Here’s a short story I just got done writing like three minutes ago. Enjoy.

The body was cold, lifeless, downright disgusting in its fashion sense, and really fucking fat. Jordan hated fat people. There was nothing worse than having to apply makeup to all that wrinkly, fat, disgusting skin. You can’t fix ugly, no matter how much fucking paint you put on it. Jordan shuddered.

As he stared at her absolutely disgusting corpse, he felt the urge to hit it in the face. There’s nothing worse than ugly, fat corpses. And besides, it’s not like she’s going to feel a goddamn thing, and it’s not like he’s raping her or anything. Now that’s fucking disgusting. Jordan felt the bile rising up in his throat, suppressed it; failed. And all over his clothes! The acidic stench burned his nose; this evil, dirty, unclean bitch had irreparably damaged what he considered to be the rest of his day, that filthy fat whore. Oh, she’s gonna get it now. You better fucking believe it.

There was something unsettling about the lack of blood in the open sores left behind by his pounding fists, but the act itself was exhilarating, that beautiful release, taking control of the situation and letting that stupid fat fucking bitch know who’s boss, the feeling that everything is right with the world, until your boss walks in, screaming, rage-filled, apoplectic, and confused as to why his employee is beating the shit out of that poor woman’s corpse. Surely this poor woman’s inert body did nothing to offend!

Now, beating a dead body isn’t exactly socially acceptable behavior, and some would even argue that it is rather against the law, but apply just the right amount of laughter during the trial and you can go to a clean place with white walls and plenty of nurses at your beck and call. That’s what Jordan did.

And my how the time just slows to a crawl when you’re doped up with nothing to do but sit and listen to dopey, stupid wanna-do-good-fresh-out-of-school nurses who don’t know jack shit and lack the essential skills necessary for intelligent conversation. And boy does time slow to a crawl when the only companions one has are too busy conversing with the wood paneling that lines the walls of the commons area. In short, it’s pretty fucking boring.

What does one do when one finds oneself in this predicament? Maybe the schizophrenics are onto something, after all. Talking to stationary objects can’t be any more painful than the dreadful drudgery of conversation with actual human beings. Hell, it’s probably infinitely more interesting and much easier to regulate. Jordan seriously doubted that the walls would ever run their mouths about him behind his back. And he was fairly certain that they knew what he’d do if they ever did.

His bed was pretty stiff and uncomfortable, and the blanket was paper-thin. It wasn’t until about the third day of his visit that he detected just the faintest whiff of vomit. Just the faintest. And of course, being the hygienic anal-retentive his mother loved so much, he threw it into the washing machine on the ward, expecting the smell to go away. It didn’t.

And it wasn’t just the blanket anymore. Now he smelled it in the nurses’ station. And there was just absolutely no way in fucking hell he was going to set foot near there to get his medicine, thank you very much. They were just going to have to bring his medicine to him, and that will be that.

Jordan even tried a makeshift gas mask made from a washcloth, but to no avail. The smell was stubborn. It hunted Jordan, and Jordan was driven further down the spiral of madness as days went by. By the end of his second week, the smell was absolutely everywhere. There was no escaping the scent.

And when one finds oneself in this particular predicament, it is only logical to want to remove the source of the irritant. And Jordan seemed to remember something about olfactory bulbs in the brain that are responsible for scent and scent memory, and it only seemed rational, of course, to locate a sharp object and go to town. What Jordan didn’t take into consideration during his fit of madness, however, was that sharp objects have a rather unforgiving personality, and are not biased in the least. In short, Jordan bled to death all over the floor in the commons area, and his only companions were too engrossed in their conversations with the wood paneling lining the walls to notice.

As I watch people live their lives, treat others like shit, and generally act like assholes, I think about killing them. I can’t kill them, of course, but I want to kill them. I fantasize about killing them. To watch the pathetic life drain from their eyes, to witness the extraordinary pain I inflict eating at them, to smell their fear. It’s all exquisite. What other way to cure the human condition than to root out the weak and pathetic? In these fantasies, I am the Tool of Darwin, natural selection of the social variety. The cleaner of that great Gene Pool.

