UnBooks:Two Hours in the Life of a Psychopath
Chapter 1: An Unexpected Surprise
With a groan that comes from having overdosed on my special meds the night before, I manage to pull myself into a sitting position amongst the smelling-of-fetid-cheese rags that serve as my bedsheets. Looking around the cell in which I've spent the last five years of my life I suddenly explode in a fit of whicked, maniacal laughter- only to stop abruptly when I notice a new and shiny object at the base of my cell door. Could it be, a gift from my panda brethren in the outside world? A sign that their magnificent, effulgent radioactive thunderbolts of death are about to fall like gentle summer rain across the human cities?! Are my days locked in this s******* about to come to an end?!?!
Despite the excruciating feeling of one-thousand-freight-trains-loaded-with-maniacs-driving-steamrollers crashing repeatedly into the side of my skull, I manage to crawl through the dirt and filth that is the floor of my cell towards the mysterious object; my only object being to find out who it was that had braved the machine gun nests, minefields, barbed wire and crocodile swamps to bring it to me, and more importantly, find out what They would want with me. Looking around the cell at the burnt wall-padding and doubly-barred windows I am forced to the conclusion that the object was pushed under my cell door- there's simply no other way it could've got into this maximum-security cell. Getting closer to the shiny object my vision clouds momentarily as the blood rushes up through my thin, wasted shoulders to my oxygen-starved brain, but when it returns again I am able to look upon the object- and I am instantly transfixed by it.
The object before me is a pair of scissors.
But not just any pair of scissors; the most shiny, lustrous, relucent pair of scissors anyone could ever hope to own, the sort of scissors I thought only existed in my wildest dreams... Why, with such a pair of scissors, one would never want for anything else: one's whole existence, whole being, whole life! would be complete!
Staring quizzically at my newest possession I am touched to see that the scissors have been wrapped with a single red ribbon that ties into a neat bow on the top. Whoever my mysterious benefactor is, he/she/it certainly went to great lengths to make me feel wanted.
I don't think anyone has ever gone to such great lengths to make me feel so wanted!
I suppress a little giggle of evil satisfaction, then, realising I have no reason to suppress it, I let it all out; a loud, wicked laugh- after all, it's not every day that I'm allowed to go near metal objects, especially such sharp, apical ones as these...
Carefully I pick up the scissors- whose pristine, untarnished surface glistens like a lake under a full moon- and carry it to the charred and satisfyingly friable remains of (what used to be,) my cot. Looks can be deceiving, and despite the scissors' radiant, pulchritudinous exterior, for all I know they could be a bomb, part of some elaborate contrivance on my life by one of Them. And of course, the muffled noises I'm suddenly able to discern inside the cell would serve to reinforce that notion... But then it just dawns on me that those noises are merely the dying sounds of that traitorous Tickle-Me Elmo toy which, despite its lack of limbs, is still somehow managing to move about my cell...
At any rate, I haven't managed to live this long by being a trusting, incautious individual, and this time would be no exception: I hurriedly proceed to do what any experienced mind-control-device-destroyer does when threatened by a potential mind-control device. I press the scissors in one of the many feculent pools that dot the floor of my cell; so as to destroy all of its hidden circuitry, and with it, its chances of gaining control of my mind. Turning my head up to the direction of the cameras They probably have hidden in the ceiling, I proceed to spit out in their general direction: Once again your attempt on my life has been an abysmal failure, you f****** humans! Next time you make an attempt on my life please make it at least vaguely worthy of my intellectual acumen!
At this pronouncement the peccant Tickle-me-Elmo toy beside me gives a semi-coherent guffaw, and I turn and kick the traitorous thing into the wall. Look who's laughing now, you ass my inner monologue gloats.
"Mr Elmo, we could've been friends" I begin to him in a reasonable voice, "But your attempts to gain my friendship, my trust, and then betray me to Them have revealed to me your true colours. Forsooth! From this moment onwards I shan't ever be trusting of anyone else! I'll be the least trusting humanoid on the face of this Earth, and there is nothing any of you out there can do about that!!!!" With this final pronouncement I turn my back on the pitiful creature and its satisfyingly tortured death cries and make my way to my burnt-out cot.
Given Mr Elmo's lack of limbs the traitorous creature probably doesn't have much longer to live anyway. A pity, its death cries are like chicken soup to my ears...
Sitting down on the bed with the pair of scissors I proceed to watch the pair of scissors intently for two minutes, to be absolutely sure that the hidden circuits They put in the scissors have been destroyed- but wait!, did I just hear an indistinct beeping noise come out of the scissors?! No, I force myself and my various alter-egos to conclude, those noises must just be the last dying cries of that traitorous Tickle-me-Elmo toy, which tried, and failed, to betray me to Them.
