To date, I had never seen a man's throat slit open at the end of a sharp blade. I had always imagined it, or seen it happen in the multitude of slasher films I am so in love with. But nothing, absolutely nothing, comes close to the actual truth, the actual brutality, the actual sense of ownership and power, the orgasmic feeling of running a sharp edge on the skin of a sacrifice, like a sacrificial lamb or, in this case, my asshole of a neighbor. All these feelings and emotions need to be experienced than imagined or pictured via someone else's imagination. They need to be real.
You might be wondering if there is a reasonable explanation for this hapless individual to have bled to death at the end of my blade. Well, if you are, then I am sorry to inform you that you are more fucked up than I am, trying to find reason in the brutal slaughter of a human being. But even so, I am not here to disappoint.You see, for the innocent layman who harbors an optimistic approach towards accepting a valid reason for acts of brutality like say, a full blown invasion of a country, a wrongful occupation, flat out murder or the carnage that ensues a bomb or a suicide attack, I must mount off my high horse and explain my morally justifiable reasons.
This man right here, or should I say this corpse, was a man who lived right next door to me. Every night at nine, without a single day of peace, except maybe on the alternative weekends, he would blast off his speakers and exercise to the blaring pop music, completely destroying my slasher film serenity. Every night at nine is the only time I get to watch my favorite movies and finish them in time for bed. Yet the guy with the strange exercise schedule could not care less. The same routine was repeated every morning at six, of course breaking me out of my much needed, deep slumber. I had asked him many a time to turn down his volume to which he had always replied in the most douchiest of ways, "Look dude! Exercise is good for your body. You should do it too. Plus its my house I play the music in, and so I can do whatever I want in my house. Lighten up bro," after which he would ruffle my hair and annoy the living hell out of me. And he called me "dude"! The man was in fact, as is quite clear, a genuine asshole.
Then one fine summer day, when the sun was shining and the air was clean and crisp, I heard a loud rap on my door. He had come over to ask me if I had the latest UK Top 40 album downloaded to my iTunes. He was out of fresh songs and in fact wanted me to help him fuck me up even more. Obviously, I seized the opportunity and invited him in, sat him down in my living room and left saying I would go and check. While he waited, self absorbed and pompous as he was, I went and grabbed my baseball bat and tip toed back into my living room and bam, whacked him unconscious with it. I dragged him over to my room, strapped him to a chair, and slapped him back to the conscious world. And as I held the knife to his throat, after of course his pathetic pleas asking for mercy, his last words before I sliced open the high pressure pipes of blood were, "lighten up, bro!"
Now here we are, in a pool of rotten blood, rid of another another member of the scum that plagues this beautiful planet, as I explain my reasons. Not that I need to. The ability to take a life is enough motive for me. But I am quite sure most of you would agree to my justification, as of course you agreed with the justification of the invasion of Iraq or Afghanistan, the occupation of Palestine or the countless pools of blood flowing everyday as a result of suicide bombings and drone strikes. We are not much different, you and I. The only difference is that I got my hands dirty while you wore gloves and nodded in approval and played Words with Friends with your loved ones. Here's a high scoring word for you: DESENSITIZED. Try fitting that into your tray.
Now about this blood. This needs to be cleaned up. Any suggestions on how to get blood off of carpet? Anyone?
You might be wondering if there is a reasonable explanation for this hapless individual to have bled to death at the end of my blade. Well, if you are, then I am sorry to inform you that you are more fucked up than I am, trying to find reason in the brutal slaughter of a human being. But even so, I am not here to disappoint.You see, for the innocent layman who harbors an optimistic approach towards accepting a valid reason for acts of brutality like say, a full blown invasion of a country, a wrongful occupation, flat out murder or the carnage that ensues a bomb or a suicide attack, I must mount off my high horse and explain my morally justifiable reasons.
This man right here, or should I say this corpse, was a man who lived right next door to me. Every night at nine, without a single day of peace, except maybe on the alternative weekends, he would blast off his speakers and exercise to the blaring pop music, completely destroying my slasher film serenity. Every night at nine is the only time I get to watch my favorite movies and finish them in time for bed. Yet the guy with the strange exercise schedule could not care less. The same routine was repeated every morning at six, of course breaking me out of my much needed, deep slumber. I had asked him many a time to turn down his volume to which he had always replied in the most douchiest of ways, "Look dude! Exercise is good for your body. You should do it too. Plus its my house I play the music in, and so I can do whatever I want in my house. Lighten up bro," after which he would ruffle my hair and annoy the living hell out of me. And he called me "dude"! The man was in fact, as is quite clear, a genuine asshole.
Then one fine summer day, when the sun was shining and the air was clean and crisp, I heard a loud rap on my door. He had come over to ask me if I had the latest UK Top 40 album downloaded to my iTunes. He was out of fresh songs and in fact wanted me to help him fuck me up even more. Obviously, I seized the opportunity and invited him in, sat him down in my living room and left saying I would go and check. While he waited, self absorbed and pompous as he was, I went and grabbed my baseball bat and tip toed back into my living room and bam, whacked him unconscious with it. I dragged him over to my room, strapped him to a chair, and slapped him back to the conscious world. And as I held the knife to his throat, after of course his pathetic pleas asking for mercy, his last words before I sliced open the high pressure pipes of blood were, "lighten up, bro!"
Now here we are, in a pool of rotten blood, rid of another another member of the scum that plagues this beautiful planet, as I explain my reasons. Not that I need to. The ability to take a life is enough motive for me. But I am quite sure most of you would agree to my justification, as of course you agreed with the justification of the invasion of Iraq or Afghanistan, the occupation of Palestine or the countless pools of blood flowing everyday as a result of suicide bombings and drone strikes. We are not much different, you and I. The only difference is that I got my hands dirty while you wore gloves and nodded in approval and played Words with Friends with your loved ones. Here's a high scoring word for you: DESENSITIZED. Try fitting that into your tray.
Now about this blood. This needs to be cleaned up. Any suggestions on how to get blood off of carpet? Anyone?
