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Take Out


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[b]Take Out[/b]

[color=crimson]I told myself to stop at the stop light but I decided to hit the pedestrians first, wait, what? I need to. . . I need the needle and I need to stop, wake up, stop and wake up. I'm sleepy. I need to wake up because the early bird gets the worm, that's what they say at least - I know that because I'm drowning in these thoughts that aren't mine, ya' know? Or do I know?

Of course I know! See, I'll give myself a shot of the ol' shit and sit outside the Church with a cigarette half cocked out of my mouth. I'm watchin' some lazy trails of smoke snake just past my brow and stumble up to meet the stars. My grip on the hatchet tenses and I feel my blood flood with all kinds of waker-uppers or stims or whatever the hell kids half my age call them. I can feel the pores on my skin open up and let loose a torrent of sweat. I feel good, yeah, I feel real good. I stagger to my feet and crack my neck to loosen myself up. It's a foggy-fuck-night and I'mma feeling good. I need something to do.

I walk out into the parking lot and drop the cig from my mouth onto the ground. The dim light of the embers burns orange and resonates with the burning in my heart ? this is good shit I'm feeling, yeah. I take a few practice slashes with my hatchet and feel the cool night air tango with the sweat across my body. I am alive and I know I am alive because I can feel that I am alive. Not the superficial alive society teaches you, but the primal animal alive that screams and tears into the night with blood red eyes and a thirst for every minute you conquer a bit more of time.

Right now? Right now in my time? Right now, well, right now I'm a night owl and I'm flying through the air to the mouse skittering along the ground past the twigs towards his hole but there's no time and I think I'm going to get him and I think I'm almost there and I've almost got him in my claws and ? . . .

I crouch over the guy and look at his face.

?Hey, man. Hey. Hey-hey-hey-hey. Hey.?

There's no response. The pool of blood around his head spreads slowly to form a crimson halo.

?Hey, MAN!?

I slap his face a couple of times to no response.

?Ah, well. I didn't have much to talk about anyway. I just thought I'd ask why you're laying around out here, ya' know?? I say and pull the hatchet out of his face. There's a clean cut straight down the middle that perfectly divides it into left and right face-halves. Half faces? Facehalfs? Whatever - this guy is acting a bit strange for a healthy lookin' fella.

?Behavior like that, laying in streets and stuff, that's a bit worrisome in a healthy individual, yeah? Might need to have yourself checked our or something, ya' know??

I clean the hatchet off on the dead man's button-up shirt. There's a pen in his pocket protector that's bright orange. Bright orange embers of a cigarette I vaguely remember smoking. . . when did I smoke it? I take the pen. It's one of those slick advertising pens ? the ones with a company logo or address plastered all over one side that you never pay attention to since, well, you got the pen to be a fucking pen, not a little billboard with ink. Huh. Tong's Chinese Food. I fucking love this place and it's real nearby. I think I'll go grab myself a little No. 6 special tonight! I smile widely at the thought of steaming piles of rice mixing with fried chicken dripping in sauces I can't remember the name of but, hey, who cares! Time to get some Chinese! I walk away from the man, not thanking him for suggesting a place to eat, and head down the street.

The fog cloaks me. It consumes me. I am part of one large collective white mass slowly infiltrating every part of this town and overwhelming your very visions. I am a demi-god. I stand atop the rest of you as a king, I own all of you, I. . . I will not be forgotten again, not this time, not this time, not this time, not this time, not this time. . . no, you'll be fine, you'll take their heads and raise them high and you will know that you are the king and, and, and, and. . .

. . . and I'm gasping for breath and stumbling a bit now, but I'm no worse for wear, I promise. This street is long but my belly is rumbling. I want the No. 6 special. Stir fry, yeah, I know that's what I want deep in my gullet. It's late in the evening but they will have to serve me the No. 6 special, yeah? I don't have any money but I'll get them to give it to me somehow. I have this hatchet. Yeah, I have the hatchet and that's all I need.

