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Doomed: Chapter 7

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Joined: 16 Feb 2005
Posts: 61
Location: I'd tell you if I knew
Doomed: Chapter 7  Reply with quote  

So far this is one of my favorite chapters. I would give you the first chapter so you could have the faintest idea what I'm talking about, but that wouldn't be any fun;)

Chapter 7: Death Can Be Funny If You Plan It Right

I look at Bertha with an evil expression. I rev that beautiful engine and with a screeching wail of the tires we peel out of there at a blurred pace. Bertha gives an exited squeal as the velocity forces our bodies to burry themselves inches into our seats. God I love this car. The scenery is depressing. The sky hangs heavily with thick dark clouds. Everything that was green is now brown and dead. The streets are empty except for a few disoriented old people wandering the streets, that I constantly have to swerv to avoid squishing them into the dust. But nothing can look bad through the windshield of this very expensive sports car.

Bertha had tuned the radio to a rap station, the base is pounding the back of my head. Her body sways with the cheap rhythm. Her lips fumbled to sink the lyrics. I push the gas peddle down harder and harder with each pounding base beat. Normally I would hate this song, but this car is like an opiate. It's all good. Bertha screams like a banshee with every ninety mph sharp turn. It's as if she's about to climax at any moment.

By now you must be wondering how I have gotten away with all this for so long. Well, the simple answer to it is timing. You are not going to see too many cops on the streets at eight thirty in the morning, on a Tuesday, on a cold October day.

By the time we make it to our destination, I'm going about two hundred and twenty mph. I really could have used a parachute braking system. But as I said before, it was all good. With excitement I pull the emergency brake, the tires squeal like a stuck pigs and two black thick rubber trails lay in our wake. God I love this car. A few moments later, the car is now moving sideways and a little while later it comes to a complete, all be it, brutal stop. My ears are ringing from Bertha's orgasmic screams, my heart is about to beat right out of my chest and my lungs feel like they've been hallowed out with steel wool. Oh yeah and my ankle wound is seeping-again. But nothing could make me feel bad in this car. God I love this car! Bertha's excited screams finally subside. She's out of breath, panting heavily, our chests heave in unison.
"Oh my god, that was great." She said stretching and convulsing, bathing in the vehicular afterglow. I light a cigarette in conquest. I suck in the blue smog and give a satisfied sigh.
"Was it good for you?" I said with a satisfied little smirk, my cigarette dangles from the corner of my mouth.
"Oh god, now I know why you are still a virgin." She said, her chest still heaving and breathless. I don't know how she keeps doing that. I could have had my arm torn off and it wouldn't have bothered me in this car. But a small innocent sounding sentence from her and my happiness is gutted and lies lifeless at my feet; she's good. "Oh shit, I almost forgot." Bertha leaps straight in her seat, she turns to me with a troubled look on her face. "Where are they?"
"Where are whom?" I know who she's talking about, but she's being way too vague for me to let it go.
"Where are the people?"
"And what people would they be?" I can't help it, it's fun to be facetious.
"Don't be an ass, you know exactly who I'm talking about."
"What's your point?" Finally, payback.
"My point is, if you don't tell me where they are, I'll kick your ass!" She could do it too. She is about 5'10 and fit. I'm an out of shape flabby guy with a broken wrist and a fucked up ankle.
"Too late baby, I beat you to it." Her already irritated face turns harder and even more angry when I dared to call her: baby.
"Yes you did, thank you for making it easier for me in the second round." Second round?
"Second round?" I knew what she meant, but it was such a bad euphemism, I couldn't let it go.
"You know what I mean." Her voice turns from anger to kind of funny frustration. "Please tell me where those poor innocent victims are!" Her voice changes to even funnier begging.

