Do you believe there’s such a thing as good or bad luck?

I’m not referring to all that stuff about making your own luck, working hard and cutting a swathe through all that stands in your path. The “yeah, I got luckier the harder I worked” brigade.

Fuck you, prick. Fuck you and the condescending motherfucking horse you rode in on. I work harder than most and still look back at a wake of shattered dreams and mediocre achievements.

No, it’s not that. I mean something different entirely.

I’m talking about pure luck, the genetic shit. Can someone actually be naturally lucky or not? Like, how do you fare when your fate is decided upon the flip of a coin? Simple 50/50 shit. That kind of luck.

I know how I do when it comes to it. When there’s that 50/50 outcome, for me, the coin nearly always errs on the side of the shitty call. This has been proven in a simple game of higher or lower with a deck of cards and some friends; most of whom would fall in a pile of shit and come out smelling of roses. Me? I’d fall in a barrel of tits and come out sucking my thumb.

Anyway, higher or lower, for those who have lived under a rock all their lives, is a pretty simple game.

A number of cards (eight, ten, twelve, whatever) are lined up facing away from the player, the first card is turned over and then the next card is guessed as to whether it is higher, lower; or very rarely: the same. Our game ended badly. I never got past card number three, with a couple of occasions of the card being the same number; whereas lucky friends would speed through all twelve cards, deftly predicting the next card’s denomination as I wallowed in my self-pity and luckless existence. Time and time again they fared well, then just one too many times.

And there. That was the catalyst. This simple game had shone a brutal and stark light upon over forty years of bad luck. Several rounds in and soaked in whiskey and self-pity, I felt a switch move in my head.

And then this: 

If my version of a coin flip was always a negative one, what of other's fate decided upon by my luck? My luck. My rules. In their lives.

Well, they certainly suffered. It wasn’t my doing though. OK, that’s not strictly true. It was me that gouged out the eyes of my oldest friend. But that wasn’t until after I’d made him watch me cut open his wife’s belly and fuck the wound as she screamed. He screamed. They all screamed.

Yes, it was me that left her violated and tethered to her beloved via the loops of her grey and red guts wrapping him like a visceral hug. My other friend couldn’t watch or shriek, however, as the coin (not me) left him without a head containing the prerequisite nerves and brain impulses to watch or utter screams from. Luck, not me dictated that I should try to actually shit down his neck. Now that was a messy business, the crap and plasma will no doubt be a nightmare to get out of the suede on that sofa. If anyone feels inclined to, that is.

But what I’m getting at is that it wasn’t me. It was fate. And fate has been deciding what happens to anyone else that has crossed my path in the gore streaked week since I quietly clicked shut and locked the door on that reeking pile of shit, come and blood covered body parts and entrails, still surrounded by Christmas decorations. I’ve got their cat, of course and she is well fed. That was a given without a coin toss. I’m not a barbarian, and I’m not cruel. Unlike destiny.

And unlike the man that nearly knocked me down as I walked out of my house the next day, his bike a whir of wind as he hammered by on the path in front of me with not an acknowledgement or apology. If I’d been a dullard like him, it would have ended in injury, but I stepped out of harms way. Otherwise it could have been painful. Well, it was, ultimately. Not my decision, though.

No, I bit down on my fury and let the universe decide. The coin flipped, had its say, and so I hunted him down to his house nearby, dragged him out, kicking and shouting, in front of his kids and smashed his face and skull open on the kerbside as cars hurried by to their lucky lives, oblivious to the anguished cries of his ginger twins; their watching faces ovals of open mouths, snot and tears. They may have only been eight or nine, but I gave them a fair chance.

It wasn’t me that decided they were a job lot, that twins counted as one flip. I asked the coin. Neither was it me that decided they should be stomped and tramped into the same porridge of brains, teeth, red hair and bone shards as their Dad. My dance of death on what had been their family of heads drew no audience, traffic didn’t care. No one seemed phased by the punishment that fate was serving up.

I surveyed the mess that chance had borne and not I. It was quite comical, the small star of humans the coin had left sprawled and occasionally twitching, equally set apart with bodies and neck all joining in one pulpy pile full of my boot marks. I wondered when the Mum would get home, if there was a Mum.