I was alone but now I see ahead of me there's a guy and a girl holding hands walking. Lovers! Young lovers! What a quaint thing, fuck, what a fucking quaint thing to see on a lonely night like this, I don't know if I'll mess with them, I know I shouldn't, eh, but, that sounds, you know, I just like to think that I won't. I will though. I'm the night owl, yeah, piercing eyes going through the haze right down your back and into your soul. I see you and I hear you and I feel you and I know you and I am on you now and you are screaming and my hatchet is through you and your girlfriend is running and I am dancing on the light like a fairy at play right through her body and her legs are flailing and she is crying and all of this time I never knew how good it felt to be alive. Never knew, never knew. That's a shame, that's a fuck ugly shame is what it is.

I gotta get that No. 6 though, man, so you relax with your girl here. I tuck them together on the side of the road under a very ugly tree, very ugly like them, very ugly like you, or very ugly like me? I question my question. Ugly like a tree, ugly like me, ugly like a tree! That's a fairly good limerick with a fairly good comparison, I guess. I put them in a kind of last embrace or, eh, I did as much as I could since the guys arm came off somewhere over there. I dunno. Tricky business sometimes, this hatchet phase of mine. Tricky, tricky. I hope it doesn't end too soon, this tricky-tricky business I'm in.

I hop away from them and wipe the sweat off my brow. I have a bit of blood on me now but that's okay! High spirits. Morale remains good with the team and fuck if I am going to give up the opportunity to have myself some No. 6 special. Tong's is right over here, just off Broadway, next to the Vietnamese place. I wonder if they ever, you know, hate each other ? Chinese and Vietnamese people have a long history of combat and death and killing and suffering and, you know, between their people. Suffering. I like the word suffering. Say the word suffering and you feel so. . . dirty. S-u-f-f-e-r-i-n-g. I spell it out, say it out, yell it out, sing it out, and I am OUT!

It's 11:45 and the lights over Tong's show the closed sign. I hold my aching head and through the sweat, fog, and cold I know that I had missed out by an hour and fifteen minutes my chance to have a No. 6. The workers can't be gone. I slam on the door with my fist as hard as I can. The glass shatters and I hear the sound of someone inside. I grip my hatchet firmly and step inside the restaurant, slithering down and into the darkened room. I feel the pulse of the hatchet in my hand, the cool air becoming staler, the animal life inside of me writhing and fucking and screaming and reaching deep down into my brain to push the little red button that no one should ever push.

I am the night owl. I am over the counter and no one is there. I am past the tables into the kitchen and there are three men, two Mexicans and one Chinese, smoking around the back door. The two Mexicans are leaning on either side of the door and the Chinese man is standing outside, looking at them with a big, dumb grin on his fucking face. I pick up a butcher knife from the rack. They didn't hear the glass, did they? They didn't hear the glass! I sneer and now I am flowing past the dishwasher across freshly-cleaned floors gliding with my twin blades glinting as they ask me to deliver blood. I drag my blade across throats beside me and come down on the Chinaman, swooping from way up high like an angel to bring about deliverance on the wilted, wasted soul of the damned.

I stand up. I'm gasping for breath. The cool air is on my skin again. The drip-drip-drip of the blood off of my blades soothes my nerves. I'm not sweating as much now. I still feel the animal, though. I still feel him beating inside of my heart and struggling to rip out of my body into the wide expanse of the Earth. I still feel. . . hungry. Shit. I could have used a No. 6. I hear the distant sound of wailing. I feel the flashing lights from blocks away. I can hear the wings coming from way up high of an angel. . .

De-liver-y. De-liver-ance? Some deliverance? For me?


I wrote this scene for a creative writing class and I like it. It makes me hungry.

The last time I spent some time on OB the blood flowed pretty well in this forum so I hope that's still the case.[/color]
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