I want to prolong her misery, but this gag isn't funny anymore. Time for the punch-line. I raise my hand and point past her to what sits just beyond her window. And there it stands, in big blue letters "Community Pool." As Bertha turned and stared, her reflection in the window oozes confusion. I can't hold it back any longer, a big bright smile bursts across my face. She turned to me, confusion written in big blue letters all over her face. When are eyes lock, I burst into uncontrollable laughter. "What the fuck are you laughing at?" she switches back to her default emotion: anger. "Is this all just some sort of sick joke?" Yes it is, but it's not over yet.
"I didn't lie, there are people drowning in there." Always try to wrap a lie within a truth, it makes it much easier to swallow. She studies me for a second, obviously trying to discern if I am lying or not.
"Okay, I'll believe you for now, but remember you got a busted ankle, I could easily catch you if you are lying to me!" I love a woman that plans her revenge well in advance.
"Dully noted." I said indifferently.

We both climb out of the beautiful black sports car. I give the car a little loving petting as I come around the hood. It just stands there, beautiful and black, half on the sidewalk, half on the road. The great thing about stealing cars is you don't have to give a shit about parking. We sluggishly jog into the warm government subsidized, big ass building and out of the cold dead air.

We stroll by the heavy double-doored entrance and then we are blasted by hot, dry air from the heat barrier, that separates the cold dying air of nature from the artificial life inside. The air is choked with heat and Chlorine. The sounds of splashes and people echoed in every endless white hallway. Bertha frantically jotts her eyes in all directions, trying to find those poor doomed souls that she will selflessly risk her own life to save. I wish I had brought my lawn-chair, but that would have given Bertha the wrong idea. Lying is fun, but it can be a long term commitment.

We make are way to the Observation Deck. All it is, is a cramped little room with a big plexiglass window for a wall; that looks down onto the bright blue pool below. The drowning session shouldn't start for another fifteen minutes. The only movement is in the shallow end, a flock of old people in far to revealing swimsuits, with floral shower caps, bending and flexing in some physical therapy class. The only looker in the whole bunch is the instructor; a trim, lean chick wearing a very tight red Calvin Cline one-piece swimsuit.
"Where are they?" Bertha's pathetic whine echoed.
"The drowning should commence in..." I sluggishly looked at my watch and studied it just to prolong her misery "about ten minutes." It's kind of odd that Bertha has just excepted that I know that people are going to drown. Maybe she thinks I'm a fortuneteller or something.

Bertha passes the time staring intently at the pool, barely blinking. I on the other hand, pass the time by raiding a broken-down vending machine . You always need snacks at a show, and this one will be much more entertaining than usual. My cheap little watch gives a single beep indicating the time has come. Let the drowning commence.

On my way out of the observation deck, holding with both hands and arms a mountain of chips, choco-bars, gum and two sandwiches long past their expiry date. I see Bertha still hunched over, forehead firmly planted on the plexiglass, eyeing all the wet little people.
"Are you coming?" I said while juggling my mountain of ill-gotten goods. Bertha didn't even move, it's like TV for her.
"No, you go ahead." She said with a dead, emotionless voice.
"Don't you want to save them?" Her reflection erupts into surprise as she remembers the purpose of her presence. "It's nine o'clock, they should be drowning real soon." She leaps out of her seat, she runs out the door, but not before she grabs me by the hand and drags me out with her, forcing me to drop most of my heap of sugar-injected, fat glistening junk food in the process. The only things I was able to hold onto was a small bag of corn-chips and one of those prehistoric sandwiches.

We were halfway down the hall before I could stop her and tell her we were going the wrong way. She abruptly stops, I almost run her over. She spins around on one foot and heaves her thin, lean, soft, little legs in the apposite direction. She still has a vice-grip on my hand and giving me whiplash in the process. This better be worth all the mind-numbing pain as I limp behind her, leaving a trail of blood and puss from my seeping ankle. Without even slowing down, Bertha body-checks the heavy fire-doors that open to the pool, with me dragging behind.

One of the metal fire-doors clips my swollen, fucked up ankle and sends me into the depths of pain the likes of I had been fortunate enough to have been inebriated and never had to feel before. But not this time. While I'm reeling from the pain and still being dragged by Bertha, I slip on the wet tile floor and come crashing down. Bertha finally lets go of my hand, so as not to slow her down.

