Friday, September 26, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Six Gallons of Serial Head Fuck

Some of you will recognize earlier works that tied into this, noteably, SGSHF: the original text, that inspired the rest of it, Reve Liberte, and Nickles.  They were all a part of this overarching story.  I decided to release those seperately due the fact that I didn't know if I could get this done.  But, here it is!
Gallon #1: I, Being I

He was running. Sprinting. Trying to escape. Trying to get away, under the brush, over the wire, on his way to Granny’s house for all I, being I, could manage to write and direct. But I, being I, did not matter in this story. For he was running, trying to escape his ultimate fate.

“You might as well stop running David. I, being I, have created the world for you, and I, being I, watch everything and everywhere you go.”

His lungs were heaving, his body screaming, but still he ran. Trying. He ran, and I, being I, watched until he could run no more. Collapsed in a heap in the middle of a barley field, He and his lungs were still heaving from the stress he exerted on Himself.

“Why?” He cried, “Why me, Why now?”

“Because I, being I, am a writer. And I, being I, must write. I, being I, wrote you. And since I, being I, wrote you and created you, I, being I,, can destroy you, kill you off, put you on ice, make you disappear. I, being I, have condemned you.”

“But I could have done good things for this world. Told them the truth!”

“That matters not Gregory. I, being I, have condemned you.”

“Aww fuc-“ And He was gone.

I, being I, should apologize to you, the reader. I, being I, am afraid that you, the reader, came into the story a bit too early for I, being I,’s liking. Perhaps I, being I, should explain better. I, being I, am a writer. I, being I, am forced to create world where I, being I,’s characters live and breathe and eventually succumb to their fate.

I, being I, should introduce myself. I, being I, am Icarus Iambic Ian Istanbul al Icherman. I, being I, to those that worship my I, being I,’s deity-es-ness.

But enough about I, being I. You, the reader, came for a story, and I, being I, will give you a story. A story about chaos and order, French cars, Anarchistic voices, war, hot Nazi assassins, San Patricios, and the death of everybody. And Eggs.

I, being I, need to start with a character. I, being I, will start with a female lead this time. Better results I think.

It was a cold blustery night…

Gallon #2: The Story of Him and Her

The house was quiet except for the sounds of rhythmic moaning and grunting coming from the upstairs guest room. It could only mean one thing to her.

“Hubby found his partner for the night.” She sighed. “Least somebody is getting some action around here.”

She slid silently into the kitchen to fix herself some scrambled eggs, yet found none to be had in the fridge. Her thoughts again turned to the steady pounding upstairs and scrunched her face tightly. That’s going to stain the sheets, She thought to herself. “Might as well hope they haven’t used them all up in their fun and games.”

Her footsteps were intentionally heavy going up the wooden stairs to tell them they were about to be intruded upon. She paused at the door and the moaning got louder and more vulgar, but She continued after taking a deep breath. Barely touching the doorknob, the entire door seemed to keel over, and then it did, falling to the floor with a great clatter that was sure to wake the neighbors at this time of night. Her husband was unfazed by this new development in his quest to plough his partner senseless and kept at it, even taking the time to turn his head and wave to his wife between thrusts.

She watched them for a few moments before recognizing her husband’s partner. “Hey Steve.” Steve lifted his head off the pillow and smiled at her. She walked over the bed and kissed Steve on the cheek in friendship. His brow was sweaty, or it wasn’t sweat at all. She curled up on the stripped mattress next to Steve and watched him accept her husband from behind. She herself would be turned on if She wasn’t so bored with the idea.

All three of them made small talk while She watched her husband plunge his self into Steve. Finally, She asked, “Have you two used all the eggs in the house? Or are there a couple left over?” Steve reached over to the end table and handed her a couple of eggs. She again kissed Steve on the cheek and kissed her husband, on the lips. The both of them looked quite bored with what they were doing, but She left them to their own devices. As She exited the room, her husband came and She witnessed yellow yolk run down the inside of his thigh. She shrugged and lifted the door back on its hinges.

