Tag Archives: transgressive

Murderers Anonymous Chapter 3

Chapter 3 of a novel that made the rounds with and was turned down by Big 5 publishers. Refer to previous posts for earlier chapters. Let me know what you think! Warning: intense graphic scenes throughout the novel. Intense violence in this particular chapter. For fans of dark fiction only.

                                                                             3

There’s a reason there are minimum charges on credit card transactions.

You see, there’s a fee for processing credit card transactions, typically ranging anywhere from 1.8% all the way up to 3%, with various caveats including additional charges, and technical jargon that usually ends up screwing business owners out of profits.

This is no concern for corporate chains. They can afford to eat the loss on each purchase that is paid for with a credit card. The small businesses, however, are put in an awkward position.

Accepting credit cards as payment is convenient for customers, thus attracting a great amount and assuring they will come back. On the other hand, the more customers that decide to pay with these cards the more profits the business owner loses. Small businesses are already juggling with the keeping prices competitive while adjusting for overhead – throw transaction fees on top of this and making a profit becomes difficult.

Thus, many establishments prefer that if a customer is to pay with a credit card, the customer spends at least a certain amount to offset the inevitable loss of money to come.

Now, at least you’ll come away from this book having learned something.

You seriously should have stopped reading in chapter one.

I know the basic details of credit card processing because this is my life. Or should I say my job.

Is there a difference?

Royal Payments is a credit card processing company. It is an affordable alternative to business owner’s banks or current service providers. The combination of the industry’s lowest rates paired with the highest quality of service makes Royal Payments the go to company for any business’s processing needs.

Bullshit, Noun

 

  • Nonsense, lies, or exaggeration

 

Synonyms: Falsehood, Hogwash, Malarkey

 

I sit next to a homeless man on the bus. He reeks of piss and booze, and his straggly salt and pepper colored beard is mired with encrusted chunks of vomit. He’s asleep in the window seat, and as the bus lulls around a turn his head rolls around and lands on my shoulder. He remains sleeping, and I get a waft of the indescribable pungent odor emanating from his unwashed, lice-ridden hair.

I look to him with mild curiosity. There’s a small stream of drool oozing from his cracked lips and seeping into my dress shirt. A few flakes of skin join the spit, standing out staunchly against the black backdrop of my shirt.

Public transportation forces doctors, lawyers, and executives to interact with the unwashed masses, smelling their smells, observing their appearances, and overhearing their conversations. Egomaniacs, sadists, masochists, alcoholics, adulterers, addicts, convicts, serial killers, and many more come together for a unique shared experience.

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses teeming to be free.

I rise at my stop, letting the homeless man fall to his side. He gasps, sputtering incoherently before giving into his lingering drunkenness and falling back asleep.

I pass the woman who spent the duration of my twenty minute ride berating her child, barking at him in a guttural tone, reminding him of how he was a disappointment.

I knew a boy once who was reminded how much of an inconvenience he was when he pissed the bed. His mother put her hand around his throat, and that hand, which was usually so frail and boney, would become strong and empowered as it squeezed, fingernails digging into the boy’s flesh as his breath was taken away.

“Your penis has to pay for this,” she’d whisper into the child’s ear. Her other hand (always the left) reached into his batman pajama bottoms and grab his penis, jerking and twisting it, not stopping until he nearly passed out from the choking.

Despite this treatment, the boy couldn’t stop pissing the bed. He did it at least once a week. He was a bad boy. Part of him believed he deserved the treatment.

Part of him believed he wanted it.

I exit the bus and face the uninspiring office building before me. It’s squat, dwarfed by the surrounding buildings, an utterly forgettable blot amongst the cityscape.

There are four separate office complexes housed at 421 Bay Street. The second suite on the second floor houses one of Royal Payments’ three telemarketing call centers. The staircase that leads to the door smells of tobacco and disappointment, and the discarded corpses of cigarettes smoked long ago crunch beneath my feet as I ascend to hell.

I open the door and hear the buzz of idle conversation, drifting through the air like the constant hum of some type of electrical equipment. It is disinterested – merely a daily formality.