Still running to the pool, she throws off her brown, crusty overcoat. Still heading towards the pool, she hops on one foot to take off her shoes. Then her socks. Then her pants and last but most certainly not least, her shirt. I was right, this is worth it. Hehe. So there she is, in near naked glory. Only her panties and bra stood between the world and her trim well-built, perfect naked little body. And soon she would be wet. Hehe.

But it was not to be. Mere feet from the pool's edge. A sign hangs outstretched over the pool, it catches her eye just before she reaches the pool's edge. It states: "Life Guard Tryouts Today At 9". She finally got the joke.

Before I get to my beating. I guess I'll explain the joke to the rest of you. I was not lying when I said there would be people drowning; I may have exaggerated a little. What I do sometimes when I'm bored is heckle the drowning victims. Who are in fact drama students playing the roll of drowning victims; and doing it badly, I might ad.

Okay. Back to my beating. As you can guess, Bertha is not thrilled that I had tricked her into doing a striptease in front of a dozen or so lifeguard wanna-be's and another dozen geriatric wrinkled old farts getting hard-ons under their little speed-os.

When embarrassment and anger mix together, it leaves an odd expression on someone's face. Her eyes are wide and her arms crossed over her chest in embarrassment, but her teeth and fists are clenched tight in red hot anger. Her face is beat red, but I can't tell if that's from anger or embarrassment. She's breathing heavily through her clenched teeth, that's anger all right.

Her head whips around towards me. Through her clenched jaw she growls my name like the devil. That's odd, I don't remember giving my name to her; She must have found it sifting through my apartment. She turns her beautiful body at me and begins to march towards me. Every step is hard and fierce, kinda like how a model would walk, if that model is ubber pissed and is going to kill you when she got to the end of the runway. Without even braking stride. She picks up her discarded clothes and drapes them over her chest. All the while glaring at me with an anger I would soon know the intensity of. She continues to march at an even pace. She doesn't stop or even slow down a little, until she is less than an inch away. Her face so close to mine. Her hot breath spills onto me from her flared nostrils. Her mouth open, teeth bared. I am so screwed.
"Have you ever had your ass kicked by a woman before?" She said through her teeth. I'm scorched in her burning hatred.
"Not without paying for it." My smirk burned in the reflection of her eyes. She gives a frustrated growl and then her body tenses. You can guess what happens next. Her leg flies backwards. In a blur it sails forward. With a muffled thud and a gasping wail from me. Her narrow little foot connects with my crotch. It sends fiery pain up my spine and down to the floor I go. Love is can be painful. I lay writhing in pain, holding my balls. Hoping with every second that passes, that will be the second it will start to subside. She towers over me, looking down at me as I laid on my side, in the fetal position, shivering and whimpering a little
"Don't worry, that ones free of charge." She said in a cold and calm hiss, almost whispering. Still reeling in pain, still holding my balls. I wince at first. But laughing seems more appropriate. My laughter echoes among the staring masses.

"So..." She begins to say, her face warms and her anger fades. "What's so fun about watching this?" No trace of anger is left in her voice.
"They're drama majors, they're going to have to deal with heckling sooner or later." The pain is finally dimming to a low gut-wenching simmer, my balls don't throb anymore.
"You still haven't told me how this is entertaining." I hate it when I answer a question with an excuse, and apparently; so does she.

I lethargically pick myself up off the damp, clammy floor. Still holding my balls through my pants. My balls don't hurt anymore, but I might as well get some guilt out of her. "Stop feeling yourself, you big perv." I guess guilt ain't my bag. She has her arms crossed over her chest and a disapproving scowl on her face. She's facing me. Facing away from the pool. Showing the drooling old farts her ass, in all its glory. She bent over, and the drooling masses tilted their heads downward in unison. With a smooth motion she slipps her pants back on. I found myself tilting with the drooling masses and gawking at her exposed cleavage. In the midst of my drooling, Bertha's head jerks up at me staring at her. But because she's cruel, she just gives a suggestive smile and continued to button up her pants. To further continue the cruelty. Bertha still wearing that lewd smile and now staring right back at me, with a provocative twinkle in her eye. She slowly, and I mean glacially slow, buttons up her shirt in a cruel, twisted, reverse striptease. She places a few locks of hair behind her ear that had escaped her nightmare hair due. Still staring at me with cruel lust in her eyes and now she's brushing off phantom dust off her perky tits, making them jiggle slightly. To top it all off, she lathered her big red lips with her hot and sweet saliva from her outstretched hot-pink tongue. My dawg is throbbing hard, I'm holding my crotch again, but it's not my balls that hurt this time.