It was the next morning when He walked down the stairs. He was fortunate enough to have gotten a shower that morning to rinse of the trails of egg and semen across his body. Seeing his wife sprawled across the couch reading the morning paper, he padded over to her and kissed her. “I’ve got the next three days off. Why don’t we go on a vacation? To the redwoods? Or to see your mother?”

“That sounds like a good idea honey, but not to my mother’s. Last time we were there, she thought she was a prostitute,” She responded.

“At least she didn’t get the Furry idea in her head. Come is so difficult to get out of fuzz.” He dug around in the pantry and found what He was looking for. Chocolate cake. Thick, dark, moist with a cherry garnish. He giggled to himself at his own dirty thoughts. “So it’s settled then. To the Redwoods we will go.” He heard his wife gasp in shock and looked up from his cake. “What is it?”

“There was a crash on the I-5 last night. Hundred and fifty people killed. Police described the scene as a slaughter of human flesh,” She read aloud. He just grunted that he was listening. She continued, “Among the dead were a Nobel prize winner, five nuns and Jean Luc Godard. And-oh god this is tragic-a truck full of Prada and Gucci merchandise!”

He dropped his plate on the counter. “No, it can’t be true! A whole truck! What a disaster!”

“Yes, it says it right here, ‘purses, clutches, various articles of clothing, and the driver of the truck.’ An epic disaster indeed.”

The road was a long and winding one. If She wasn’t so used to his driving fast, She would be retching out the side window. As it stood, He was actually being rather conservative today. He had only hit about a half dozen woodland creatures in the two hours they had been driving. She turned down the rather violent rap music that was booming out of the stereo. “You know what really bugs me today? Humanity. Humanity bugs me. Whatever happened to culture, museums and education. Look at the younger people. All they care about is clothes and music that extols the virtues of ‘bitches and hoes,’ playing violently bloody video games. They don’t care about anyone else but themselves. Me, me, me, mentality. It’s sickening. Heck, the other day, I saw a young man mug an old lady, and another pass a car crash without a thought about stopping to help the poor people in the car. I tell you, society has failed. Look honey, an Afrikan on the side of the road, get closer and I’ll get him with the door.”

She flung open the door at the right time and sent the man sprawling on the pavement. She was sure She broke his back. “I mean, whatever happened to class and helping other people in need and being kind to your neighbors? It’s a sad, sad world we live in darling. The youth are lost.”

They drove along in silence for a few miles before he hit the brakes to avoid an overturned car on the side of the road. They slowed down and passed the wreck at a crawl. Blood was everywhere. On the asphalt, the grass, the trees, the car, limbs were strewn about, a half a head was lying on the dividing line. Part of the car was engulfed in flames, and a rather large, portly woman was hanging out of the sunroof screaming in pain and screaming for help in saving her luggage. Both the husband and wife surveyed the chaos around them. He quipped, “That’s what they get for buying cheap French junk.”

“The woods are nice this time of year. So much fresh air. The smell of pine trees and flowers. It’s great!” He really was enjoying himself thoroughly. His wife stopped momentarily to look at a flower.

“Such beauty, such innocence, such frailty,” She said, crushing the flower between her fingers, “such is the way of life.”

“Look,” He poked his wife in the head, “Down the trail. Somebody’s coming.”

They watched intently, and heard the person, now distinguishable as a woman muttering to herself and reading from a notebook, “My word, this story is excellent. ‘The old lady was clever enough and he thought that if she had started from any of the right premises, more might have been expected of her. She lived according to the laws of her own fantasy world outside of which he had never seen her set foot. The law of it was to sacrifice herself for him after she had first created the necessity to do so by making a mess of things.’ How deep! ‘If he had permitted her sacrifices, it was only because her lack of foresight had made them necessary.’”

