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Thursday, December 23, 2010


Every single time I see one, A disabled person, I think of one thing. I look at his crutch, his support to walk, an extra leg for the poor bastard who doesn't have a good one, and I think about kicking his 'precious support' from right out under him, and see his arms flail in panic as he falls to the floor. Might just kick him a few times after that. You know, for kicks.

'Kicks'. Heh. I made a funny.

I'm stuck here again. I fucking hate it here. Its dark, so Goddamn dark that I can never see, and if I even think that I can see something, I'll always know it isn't true. The walls are, what, fifteen feet away from each other? That's all I have.

Fifteen feet to live.

It gets cold here sometimes. I like that. The cold helps me think better, help me plan for the next time. Wait till you hear what happened the next time I took control, you'll laugh. By the way, have we reached the part where he tried to kill the Queen? No? 

Crap, I really loved that part.

I guess we still must be in Egypt then... Egypt You know, I'll never admit this to him, but I liked Jacinto as well. The man was mad, fucking bonkers he was, but he knew what he wanted and he was willing to anything to get to it. I can respect that. I sometimes wish he didn't die. Best company we ever found, I'll say that about him.

And I never even wanted to come to Egypt in the first place. We could have been in South Africa, drinking the fine wine and pumping women each night. I had such plans for us, there at the near-bottom of the world, away from most of the crap this shit-hole throws at you.

 But someone had to be rude to me on the flight. Someone who went screaming around like a little girl when I jabbed a fork in his eye. Next thing I knew I had snapped a flight attendant's neck, at one point I had to be in the cockpit as well, I remember the view.

In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have killed the pilot. 

Why South Africa? Honestly? I was bored with France, and it was the first place I thought of when I realized that I was bored. But the more I thought of it, the more beautiful it started to sound. South Africa was sounding like fucking heaven. Plus, after that little stunt with the painting, I needed to get out of there as soon as possible.

Viva la South Africa. Or at least so I thought. But Egypt wasn't so bad. At first, I'll admit I was pissed, but I got over it, came to like North Africa as well. It would have been nice to have been there longer, but with our kinda luck, it was only a matter of time before we'd have to hit the road again.

I would have asked Jacinto to come with us. The cunt would have never had the balls to, but I know that crazy monocle-lovin' bastard would have jumped at the chance. He would have loved it.

I spend a lot of my time here thinking. That's all I can fucking do. Think. No books to read, no bed to sleep in. No porn on the T.V. Not even a single shot of rum. So I sit down and I think. 

First, there's the 87,564,867 (and counting) ways I'd kill him, if I could. My personal favorites are number 566, where I feed the chop up the carcass and feed it to sharks, and number 919,411, where I tie him to the front of a wrecking ball and then go for a drive through the Grand Canyon.

Secondly, I need to get a T.V. in here. Television is the greatest invention in the history of the human race. One window to infinite crap in infinite flavors. I don't even want some bloody six thousand inch, super micro-fiber plasma yadda yadda yadda crap from the black market in Japan. Just a T.V. Any T.V. I still need to do my Simpsons marathon.

I also think about a lot of other stuff. About what I've done, and how I'd improve on it if I could re-live it. This may sound a but hypocritical, but I look at my work like an artist, and I'm always trying to see how I can outdo my last masterpiece. 

And I've done a lot. The whole world knows me now, somehow or the other, through some face, some name. I've done too much, and I've seen the headlines. It was so much of fucking fun, to do what I wanted. That's all I did. Just whatever I wanted to do. 

Regrets? Why? Would you regret your first blow-job? Your first paycheck? Your vacations? So why would I regret what I love to do? Whether its kicking the crutch of a disabled, or blowing up our company office, it was all good, so good.

Shit, I can't believe you're still stuck on Egypt. We have forever till the end. You might not like what we've done. Well, that makes only one of us. It also tells the other that the first is a fag. So fag, faggot, faggy, whatever you like...

Judge us. Hate us. I want you to.

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