A loud splash fallowed by an over acted, over dramatized pleads for help, pull Bertha's attention away from her cruel little tease. Thank god. In a few minutes a group of future William Shatners will be splashing around pretending to drown. She can't hide her enjoyment. At first it was a small smile at the corner of her mouth. It spread and before too long, she is clapping her hands, laughing her ass off and heckling like she had done it for years. I should open a school, "in only one class you can heckle with the best of em'." I just look at her, hooting and hollering, booing, her thumbs outstretched from her closed fists and downward pointed. She's even cuter when she's being cruel to someone else.

I don't know what it is. But snacks and a show just go together. I pop open my little bag of corn-chips and with a wet, sloppy crunch, I shovel a handful of salty-stale chips into my gaping mouth. Still munching on my stale corn-chips, I hand Bertha the prehistoric sandwich. She clumsily opens it. Not taking her eyes off the entertainment splashing and screaming, like a fish with Torez syndrom. She pulls the rancid sandwich out of its rapper and takes a bite, the cardboard bred crunches and the brown lettuce swishes in her mouth.. I gag, remembering the eggs (this was infinitely worse). She gave a few very confused slow chews before her tastebuds scream in horror. Her face contorts in sheer disgust. She inhales deeply and her entire body convulsed. In a fraction of a second, she spat it out like a cannon. It flies across the pool and hits one of the lifeguard supervisors in the forehead and it splatters all over his face. Rancid mayo and brown, moldy lettuce runs down his crinkled face. I burst into uncontrolled, knee-slapping laughter; at first at the lifeguard running for the nearest bathroom, holding his mouth, cheeks bursting and full. But it was Bertha's face that was the punch-line, crinkled and convulsing, green and pale.

"You are one sick mother-fucker!" She said. Trying to spit the putrid taste from her mouth. I hold out my hand, clutching that small bag of corn-chips.
"Chip?" I said with a mouthful of corn-chips swirling around the inside my mouth. Her face reddens, her muscles tense. She quickly snatches the bag from my outstretched hand.
"Thanks." she said taking a fistful of corn-chips and thrusting them into her mouth in hopes of washing the putrid taste out her mouth. Before I could grab them back, justified, she dumps the remnants onto the damp, mildew soaked floor.

By this time the lifeguard has returned from the bathroom. He screeches at us, mostly at Bertha. The lifeguard stomps towards us (what I mean by ‘us' is Bertha, I just happened to be standing next to her, laughing my ass off). His bare feet slap the wet tile as he marches towards us. The lifeguard stomps closer and closer. I just stand there, my arms crossed over my chest an arrogant look on my face. Standing and waiting for the inevitable shouting match between Bertha and the ubber pissed lifeguard. He stomps right past Bertha and stands toe to toe, nose to nose to me. I guess my laughing, in an arrogant stance made him choose me. It's always easier to get pissed at and beat a fellow man.
"What the hell do you think you were doing!?" his hot, raged breath clouds my face. The stench of the prehistoric sandwich is still all over him. I wince from the pungent aroma emanating from his beat red face. I fan the decomposing air away from my face. I guess that isn't the smartest thing to do to a 6'4 lifeguard, with arms bigger than my chest and a neck wider than his head.

My first instinct is to point out Bertha still clutching the sandwich in her hand, with one big bite out of it, and the identical smell between the sandwich and his slimy, red, bulging, very pissed off face. But I was already beaten and bloody, what was a few more scars? So I just stood there, with an arrogant smile, still fanning my face and glaring right back at him.
"What can I say?" I couldn't help it; it's fun to stare death in the face and spit in it. "I'm just a really good shot." I say it with a teeth bared smile, laughing a little. But the rest of my body is tense and clenched, preparing for the inevitable shit kicking I am soon to receive. As soon as I see his fist raised and tight, his face clenched. I shut my eyes tight and wait for some part of my face to throb and to collapse to the floor, bawling in a pathetic heap.

