dull-boyI was turned on to a site that needles a writer into writing without the shackles of thought. Write or Die. I decided to give it a try and this is the first thing that came to me. I did some spelling corrections, but other than that, in ten minutes, this seeped out of my brain.

Some things should not be shared. Not for the meek.

Today I saw a site so rare, a sight that should have made me speechless, but I found a need to speak anyway. “What the fuck are you doing?”

It was a simple question, yet no one had a response. There was a teaming of silence that echoed throughout the room. For every second that squeaked by, I felt the need to quiver within my shoes. so there I was, quivering and wishing for more time, but the time was waning.

I reached over into my bag and lifted out the first thing that I touched, in this case it was the .45 that I had grabbed out of the top drawer of my desk wondering if I would find a need for it that day. Indeed I did, I pointed it at the firm deposit of shit that had collected beneath the woman who was now strung up in an insane fashion; strands of fishing line twisted in various lengths that were hoisting her up by her hair and toes and fingers.

I shot directly into the steaming pile and the bizarre heap exploded dousing the entire room and all in it with a shower of shit. Brown splotches covered the mink drapes and the colorful embodiment’s now adorning the far from fresh onlookers. Each woman screamed with glee and the men began jumping around like kittens in a field of freshly cut catnip.

The .45 in my hand became the object of everyone’s attention as I pulled the trigger yet again. This time into the forehead of the woman strung up from the ceiling. She twisted around from the impact and bounced back and forth. The movement made the strands of line cut into her flesh and although now she was dead, the blood began seeping over her skin in rivulets.

I found myself mesmerized by the drips.