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Poetry, Short Stories, Missives and Assorted Crap

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Welcome. This will be where I'll dump stuff I have been writing/have written in the past.You really won't find any video game-related fiction here, but there isn't anything stopping me from posting poetry, prose, random screeds, harangues, and whatnot here, AFAIK. Feedback is welcome; trash talk, even more so--provided you can take as liberally as you can give.

Anyhoo, I'll start off with a really old piece I wrote back in college.



It was a dark and rainy night. He had just gotten home. He switched the radio on to keep track of the storm signal. "Damn," he thought to himself. He didn't have the money to buy the next set of batteries to keep it running.

He lived on the foot of this mountain, with no electricity and not a single human being around him. No one cared about his pitiful condition.

Inside his house lay old furniture that he had ransacked from town two years ago during the civil war. During those days, many people were rounded up and beaten by the Military Police.

"Those damn fascists," he thought remembering those times.

He was in town to buy some things when the MPs came. He took advantage of the situation and broke a furniture store's jalousies and quickly loaded all the stuff he found useful into his badly beaten Chevy pickup. He had stolen the pickup from a police HQ in his old hometown.

Unsatisfied, he pulled over in front of a convenience store and started clearing all the food shelves, which, he thought, would feed him for the rest of his life. He dashed out of the doorway, threw all the booty into the pickup's back and drove away.

Two years have passed since then. The chairs had already grown so old that moss and mildew had grown on their legs. Cockroaches crawled everywhere. Water was seeping from the corners.

The ceiling was dotted with holes. One could hear with deafening clarity the dripping water that came from the stormy heavens.

He must take advantage of the situation now, before the storm subsides.

He decided to stay away from the city to settle in a world where no one cared, where nobody gave opinions that he found annoying. He never had a mirror to see himself physically and socially. His hair grew long, almost touching his buttocks. His beard was already a snake hole, with a goatee curling from his long chin down to his feet. His nails were so full of grime that it looked like he spent his whole life working in an oilrig.

He believed he had to kill this slant-eyed bastard. He saw the gook in a bar getting drunk one night. With all the show girls gathered around this damned bloated thing, he felt insecure seeing him. He was so jealous seeing all the bitches around him. The blueprint was already there, waiting to be put into action.

He went outside and proceeded to the storage room outside his shanty. He did not mind the rain. As he stepped outside, water began hitting him like hard pebbles. He rummaged for his hunting rifle through the old stuff that has been in storage for the past fifteen years. Cobwebs and dust enveloped it like they were part of the weapon. He blew a little air into the thing, and just as quickly the elements dispersed in different directions. He worked for around two hours oiling and cleaning it.

Upon finishing his work, he took aim at a tree outside his cabin despite the large torrents of water impairing his vision. He inserted a bullet and shot the fruit-bearer. With the assurance that the the gun was just as fine as the day it was bought, he quickly rushed into the house and got the keys to his Chevy. He started the pickup's engine and drove to town, towards the house of the Chinese capitalist.

"Bitter irony. The Chinese should be Maoists," he thought as he drove under the tunnel of huge trees that canopied the path. There were no other cars on that dark road. As he entered the town plaza, he made a right and drove inside the old church's grounds. He alighted the car not minding whether he got drenched or not. Entering the mansion, he saw the Son of Man nailed on the cross. He knelt and murmured some prayers, words that have not escaped his tongue for many years. The rain hasn't stopped yet. Nevertheless, it will only take him a couple minutes to get to the fence of the target's house.

He drove to a corner, around two meters away from the Chinaman's fence. The fence was around five feet tall with sharp grilles on top, making it look hostile to any passerby

The height of the fence didn't bother him. He was tall enough to take a shot. As soon as he positioned himself, he saw how vast the property was. There was a pool between the house and the fence. A glass door faced the pool. This was an advantage for him.

There was something going on inside, he noticed. The businessman could be seen inside walking back and forth by the glass door. Finally getting tired, he sat on a leather couch facing his large property. He was becoming impatient. He was all too eager to shoot the capitalist.

"Now is the time", he thought. He aimed carefully. His right finger was how hooked, ready to pull the trigger. His right eye was looking through the iron sights, trying to get the bastard in his crosshairs.

Suddenly, a small boy of about nine years approached the Chinese man and gave him a warm hug.

The assassin was surprised with what he saw. He unconsciously stalled his plans. Positioning himself again, he saw that the boy would not let go of his father. Moments later, a woman and a girl in her early teens joined the two like they were posing for a picture. A real Kodak moment. They were happy, the assailant noticed.

He got confused. Should he take the shot or not? He envisioned the blood splattered across the house. He imagined the rest of the family crying over a body looking no different from an animal's carcass.

He let all his emotions and sentiments slip and went back to the task at hand. It was now time to become rational. He took good aim. 

He counted from one to five, breathed deeply and pulled the trigger. The howling winds drowned the shot that rang in the darkness.

The family did not hear it. They were still playing around. He then packed up and returned to the pickup.

"Not this time," he thought.

Perhaps when the storm subsides, in and out of him.



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