At last I am able to convince myself that the potential threat the scissors held to my somewhat fragile control of my mind has been neutralised by my quick thinking. Abruptly I convulse onto the floor in fresh paroxysms of insane laughter, secure in the knowledge that I have gained a pair of scissors from this happyful happening. I kick my feet, beat my chest, make weird retarded-walrus-like sounds, and promptly pass-out from sheer elation.
Chapter 2: Purging The Heretical Growth
Waking up again I instinctively start lashing out at my surroundings- I always like to make sure They haven't narcotised me and taken me to another shithole to subject me to another battery of inhumane experiments and things. Upon noticing the radiantly glistening object on the floor beside me I stop my maniacal flailing and turn towards the shiny object that looks so completely out of place amongst the grime and filth of my cell. Entranced, my pupils dilated to their fullest extent, I pick up the lustrous, shiny scissors and hold them up to the light at different angles. Tapping them for their mesmerising chime, I ponder to myself just how a single object could be so damn beautiful, so damn seductive. The scissors seem to almost sing with the sun, to chime with the intensity of its light, and cast darkly brilliant rainbows around the room... The feeling of Mr Scissors in my hand is almost orgasmic.
I think for you and me Mr Scissors this is the beginning of a very long and intimate relationship.
And now to test Mr Scissors' sharpness... Looking around my cell in search of something to cut up, all I can see is the charred and burnt remains of my furniture, the midden of fungal bacteria-ridden food in one of the corners, and the various pools of ordure and urine that lie dotted across the floor. With a light sigh I am forced to the conclusion that the only cut up-able thing in this cell is myself.
If only I was free to walk around in public, then I'd have plenty of things/people to cut up...
Causing harm to myself is something that comes naturally to me, indeed, since my early childhood whole chunks of my flesh have been known to just "disappear" from existence, even whole appendages in the case of half of my left hand and several of my toes. One part of my body that has always been a particular source of annoyance for me is the heretical, cancerous excrescence of my ostensible "birthmark" (as my late mother used to call it) on my knee. Every day of my life since my earliest childhood I’ve had to wrestle with this malevolent growth for control of my mind, and I've never been able to get rid of it. From past experience I know that attempting to burn this pernicious polyp off with fire and/or acid will only make it grow back bigger, as will attempting to bite, sand-belt and chainsaw it off. However, now that I have Mr Scissors on my side, I may just be able to defeat the dark forces of the nefarious "birthmark" once and for all: I've never used scissors against it before...
I don't waste any time in starting to hack away at the execrable, pernicious birthmark- every second I spend deliberating over how best to get rid of this evil, blasphemous thing only allows it to increase in strength and malevolence. And so I begin hacking madly at my left knee; only to remember that the "birthmark" is actually on the right knee. Sighing, I start hacking and and clawing away at my right knee with the scissors, and my left hand, with even greater resolve. Chunks of flesh and bone go flying, and my fingers turn incarnadine as they become coated with my insipidly pale red blood. After a few intense minutes of manic hacking at my knee however it is finally over, and the dark forces of my birthmark are defeated.
Having emerged victorious from the acrimonious battle against the forces of the birthmark, I proceed to execute a little victory dance in recognition of myself, and the valiant Mr Scissors. It also dawns on me that I'm now free to turn my attention against those malignant, hateful alter egos of mine, and in time, bring-about their subjugation as well! UNDISPUTED CONTROL OF MY MIND SHALL BE MINE! THEY SHALL COWER BEFORE MY HOLY MAJESTY, MY POWER LEVEL WILL BE OVER 9000!
Chapter 3: An Unexpected Visitor
Sensing a disturbance in the corridor outside my door I snap my gaze in the direction of the door. Two creatures, putatively of bipedal humanoid appearance, but possibly of cyborg-quadruped countenance, walk down the corridor outside and stop outside my depleted uranium cell-door. Over the space of the next minute or so I hear the various bolts and locks on my heavily-reinforced cell door turned, until with a final click the last lock is turned and the door swung open. A pale, stunted figure is roughly shoved into the room and the door is hurriedly swung shut again, the bolts promptly drawn across again. The stunted albino creature- whom I recognise to be my best and only friend Michael- starts scrabbling frantically against the cell door in what would appear to be a futile attempt to escape; but to no avail.
It's just he and I (and that blasphemous Tickle-me-Elmo toy which still hasn't died yet,) together in the cell. All the things that could happen!