As I walk in I’m greeted by Dave.

Douchebag, Noun (Informal)

 

  • A small syringe for douching the vagina, especially as a contraceptive measure.
  • An obnoxious or contemptible person, typically a man.

 

Synonyms: Jerk, Asshole, Fuckface

 

His spray tan is a darker shade of orange than usual. This is highlighted and juxtaposed by the brightest of his bleached white teeth, which spring forth in a rehearsed smile.

“How ya doin’ today man? Eager to set some appointments? You have some catching up to do if you want to keep pace with The Davester.” He points both thumbs toward his body as he refers to himself by the title.

I stare ahead past him, losing myself in my thoughts. He notices this and continues babbling at me.

“You there, bro? You look like you’re somewhere else right now.”

I sigh and reach my hands around to my back pocket. I pull the Beretta M9 out from it and place it against his forehead. His eyes cross as he looks up at the weapon, and he lets loose a pathetic squeal just before I pull the trigger.

Due to the miracles performed by modern medicine, a person’s chances of surviving a gunshot wound have increased significantly. Recent studies show that wounds suffered by handguns have an 80-85% survival rate if proper medical attention is sought immediately. Gunshot wounds to the head are much more devastating, however, with survival rates usually hovering between 5 and 9%.

See, you learned something else.

Chunks of Dave’s brain and fragments of his skull spray backwards, coating the wall of the nearest cubicle. The “Hang in There Kitty” poster takes on a new look as Dave’s head-meat slathers it, slowly dripping down the face of the poster and running its colors.

His body collapses in a heap, blood gushing from out of his head-crater onto the freshly vacuumed carpet below.

There are a multitude of factors to consider when assessing whether a gunshot to the head will be fatal. One factor to consider is if the bullet caused damage to the carotid artery. An average male has about six liters of blood and his internal carotid artery clears about a quarter of a liter per minute to supply the brain. If blood loss is no concern, one must examine whether the wound sustained was limited to one hemisphere of the brain, significantly upping the chance of survival, or both hemispheres, a bleak and dire situation.

Dave’s eyes remain rolled up in the back of his head. He has bitten his tongue off and it lies by his cheek. I try to assess whether he’ll survive the wound.

I don’t fucking know; I’m not a doctor.

I put two more in his chest before moving on to the next victims. My original shot caught the attention of the few workers meandering around the office, but like deer caught in the sight of headlights they are paralyzed.

Cathy is staring at me with the erratic, wide eyes of an owl. She can’t believe this is happening. To her this is a dream.

I make it a reality as I put one through her heart and another through her throat. She lets out a gurgle before collapsing to the floor, dead.

The Beretta M9 is a short recoil, semi-automatic, double-action pistol which uses a fifteen round staggered box magazine with a reversible magazine release button that can be positioned for either right or left-handed shooters. It has been used extensively in the United States military since 1985. Due to its lightweight, general maneuverability, and killing potential, it is a lethal weapon that should be kept far away from the prying hands of criminals, psychopaths, and serial killers.

Irony, Noun

  1. The expression of one’s meaning by using language that normally signifies the opposite, typically for humorous or emphatic effect.

Synonyms: Sarcasm, Cynicism, Mockery, Satire, Sardonicism

 

Ramon is sitting at his station, headphones on still listening to his music, his rotund body bouncing left and right as he continues digging the beat. I unload four into his back, enough to make sure the elephant is put down, and he slumps forward without a sound, face buried in his keyboard.

John goes next, his coffee launching up and scalding his face as two rounds slam into his gut. He lets out a mortified scream as the hot liquid melts his flesh and a pitiful whimper as he slides down the wall behind him.

I walk into the break room and see Christa hunkering down beneath the coffee table, as if it was adequate enough to conceal her girth. “No! Please, you don’t have to!” she wails.

I dispatch of her with a shot to the temple, her body crumpling into a heap, a steady stream of blood pooling around her head.  