My bloody footprints faded as I sauntered away, flipping my coin and letting fate decide what happened to the next human.

Man, woman, girl and boy; they will all bow to providence. And I shall deliver what their or my generic luck deems fated, whatever was written in their stars.

Memories enter

without asking your consent

(the same way he did)

so you shut your eyes firmly

Why bother with forgetting,

when the nightmares make you come?

Fucking hate this job, carrying groceries

to their car for them. Lazy bastards.

This lady is something else, maybe 80,

walks slow with bright white hair and

and shrinking bones.

"Wonder if that

hunch is flat enough to balance eggs on.

Wonder about ax-swinging this case of diet soda

down on it as hard as I can. I picture it.

The wind giving and pulling the little hairs

on my arm, the crack, she crumples quick,

giving out a tired wail on the way down,

flopping around on the pavement like a little fish,

I chuckle thinking about it,"

she smiles back at me,

Mind your business bitch, I think.

Go back to my happy thoughts.

"She's in pain,

need to finish her off, hate to be a dick and

make her suffer. Grab a shopping cart and

lumberjack it like before, aiming to bring

the basket down square on her neck,

you know the part of the cart kids hold onto

with their little hands when they ride on the front?

Anyway, she's moving and I miss, hit the shoulder.

She doesn't appreciate my failed mercy-kill. Ungrateful whore.

What else do I have? Look around. Her keys.

Grab em. Roll her over and key-knuckle throat

punch until the old hag stops moving. I chuckle

again out of relief. "

We get to her car and I load the groceries and tell her to have a nice day. She reciprocates. On the way back my mind drifts again.

"Dodging the red pool of her life. Take a big step over the stream running and blocking my way. Zigzag all the way back inside the store. It's been a long day. Was that carry-out thirteen or fourteen? I can't remember. I chuckle again imagining what I must look like walking around the parking lot like this. Avoiding the nonexistent hazards of an invisible maze. I stop at the entrance and turn around, admiring the flat sea of my amusement. Red glistening pools mixed with dull, dry and sticky spots, it's beautiful I think. Like the ocean. "

Manager yells at me to quit blocking the door

and help this customer. Fucking asshole.

My only comfort is his overbearing ass

strewn all over the produce section. Poisoning

all the shoppers with whatever the fuck disease

I'm sure he has. Fuck it. Number fifteen.

Great this next one has kids....

"I'll have you know," the man said, twirling a pair of needle-nose pliers, "that I have no surgical experience." His grime-ridden teeth spread agape in unison with the pliers' jaws, which were coated in the mashed elasticity of countless nightcrawlers from happy little fishing trips past.

She was nylon rope fastened to a slab of wood that fit a loose definition of a table in some shit-hole that fit a loose definition of a garage. Her blue-grey eyes were calm and clear, no tears.

He got to it. The metal shark clamped down on her shiny purple fingernail, the index one, and thrashed its head in a herky-jerky killing blur until there was a crunch and the nail was detached, leaving its peach-colored imprint overflowing with deep, deep crimson.

She did not make a sound.

This was repeated nine times.

Afterward, he was perspiring. She was not.

"Okay," he sneered, frustration lacing his lips. "Enough with the foreplay."

The pliers shot up sparks when he spiked them against the concrete floor and very suddenly he had replaced them with a ball-peen hammer, which he swung at her face, pulverizing a once-pretty mouth with steely rage. A couple teeth shot down her throat, their jagged imperfections tearing up the larynx. She spit a stringy pink rope of the remaining loose teeth, along with part of her tongue. Whatever incisors and molars that remained clinging to their roots were throttled out of their homes by another blunt force.

And still she remained silent.

He was shrieking maniacally now, desperate to coax that beautiful sound of suffering so he could finally release.

She winked with a toothless grin.

He rambled unintelligibly and slapped his own face as hard as he possibly could before taking hold of a power drill. His hands were shaking so madly that it took him a full minute to unbutton her jeans and slide off her panties, taking a bite of her hip flesh for good measure. The drill bit explored her dark chasm, fully burrowing like a parasite. Then he squeezed the trigger and made a pussy purée. 