"Hello little Michael" I rasp at the trembling subjacent figure, limping towards him on my bloodied knees, Mr Scissors clenched tightly in my blood-soaked hands. Michael, upon hearing my pronouncement, and spinning round to see me, makes a noise that anyone less familiar with him might mistake for a terror-stricken yelp, and runs into the furthest corner of the cell, the one where I keep my collection of gumballs, bottle tops, glass shards and pins. Michael stiffens as the various upward-pointing pins and shards of glass enter his foot, but, being a disturbed antisocial weirdo, he chooses to stay backed into the corner anyway, opting instead to stare at me in what almost seems like trepidation with his large, bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes...
Being the whimsical person that I am, and slightly miffed at Michael's reaction to seeing me, I decide to ignore my disturbed friend for the time being, and instead focus my attention on eating something. The silent treatment is more than my friend deserves, but at any rate, having gone an entire week eating only pills, I'm feeling somewhat in the mood for something more substantial than just pills...
Without further ado I turn my body and limp towards the corner of the room where the pile of fungal, hairy food stands. Choosing the hairiest, most pungent chunk of solid stuff I can I sit down and watch it intently for about three minutes. When it makes no attempt to move within that time I call it my weekly meal of proper food and cram it into my mouth.
I think it was a slice of pizza a long time ago...
Turning my attention back towards Michael I see that he has moved out of his corner and started furiously helping himself to my tablets and pills, in particular the ones I know to be more lethal, that were given to me by people who- for no good reason that I can see- want me to overdose on them and die. But Michael isn't just eating them, he's gorging himself on them; literally putting the open containers to his mouth and gulping down the tablets like a maniac. (A very disturbed, atrophied, albino maniac...) At the rate he's taking those tablets he's going to overdose and kill himself. But he can't die, I haven't even had my fun with him yet!
I begin to tremble in a terrible (but also completely justified) rage. If Michael thinks he can just waltz into my cell, and then go and die, without my permission, then he is gravely mistaken, and much more disturbed than I at first thought. If anyone/anything is going to kill him it will be me, not some anticlimactic combination of deadly pills and tablets!
Still grasping the bloodied Mr Scissors tightly I start limping towards my friend as fast as my mutilated knees will allow me to. I'm coming Michael, you f****** albino piece of s***, just you wait boy!
Michael notices me coming and starts taking different drugs at an even faster rate. Gritting my teeth I press onwards, but just as I’m beginning to close on him, he starts to convulse in a violent fit. Foam froths out of his mouth and he beings to collapse jerkingly onto the floor in a flurry of whirling, pasty albino limbs. Intrigued, but also a little disappointed, I stop and watch his fit for the next thirty seconds until it subsides and he lies motionless on the ground.
Chapter 3.333: Is He Dead?
If there's one thing I cannot abide, it's people being selfish; and that's exactly what Michael was being: selfish. In fact, the word "selfish" doesn't even do justice to Michael's self-centred-ness. Nor do the words "obnoxious" and "rude" accurately express the sheer self-centered-ness of my "friend"'s actions. But my vengeance will be sweet: if Michael wants to be a selfish arsehole in life, then he’ll find that I too can be one. And if he wanted to leave a boring corpse in my cell at the end of our play day, then I sure as hell will prevent this from happening. It's been such a long while since I last ate human meat, and eating his corpse would be the least I could do to get back at him for his slight against me.
Also, I’m still feeling reasonably hungry anyway.
Looking closely at Michael again however, I am able to detect a slight rise and fall of his chest, and suddenly an evil smile begins forming across my face, in turn giving rise to another pronouncement from my inner monologue: So Mr Michael, you were merely trying to pretend that you were dead. Unfortunately for you, my intellect is much too vast for me to fall for your childish playground tricks. You were, bluntly, a fool in thinking that you could pit yourself against my intellect. And now, young inconsequential addlepated slubberdegullion, you shall know who I am, as I execute my vengeance upon you with furious rebukes!!
Michael looks so vulnerable lying there on the ground, and Mr Scissors feels so arousing in my pleasantly bloodied hands I know exactly what it is I have to do. I would get us all to play a little game together. One that would enable me to put Mr Scissors to further use, and one that would involve a lot of blood, and a lot of pain...