The husband and wife just looked at each other with quizzical faces. He reached into his pocket slowly and brought out a lighter. A twinkle was set into his eye as He flicked it to life. He whispered to his wife, “Let’s burn her.” She nodded in agreement and jumped on the woman’s back. He brought the open flame to the woman’s simple dress and caught it on fire. Husband and wife held hands as they watched the old southern mental case become consumed in flames and let out agonizing screams. Smiles crept across their faces as the screaming died down into horrible silence. When the woman was nothing up a pile of ashes, He turned to his wife and said, “I never liked Flannery O’Connor anyway.”

“Wait”, She heard him say, “Do you hear that? Like a dialogue?” She paused and focused on the sounds of the forest. She heard nothing though. “Hang on, maybe it needs to be tuned.” Her husband went over and kicked a tree a number of times, each time a sound becoming louder and louder.

“Static,” She said, “simple static.”

“Hang on,” He snapped a tree limb off and everything came into starling clarity. A voice from the heavens opened up.


“Where is that voice coming from?” She looked around and spun in circles until her husband grabbed her.

“It is the divine command! We are listening to the divine being right now! Listen!”


“It sounds like His Divineness is an anarchist. Big time anarchist,” She flatly stated. “Perhaps the Government got it all wrong.”

“Of Course they did my dear, the Directive is soaked in the blood of millions. HE hates order. Listen.”


Gallon #3: Rêve Liberté!

With the final sacrifice,
Lives within world without sin
And a world without borders
Blue Helmets die for the peace
Lots the idiot lives for war
Chiens de guerre, Chiens de guerre, We must go away!

Human right kill, shift blame time
In opposition to all
Millions of rotting corpses
Lie restless in their mass graves
Betrayed the hopes which remain
Temps asservi, temps asservi, don't runaway!

Constant stream humanity
Shortwave broadcasting for all
Revolution of thoughts
A rich man grins, fat man sings
Liberty a dream away

Solidarité, solidarité, a-okay!

Vote the no confidence line
Remove the inbred office
Human reeducation
Personal renovation
With a birth of liberty!

Internationale, Internationale, What say you now?

Claim new peace for all people
A door held open for them
Equality and Justice
A social contract agreed
Never to be breached again

Rêve liberté, rêve liberté, n'oubliez jamais!

Gallon #4: Latex = Sexy

“Yes my Fuehrer, I understand my mission. No, my Fuehrer, I do not mind at all. It would be my honor to pleasure the Fuehrer in any way he wants,” she cooed as she licked her lips in anticipation.

“That’s a good fräulein. Here, why don’t you play with this for while,” the Fuehrer smiled wickedly.

“Heil Hister,” she cooed again, and set to her duties.

Das Fuehrer leaned back in his chair and was enjoying the minutes ticking by, until a box on his desk buzzed and lit up politely. Frustrated, The Fuehrer pressed the light and spoke, “Yes?”

The disconnected voice was gruff and near hostile, “My Fuehrer, I have news about our impending attack on the unclean in the northern reaches of the 4th Reich.”

“Is it vitally important General?”

“I would say more important than the girl under your desk my Feuhrer.”

The Feuhrer lifted his finger off the box, sighed and looked up at the ceiling while speaking to her, “I am afraid duty calls my fräulein.” She looked disappointed, but understood. Un-mussing herself with practiced efficiency, she left as He, The General walked in. Performing the request salute, The General started to apologize before being cut off. “What is so important that it cannot wait 15 minutes?”

“My Feuhrer, I felt it pertinent to inform you that our glorious armies have encountered more resistance than expected. The resistance in Norway and Sweden collapsed at the first sight of our troops, and Ireland fell within days…”

“And what of Scotland?”

“That’s just it, my Feuhrer. We have heard nothing from Scotland. Nothing at all. No radio communications, nothing. It’s as if the army have ceased to exist!”