Charlene is sniveling in the corner and I fire a shot her way, the bullet striking her forearm. She spits profanities at me and grabs a ladle from the sink, preparing to fight me off. I then hear the sound of approaching police sirens, signifying the end to my rampage. I sigh, give Charlene a wave, and return to the main room.

I walk over to my work station and stand on my chair, surveying the beautiful scene around me. Never again would I be constrained by the petty rules and protocols of such a backwards, fucked up establishment. Never again would I have to answer to this place to earn a meager living, and never again would I have to put up with Dave and his insufferable self-gratification.

Freedom, Noun

 

  • The power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint.

 

Synonyms: Liberation, Release, Deliverance, Discharge

 

Are you sick of these definitions yet?

I hear the lawmen storming the building, charging up the stairs to apprehend me. I put the gun in my mouth, somehow enjoying the strange metallic taste of the barrel.

They open the door.

“Freeze!”

I pull the trigger.

I am no more.

 

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Murderers Anonymous Chapter 2

Chapter 2 of a previous work, Murderers Anonymous, which made the rounds and was rejected by Big 5 Publishers. Looking to revise and resubmit in the future. Check chapter 1 to get caught up to speed. Warning: Intense graphic content throughout.                                                 

                                                                        2

Murderers are people, too.

It’s the type of headline that catches your attention. Not in a positive way, hell, not even in a negative way, but just in a way.

I study the flier in my hand, the paper worn and crinkled with yellowing edges, as if it had been previously given to someone else. Even still, the flier manages to remain bright and vibrant, an offensive color scheme of orange and yellow assaulting my eyes. Below the header is a stock photo of two men embracing, one’s head buried deeply into the other’s shoulder. Below that is the most bizarre array of questions I’d ever seen.

Are you a serial killer? Are you in need of support? Do you need someone to talk to? I continue scanning downward, the flier becoming even stranger as I realize it’s serious.

Then come to 202 Beecher Street Apartment 305 for some well-deserved therapy! The 2014 Murderers Anonymous self-help personal growth group begins Wednesday the 27th from 7 to 8:30pm.and spots are limited. Don’t deny yourself this opportunity: Self-care isn’t selfish!

I let the flier fall down to the floor. It settles near the legs of my coffee table. There’s a bug there near it, some type of beetle, and I think about stepping on it.

I imagine the beetle crawling up my nose as I sleep; its prickly legs doing their due diligence as they latch into the skin of my nostrils, propelling the creature towards its goal. It finally reaches my brain and lays its egg behind my eye before leaving as stealthily as it entered. Eventually they hatch, and the newborn beetles feast upon the spongy, deteriorated mess of my brain, chomping into chewy bits and eating their way out of my head through the back of my eyeball.

This isn’t why I want to kill it; that’s just a silly thought.

I just want to be God, even if for a moment.

I step on the beetle, leaving a nickel-sized imprint of its guts splattered on the hardwood below. I lift my foot and bring it down upon the flier, wiping a sticky trail of yellow ooze across the faces of the embracing men.

I stomp the paper for good measure before leaving the room.

In the shower, water runs down my body but I barely feel it. My mind is on the flier and its mysterious appearance. The envelope it came in had no writing upon it, meaning someone had simply come and slid it under my door. This leads me to two conclusions. Either someone was playing a prank on me, or I was being targeted.

Regardless of their intention, the arrival of the envelope and the flier it contained revealed that whoever was behind the fiasco knew one very important fact about me.

I am a serial killer.

Compulsion, Noun

  1. The action or state of forcing or being forced to do something; constraint.
  2. An irresistible urge to behave in a certain way, especially against one’s conscious wishes.

Synonyms: Urge, Impulse, Need, Desire, Obsession, Fixation, Addiction

 

I consider jerking off to alleviate my tension. One hand trails down my body, dancing along my abs, navigating through my pubic hair until it grasps my shaft, while the other (always the right), rises to my throat, seizing it.

The carotid arteries, located on either side of the neck, carry oxygen-rich blood from the heart directly to the brain. When these arteries are compressed in any way (such as by strangulation or hanging) the sudden loss of oxygen to the brain combined with the accumulation of carbon dioxide increases feelings of giddiness, lightheadedness, pleasure, and the thrill of orgasm.