When the whirring had ceased, he removed the tool from her opening and contorted his face in the absolute madness of her soundlessness. Then he wept like a spoiled child, burying his face in her perky, blood-stained tits.

She stroked his hair and moaned, "Oh yeah! Now fuck me!" When he raised his tortured eyes, she repeated: "Fuck me! Fuck my bloody cunt with your throbbing rod!"

He swallowed a lifetime of sorrow. "Get out of here," he murmured. "Leave me alone, you grotesque fucking beast."

After wiping the tears from his eyes, he began the process of untying her. 

I started with her foot.

She screamed a lot.

They always do their first time.

I could muffle her, but nobody can hear the screams anyway, and she might yet say those special words.

She was already hoarse when I started on the other foot.

Still, I was glad I brought earplugs.

Her hands didn't elicit much of a reaction.

I could tell she was fading, and I had to step it up.

I went straight for her abdomen, and though she struggled, she couldn't break free as I ruined her.

She tossed and cried and spit at me.

I carried on unperturbed.

"Banana hammock," she rasped.

I stopped.  That was our safe word. "Told ya you couldn't handle it."

"I never knew getting tickled could be so painful," she wheezed, sitting up as I untied her restraints.

"Nobody expects it to be," I replied, "until they end up suffocating."

I looked her in the eye. We had been together for a month, and things were going well.

"You want to find out how long that takes?"

"What?! You want to kill me?"

"Not you!  Someone else, it doesn't matter who.  The rush is always the same."

She met my eyes.  I could see the uneasiness she tried to hide.

"I'd rather not.  Let's go upstairs and get some dinner, I'm hungry."

I sighed.  Another failure.

I forced her back down, and started tightening the wrist straps.

I saw her confusion turn to fear, but it was too late for her.

"Are you really going to tickle me to death?" She whispered.

"Nah," I said, getting out my cleaver, "you made me hungry, and KFC is closing soon."

Today is a brand new day, just like the millions of other days you’ve tucked in as postscripts, crumpled at the bottom of the trash can. You’ll know when it’s been too long when the can starts to overflow with the dead bodies. You button your shirt and think about the journey you must make: you must travel for five minutes to reach the subway, where you will commute for seventeen point six minutes before walking another four point three minutes to get to work.

Numbers are lines and curves that if you bend hard enough, you’ll produce calculated screams and streams of nonsense on Microsoft Excel. You once tried to tell Johnson your theory on numbers but he’d only said, "Numbers don’t scream’. Smith in the cubicle over had poked his head and recommended you pursue poetry instead. You don’t know if you can do poetry; poetry seems like it can only be written by people who actually have things to say.

You fiddle with your tie, straighten out your suit jacket. When you walk out, you see a box of Trix perched there on the table. It leers at you. You leer back, taking out a bowl from the cabinets and retrieving a spoon from one of the drawers. It comes naturally, the movement embedded in your muscle memory. One day, you’ll be eighty years old and you’ll forget about your mother and the lover you had who left you for a more interesting person but you won’t forget that silverware is located in the second drawer to the left. The thought sends a strange feeling scuttling down your spine so without further ado, you retrieve a jug of milk from the fridge. You pour the milk into the bowl first. The milk swirls inside and hums at you. "Mmmm," it says. "Mmm."

"Shut the fuck up," you say back and upend the box of cereal into the bowl. Glistening rainbow balls scatter across the milk, like footsteps across a pond. They dye the milk ghoulish colors, grotesquely crimson and turquoise and orange. You haven’t seen fireworks in a long time because you’ve had no one to see it with. The rabbit on the cereal box shrieks in laughter. You question why the artist hired by Trix cereal decided to draw the rabbit’s eyebrows disconnected from its face. Meanwhile, the rabbit howls in glee: "Silly rabbit, tricks are for kids!" Maybe the rabbit is a pedophile or maybe the rabbit is a disillusioned adult who divides its time between getting wasted in bars and going on magical journeys with whitewashed children.