A page burst into the room, panic stricken and sweating quite heavily, “My Feuhrer! Communication from Scotland!” He handed the written communiqué to the Feuhrer and stood ram rod straight waiting to be dismissed. He would have to wait a bit longer.

“Your Army is dead,” the Feuhrer’s voice crept higher in octaves, “Scotland is free, Your Reich will fall like all others, Long live San Patricios.” The Feuhrer lost it with the last words. “San Patricios?! Saint fucking Patrick?! The ghosts of The Battalion of Saint fucking Patrick?!” The Feuhrer smashed a lamp and kicked over an end table before storming to his desk to retrieve his side-arm. The general came to immediate attention.

The page stood straight and true until his brains painted the wall behind him.

For good measure, three more holes were placed into his chest before the Feuhrer was able to calm down enough to spit out a few words, “Kill them! Kill them all! I don’t care what it takes! Just kill them!”

The General straight arm saluted and marched out the door while he still had a chance. He heard down the hall the Feuhrer call out to his fräulein. “God help her if she fails at her mission.”

The phone rang. And it wasn’t any phone, it was The Phone. Straight from the top. “Yes?...No sir…Yes sir…Yes sir, right away sir…thank you sir…what?...oh yes, Heil Hister.”

It was Her time. The Feuhrer needed Her. An important mission. In Scotland. Kill San Patricios. Her smile turned devilishy evil as she became moist in all the right areas. The thought of bathing in Her victims’ blood became intoxicating to Her, and she knew she must leave right away.

Latex, she thought to herself, walking to her wardrobe, Might as well give our friend the Saint a little something to ogle at as I slit his neck.

Men are pigs, they can never keep their eyes to themselves. And the flight crew couldn’t. At least, until She nearly twisted the flight engineer’s head completely off. Serves him right. His corpse lay in a heap on the floor of the aircraft, unmoving and untouched. But She was still getting her fun out of him by exploring his body with Her bare feet.

“It’s too bad,” she spoke loud enough for rest of the crew to hear, “he might of….oooo…he did have potential. Oh my.”

The rest of the crew stayed dead silent for the rest of the trip (and banished all thoughts of what She was wearing) while She studied maps of the Scottish Highlands and read all the reports She could on Her prey. “If I were a man who dared called him a Saint, and Saint Patrick no less, I think I would be taking refuge, not is Scotland, but in Cumbria.” She stared at the map a little longer. “Where are you hiding little Saint? Come out come out where ever you are.”

Cumbria was empty of her target, and the latex wrapped assassin was getting frustrated. Her blood thirsty tendencies were really starting to come out of the coffin. She was hoping that she could at least keep some of them at bay and satiate the beast within her.

She had a gun to the temple of some 18 year old British Army Private. The prison warden had let her check this young man out of the camp. He seemed genuinely excited at first.

How the young are so stupid.

Her finger trembled on the trigger and started to slowly squeeze as she neared the point of no return, and punching him in the face, she finally reached that point. Her whole body seizing up, her finger squeezed the trigger completely, and allowed her inner beast to feed on the spirit of a fresh tender soul, while her physical body gorged itself on the good tidings.

Satisfied, she left the body and headed north.

Gallon #5: San Patricios

The mosquitoes were flinging themselves into the hills fast enough to cause little tufts of mud to radiate outward.

Damn deadly mosquitoes, he thought to himself. San Patricios quickly moved down the line of his men, keeping his head down, slapping each guy on the back in a sign of solidarity and brotherhood. A few men fell after he passed, and a few men fell before he could pass them. One lad caught his eye, hunkered down behind a group of rocks, visibly shaken. He laid his rifle down and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” he asked loud enough to be heard over the rapid bursts of rifle fire.

“I…I can’t do it. I don’t want to die. McTaffy…he’s dead. He’s dead…oh god.” The young man was crying full tilt now, and suffering serious battle fatigue. Patricios looked behind the young man and saw a body, minus a face lying in the dirt, rifle across it’s chest.

