Thursday, October 9, 2014

Johnny No One (unpublished fiction from old notebook)

Johnny was no one. No one at all. His whole life. Even back when his dad kicked his ass he was no one. To change this he decided to kill people. Because to be someone required doing something over the top, and murder was definitely that. Murderers always made the papers. 

Oh and there’d be blood – lots o’ blood. Not pretty blood, either. It would be blood and body parts and shit and tears. Thick, brown blood, like demon diarrhea thrust from the broken pipes of Hell’s plumbing. It would reek of bile and rape, murder and suffering. Mold and maggots would feast. Johnny would rejoice. He would howl with victory, bathe in the cesspools and waterfalls of his dripping, oozing empire. He would be king! 

“That’ll do, Johnny,” he said to himself, putting down the machete he’d been sharpening for two hours. “Good n’ ready for a date with human flesh.” 

He drank a shot of apple juice from a flask and made a sour face like it was Wild Turkey. He went, “ugh, man,” and shook his head like he’d been hit hard. 

“Time for death!” he yelled out. He kicked open the door to his shack and walked over to the neighbor’s house to kill them dead. 

“Alright Farmer George and wife Betty and bratty kids Luke and Samantha. Git out here n’ die! C’mon!” 

Johnny raised his machete high. Its blade shined in the moonlight like werewolf fangs after an evil brushing. 

The front door popped open and Betty George rolled out onto the wooden porch in her wheelchair. 

“Gonna die!” Johnny yelled as he dashed towards her, eyes ablaze and filled with anticipation. 

He leaped onto the steps with a growl, but Betty George pulled out a shotgun from beneath her afghan blanket and shot a hole through his chest. Johnny flew back and smacked the ground. He was dead. Dead as the first doornail to ever die, and he was still no one. 

Farmer George dragged Johnny’s limp ass into the kitchen and made stew for the whole family. 

“Wow, this is really good stew, pa,” said daughter Samantha.
“Yeah,” said wife Betty and son Luke, “we’ll have seconds.” 

Poor Johnny never even caused indigestion.
 

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