You finish your cereal listening to the cackles of a cardboard rabbit. You walk to the subway, paying attention to the landmarks signaling your descent: the construction, a giant mass of screeching limbs and metal maws; the fire hydrant that stands there on the intersection, its arms lifted into the air, hollering, "Praise the Lord, Jesus Christ!" You go down the stairs and you wait for the subway to come hurtling through. All the masses flood in.

Many things happen on the subway. It’s as trippy as hell. White noise filters through the speakers and the woman who announces stops keeps coughing in sputters. Once, she coughs so hard that her intestines start leaking through the speakers. You watch as blood seeps down the walls of the subway. The riders are motionless in a tide of red. They all have wide unblinking eyes that are fractured by twenty carat rubies, jaws that hiss and click. One of them gets up to dance, wings clacking. Some grumble, snakes tumbling out their mouths and black moons shivering down their bodies. There are a couple quiet ones too, with wrung out flesh and cement sinew, that smell of cigarette smoke and rancid piss.

Sixteen point seven minutes later, you exit the subway. Sounds taste tinny on your tongue, smells curl inside your ear holes, taste moistens the nose. You think back to the empty bowl and the spoon and you wonder whether they are touching each other, sensuously, vigorously. Do they feel intimate? Are they holding one another tenderly? Are they so close that the distant world can be reinvented? At least they have each other.

Two point one minutes afterwards, you reach your company. It’s a massive affair. "The job you’ve always dreamed of," they say. It has TV screens for windows, stuck together with paperclips and pieces of unpopped bubblegum.

You climb up the stairs in a dream-daze but you are not alone, followed by the giggling of mammal pedophiles, a train of swaying intestines and subway-goers. Nobody says anything as you pass by their cubicles. They’re bent too far down over their papers to notice.

You start crawling up, your skin shriveling as you crawl. When you look back, you see an exoskeleton of your body lying behind, a husk of your old self made of crinkling cellophane and button eyes. It’s swallowed by the grand parade. Good riddance. You are made of road-kill and you walk on bones made of syringe needles. Voices swirl around you. You think you have passed the seventh floor, which you work on, so you move higher until you reach the roof.

Everything stops. The rabbit lays down and its teeth pop out of its mouth, skittering across the floor in giggles. Intestines crumple into leaves. The trash can is broken. Dead bodies are inside of it. Dead bodies are inside of you and they rot into ashes, smoldering fractals and charcoal plains and your state of nonexistence.

The you on the roof spreads its arms wide. It falls and it falls and it falls but you never hear it hit the ground because at nine eighteen again, your day will start over to the sound of clashing cymbals and calculated screams.

“Poor bastard,” says Johnson, looking at the body.

“Yes,” agrees Smith. “I suppose he just couldn’t take it anymore.” 

With a dash of mascara, 

light dab of blush,

and swipe of magenta lip gloss, 

I tie the laces of my mud riddled cleats.

With delicate hands folded, fingers interlaced between the jewels 

 I fiercely defend my opinions.

With a skin-tight dress, hair down, spirits up

I grip the steering wheel, eyes on the finish line.

My whole being, as society deems, is an utter mess.

I am a harmonious juxtaposition, nothing more and nothing less.

{#satire #darkside #prose #morbidhumor-ish ... wouldn't let me # for some reason but I felt it necessary.}

We all have one, even those who've never met theirs, or felt it take over their body and mind, yet it's there all the same; the capacity for evil. I've been in a shit mood since this morning, more things out of my control, making me feel useless and inconsequential. More inconsiderate people making me want to give into the darkness and forego the woes of my compassion.

I hate on myself because I know I can't/won't kill myself... but I'm not so certain I could stop myself if I unleashed my Darkside, given the name Ira when I was about fifteen. So without further adieu; Ladies and Gents, Meet Ira, my Darkside.

Dark is as dark does you self-loathing cocksucker. Oh wait, you couldn't even do that right could you?

You know what happened then and we're not talking about me. This is your chance to post/publish all the crap you spindle into my brain like a devil on my shoulder. So spill.