But I felt nothing. The only thing that happened is the unfamiliar hissing sound of compressed gas escaping, and a cry of unbridled anguish. I opened one eye, to see the lifeguard frantically flailing around, holding his eyes, red, swollen and blind. I opened the other eye to see Bertha standing next to him, clutching her trusty bottle of pepper-spray, her index finger on the trigger and the nuzzle wet with fresh clouded orange pepper liquid. I am surprised that she would care. But mostly I was surprised because I got lucky. I'm never lucky. Life never goes my way. Some people may say surviving several car accidents is considered lucky, but if you didn't want to survive?

But as always my luck or lack there of, catches up with me. The lifeguards's buddies see him stumbling around in pain and as blind as a bat. They come to his rescue. And because my life sucks, they come charging at me and threaten to beat my head in. I just stand there, waiting for them. I guess I'm too lazy to live.
"C'mon you cock-suckers." I want to make sure they kill me. I don't want to wake up in a hospital bed, I just don't want to wake up at all. "I hope you do better than your pussy friend here." I just want to make something very clear, I'm not a sadist, I'm not in love with pain, pain is just the currency of death. I keep goading them on as they get closer.

But as always, my luck and life suck. Bertha grabs my hand and pulls me so hard she pulls my shoulder right out of its socket.
"Your out of your god damn mind, you know that!?" I hate it when she states the obvious.
"Yeah, but it's fun." I said, half laughing, trying to hide the unimaginable pain as my shoulder throbs, my wrist burns and my ankle screams in sharp, fiery pain. Bertha is pulling me so hard, she's dragging more than anything. Every jerk of her arm rapped around my hand pulls my shoulder out of its socket more and more.

At least she's permanently disabling my left arm. It could be worse, she could have chosen the right one, and totally killed my sex-life. She body-checks the doors-again. She is always in such a hurry to get some where, even though she has no idea how to get there.

As soon as we are through the doorway. I collapse in a heap of smoldering pain, bruises, abrasions, cuts, gashes...
"Get up, you big pussy." The line between cruelty and indifference can be a thin one. I just stare at her, as I lay on the cold tile floor, holding my throbbing shoulder. My burning ankle, still seeping watered down blood and puss onto the shinny, recently polished floor. I don't want to move anymore, not because every joint and limb on my shattered, broken, little body screamed for mercy. I don't want to move because any second a steroid pumped mob will come charging through those doors and hopefully make it all end, finally.

But as always, life never goes my way. Quick-thinking-Bertha barricades the doors; by interlocking a promotional sign between the door handles. And just as she finished, the doors bulge, clatter and pound from the enraged lifeguard wanna-be's heaving themselves against the looked fire doors on the other side.

At this point, all I can do is get up. Against my bodies repeated pleads to the contrary. I stare at them through the wire laced safety glass of the fire doors. Their hatred fogs up the glass. The best I can hope for is they will kill me later. But I know they won't. The best I could truly hope for is they will beat me unconscious, but not to death.

Me and Bertha lean on the wall opposite the fire doors, breathing heavy, staring at all the lifeguards throwing themselves against the doors.
"What is your problem, do you want to die?" I hate it when she asks questions she already knows the answers to.
"What do you think?" I just felt like answering her question with a question, just to be an ass. We just stare at the vibrating door and the animalistic hatred behind it. Bertha doesn't seem to care about my suicidal tendencies. The promotional sign clatters and buckles, bends and cracks. Bertha grabs my hand and begins to pull me, because the glittering stainless steal sign will soon give. Soon a tidal-wave of anger and violence will burst through and crush me. I slip out of her grasp and fall back to the smooth, rock-hard floor with my squeaking shoes flying up to where my head once was. This floor is becoming way too comfortable.

