Malicious actions at the mall, drunk

Yesterday I joined the entire office where I work in going to a restaurant as a farewell to a secretary who is leaving that company. I actually do not work for or with these people; I am simply working by myself in a rented room inside their office - therefore I had no scruples about getting drunk. At one point I left the restaurant and walked through the mall, by a movie theater, through an area with many arcades with race cars and toys and all that shit. I don’t know if it is because of sitting in the office all day, or being drunk, or because of all the noisy lights of the arcade, but the malice came on with sure immanence and euphoria, as though finally countless bullets would and tear to pieces all those toys and games and people. Even if it would not actually happen, it would suffice to laugh in the faces of these people just as though it did in fact happen, for surely they would feel the love and the terror of this shootout as it unfolds in a parallel universe right next to them – inside my terrible and ponderous battery of a brain.

Later I apparently got the secretary who was leaving the company to come outside the restaurant with me into that arcade area. By that time there were very few people there and the lights were dim. We talked for a while, unexpectedly kissed and begun to arrange plans for the night (which, by the way, were executed with enviable stylistic success, thanks to the seemingly mute company driver in suit and tie). As we were talking, I began smoking, which is of course illegal in that area. She was to return to the restaurant first as to avoid suspicion, so meanwhile I walked around that area, mingling with people coming out of the movie theater, smoking my cigarette and smiling at them like a overly pleased drunk crazy man played by Jack Nickelson. Then I ran into the whole party coming out of the restaurant to go home and of course they were surprised to see that I am smoking in the building. I said “yeah, it’s fine” and put it out in a flower pot, which caused a pained wince of disapproval from that firm’s director. She thought I did it because I was drunk but really I did it because I just fucking hate everyone, and if I really had my way I would have much rather put it out in a baby stroller. ‘Cause fuck all that.

Fantasies of murder

Since I quit smoking I had a few spontaneous fantasies of murdering some anonymous people in the street. In the first instance, I walked past a couple which I often walk past on my way home from work. It consists of a slacker-type white trash hip-hop fan bent on proving to the world that he doesn’t give a shit, and an obviously sex-oriented blonde without other outstanding characteristics.

I said to them, “I can see that you are both very beautiful, however, what interests me more is, where are you always going?”

And he said, “Where do you think?”

“Ah, so! I must admit, I underestimated your style! Nevertheless, I will have to KILL you!”

And instantly I did a trick with my hand in front of his face, flipping a miniature string lasso into his brain, twisted it around for a better grip, and pulled the life from his brain! The beauty of this murder lies in the fact that he died before he became scared, which would jeopardize his composure and detract from the tragic aesthetic. Her fright, on the other hand, has much aesthetic value in itself, which could be further stimulated with maniacal laughter on my part!

The second instance was the following day in the parking lot of my office building. There were many people smoking and talking in their routine way when in the distance I saw a woman, standing with her back to me, who reminded me of Skylaire, an old friend. Instantly, I wanted to kill her, not because I had something against Skylaire, but in fact because she was not Skylaire, but someone who pretended to be her! Right then I threw the water bottle which was in my hand in a long arc so that it would hit her over the head from a great height; meanwhile a drew a gun, cursing loudly, dashing in her direction, shooting bullets at her. From this point in time there are two parallel universes in which the following events unfold. In the first case, I come running up to her body on the ground, confirm that she is in fact dead, curse loudly and stand there in determined anger and frustration, not knowing what to do next. In the second, I run up to her while she is still writhing in her blood, and say to myself, “Quickly, you must extract the stone from her brain before she is dead!”, which I proceed to do hastily with a pocket knife, before she is dead. The beauty of this murder is in the practical mystique of the operationm, and the shocking effect it would have on the public if in fact I managed to extract a stone from her brain. The stone in the brain, of course, is necessary for my alchemical operations; the death of the host would corrupt the qualities of the stone (everyone knows this).