Tuesday, May 25, 2004

"Meety Your A Pock A Lips," cont.

First, today's the last day of school for me, so I'm dropping a lot of whatever I can in here, because I don't think I'll be able to access the internet much. So, if you'd like, you can keep coming back here and read what you haven't (because the post before this one was pretty long). And, mainly, enjoy my genius.

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Death sat in the coffee cafe thinking about the last person he had killed. You couldn’t see his face because he was wearing his black robe and it covered up everything, even the face. It’s sure behind the dark black was a skeleton. He took a sip of his coffee and the rising steam of it rose up to the ceiling, dispersed. He wondered who god was going to have him kill next. A poor helpless baby? A nice-looking woman? He hoped it was the latter. Those nice-looking women were really nice to rape before killing them. Of course, the entire prospect of a skeleton raping was quite hard to come to an understanding of, but let’s just say Death, being the cool cat he is, managed. And quite well.

The only thing Death had ever known was death. It never even hurt to kill them anymore. He would strangle them to death, the energy would leave them, their arms and hands and legs would become prostrate. That was that. It never even mattered anymore. He could kill anyone and there was no backlash in his conscience. He actually enjoyed killing them. It was control among other things. And it was just doing what that gook up there told him to do. Okay, so the gook wasn’t a gook, he was omniscient, omnipotent, the greatest shit that had ever hit the fan, Mr. Know-it-all; he was dog spelled backwards, he was “Allah.” The shit. Death hadn’t even met the guy. All he knew was he was doing the man’s dirty work because he was too scared to do it himself.

God would call him at the payphone of where he was. Don’t ask how god knew where the hell Death was, but he did.

Here we are, the phone’s ringing. Death can hear it. He gets up out of the booth he was sitting in all comfy. Grabs his steaming coffee cup, chugs it all in quick, sets it back on the table, searches in his robe, gets out a few bucks, sets them down. Death is a paying man, and he never forgets the chance to pay the tip. The tip is what the people live for.

Death searched around in his robe a little longer, pulled out a pack of Marlboros. Took out a lighter. Lit the fag up. Put the cig in his mouth and tasted its beauty. It was like breathing. He then stepped outside, turning to Tommy, the owner, saying, “Thank ye for the coffee, fine sir,” giving the motion saying goodbye and was out.

Tommy said, “Bye,” and was back off behind his counter doing his job as manager. Death hadn’t heard him, he was already out in the day.

The sun smiled its face in the sky. Death hated the sun, it was such a useless thing up there. Mr. Smiley Face with Big Light in His Eyes and Smiling Face and Happiness was just too yellow as piss for such a man as death is. Too damn yellow as piss.

The phone was ringing, moving back and forth crazily from the ring, lines of movement coming out of it. Death stepped into the phone booth, picked up the phone, put it to his ear. “Hello,” says Death to Almighty on the other end. Death inhaled deeply on his cig, let the smoke come out of his mouth in a big plume.

“It’s the end of the line for these fucking people,” god said. The man sounded angry. It didn’t sway Death at all. It was just business, as usual. He kept it cool.

“And why’s that?”

“Death, my man, they don’t get it.”

“You shoulda known that long time ago, sir.” Death inhaled his cig again. Breathed it out in a plume.

“Maybe. Who the fuck knows.”

“So what’s the problem, boss?”

“None of the twerps believe in me anymore. That’s the fucking problem. Have you seen my fucking churches lately?”

”No.”

“Well, they’re tearing them down. Tearing down a lot of em. Fucking sinners. I can’t believe their gall.”

”So whaddaya want me to do?” He breathed in. Breathed it out in a plume.

”I got a plan in the works, D. I got a nice plan. We’re gonna kill all these fuckers—all the ones who don’t believe in me—and we’re gonna let the ones who do believe in me live.”

“It’s bout time.”

”Yeah, sure as fucking hell is. It’s time to kick them in the balls. Listen, D.”

”Yeah?”

“I got a meteor on its jolly good way to the Earth right this moment. It’s gonna hit em where it hurts. While that’s on its wonderful way, I wanna have you causing lotsa shit. I wanna see you killin as many of those that don’t believe in me as you can. I wanna see a fucking massacre. I wanna see these fuckers bleed for what they done. Ya hear?”

“I hear ya.”

”OK. Get yer ass in gear then, there’s lotsa killing. Here—here’s the beginning of the list.”

“Hold on. I’m gonna get out paper an a pen.”

Death breathed in his cig. It was a stump now. Almost down to the filter. He let out a plume of smoke. Opened the phone booth’s glass door, flung the cig on the ground, brought his foot down on it heavy and reduced it to ash. He brought out a pad of paper, torn and worn and used, and brought out a pen. He’d taken this pen from his last victim. Death scribbled down the names as the man read them to him. There were many many names. More than death had gotten in a long while.

“. . .And that’s all. Give em hell, D. I wanna see you fucken masochistic with em. Fucking make em hurt.”

“Yessir. I’ll do that for ye sir. Don’t ye worry.”

“Fuggedabout worryin. I trust ya D. OK. I’ll call ya when I need ya.”

“Adios.” He hangs the phone back up. Closes his pad of paper. Puts the pen away. Read the first few names on the list. And was on his deathly way.

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