Nearly one thousand people die yearly as a result of autoerotic asphyxiation. Their final battle is fought trying to blow a load.

I choke myself, the harsh grasp of the hand on my throat mirroring the motions of the hand upon my cock. I squeeze and rub both, but soon let out a frustrated sigh as I realize it’s all for naught.

I keep thinking about the flier, and it kills my libido.

34% of women and 42% of men have reported having some form of sexual dysfunction/disorder during at least one period of their lives. Typically these people report the dysfunction having an extreme adverse effect on their lives, ranging from self-esteem issues to relationship deterioration.

You’re not alone.

Sincerity, Noun

  1. The quality of being free from pretense, deceit, or hypocrisy.

Synonyms: Honesty, Genuineness, Truthfulness, Integrity

 

I turn the water off and exit the shower, not even bothering to dry myself as I slip into my pajama bottoms.

I look into the mirror. There are red marks on my neck where my fingers clamped down around it. When I became particularly frenzied, I’d sometimes leave sickly yellowish purple bruises on my neck.

My dark hair is tussled, my wet bangs clinging to my forehead. My once bright green eyes are dull and faded. My prominent facial features normally make me look handsome, but now the harsh angles make me look malnourished. I continue staring into the mirror.

There’s nothing staring back.

An hour later, I lay in bed, staring up at the sporadic cracks in the ceiling, tracing them as they jut out in every direction. Someone knows, I think. They know my deepest, darkest secret. The idea of prison neither new nor frightening. Now, more than ever though, it seems to be a realistic possibility.  

You don’t think about the consequences of committing a murder. It’s kind of like sex, sure you’ll wear gloves and toss them out after the crime, the same thing you’d do with a condom after plugging a skank, but in the moment nothing else matters. As you’re killing someone, just like when you’re stinky, sweaty body is grinding and bucking against someone else’s, you’re lost in the moment. You’re thinking about the physical high, the adrenaline rush, and both with sex and murder, no matter how poor you are at it, you feel great and feel like a winner for doing it.

Then it ends.

Shame.

Regret.

Dishonor.

Disgust.

Am I talking about murder or sex?

Is there a difference?

Only after the good feelings wash away does rationality return, does the reality of consequence dawn upon you. Oh, I can get caught for this. I can be imprisoned. I can get this whore pregnant; she may have already given me an STD. I may have left evidence behind.

But I’d be the playboy. I’d be the self-assured smug piece of shit who’d become immune to shame after countless disgraceful consequence-free romps.

I’m talking about murder, not actual sex.

It’s a metaphor, asshole.

For a brief period, as I stew in my thoughts, prison seems like it’s coming. Would I be able to rough it in the clink? Probably not. I’d be too scrawny to defend myself, and I’d have to resort to chomping off some thug’s cock as he pushed it towards my face in the shower. He’d kill me afterwards, no doubt, but at least upon my death I’d become a legend in that penitentiary.

We all want to be remembered, don’t we?    

The conjecture is moot, however; this was no sting operation. If they knew who and where I was, they’d simply have arrested me. No time for games when dealing with suspected serial killers. An elaborate set up like this hadn’t been done by the authorities. Whoever did this didn’t want me arrested, at least not immediately, but the fact I couldn’t figure out the aim of their game was slightly disconcerting.

My concerns over the nature of the therapy group are met by a strong urge to attend the meeting.  

I am fucked up.

This has to stop.

If it was hoax I could end up jailed, or even killed, but so what if I did? Did those things even matter to me?

Apathy, Noun

  1. 1. Lack of interest, enthusiasm, or concern.

Synonyms: Indifference, Dispassion, Languor, Lethargy

 

What’s the point of caring if there’s nothing left to lose? In a strange way, the prospect of my life as I know it coming to an end is invigorating. I’d either attain a degree of healing or be freed from the suffering of every day existence.

So really it’s a win-win.

Right?