Chapter 4: Fun With An Unconscious Guy And Some Scissors
With some rummaging around my cell I manage to dig out my old heavy-duty strait jacket from under the charred remains of a piece of furniture, and I proceed to fit Michael into it. It isn't easy because Michael doesn't bother to help me, being unconscious and all, but by taking a few liberties with the innate flexibility of Michael’s arm bones, and by applying similar logic and force to his recalcitrant joints, I manage to fit him into it. He looks so funny lying on the ground that I abruptly, randomly, lash out and kick him. Hard. In the stomach. And then I kick him again, this time in the head, for good measure, and because laying into a person/thing while he's down makes me feel better about myself. And then suddenly I lose all control and I start kicking him continuously in the head and the upper chest.
After the first few kicks he starts to move, but I don't let up in case he starts to exploit any weakness of mine. Being the weak, blood-deprived person that I am, my legs quickly tire and eventually I am forced onto my knees, to start using my fists on him. A few punches into his head later, and my arms too are tired out, and I'm forced to lie down out of the sheer exertion of it all. As I do this however, Michael starts to moan and twitch, and I quickly scrabble back onto my feet so he doesn't interpret this as me being in a weak state.
Michael groans, shakes his head slowly, and eventually opens his moist, bloodshot eyes. Upon seeing me he starts struggling against the strait-jacket; but to no avail. He then stops his futile struggling and just stares up at me.
Looking down at Michael it suddenly occurs to me just how much his face resembles a ball of paper that has just come out of the back pocket of an old pair of jeans which have just come out of the washing machine. I let out a little chuckle at this realisation, but to Michael I must have looked a sight with my blood-saturated shirt, bloodied hands, knees and scissors, and that lopsided, psychopathic grin across my face...
"Michael, you've known since we first met that I've coveted that spleen of yours" I say to him in the steadiest, smoothest voice I can manage, gradually getting sharper as I notice the horrified look appearing on his face; "well, I think it's about time you gave it to me!"
Michael's eyes widen in what would appear to be abject horror at this last pronouncement, and he starts struggling against the strait-jacket with renewed vigour.
Standing and watching Michael make his pitiful attempts to escape from the heavy-duty kevlar and carbon-compound material strait-jacket I am filled with an even greater sense of evil satisfaction. Mr Scissors however is quick to remind me of the task at hand, and without further ado I begin to move in on my prey, eager to lay my hands upon his spleen. The thought of removing Michael's spleen, however, summons up the inevitable bout of laughter that comes with my dreams of spleen-removing, and I have to pause to try to suppress it. I manage to suppress most of the laugh, but a small whimper ultimately still manages to escape my lips and I am forced to slit both of my wrists with Mr Scissors because of my shame...
Having done that, with blood seeping out of every one of my limbs, an evil grin written upon my face and Mr Scissors clenched tightly in my fist, I again begin to move in on my struggling prey...
Chapter 5: Death In A Mental Institution
And so I set to work cutting Michael open in much the same way a butcher would a fat pig. A very fat, albino pig. In fact, Michael's skin is pierced in much the same way a diamond-capped drill pierces a particularly pungent hunk of Jarlsburg cheese: easily.
Beautifully, in fact.
Only with a lot more love.
However, locating Michael's spleen among the non-essential organs in the body proves a lot bloodier and more difficult than I am expecting- something not made easier by Michael's bothersome squirming- but eventually I'm able to find it, the object of my desire, cloistered near the liver. Dropping Mr Scissors to the floor beside me, I allow myself to be utterly transfixed by it.
I might have finally located Michael's spleen, but as with most spleens one may be expected to come across in one's lifetime, this one was not going to be liberated without a fight. Quickly, over the next half hour, during which time I gaze wide-eyed at the spleen, I work out what it is I need to do. And then suddenly, having considered my plan of attack, I abruptly- like a viper- grab the caught-off-guard spleen, and viciously pull hard at it. I tug hard, and tug hard again- but not hard enough to detach the tubes keeping the spleen in its prison. Sweat on my brow, I quickly improvise. Mr Scissors again in one of my hands, I set about brutally hacking at the tubes connecting to the spleen. This was one fight that I could not allow myself to lose.
If blood and other bodily fluids were previously washing over me while I was rummaging about Michael's bodily organs, they are now positively gushing over me and my once white garment; saturating the previously damp, reddened loincloth with copious amounts of blood, and conjuring up the mephitic odours of gashed organs. Ignoring these feeble attempts at resistance by Michael and his spleen, I keep focused on the task in much the same tunnel-minded way a zombie looks for brains.