I would have about twenty words ago, but you kept typing and we both can't type at the same time you fat-fingering fuckless fucker. I guess I've gotten so used to focusing on you I just can't help myself. You want me to spill

I do.

so I will. I'd kill every single half-sack-son-of-a-bitch who gave us an opportunity if you'd let me. Your mother first, fat fucking victim-bitch who couldn't get past her own childhood trauma to prevent you and yours from having some of your own... Her I would have killed slow, bled her out like a stuck pig while she was hopped up on pain meds and made it look like a suicide. Then I'd have controlled your father with his own anger and made him my bitch for fear of the monster we'd become.

Oh and that little cunt on the school-bus in highschool? You shouldn't have warned your mother, you should have hole-punched her in the neck with a fork and painted the bus red like we said we would. You where a minor then and could have easily played the insanity card. I mean, good intentions or not you did beat a tick riddled possum to death and toss it in the woods behind your house, plucked the head off your broken-winged parakeet like a grape from the vine, the female King Snake--

We're not talking about me remember?

But you're my favorite subject matter. I don't understand why you hold us back. This compassion thing is a racket, it only brings you more misery to feed me. You're heart wills you to help your family but I'd kill them all for hindering your evolution. Stop. Or what? I'll delete this whole post.

Fuck you. Fine. I'll tell them, that while you drive and mutter weak comments like "I'll ram this Oldsmobile up your ass" I plot how hard to push the gas to hit the corner of their bumper just right so they'll spiral into the nearest power-pole-- hoping they don't die so they live the rest of their life suffering and laying blame for their own ass-holishness.

Or what about your Grandmother? How many times could we have pushed her down the stairs and given her something to complain about? You're just being childish. Oh, you want me to expose our thoughts your thoughts Ours sugar, I'm a part of you remember...

Nothing?

Ha.

We see the way people treat people and we see how the ruling class treats the lower classes, the way the world runs on such a fragile system of money and we often think we people deserve every bit of suffering we get. We want to embrace that suffering and explore human limitations. We want to experiment on people the way they experiment on animals. We want to watch some of them burn, helpless to stop it, helpless but to watch in a mirror as their own flesh melts off their bones.

Pump them full of designer drugs, alcohol, and sugar until their systems shut down. Drown them in food coloring and preservatives by the thousands. Electrocute them with their profit geared technology in the millions. Force them to eat the fashions they fawn over.

We want to kill a billion strangers and see what parts of humanity show through because I believe it will bring more death, destruction, cunning enslavement and all out misery to marinade the happiness until it sours. Rem on the other hand holds out hope such an event would unite people in compassion-- false hope because such numbers would only unite them against a common enemy.

Fear and doubt are powerful tools to render the human psyche into playdough.

9-11, a brilliant display of misdirection and manipulation to bend a nation to the will of money. War is a business like any other and with me at the reigns we would make enough to play our own war-games with the lives of so-called innocence. Hm. Children perhaps, like dogs, are just products of their keepers. Then again, any child already imprinted with the foul behaviors of their keepers would be just as tainted, like the monkeys in a cage.. second generation offspring following the culture of it's elders, even to beat another monkey to death for climbing a ladder without permission, without ever knowing why.

.. So ultimately, I'd kill them all, save us. We might miss humanity but it's already left so much to remember it by.

Wait, why do we get to live?

I think with the use of some machinery  we could build little mountains of bodies and watch them burn for days like the devastating asteroids they are. If we die too, this tribute to the cosmos can't happen.

Right.. well, in short ... there you have it.

|| another_proser || 

Due to the nature of my toil

The strength of my wings

Allows in your demon

I inhale the beast forcing

By name its resignation

It speaks I command

You don't know me child

The broken

The lost

The bent

I shall bring home to silent rest

I shall calm the tempest

Until my dying day

Forging his name in blood

Tetragrammaton

DEEP upon the chest of your life

Do not be simple

Do not test me

For I am able

The coin was still doing its thing, somersaults in the air, and just as it lightly came to rest, "Doo-doo-doo Doo, Doo-doo-doo Doo, Doo-doo-doo Do Doooo", the phone flashed and vibrated as it rang. And her stomach turned.