Patricios picked the young man’s rifle out of the dirt, and gently placed it in his hands, and told the young man to fall back to the rear. “It’s only going to get bloodier, and you’ve seen enough.” The young man looked in Patricios’ eyes questioningly, and he finally did move, but didn’t make it ten yards before five red holes opened up in his back. The lad was dead before he hit the ground.

Patricios looked on in pity but did nothing. He knew.

Turning over the still corpse of McTaffy, He took refuge behind the very same rocks and trained his rifle across the field, squeezing off a few rounds at the bobbing helmets of the oncoming French Nazis. One or two fell, but Patricios wasn’t sure if it was his bullets or somebody else’s that took their lives. In between all this, a radioman had joined by his side.

“Sir, report from Edinburgh. They say their falling back to Greyfriars Kirk, and they ask if you think Bloody George will keep the French out, and if not, will Bobby watch over them?”

Patricios laughed at the question and responded heartily, “You tell them to throw a grenade in that damn crypt and to kick the mangy mutt, ‘cause damned if they’re going home with toe tags.”

The radioman laughed and passed on the message. “They say sir, and I quote, “Good to hear, all we’ve got in our pockets are nickels.”

Patricios smiled at the words, turned to the radioman and asked, “What do you say we fuck off outta here Sergeant?”

“Claymores sir?”

“Pass the word along!” Patricios fired another clip.

It had been four months, and The Battalion had been harassing the French as much as they could. Unfortunately, The Battalions number were dwindling as more men died under the guns of the enemy, were captured, or threw down their weapons and walked out of the fight.

Patricios couldn’t hold grudge against those that had left, for he himself had thought about ending his fight and going home. But fought on he did.

Except right now. Sitting in a field yet untouched by the destruction of war outside the ruins of Inverness, the hundred or so men left in the Battalion of San Patricios were enjoying a meal of Beef Stew, hot coffee, and Scotch whisky. They were all tired, but spirits were high among the men, as they laughed or danced around a jury-rigged radio that a Corporal had managed to make.

Patricios stood up looked around at his men and smiled. He looked to the grey sky and wondered if he would ever see home, and whether or not if all of the men singing “Finnegan’s Wake” in front of him would see their homes as well. He hoped they would.

He turned and decided to take a short walk to clear his head and prep his mind for the next three months of combat. He marveled at the snow beneath his feet and how it made that childhood satisfying crunch as he trudged through it, he passed an old barn that looked on the verge of collapsing. Stopping at the top of a hill, he looked to the horizon and saw the River Ness flow gently in its banks. I wonder how Nessie is getting on with all the blood in the water. Patricios laughed inwardly. Probably out in the North Sea thinking, ‘Stupid humans.’

“It’s a cold but beautiful day, sir.” Sergeant O’Toole stepped up next to Patrick and handed him a cup of coffee. He accepted and took a sip from it. Together, they stood in silence overlooking the scenery like sentinels of a long forgotten era.

O’Toole broke the image. “Why are we doing what we are doing sir? I mean, if that’s not too much to ask.”

Patrick stood, gazing the land around for a few minutes, sipping his coffee before answer, “I can’t tell you, to be honest. Every person still here is doing it for their own reasons. I’ve never asked for a fealty. So I guess, why are you doing what you are doing O’Toole?”

O’Toole considered his words for a moment. “For my family, sir. So that they can know freedom again. And so that my daughters children, and their children will know freedom too.” He took a drink from his flask, and offered it to Patrick, who politely turned him down. “What about you, sir?”

“What about me?”

“Why do you do it? Why are you fighting?”

“For that,” Patrick pointed toward the horizon, “and for that,” she said, turning around and pointed back at the 100 men celebrating. “But top of the list, I’d have to say I fight for order.”

“Order, sir?”