I watch, and I listen, and I am appalled. You see, I was brought up in a manner that some may call “old-fashioned.” I lived by the Golden Rule. Treat others as you would have them treat you. But that rule seems to have been long forgotten in this selfish age of ours. Not that selfishness is evil, mind you. But if one’s selfish decisions impact others negatively, I can’t help but feel the need for revenge. There are some people that just need killing.

In my fantasies, I capture one such human, one that needs killing, and I bring him back to my home. He’s unconscious, of course, so I have to drag him to the door, and throw him into the living room. Of course, the jolt wakes him up, and for a brief second, confusion fills his eyes. He is tied up, so escape is improbable, and in this fantasy, impossible. He starts screaming, so I cut his vocal cords, and hear nothing but his wheezy, rasping breath escaping from the hole in his throat I so lovingly cut. The air bubbles in the blood are a nice touch. And he is trembling.

I start by cutting his face. He may not be able to scream, but that doesn’t affect his facial expressions much. The raspy wheezing gets louder, and I savor every facial tic, every nuance of fear. I cut off his cheeks. I leave his eyes intact, because I want to see the life fade from them.

I start cutting toes next, making sure to dispose of every piece of meat I cut by placing it into a trash bag. He wants to scream, but can’t, and I’m sure he feels the helplessness of the situation, which, in turn, gets me off. “You are not in control any longer,” I say to him. “I am in control of you. I am your god. I determine whether you live or die.” Of course, he will die. It’s my fucking fantasy.

I won’t bore you with details, however, when it’s all said and done, he is in 39 parts, all in the trash bag. I dispose of the body by pouring salt in the bag, (to try to keep the body from rotting and smelling) tying it up, and driving it three miles from here, placing it into a dumpster. The trash will be dumped before he is discovered missing, and an investigation ensues. As I have no personal ties to the man in question, it is highly unlikely that I would be a suspect in his death.

Unfortunately, I don’t have the heart to kill. But I do have the heart to injure, maim, and torture. And my next student is waiting for me…

Picture this: a young man in his twenties, standing in line at the counter, to buy a pack of cigarettes. He did not have his ID on him, and, as the law requires, he was carded. Obviously he can’t get his pack of cigarettes, but rather than get mad at himself for his own ignorance, he takes it out on the cashier, calling her names, and threatening her with physical violence, threatening to get her fired. Needless to say it quite angered me. So I followed him out of the store.

He got in his car, and I got into mine. Fortunately, he lives not far from the store in question, so I didn’t have to follow him long enough for him to get suspicious. I noted where he parked his car, and parked mine a couple blocks down. I got out of the car, and grabbed my handy-dandy handkerchief, soaked it with the finest chloroform, picked up a box of toothpicks, and walked up to the door.

Knocked. Knocked twice. No answer. Give it a minute. He’s here I know he’s here he’s here I know he’s here. Knock. Knock. Door opens, and I greet my host with the handkerchief across the face. Hold it, hold it, almost. Done. He’s out, and I can begin my lessons.

He comes to, surprised to find himself tied to a chair. He tries to scream, but fortunately for me, I thought to gag him as well. I hit him hard across both kneecaps with a baseball bat I found in one of the rooms. He’s still screaming. SHUT THE FUCK UP! I hit him across the face with the bat, and he stops.

Comes to again, but this time I tell him, “You must be in excruciating pain right now, and there’s only one way to make it stop. You sit, and you listen. No, I’m not here to kill you. I just feel that you’re in need of some crash courses in proper… etiquette, if you will. Make one sound that is not asked of you, and you will feel more pain. Got it?” He whimpers, nods his head, and I continue.

“I followed you here. In fact, I’ve been watching you for the last two days, and you’re quite the peach. I’ve seen how you interact with other members of your species, and I think I can say with accuracy that it’s less than desirable behavior. Eight times I’ve seen you act rudely to your fellow humans, disrespecting anyone who even remotely disagrees with you. I find this behavior to be unacceptable, and I’m here for the sole purpose of righting these wrongs in you.” He says nothing. I take the box of toothpicks from my pocket, and open them. I start ramming them under his fingernails.

“MMMmmMM!” he tries to scream, rather pathetically. “Now, now, don’t forget what happened the last time,” I say, waving my pointer finger in front of his face, scolding him like a child. “I wouldn’t want to have to start injuring more… vital body parts, if you catch my meaning.” He immediately silences himself, and I finish with the toothpicks. Eight of them.