"Get up, you big pussy." I claw my way up a wall and stand once again. I can't put it off any longer, the pain is too much. I line up my shoulder to the wall. "What the fuck are you doing?" I just stood there. The fire-doors rattle and loud threats echo down the endless sparkling white hallways. I stand there for about two minutes, gathering all the courage I have, or at least what I wish I had. My chest swells. My jaw is sore from clenching it too much. My body is vibrating so fast I feel like I am going to fly apart. Just to break the tension, I throw my shoulder at the white, cold brick wall. A pathetic wet, limp smack mingled with the clattering echoes with my pain. Bertha inhales sharply, teeth bared, hissing in a classical wince. I couldn't care less what Bertha thought at this point, since I'm tumbling back to the floor and all. With a resonant pound to the floor, the very force in which I hit the polished pristine ground seemed to cry out in pain for me. I know if I were to stop moving I would never start again. So I claw my way back up the glittering white wall. My shoulder throbs so hard I can't hear the pounding door over my own heartbeat. My ears are overpowered by the blast of blood pumping through my veins so hard that I am getting a hard-on. But I didn't hear that familiar pop. That sound of my shoulder going back where it belongs. I'm going to have to do it again. I stare at the white wall, now splattered with my blood, slowly running down to the floor in thin fingers groping the wall with it's digits of bright rusted crimson. I line up my shoulder to the blood raped wall, for a second time. "What the fuck are you doing?" For someone so cruel, she sure can't handle seeing someone in pain very well. "We don't have time for this, they are going to come through that door any second!" She said grabbing a hold of my hand, with quick sharp pulls she slowly wrenches me out of my footing.
"You pulled my arm right out of its socket." I growled throwing her hands away. "Your pretty strong for a chick."
"Fine, go ahead. But hurry up." She said looking up at the ceiling, arms crossed over her tits, tapping her shoe in a steady annoying beat. As Bertha admires the pale white flourescent lights flickering with every slam on the door. The tapping of her shoe began to unify with the pounding door. The pounding has become uniform and steady. The lifeguards hatred has become cold and calculated. So I did what anyone would do when faced with an ass kicking, I beat them to it. I hurl my shoulder at the blood spattered wall, *sigh* again. I hear that familiar sound of a pathetic soggy thud, and me falling back to the floor. But still no god damn pop. Let's see if te saying: third times the charm isn't full of shit. Bertha groans with frustration. She stomps over to where I am lying on the cold floor, holding my blood soaked shoulder. Icy, sharp fire sears into every joint and limb. "That's not how you do it." She said crouching down beside me, and grabbing my arm. "Let me try." Still holding onto my arm, she puts her foot on my chest and gently pulls my arm straight. What is she going to do, messuage it back into place?
"This is no time for a light touch!"
"Your right, it isn't." with that, her face tightened and with a quick jerk and shit-load of pain, I hear that long awaited pop.
"That's much better." It still hurts more than many people have ever had to deal with, but now it's a pain I don't have to fix. Bertha grabs my other arm, (my broken one) and pulls me back to my feet.
"C'mon you lazy fuck, let's go." she said slowly edging down the hall while motioning in exaggerated movements for me to follow.
"Man those wanna-be's are fucking retarded, there's another exit on the other side of the pool." I shouted to Bertha halfway down the hall. While my words still drifted on the air, the doors go silent. The doors are as still as the grave, and twice as haunting. I guess I shouldn't have said that. Bertha glares at me with pure abject horror.
"You're a fucking retard!" I hate it when she states the obvious.
"Oops." I said with a quiet whimper, it was the only thing I could think to say. Bertha turns in a horrid dash, and begins to run down the path like a crazed roadrunner. I wonder how close those moronic coyotes are. While I'm wondering that, Bertha is getting further away. So with my one good leg, I run after her. What I mean by run, is pathetically limp like a half dead dog.

While I limp for my life and Bertha is getting further and further away, I hear the Wil E Coyotes burst through another door further down the hall. I look back to see them falling over each other like an awful Marks Brothers flick. Each one trying to be the first to beat me into unconsciousness, and behind the tumbling farce of the wanna-be's in their bright red trunks and shirtless, tanned torsos is the near blind supervisor stumbling around like a blind rat.