“Yeah, order. Nazi’s don’t bug me so much, it’s the chaos that comes with them. You know, I heard rumors that Hister has a gay general that likes to shove eggs up his, and lights writers on fire in his spare time. He even hears voices.” O’Toole’s eyes started to go wide. “Wait, it gets better. The general is married to an assassin that has a fetish for killing people as she fucks them. Gets off on it. Scary shit. Hister himself is just an unstable crackpot that’s paranoid about nearly everything. Tulips scare the man. Go figure.”

O’Toole had to process Patrick’s words for some time. They stood there, silent and sentinel-like again. It was Patrick that broke the silence this time. “The IRA is back O’Toole.”


“The reason we left Ireland. The Irish Republican Army came back. Every single split, sub-group, splinter cell, they all came back. They all wave the same banner too.” Patrick sighed. “IRA. Irish Republican Army. You’ll never believe who’s arming them.”

O’Toole took a gander, “Armalite.”

“Their ‘Little Armalite.’” Patrick sighed again. “Eh, whatever. Danny Sullivan will do what he needs to do. To a Free Ireland.” He lifted his coffee cup.

“To a Free Celt Land,” O’Toole corrected him.


Patrick’s cup exploded.

Gallon #6: The End of Him, The Death of Her

God fucking damn it!, She thought as her head left the stock of the sniper rifle. God damned cross winds! She threw the weapon away, got up and ran to her right. She was sure that San Patricios would run quickly for his rifle, and then the game would be on.

Fortunately, she was able to “convince” a brigade major to attack San Patricios’ Battalion so that she might have the carnal pleasure of kill him herself. What She didn’t know is how long The Battalion would be engaged. If at all. I have to hurry. The anticipation is almost too much. I have kill him!

The snow around her was freshly fallen, so her footsteps, normally hidden and light, were very easy to track this time. Taking caution, She pulled her service pistol out of its holster and gripped it tightly and with practiced expertise. Checking for a round the chamber, She gingerly stepped out of the small patch of woods that had concealed Her so well.

The hill San Patricios was standing on was 400 meters away, and she knew she could cover that ground quickly enough sprinting, but that would let anyone on the other side know that somebody was coming. A deathtrap. So She took it slow, making sure that She wasn’t going to be caught without defense.

As She got closer, the unmistakable scent of blood filled her nostrils, and she became very pleased. Maybe I did get him. The smell grew stronger the closer to the hill She became, until finally She was kneeling the footprints of a man. Size 12 boots. Potential. The snow to the right of the prints was stained red, and the stain continued down the hill toward a dilapidated barn. You aren’t hurt San Patricios, but your little buddy surely is. Creeping down the hill with the same caution she used to get to and up it, Her brain was analyzing the surrounding. An old rusted out tractor, a wooden horse cart, a number of barrels and stacks of wood. Lots of places for an ambush San Patricios.

The blood trail rounded to the backside of a woodpile, and She crept up to and around it to find a soldier, a Sergeant by the looks of it, wheezing, and losing a lot of blood out of a hole in his chest. His eye’s fluttered open, and turned toward Her. Coughing up blood, he said, “So you’re that assassin bitch.”

Placing the barrel of the pistol to his left temple, she flatly stated, “Yes I am.”

“Go fuc-,” he slumped over, his brains littering the snow. She looked at this Sergeant, formerly a pretty man, able to attract the ladies on a Friday night, now missing half his head, lie in the snow. Dead.

“You know,” she heard a disembodied voice, “as sexy and provocative that latex suit of yours is, you have got to damn cold.” Her pistol immediately came up and started searching. “I mean, look at you. Marshmallow nipples.” She discovered that the voice was coming from the old barn, and she trained her sights on the door. “But then, that could just be from your idea of sex. Killing men. You’re a freak, you know that?”