“What you see here are eight toothpicks, one for each transgression I’ve witnessed from you personally. I’m sure there are more, but I’m only counting the ones I’ve witnessed. I want you to think of every person you’ve been rude to, I want you to think of them over the course of the next few hours. Think of what caused you to behave in such a manner. When the pain gets worse, as it inevitably will, I want you to think even harder. You see, the goal is to learn to associate these behaviors with horrific physical pain, so you won’t feel compelled to repeat the behaviors.” I light the first toothpick, the one on the pinky finger of his right hand. “You’ll feel a burning sensation, which will steadily worsen as the toothpick continues to burn. When the toothpick is halfway burned, I will light the second one, and continue in that fashion until all of them have been extinguished. During this time, I want you to really think about what you’ve done. Think about the damage you’ve done by treating people the way you’ve been treating them over the last few years. And don’t you scream, either.” He nods. It has begun.

The fire from the first toothpick is starting to graze his finger a little, and I can see him struggling not to scream. “Don’t even think about screaming. Think about what you’ve done. Each bit of pain you will feel is the pain you’ve inflicted by your coarse words, threats, and general disrespect. You will feel it. There’s no way out of it.”

During the coarse of the next 90 minutes, I teach, burning toothpick after toothpick. In fact, I had to redo my teachings, as he hadn’t learned when I had finished the first time, yelling “Fuck you! You’re a fucking dead man!” Of course, I don’t take threats lightly, and was dismayed by his slow learning speed, but what can you expect from Homo sapiens? All in all, they’re a rather stupid race of beings. I’m surprised they’ve survived this long…

But after the second course, he was all smiles and politeness. Let’s hope it sticks.

11:13 p.m.

You know, I probably wouldn’t be such a bitter, angry person if people would just stop being pricks, if they’d actually treat their fellow human beings with respect. I’ve started locking myself in my house, afraid to leave, not because people frighten me, but because they anger me with the way they behave towards members of their own species.

There’s no fucking excuse for people to be this rude. However, despite the amount of anger I feel towards the human race in general (ever the misanthrope, I am), I somehow manage not to kill people. Which is saying a lot, because sometimes I wonder what it would be like to just throttle someone. Just really start choking the shit out of them, watching the life fade from their mean eyes. You know, the sorts of things that the disillusioned and apathetic dream about. People like me.

And I’m sure that people who are close to me will read this, thinking I’ve finally snapped, that I will end up being just another statistic, a serial killer with a grudge. But I’m not a killer. I never will kill. I can’t. It’s not in my nature. But fantasizing about killing people is in every human’s nature. There is not one person alive who has never fantasized about ending the life of someone they felt was deserving of it. It’s only human to seek revenge, to feel the desire to lash out, to mete out justice where needed. Anyone who claims they never think about harming another person is full of shit. It’s simple self-preservation, the instinct to protect one’s own. It’s that fucking simple.

But the key difference between me and a serial killer is that I only think of it. It is merely a passing thought, but a powerful one. I would never carry these thoughts out. It is simply not in my nature to do so. I fully know right from wrong, and honestly have no desire to end another person’s life. But the need for revenge, however, is almost over-powering. I want people to feel bad for the way they treat others. I want them to understand how the way they act affects others. I want them to learn from their mistakes and never repeat them. I don’t want them to die. I just want to teach them. That’s all…

And, though I could never actually kill a person, I do know that I am certainly capable of hurting them. Oh, how I could hurt them, and what better way to instill in a person my teachings than through the exquisite pain that only I know how to inflict? For it is the pain that teaches quickly. Self-preservation and all that shit. You learn to associate the pain with certain behaviors that appear to be causing the pain, and due to our inherent natures to avoid pain at all costs, learn to stop the behavior associated with the pain. It’s that fucking simple…

The sun was bright in the sky, the flowers were in bloom. I might have thought it was a beautiful evening under normal circumstances, however today was different.

The Zombies were invading.

You have to see this to believe it. People running, bleeding, screaming, begging for their lives, while the zombies hurl a plethora of stupid questions at their victims. Pure madness.

It all started earlier, when I clocked in for work. I was hoping for a slow work day. And it seemed as if the fates would grant me my fervent wish, at first. I did nothing for the first hour or so, because I hated my job, and couldn’t be inconvenienced by physical labor.