I once heard the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over but expecting a different result every time. But what if you do something different every time, never in the same order, but get the same result every time?

I limp after Bertha. The salivating, shirtless mob in bright red trunks are nipping at my heals. Their hot breath clings to my back. Bertha's blackened siloett slowly disappears into the shimmering, clean hallway. I desperately limp after her and try to outrun this steroid-pumped mob getting closer with every pain filled step I take. I look back to see one of the wanna-be juicers, with those queer, blinding bright red trunks lunge for my battered, bloodied body, he missed. Instead he careens into a pregnant woman, probably coming or going from or to a beginner's` yoga class. They topple end over end, they swirl together into a mass of breasts and exposed abs. I hear the distinct crack of the pregnant woman's head splitting on the hard, smooth, unforgiving, stone floor. I hope that kid won't be born cross-eyed.

I look forward to see Bertha is gone, she's no where to be found. At first I'm afraid she's ditched me, but I realize she can't start the Porsche without me. While I am comforted by that thought, the growling horde of testosterone pumped juicers finally catch up with me, and slam me into the glass doors of the exit so hard my teeth won't stop vibrating. The glass shatters, and the spider web pattern shreds and slashes my face as they hold the back of my head, crushing my face deep into the glass. I'm surprised I got to the exit before they finally catch up with me. I'm getting pretty fast at limping, I'm getting way to use to limping for my life. They let go of my head, to let me fall to my knees . Hunched over, gasping for air, blasted with hot dry air from the heat barrier. My face slashed and shredded. My mouth and nostrils filled with liquid iron.

