scorpion was still alive, but now, it was at my mercy. I cocked back my hand as the creature tried in vein to sting, or claw, or anything it could to get away from me. I stared at the rock, the place i would watch the creature explode as it hit, and something hit me.

Watching disney movies makes a child give animals too much credit. Every bunny has a happy go lucky personality, every cat thinks about how great it would be to eat a bird, and every crocodile is out to eat the toes of little children who wander too close to a swamp. Or, in my case, every scorpion is a purposeful killer. And by this logic, this death was too easy.

I wanted it to go through what i had been through, literally. I sighed and got a better grip on the tail.

The walk home was a horror, but the worse it got, the better i felt, the more joy i was getting out of dragging the six legged bastard with me. Every degree it rose made me laugh a little harder, taunt it a little more, and stop more and more often to bury it’s body in the sand then rudely yank it back up to earth. I had lost a shoe at some point and when i stepped on a rock and gashed my foot, i simply sat down and let my blood pour over the thing’s face.

Eventually i did get home, my parents must have realized something was wrong, because they were no where to be found. Only a note on the backdoor saying that they were at the police station, and they wern’t mad at me.

I got over the incident, rather quickly actually, a bath, a soda and a brief talk to my parents later, i was right as rain. Of course i told them that i had fallen asleep at 8 o clock, and then hurt myself trying to get back in the middle of the night.

Want to know what else i did? I tore the claws and stinger off of that prick with a pair of pliers, gave it a quick soak in a glass full of vinegar, and put it in a shoebox filled with flies. For the next 3 weeks i watched maggots slowly eat the scorpion starting with the unimportant parts, and leaving nothing more than a shell. It moved up until day 20.

While i can’t say this was the one incident that changed me, it is the first time i can remember taking delight in the suffering of another creature ( and yes i do understand insects don’t suffer, but that didn’t make it any less satisfying at the time.) . And more importantly the first day i realized that the world had two categories, the things i pity, and everything else.

Parareality Induced By Trauma : Episode 1

A spot of blood, it seems to be telling me i am wrong, but i know for damned sure that i am right.

I wince as i press harder, the spot tearing a bit. Maybe i was wrong.

Seeing as this is highly unlikely i throw the calipers away, it could be that they are innocent , but i am not taking that chance, not with something as important as a disgusting layer of radiation holding filth under my skin.

I hate fat, there is nothing more disgusting than knowing there is a greasy , useless mass taking upspace in your body. Sure if i lived in some arctic wasteland it might provide me with comfort, but in the Texas sun, fat on people is about as logical as fat on a car.

i dab at the small cut with a piece of paper towel, after chucking the towel into a steel can i ignite it with a wood match and some lighter fluid. Don't get the wrong idea , it is not some voodoo paranoia of someone taking my blood, just simple pragmatism, if it is burned, it doesn't take up space.

Makes perfect sense. To me anyway.

Which is to say , to the only person that matters that much. I'm a sociopath, it's strange that i
know this, or maybe it's strange that i can admit this. i forget which of the two scared the 20
dollar an hour waste of time more.

But regardless i am not just a sociopath. I am special, but from what i hear all of us think that.

And that is the paradox i live. I know, for a fact that i am unique. That there is something about me , my situation and the way i choose to deal with it, that stands out from the rest of the world. But i am smart enough, to be able to see that this is exactly what i would think if i was just another garden variety lunatic looking for a reason to take out his fantasies on the world.

For my money i think the fact i drove my psychologist to suicide weighs in my favor for being a paragon versus a rabid dog. But then again, i have never seen a rabid dog without a level of confidence that only someone, or something that knows for a fact it is immortal could have.

Now, don't think i am trying to spin you some yarn of a professional killing themselves due to having to probe around in my mind. No, unfortunately i had to work exceptionally hard to get her to put the gun in her mouth. And even harder to get her to pull the trigger.

Let me explain.

Before i begin, it is best not to think of me as evil. And it is absolutely imperative that you do
not think of me as good. Morality does not come into play in what i do, it can't, the concept of
morality is someone else's, for better or worse, i will not have someone else contributing to my
mind.

I can honestly say i started going to try and see if i could improve myself, maybe develop a deeper understanding of the creatures that look like me, talk like me, and from what i have been told , think like me. But this was dashed rather quickly.