I continue pondering this until my eyelids finally give way to gravity’s pull and I slip into an unsound sleep, my nightmares filled with vivid images of the past. 

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Terminal Prologue

Sample of a work in progress. Will be posting updates to this and other works shortly. Hope you enjoy.

Prologue

There’s something about holding a gun to your head that puts life into perspective. Call it a moment of clarity. You don’t hear all the noise when there’s only immediacy. There’s a weird zen type of calmness that comes with a binary situation.

Two options, nothing else.

Live or die.

I know, it’s supposed to terrify me, but it has the opposite effect. I feel relaxed.

I feel in control.

I’ve hedged my bet. I suppose that makes this slightly inauthentic. I’m going to pull the trigger, make no mistake, and if the .357 magnum fires the stain left on the wall will put even Pollock’s most frenzied works to shame. Despite this, the odds of me dying are fairly low.

16.6% to be exact.

Well not exact, the 6 repeats, but you get the idea.

I’d put one bullet in the six shooter’s chamber, spun it, clicked it into place, and pressed the cool barrel of the gun against the side of my temple.

Like I said, it’s calming.

The reassuring touch of a dear friend.

Supportive. Caring. Nonjudgemental.

And what’s there to fear, really? If the gun goes off and I’m erased, it’s just a proactive measure, isn’t it?

An expedited process.

Express shipping at no extra cost.

I’m at a crossroads. If I live through this there is something more. Something that will make my life meaningful. It’s the grand plan I dedicated myself to. It’s my only chance, really. The only way to make my life into something more than the wasted twenty four years it’s been.

If your life was a book, would anyone read it?

I find myself asking this often.

Okay, that’s enough stalling. You know, the type of self-distracting talk you do in order to avoid going through with something you know you have to? I’m wasting the precious little time I might have.

Spoiler Alert: I’m going to die.

More specifically, I’m going to be dead by the end of this book. So if you’re not into that sort of thing, the whole “brooding anti-hero with an assortment of complexes bringing on his own demise,” you should probably pick up something else. Something more worthwhile or uplifting, you know? One of those harrowing tales where the main character overcomes adversity, meets his potential, and ends up with the love of his life. These type of books give you the payoff you’ve been waiting for all along.

Spoiler Alert: This isn’t one of those.

Oh shit, I’m stalling again.

I sigh, pulling myself from my thoughts, and look out my bedroom window. It’s cold outside. Not the bone chilling type of cold, but the soothing type that makes your skin tingle and reminds you that you’re alive. The slight gust of wind through my window is almost what does it. Not the memories of family or friends, no, a random breeze is what almost halts my finger from doing what it knows it must.

What does that say about me?

I stare at the moon, looking back with an apathetic glow, and I wonder if there’s more.

I pull the trigger.

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A messed up excerpt

This is the rough draft of the first chapter of a new project I’m working on. It’s a transgressive work, the type of stuff you’d see from Chuck Palahniuk or Brett Easton Ellis. It’s pretty dark and vulgar, but I think for the style it’s shaping up pretty well. Thoughts?

           

            You don’t want to read about me.

            Seriously, I’m not worth your time.

            You’re still fucking reading? What’s wrong with you? Are you one of those types who has to leave a handprint on the wall because you don’t trust the wet paint sign? Or is it just a rebellious streak? Have you been diagnosed with oppositional defiant disorder?

            It’s bullshit. A made up term to explain why people are fucked up. And we’re all fucked up, let me tell you. Spend some time researching your personality quirks on the internet and you’ll come up with a myriad of disastrous issues.

            Are you obsessive compulsive? Maybe you have ADD? ADHD? Social anxiety issues? Ergophobia? List more things about yourself – don’t worry you won’t be alone! You’re fucked up too, just like the rest of us, and we can you a nice little label, some happy fun time pills and most importantly and excuse for being so shitty.

            Revel in it. Say your problem loud and proud.

            Don’t get me wrong; I’m not discounting disorders entirely. We are all legitimately fucked up. Maybe I’m just saying the titles, categories, and treatments are all misnomers. Maybe I’m saying they’re a fancy way of fucked up people telling other fucked up people how to live and feel in order to make themselves feel a little less fucked up themselves.