The looming crowd that surrounds me parts down the middle to let the near blind supervisor stagger through and have his crack at me. His red and swollen, squinting and blinking eyes. Barely able to see me. I must look like a blurred dream to him, almost real, but lacking the cold, sharp definitions of reality. He stares at me, desperately trying to see my face as anything other than a blob. But he gives up, and slams his foot into my soft stomach instead. The shockwave ripples through flab, like pale beige ripples in a pond. I fall to my side, unable to breathe or move. The pain of new and old wounds merge to numbing throb. The flow of fists, bared teeth, flying feet, and fluttering clothes are silent and slowly coming to a stop, like a silent movie slowly winding down. But something rips through it, like someone has just pressed pause on that movie and I am suddenly aware of the real world again. I look up to see all the wanna-be's still and paralyzed. All of them staring in one terrified direction. I would look at what they are so afraid of, if I didn't already know what it is, or should I say who it is.
"What took you so long?"
"I wouldn't have to be here at all if you weren't so god damn slow!" She's got a point.
"Take it easy lady, we won't touch your boyfriend anymore." Said one of the more brave wanna-be's. I don't think she liked me being branded her boyfriend. She scrunches her mouth into a tight, wrinkled red ball of flesh, a volcanic blast erupts from her hand and rips through the brave wanna-be's thigh. With a splattering splash of blood and a wail of surprised pain he collapses to the floor a foot away from me. Holding his bleeding limb, swearing in agony with every exhale.
"He's not my boyfriend!" Bertha said with a clenched jaw.
"You shot me! You crazy bitch! You shot me!" I climbed to my feet, with as much dignity as I had left. I straighten my blood soaked clothes and brush off tiny pieces of glass that cling to the blood on my clothes. The glass makes cute little jingles when they hit the floor. Little glass slivers have embedded themselves in my fingers and face, they will be nearly impossible to get out, but that's a problem for another day. I look down, over my shoulder at the poor brave wanna-be slowly bleeding death on a cheap black rubber welcome mat.
"If I were you, I wouldn't be calling a woman with a gun that has just shot me, a bitch." I meant to say it in a dark ominous tone, but it just sounded pathetic. I'm out of breath and blood fills my mouth and nose, so it just sounded wheezy and soggy. "Even if she is a bitch." I say in a soft exhale.
"What did you say?" Bertha swung her outstretched arm towards me, the muzzle rests on my left shoulder. It's hot steel sears the hairs on the back of my neck, the gun still reeks of gunpowder.
"Are you depth? I said you're a bitch!" What's she going to do, shoot me too? That would be a mercy killing, and she ain't that merciful. I turn back to face Bertha, still holding the gun at my throat, her finger firmly stroking the trigger. "Are we done, can we go now?" her cold monster expression dissolves into nonchalance. Her arm relaxes and she tucks the small black gun into a hidden pocket in her ratty coat.
"Fine. But you owe me." Bertha calmly turns towards the exit, and with an excited almost skip she shuffles out the door. She has more mood-swings than Jim Carry, I sure know how to pick em'. I wobble to the exit, dragging my near dead leg behind me, I hold my aching sides, fearing they will fall to the floor if I let go. Every step I hack up more blood, I must be bleeding internally. I stagger through the exit, I look back through the shattered glass to see the wanna-be's still as statues, still horrified of the memory of Bertha. I stumble back to the door and poke my head through.
"Hey guys!" Only their heads move to face me, their bodies refuse to budge. "If you don't want your buddy to bleed to death, call an ambulance." the brave one lies shivering and whimpering in pitiful fear of death, with a pool of his own blood surrounding him, the pool slowly growing. They still don't move, but I don't really care. So I head to the black sports car, Bertha is already calmly sitting inside. Her face is blank, almost happy, completely immune to what she had done only moments ago. Normal people think after something horrible happens you cry, or freak out, but what really happens is you just go numb; the reason you go numb is you want to, who wants to feel pain and fear when your not sure what just happened.
"Your in my seat." I said looming over Bertha, while she reclined in the heated driver's seat. She swings her head to face me with half open eyes, and a half yawn, like I had just woken her from a mid-day nap.
"You're not driving." She said with such confidence, as if we had already argued about it, and she had won without much of a fight. I just eyed her, with an arrogant smirk growing across my face.
"You don't even know how to start the..." In mid sentence I am interrupted by the engine roaring to life, and a very annoying satisfied grin on her face, as six traffic tickets tucked under the windshield wiper fluttered noisily in the wind.
"You didn't think you were the only one who knew how to steal a car, did you?" This love hate relationship we have going, is getting confusing. "It was your turn, now it's mine." I was in no condition to argue, and at any moment I could pass out. So I guess I'll let her drive this time. I pathetically stagger around the car, gripping the hood, desperately holding on against the ground's cold grip trying to pull me down. I fall into the passenger's seat in a cold miserable heap. I'm shivering so hard every muscle feels like it's made of clay. My thoughts hurt. I'm going into shock. Shock is natures merciful hand holding you from pain, it keeps your mind occupied. I become fixated on the pink parking tickets violently fluttering in the wind, they seem to be waving goodbye. I hope the owner of this car isn't too upset with me bleeding all over his lambskin leather seats. I must be close to death, I haven't called this car a beautiful black Porsche for a while.
For every action, there is an equal and opposite government program.

Post Mon Jul 25, 2005 11:59 pm   View user's profile Send private message

Joined: 16 Feb 2005
Posts: 61
Location: I'd tell you if I knew
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Let me know if You guys think my protagonist is too much of an asshole.
For every action, there is an equal and opposite government program.

Post Wed Jul 27, 2005 11:57 pm   View user's profile Send private message

Joined: 16 Feb 2005
Posts: 61
Location: I'd tell you if I knew
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It might be because of Slipknot pumping out a lot more chapters and my chapter being lost in his great story, but I could really use some feedback too.

Could ya please tell me what you guys think of my chapter?
For every action, there is an equal and opposite government program.

Post Sat Jul 30, 2005 10:53 pm   View user's profile Send private message

Joined: 16 Feb 2005
Posts: 61
Location: I'd tell you if I knew
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I know J.S' stuff is good, but don't forget about little old me. C'mon tell me what ya think of my stuff:)
For every action, there is an equal and opposite government program.

Post Wed Aug 03, 2005 4:27 am   View user's profile Send private message
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