She wasn't what you ( and i do mean you.) would call a bad person. But she also wasn't worthy of pity. And pity is about as close as i come to respect, it is what separates , in my mind the victims, or rather potential victims, from those i feel no desire to destroy.

Small incidents make up your impression of a person. A dropped plate, a missed shower, nails that are too yellow , or in this case four pills sitting not quite concealed on a desk. Just four little pills, but why exactly were they there? Why weren't they in a bottle? And why did i get just a hint that the professional in front of me may be doing more than just letting idiots whine.

I wait for the entire session, making up a story from my childhood to keep her interested while i stare at the pills.

Surely, she knows i see them, and if she knows i see them then she knows i am curious. And if she knows i am curious, then why does she not say something? Unless, that is she has something to hide.

I won't try and say i had evidence of her wrongdoing, and in fact hindsight being 20/20 maybe she was innocent, but this was the start of a long process that is only just starting to be perfected.

I can't say i spent a long time thinking of how to go about it. That is yet another thing that puts me above others of my kind, no wasted months in a workshed salivating over fantasies. By the time my idea is fully formed i am taking steps to implement it.

The first was to convince her what she was doing was working. Or at least had a beneficial effect on my state of mind. Easy enough, people ,especially those trained to know others tend to try and look at the small things in order to see what your intentions and state of mind are. Those that think they have you outwitted will take a crossing of the legs as evidence of a submissive personality, a twitching foot to be an indication someone is nervous, or a flushed face to be evidence of guilt. Police , psychologists, psychics, and those that consider themselves socially aware have fooled themselves into thinking that they have a fool proof system for knowing what people don't want them to know.

The danger is, sometimes crossed legs mean nothing more than a person's ass is sore, a twitching foot may be a genetic flaw, and a flushed face could simply be an act.

" So what is it that you have found? What is it that has caused such a turn around?" She asks, my face flushing.

I tell her nothing , and i make a small cough, being careful to look at the glass of water, but not take it.

" But look at the turn around in you in the past 2 months. When you got here you were.... in a dark place let's say. " Her statement is half right, i was in a dark place. The problem is that i am bringing her with me.

I cough again and open my mouth slightly, she thinks i was going to say something but stopped. I am two steps ahead of her , she will look at me and wait for me to continue. I do, only when a few seconds have gone past. She thinks i am trying to sugar coat something, that i am working in a few half truths to make the whole truth seem better. This is good, i want her to think she is in control, total control.

" I... have been taking your advice. You know that. " I say, if she knew my real voice maybe she would laugh at the tone i am using. Or maybe she would run for the hills. Who knows.

" Yes i know this, but you said there was something you were doing that is helping your situation. I would like to know what." She says , playing a similar game with her voice. Keeping it level, soothing and monotone, when she really just wants to ask me what the hell the secret i am hiding is.

Here is the moment of truth, if what i tell her next makes her call the police, that is proof that she has nothing to hide, and that i was mistaken. I have nothing to lose, because it is a complete fabrication. If she doesn't, regardless of any moral issues about doctor patient confidentiality, then she deserves the ride through hell i have planned for her.

" Do you really want to know? I mean , isn't the actual thing i am doing less important than the effect it has on me?" I parrot what she expects to hear if i have a secret.

Truth is, if i did have one i would simply tell her in no uncertain terms what it was. People seldom believe you when you lay out something disturbing on the table.

" Somewhat, but sometimes we can pick the wrong ways to relieve stress. And this , while being
cathartic in the short term causes larger issues in the future. " That same monotone, i can tell though she is getting a bit anxious. No twitching feet needed, it is 5 minutes to the end of the session.

" Well, you said i had issues with...what did you call it?" i say.

" Narcissism, the violent fantasies you had are indicators of an inflated sense of self worth." She
says. Not that she has heard any of my actual violent fantasies, just cartoonish tripe i spun on the spot.

" Well, i was thinking that was completely right. That it is obviously wrong to hurt people in that way. " My tone is a bit happier, like a child reciting the alphabet successfully for the first time.

" Exactly, and why did we say this was wrong?" She says indulging in her own fantasy of teaching the monster that it is a monster.

" Because my wants and desires have no more weight than others wants or desires."

