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follow me on twitter: http://twitter.com/thingswethinkAllan waited for his eyes to adjust. After twenty seconds, everything was still black. So he just kept them closed, because at some point, some asshole behind a piece of one way glass would turn on the lights and blind him.
AND LO AND BEHOLD! A light switch clicked and Allan felt twelve thousand lumen spotlights all over his face. The black behind his eyelids flashed away to bright orange. He should have put a hand over his face, but he didn’t. He’d been down this road a few times. Putting your hand over your face told the guys behind the glass something. It told them the surprise had worked.
“Why isn’t he putting his hand over his face?”
“I don’t know! Maybe they’ve developed a corneal implant for light sensitivity.”
“He still has his eyes closed, so perhaps it’s only behind the eyelid.”
“When we autopsy him later we’ll do a thorough dissection of the eyeball and eyelids.”
“I CAN HEAR YOU!” Allan yelled.
“Get your hand off the interc-” echoed through the chamber.
As far as bombs go, I wasn’t supposed to kill that many people. I wasn’t suppoed to destroy entire city blocks. I was what other bombs call “a message,” the type of bomb that puts someone on notice rather than kills them. Didn’t stop me though. I didn’t let my deficiencies hold me back. Where others said I couldn’t, I said forget that, I will. And I did. I killed a whole lot people.
“I saw someone breaking the law so I arrested them.”
That’s the way Green County Sheriff’s deputy Marcus Horna describes it. The incident he refers to happened last wednesday on highway 311 near the Ghor rd. intersection. Janice Behr was pulled on the shoulder because her tire blew out. Behr called 911 for assistance and Deputy Horna responded to the call.
As he approached the vehicle, Deputy Horna was caught on dashcam footage violating a department policy. Footage shows him walk out of his car with a cigarette clearly dangling from his left hand. Behr, who works for a BP station, had just delivered some plastic cans of gasoline to a local hardware store because of a special trade arrangement the two businesses share. Unknown to Behr, some gas had splashed out onto her back seat. Dashcam footage then shows Deputy Horna, with total disregard for Behr’s vehicle, flick his cigarette into the back seat of her car.
“It seemed managable and this is my only car,” is the excuse Behr offers for trying to put the fire out instead of leaving the car. Footage shows her lean into the back seat and begin smacking at the flames while Deputy Horna looks on. After some seconds, flames can be seen moving to the front seat, where Behr’s right arm catches fire. She then runs out of the vehicle in a panic, waving her arm around like something out of a movie.
But what happens next is the most surprising. Footage shows Deputy Horna rush over to Behr, where he grabs her by the neck and throws her to the ground. Behr believed that Horna was trying to put her out, which he did, but only because he was handcuffing her. Incredibly, Behr can be heard on camera wailing in agonizing pain while Horna drags her up by the very arm that was burning and pulls her back to his patrol car.
When asked to defend his actions Deputy Horna repeated his earlier statement, “I saw someone breaking the law so I arrested them.” When pressed for further comment he added, “The woman leaped out the car with her arm on fire and was whirling about like a maniac so I cuffed her and charged her. It is against the law to do that, you can’t run around with your arm in flames, so I charged her.”
And what was the charge?
“Illegal use of a firearm,” Horna says.
Deputy Horna is currently on paid administrative leave, but is expected to return this month because he is the only person with a key to the garage.
Today I opened my medicine cabinet and there was a head in there, just some random dude’s head, sitting between my Nyquil and my toothpaste. So I did what I always do when I see something like that, I said to myself, “Self, that can’t be real, there’s no way your medicine cabinet is deep enough to hold a head.” Lo and behold I was right. I closed my eyes and *POOF* the head was gone, my Nyquil was unmolested. Which was good, no head, but yes cough syrup. So I closed the cabinet and then my head was missing, right there in the reflection, no fucking head, just a stumpy bloody neck and air. But then I said to myself, “Self, if you didn’t have a head you couldn’t see that you don’t have a head.” And sure enough I was right. Because my head appeared out of nowhere and went back to it’s rightful place. There it was in the mirror, I mean, there I was in the mirror. I can’t really say I was anywhere without my head. Without your head your nowhere at all. Well, you’re fucked, but that’s beside the point, stop nitpicking.
Two idiots stood in a room. One said to the other “Punch me in the face.” And the other one did.