More customers coming in. Lots of them.

Nothing to do. Nothing I wanted to do, anyway.

I twiddled my thumbs for a bit, and quickly became bored. I tried counting the number of holes in the ceiling tiles. I got to 1,237 before giving up.

That’s when it happened. I remember the time. It was 18:27. A customer standing next to the “Out of Order” sign hanging on the bathroom door asked the question that would change my life forever.

“Is this here bathroom out ‘o ordah?” he asked. I stared blankly, dumbfounded. Then bile started rising in my throat, and fear gripped every cell of my being. I wanted to run, but couldn’t. The zombie loomed, moving ever closer to his prey.

“AHHHHHHHHH!” I screamed, unable to take it anymore. I grabbed the gun I always kept underneath my shirt, inside my jeans, and shot the zombie in the head.

“EVERYONE RUN! THE ZOMBIES ARE COMING!” I screamed as loud as I could. It was pandemonium. Customers and employees becoming one blur, becoming one screaming, running mob.

“How much does this here soda cawst?” another zombie drawled, standing next to the huge billboard displaying the price of the soda. “Die! Die! Die!” I screamed, shooting him several times in the chest. He toppled over, a confused look on his face, as if he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. Which was probably true. I’ve dealt with zombies before. They don’t understand anything.

I dropped down to one knee, and examined the contents of his pockets. He had $1.84 in quarters, nickels and pennies. I tossed it aside, because I didn’t need $1.84 in quarters, nickels and pennies. What kind of asshole pays with quarters, nickels and pennies? What I needed was a name. But the zombie didn’t carry any form of personal identification.

I ran down the aisles, trying to avoid panicked employees and uninfected customers. I was their only hope for survival. I couldn’t let myself get trampled. I needed to find the Zombie Overlord. I darted down the electronics section, hoping to avoid being spotted by a zombie drone, but to no avail. “What does this here thing do? Is it compatible with my compooter?” he drooled. “SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” I screamed.

I ran for the zombie. Time slowed to a crawl. I reached forward, grabbing for his head, my fingers finding purchase, and rammed the zombie’s skull into the wall behind him. Bone shattered, and brain tissue coated my face. It was the Je’Na’R Ik Pow’ir taking over. I was a zombie killing machine.

SPLATT!

THUNK!

BAM!

I was on a roll. Nothing could stop me once the Je’Na’R Ik Pow’ir took control. It could be a blessing, or a curse. The latter sentence was (and still is) a tautology. I heard sirens.

I ran toward the door, relieved that assistance had arrived. There were just too many zombies for me to kill on my own. I would eventually succumb to exhaustion. “Why is everyone screamin’ fer? What’s hap’nin’?” another zombie asked. I kicked him in the groin, knocked him to the floor, and stomped his head repeatedly into the concrete floor. “Now I have to buy another pair of shoes!” I screamed as loud as I could. I wanted every zombie in the store to know I was angry, and that they would be dealt with harshly when I found them. Nothing can escape the wrath of the Je’Na’R Ik Pow’ir.

“Officer, thank the stars you’re here! There’s a bunch of—”

“DROP YOUR WEAPON! NOW!” the officer yelled.

“But–” I stammered.

“DROP YOUR WEAPON!”

I did the only thing I could at that point. I grabbed my Teleportation Stone and activated it, using the ancient mantra written on the back of the stone. I was going somewhere safe.

“Time for your meds, Jacob,” Bob the Part-Time Behavioral Attendant said. The patient glared at Bob. The patient was not happy at all. The patient spit at Bob the Part-Time Behavioral Attendant.

“You’re so naïve, Bob!” The patient yelled. “You seem to be blissfully unaware of what’s going on out there! The Zombies have taken control of our government! They’ve taken control of everything! And you just sit there, reading your dumb magazines, watching your stupid TV shows! I hope they get you, Bob! I hope they get you!” The patient ended his tirade, hurling excrement at Bob, the Part-Time Behavioral Attendant.

“All available staff! All available staff!” Bob yelled. The patient knew what was coming next, but he didn’t care. In fact, he always looked forward to the Thorazine injections. They took his mind off of the madness in the world. It let him escape. It calmed him.

The needle loomed, moving ever closer to its prey.