She knew better than to make the car sitting outside her parents house wait. It didn't matter who was in the car. If she wasn't out there within a minute, she'd pay, dearly.

There was always at least one of the three hot entrepreneurs picking her up. There was Pauly D, their idea man. He'd suggest things sometimes just to see how far he could get Dave to go. That was always a good laugh for Pauly. Dave K was so done with dealing with other people's shit that once Pauly threw the idea about this fabulous business out there, he was all about making it happen, whatever it took. The woman, who's name was never spoken, had all the connections. And she was pure evil too. It was the woman who would gather and hold all the blackmail material on the girls. She truly reveled in showing the girls what she had and what she'd show their daddies and mommies... Some very embarrassing and compromising positions caught on camera!

But these businessmen were not about empty threats. They knew their girls and would absolutely follow through with whatever they said the consequence for disobeying would be whether it was, "we'll have your little sister doing much worse than what we have you doing" or, "we'll kill your whole fucking family" or whatever would be that particular girl's worst nightmare. One girl was shown a picture of her mother's detached head the morning after mere mention of police. It looked like a freak accident and ended up deemed as such. Dave K has skills. The mouthy girl, though upset, fell back into formation without much fuss. All the girls know this story. This girl that was coming out now, was their best whore.

This one was barely thirteen. She had long straight blonde hair. It reached those dimples right at the top of her perfectly shaped ass. She was young but had started developing the year before. An outline of what her curves would eventually look like was starting to form, as if an artist was just starting to sculpt her. Perk little almost-handful breasts still had no need for a bra. She was wildly popular with their clientele. The men would go on and on about her very hard and erect nipples and "that tight babygirl pussy".

The phone had just rung and she knew she had to get out to the car. She, as silently as she could, would sneak out the basement door. Without time to get ready to go, she'd always run out barefoot in her nightgown. She'd tiptoe, tiptoe, and do little leaps across dewy grass toward her late night and early morning horror stories. Sometimes, whoever was waiting for her in the car would have something for her to change into. That wasn't the case tonight. The clients, a room of 5-10 older horny men, most looking between 40-50, wanted her to come as is. Yes, she had another year, maybe they could eke out a year and a half, with the kind that wanted that very early pubescent stage, then she would have to be moved up to another group of clients.

There was never a need for the girls to expect monies from the people they'd see. She was bought and paid for well before getting to them. They pulled up near a hidden-away shed. She was told to go knock on the door. Inside was a couch, a table, and a special exam chair like you'd find at the gynecologist's office. Instructions to the clients were simple... They were never to leave any visible marks that couldn't be cover with clothing. That was the one and only rule. That was gone over with them when payments were being made. The girls themselves were never to speak without being asked to. The evil woman would be getting some great new material after this appointment. She always wanted copies of video and pictures that were taken. Little girl was led in and the creepy grunts and heavy breathing made her very nervous.

"Bend over the exam table", some dark haired chubby guy says.

She does. And someone quickly pulls her shirt-dress over her bum exposing white cotton panties. If any cocks weren't hard yet, that certainly helped. She remembers the feel of cold steel being slid under the crotch. She gasped. Suddenly the undies were cut off her. Not five seconds after that slit being shown, stiff cocks were rubbing all over her and in front of her. She was like a rag doll. Turned, twisted, and thrown. Put in stirrups, tied up, and examined. Stretched open, nearly split apart, and thoroughly filled. Every orifice was used to full extent. There was no care if she was dry or sore. She would eventually pass out from the pain. They kept on.

They loaded her back into the car, and asked a question. They wondered if they may be able to get her again and, "could they make a dog fuck her next time". They loved hearing that she was theirs to do as they please for that paid time.

Water was splashed on her face and she was given a towel. She was covered in cum. She would have 10 minutes to clean up before getting to her house where they'd throw this little cash cow out, to sneak back in her basement door.

"Here's your Plan-B pill. Take it now so I can watch you take it. Good little slut. Don't worry, no appointment tomorrow and the day after it's just one guy, not a group. Okay? Now run home, little piggy! Til next-time."

And her nightmare continues.