She stood just outside the door, itself slightly ajar, hand outreached toward the hole where the knob used to be. But instead of pushing the door open, she emptied the clip in Her pistol across the face of it, at chest level, and fell backwards as bullets tore back of the door toward Her. Scrambling for cover behind the same woodpile where the Sergeants body lay, a number of bullets tore through the pile, just missing Her head. She heard the remnants of the door clatter open, and She stood, squeezing the trigger as fast She could, emptying another clip into the building.

“You say that I’m the freak,” She cooed as she installed a fresh clip, “but I don’t name myself after a dead Saint.” She saw out of the corner of Her eye San Patricios bolt out of the side door and duck behind the wooden horse cart. She re-oriented Her body to open up on the cart, but never got the chance as San Patricios opened up on her. Ducking, she ran for the cover of another woodpile, firing at the cart.

She cooed more, “I wonder what the death of Saint Patrick will do to his battalion. De-moralize? Or will they go out in a finally bloody push? All their blood is on your hands San Patricios. All the blood they spilled on your fields, for you. How does that make you feel? Knowing that your men died for nothing?” She peeked out from behind the pile and squeezed a couple rounds.

“It makes me feel damn good, assassin. They died for their own causes. Hey, you got any spare ammunition? I’m running low.”

A couple of rounds passed through the wood near Her.

“Sorry, none for your little pop gun,” she laughed out. “What are you shooting? Nine millimeter?”

“Nope. Fifty.” She felt her stomach explode into a burning sensation. She cried out in pain, dropped her pistol, and clutched her hands over the cavity where her intestines used to be. Slumping over, she could feel her life draining out between her fingers. It wasn’t long before she saw a figure come into her skyward vision, pointing a very big gun into her face.

Coughing blood, she managed to get out, “Somebody will get you San Patricios. You’re days are leaving you behind.”

He smiled, but kept the Desert Eagle leveled. “You forget something. I’m Saint Patrick. And I kill everybody.”

San Patricios squeezed the trigger.

In Paris, The General kicked the chair out from underneath him.

The Seventh Gallon: Burned At The Stake

You hear a gunshot, and you freeze just stand still for those few moments it takes to process, but it’s too late that guy you were about to pass is on the ground, and there’s red stuff leaking from him there’s another shot and another and the only thing you can think about it is getting down getting small but what about that guy you grab his collar and pull and pull and pull until he starts moving and you drag and drag and you hear more gun shots and hear a few hammer taps on the dumpster you’re trying to get behind you duck your head you keep pulling trying to get there trying to get to safety pulling that guy behind you and finally you’re there safe behind metal more hammer taps and you look down and there’s a pool of red all around you you look at the guy and he bleeding you hear the screech of tires but he’s just bleeding all the fucking place so much blood so much blood and you try to stop the bleeding but it’s all over the place on your hands on your boots on your cell phone and the 911 operator is trying to talk to you to keep you calm but there’s so much blood and you’re trying to save him trying to stop the bleeding putting pressure on the wound and you know that he’s dying but you try and he’s gargling something at you you tell him it’s going to be okay but there so much blood and you know better and 911 is still talking and he gargles more blood coming out of his mouth he holding on to you pulling and fighting to stay here you talk to him tell him not quit living and he bleeds more and more until there’s nothing he stops moving stops bleeding stops gargling and his hand lets go of your shirt and you know you know he’s gone but you just look at him keeping pressure on the wound, still trying crying now trying to save this man this guy but he’s gone his eyes lifeless, empty of life and 911 is now screaming on the phone trying to get you to listen, and the blood is pooled at your knees, but you tell them not to hurry, he’s gone now, as you close his dead eyes for the final time and look at him, you fish through your pockets looking for pennies, but all you have is a couple of nickels, and you wonder if the boatman has change. But it’s all you can do, just look at the nickels.

The carnage in front of me is too much.


  1. I finished at gallon#3. Had to digest first, then get back... it's OK to critic? :D

    jeeeez, this is loaded!

  2. Yeah, critique away! I'd enjoy it!