Now, the reason that one of them wanted to be punched in the face was that he was an idiot, as has already been previously mentioned. But I should be more specific. Saying that he wanted to be punched in the face because he’s an idiot is like saying that strippers strip because they have daddy issues. It’s true but there’s more to it than that. So this idiot, idiot number one as we’ll call him, wanted to be punched in the face because he wasn’t sure he was tough. And the only reason he wondered about it was that he had just watched Fight Club for the first time, and he agreed with Brad Pitt, how much could you know about yourself if you’ve never been punched in the face? Which is what he said to idiot number two right before this all went down. Of course, the real line is “How much could you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight.” Which would have allowed the idiot a multitude of ways to test himself, ways that didn’t involve standing still with his eyes closed while a fist collided with the cartilage in his nose.
There was an old Talking Heads song called “Once In A Lifetime” that ran through Jeremy’s head as the enemies moved up the steps. The metal steps clinked and echoed as their boots hit each step, and in his head, Jeremy’s thoughts went back and forth from David Byrne dancing around in his big suit to the enemies sweeping rooms, eyes narrowed down the sights of Ak-47s. And for some reason he couldn’t get the damn song out of his head. I mean, he liked the song. He enjoyed almost all of the Talking Heads albums, and that song was his favorite. But he wished he could get something else in his brain, something by Slayer or Meshuggah, something to pump him up for the bullets coming in a minute or less. The Talking Heads were not a band you listened to to get pumped for a fight. The Talking Heads were a fun party band. Very inappropriate at the moment.
Ron took the microphone out of the stand, tossed the cord over his shoulder and let it drape over his left jacket pocket. Then he took a piece of black electrical tape and taped the microphone to his chest, under his chin. He did the old “Check, Check,” and, assured that he was coming through the P.A. okay, motioned the sound man to dim the lights. This was the type of club where the sound guy and the light guy were the same guy, and you tipped your waitress for your buck fifty domestic beer.
“Good Evening,” Ron said, grinning and holding his hand over his eyes until they adjusted. A single person clapped. A waitress clinked some glasses together. An old man near the back coughed and a young guy put his feet on the stage, while wearing a red mesh hat that said “fuck you” in big puffy white letters.
A shadow floated in the water. It drifted and turned as the current did, like weeds or sticks. Its head hung limply beneath the surface, and its arms and torso were pulled outward. The midday sun struck the water, and it split into myriad beams, yet none passed through the shadow’s back. So it is that this scene continued, day and night and shadow, for long stretches of time, too long for us to understand, and the current carried it a distance unknowable, for at these lengths, distance can not be understood.
In a clearing in a field there sat a Carillon, a tower with bells in it that played music. The Carillon rose hundreds of feet high and hundreds of yards away in all directions there lay a forest of old oak and birch and maple trees and their leaves were the truest shade of green that the sun could show. Between the forest and the Carillon there was only grass, uncut and wild and untrodden and spanning all the distance between.
The day was a day in late October and out from the forest there walked an old man. He carried hammers with him and a bag with pages of parchment hanging out. He stood at the edge of the forest and rested for he had walked long and far to get there. He leaned against the the trunk of a tree and gazed up at the tower and its smooth unbroken lines of gray stone and the bells hanging off the rafters in the open air hundreds of feet high. He traced with his eye the angular stair way that led to the top and dreaded the walk up. He breathed deeply and tried to enjoy his last moment of rest before his work began but he could not because the thought of it drove all comfort from his mind.
A little background is necessary first. Back in October I had a brief fling with one of the heads of a different department. This lady isn’t technically my boss, but she could fire me on the spot if she wanted to since she’s above me in the chain of command. Our company is a little stupid like that. Anyway, we were talking in the elevator one day and hit it off. We went out to dinner a few times, found out we were very similar in a lot of ways. We were both democrats, liked the same kind of movies, neither of us liked to read, you get the idea. So on the third date we go back to her place and shit gets a little heavy. Long story short, I’m about to blow my load.
I tell her this and she demands, not asking, telling, or suggesting, demands that I shoot in her mouth. I’m not against that on principle or anything, but I think it’s a little weird. I mean she acted like my jizz could cure leprosy or something. But I did it, and she liked it. And afterwards, when I had to take my afterpiss, I went into the bathroom, and she stormed in there with a bowl and she demands, not asking, telling, or suggesting, that I piss into it. I obliged again, and she took the bowl out of the room and went away with it. I got out of there right then, just ran right out the fucking door, telling her I got a call from my mom and she was in the emergency room, you know.