            Or maybe I’m not.

            Who fucking cares?

            Are you seriously still reading?

            I knew a guy once, Billy let’s call him, who went off to Iraq fresh out of high school. Billy was pretty fucked up before he went to Iraq, a borderline alcoholic with penchant for fighting any motherfucker who looked at him the wrong way. Billy had issues, but his issues combined with his miserably low high school GPA made him a perfect candidate to become one of Uncle Sam’s boys.

            Three weeks into deployment an RPG struck Billy’s Humvee as he stood alongside of it. He probably would have become meat pudding if it hadn’t been for his best friend in the unit, a poor son of a bitch named Joe Murphy who happened to be standing between Billy and the Humvee when the rocket struck.

            “So she lifts up the burka and she’s packing a dong!” Those were his final words. Kind of sad, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you wish your last words were more flattering, and not the punch line to a joke about a goat-herder’s unfortunate run in with a transsexual Sunni?

            I don’t know, who the fuck am I to judge?

            What was left of Joe coated Billy, I’m talking melting flash latching onto his skin, chunks of gore forcing themselves into his mouth, and eviscerated organs clinging onto his body like they were apart of some grotesque ensemble. Joe was a fine friend but a pretty poor meat-shield, and plenty of the shrapnel ripped through his body and lodged itself into Billy.

            I remember the party his family threw for him when he returned. I attended not because I was particularly fond of Billy; I just wanted to feel a sense of belonging. You know, the type of feeling that you get when tell someone you donated to charity, or ran a 5k to support cancer research.

            You just do it so everyone thinks you’re a good person.

            Everyone includes you.

            Halfway through the evening someone popped a balloon and Billy shit himself, put his hands over his ears, started screaming at the top of his lungs and ran until he tripped and fell face first into his welcome back cake, destroying it as he fell to the floor, face coated in vanilla frosting and pants soaked through with feces.

            The last I heard Billy addicted to pain killers, had a constant twitch, was unemployed, and was blowing dudes for pills in an alley in Tacoma, Washington.

            Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s not. Does it matter? He’s fucked up, you’re fucked up, I’m fucked up.

            And you’re still reading.

            Prick.

            There was a kid once. An imaginative, bright little boy who had the misfortune of being born into a low income family. Maybe his creativity came from his mother, a failed artist turned pot dealer who was more concerned with completing high school level pieces of art than she ever was with taking care of a son. Or maybe it was from his father, who so inventively named the belt he beat his son with “Mr. Slack” for reasons unknown.

            “You’ve been a bad, bad boy!” Mr. Slack would say in a voice eerily similar to that of Mickey Mouse. “Mr. Slack is comin’ for ya!” His father said this in a silly way, as if they were playing some type of make believe game.

            The beatings that followed were all too real.

            But honestly, the boy probably got his creative and unique perspective on the world from watching his parent’s fuck. His first memories of this were from when he was four or five, but he thought that the experience went further back than that. His parent’s had the odd habit of stripping down and boning right in front of him, literally dropping whatever they were doing to go at it.

            “Oh let him watch! He’ll learn early!” His obese father cackled as he thrust his short, stubby cock into the eagerly awaiting mouth of his wife. The boy was always startled by how his mother stared directly into his eyes the entire time, as if she was taunting him.

            Or enticing him.

            Maybe his parents caused his social anxiety and sexual dysfunction issues, but they were only exacerbated when he wasted four years of his life dating a stuck-up, cold-blooded cunt who left him during his most difficult time.  

            I fucking hate you, Kelly.

            I love you, Kelly.

            You don’t want to read about that boy. It will only make you a worse person. The baggage he’s carrying, well it’s just too much. Why don’t you go buy one of those commercial novels? You know, one of those feel good stories with the predictable arc where, despite the central conflict and the tension that arises with love interest, everything gets resolved and everyone lives happily ever after.

            This is your final warning.

            No?

            Maybe you’re just as fucked up as I am.

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