Pus and bile wash over my hands as the gall bladder is slit open in one of my wild slashing movements, but despite these attempts by the combined forces of Michael's non-essential organs at stopping me, I ultimately prove too powerful for them because finally- with a triumphant last slashing movement, and a barely-corrected lurch backwards- the last tube imprisoning the spleen is severed, and it is liberated from its tyrannical host! The crowd goes wild, IT'S A VICTORY! GOLD TO THE UNDERDOG, THE ONE EVERYONE ALWAYS UNDERESTIMATES, THE COOL INDIVIDUAL IN THE MAXIMUM SECURITY CELL!!
Having ruthlessly crushed all remaining resistance I proceed to put Mr Scissors down and begin the task of establishing communication with the spleen. I do so slowly, cautiously, not wanting to provoke the spleen to any hasty actions that might reasonably enter its mind to undertake now that it has a taste of freedom, and has witnessed firsthand the relentlessly ruthless side of my personality/personalities. When it makes no attempts to attack me, I hasten to take it as far from the body (corpse?) of its oppressor as possible, and I quickly force my various alter-egos to conclude that it doesn't possess any antipathy towards me for having taken it from Michael.
On the contrary, the spleen- Mr Spleen- is probably feeling grateful towards me for having liberated him from the tyrannical host that was Michael. One can only imagine the inhumane treatment poor Mr Spleen received at the hands of that sociopath Michael; even looking solely at his pale, unhealthy colour one could conclude that he's been subject to many hardships...
Perhaps this is why he hasn't made any efforts to resist me since I took him from Michael... Perhaps, as far as spleens go, Mr Spleen here is a fairly intelligent one...?
At this juncture I'm awakened from my joyful trance by Mr Scissors, who has begun murmuring in jealousy at my sudden preoccupation with Mr Spleen. Holding Mr Spleen as far away as possible from us I carefully explain to Mr Scissors that while I have become quite attached to Mr Spleen over the last few seconds, nobody will ever be able to replace him as my best friend. I also add that it is very rude of him to just exclude Mr Spleen from our little conversation like this, but he doesn't give any indication of having heard this. Instead he decides to keep lying where he is. Lying there, like the weighty, fat, blood-drenched little thing that he is.
The little bastard.
Mr Spleen too, visibly distraught at having been ignored by me for a few seconds, also begins clamouring for my attention again, and suddenly I'm angry to the point of shaking. In a fit of uncharacteristically violent anger I throw Mr Spleen down onto the floor beside Mr Scissors and tell the two of them to sort out their issues. All of their issues. And with an emphatic "humph" I leave them and limp off to the still corpse of Michael (which, I note with interest, is precisely where I left it).
The sight of all the blood spilt over the floor however makes me stop in my tracks, and I begin to tremble in a terrible rage. Just... Who the hell is this corpse to think he can waltz into my cell and bleed all over the floor? The nerve, the indecency of it all! All this time Michael- a remorseless maniac utterly ungoverned by the principles of decency that are self-evident to, and accepted by, everyone else- and I considered him my one friend, and actually let him into my cell!
My anger roused beyond all bounds, I start loudly yelling at the corpse; "...do you mean to tell me Michael that you think it is okay to come into someone's home and bleed all over their floor? Do you honestly think this is the sort of thing that goes down well with people? Do you need to be told how f****d up you are young man?! You can clean this crap up now and get the f**k out of my maximum security cell, YOU COMPLETE- AND UTTER- LITTLE- DICKHEAD."
Michael's corpse however, in the seeming tradition of everyone else today, gives no indication of having heard this but keeps lying where he is... With what appears to be a content smile on his lips!
And it dawns on me- the bastard is laughing at me! He is mocking me!
I can't let this stand. Nobody mocks me, Lord of this world, and lives to tell the tale! He will be sorry. I'll make him sorry. He shall rue the day he dared mock me! I'll kill the f****r! I'LL KILL HIM! Put an end to all of his dreams of ever becoming a rocketship that puts out fires like a firetruck! And then I'll eat him alive, and kill him again! Mwahahaha hahaha! I'LL KILL HIM!!
BUT WAIT- I'm not just going to kill him! I'll wipe humanity itself off the face of this earth! Foolish humans, thinking this stygian s***hole is going to contain me, just as this 24-hour armed guard, the patrolling helicopters, and the 20 kilometers of open water are going to be a match for my wrath! You shall all know that I am your Lord when I execute my great vengeance upon you with my furious rebukes! I'll kill all of you, remove all of your spleens!, and with them, RULE ALL OF THIS WORLD!
I'LL KILL YOU ALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
| Article written in the style of its subject|
This article is funny because it is written in the real or imagined writing style of its subject. If you do not find it funny, then it is probably because you are an ignorant cultural philistine who can't appreciate awesome literature. (From reader: Or it is because I'm a psychopath.)