" Right" She says nodding, i have always hated when someone tries to show they are listening , it usually means they aren't.

" So i found a way around that." My smile, i am sure comes off as disturbed. I notice her face screw up in a most unsubtle frown, it is not the little things that tell you what a person is thinking, it is the big things.

"....Around that?" She says.

" Yes, around that. I was thinking that if people would consent to being hurt, then it would be okay, because i am not stepping on someone's wants, i am actually giving them something in exchange."

She chokes on nothing, she is probably hoping desperately that she is misunderstanding me.

" So i started offering people money to let me hurt them. Not kill them, mind you, that would be wrong, but you would be surprised how small of a fee some people are willing to accept to lose a finger."

The buzzer goes off , indicating the end of the session, i smile and hold out my hand as if i have no clue anything is wrong. she shakes it, but her hand is cold and she has no strength in her grip. I walk out of the office whistling out of tune, purposefully, of course.

As i thought, no police came to my house. And as i hoped she doesn't tell me to stop coming. She feels she has created a monster , and wants to do anything she can to fix her mistake.

Months go by, 6 to be exact, and twice a week i go into the office and tell her of my stress relieving activities. And twice a week she tries to subtly convince me that what i am doing is wrong. The best part about it is that she doesn't want to tell me she made a mistake, because that would impact the level of faith i have in her ( which i have her believing is quite high.) , and make it nearly impossible for her to rectify the mistake.

Or at least that is what the psychology texts say will happen. When someone bases their life on the ideas of others, they can be so predictable. The more she tries to "fix" me the worse i tell her i have became, and the more i tell her i appreciate everything she has done for me. And still, through none of this, through stories of animal mutilation and what could only be described as mutilation prostitution , does she do what would be the right thing ( assuming i was telling the truth.) and simply call the police.

I see it effecting her, she is not getting sleep, her appearance is suffering, and in the six months she has known me she looks aged 20 years. By the time my plan reaches the apex anyone walking into the room would assume i was the doctor and she was the patient. I will always remember our last session, i brought her a framed picture of herself from when we started our sessions. The woman in that picture would probably cross the street to avoid the woman sitting in the leather chair.

You would be surprised at what you can get a newspaper to print if you know the right thing to give the right person. Hell, if you know a broad enough spectrum of people, you can get almost anything you want. You should feel safe that very few people like me think this way.

I put the picture and a newspaper on the desk in the middle of the room. And with a yokal grin i say " read.".

I must give credit to Anthony Perkins, the fake lunatic i am playing is heavily based on his manic moments.

" Stretch's owner murdered in own house. Son to inherit small fortune." she reads , slowing down toward the end.

For those not in the know, stretch's is a local chain of restaurants. Between their excellent food, and their unintentional help, i would give them an 8/10.

" I finally figured it out. If i can benefit more than one person, it doesn't really matter if i cause
determent to only one person. That man's son is going to receive untold amounts of cash, his family will never want for anything, i can do good and what i want to do!" toward the end i feel i am hamming it up a bit , but what is the point of this if not to have a little fun.

She reaches under the cushion of the chair, and pulls out a gun, before i can say anything she draws back the hammer.

" What is going on?" i say sounding shocked.

" I failed, everything i have been told to do has failed. Every piece of information i have learned every skill i have ever had has done nothing but drive you deeper into your own twisted fantasy world. " Her soothing monotone is gone, her voice is changing pitch like a corrupted file and the gun starts shaking.

" But you didn't fail, without you i would just be hurting people at random, but you showed me, you have shown me that there has to be balance i have to do good , so that i can do what i want, you showed me that. " I say starting to plead.

Her entire body shakes as she sticks the gun to her temple. " The sad thing is , it's not your
fault. " She is on the borderline right now, she knows she can't kill another person, but she doesn't know if she can kill herself.

It is going perfectly. I stare at the gun and tense my body , i take a large obvious swallow and jump off the couch lunging for the gun.

The report is deafening, and i have to say and the streak of blood on the wall with bits of burnt bone through it is less of something i want to see, and more of an unfortunate byproduct of one of the most entertaining things i have ever done.

That night i finally do talk to the police, but not about a fictional series of pay for play torture , but about the suicide of my therapist. They offer me another, but i decline, i found exactly what i was looking for here.