I ashed my cigarette onto the floor, and from state of the holes in the carpet I could tell I wasn’t the first one. The half empty bottle of JD beckoned me from the side of the bed. Grabbing it by the neck I tilted my head back and poured the amber liquid directly into my mouth. I didn’t bother to wrap my lips around the bottle in fear of slowing the flow of whiskey. I swallowed it down in huge gulps until my throat burned like it was on fire, and the bottle was empty. I let my head drop again, this time onto a pillow that smelled like pussy. I threw it to the floor and pressed my face into the bare mattress.
Well, you’re handling this shit real fucking well Care Bear. My dead best friend said in my head. Preppy was as clear in my mind as he would’ve been if he were sitting on the edge of the bed. I’m one for a party but this isn’t a fucking party. This is where parties go to die. This motherfucker is about to need one of those Pulp Fiction shots to the heart.
“Shut the fuck up, Prep. Aren’t dead people supposed to be quiet? Because if so, you, my non-living friend, are failing at this whole dead thing,” I said out loud.
Awe, it’s so cute you think that being dead could get me to shut the fuck up. And I’m not fucking done yet, Care Bear. You were really mean to those whores and whores are like my favoritest people ever. Not cool, man. Not cool at all.”
“I’ll make a note of that,” I said, as the room began to spin. I closed my eyes in an effort to make the spinning stop, but it didn’t work. I kicked one of my legs off the bed and anchored my foot to the floor but my level of sobriety was way past that old trick working.
When I opened my eyes again not only was the room spinning even faster, but I could almost swear that I saw Preppy standing over me, looking down with a frown on his usually happy face, his bow tie swirling around and around growing darker and darker as black halos filled my vision.
I was seeing my dead best friend.
I was right.
A whole new level of wasted.
This wallowing in your own shit is starting to fucking depress me and I’m fucking dead!
It was the last thing I heard, or thought, or however this odd communication between my fucked up brain worked, before my vision became completely black and the darkness swept me under.
But even copious amounts of whiskey couldn’t save me from the dreams.
I feel heat against my side so close it burns. I hear the fire crackle and when I open my eyes I can see the embers from the fire pop into the air. I feel the singe of my skin when one lands on the back of my neck.
I try to get up, but I can’t. I can’t move my arms either.
I’m on my stomach, laying across a set of cheap plastic lawn chairs.
I’m tied down.
Men, several of them surround me. They’re laughing. Poking at me. Punching me in the face. Kicking me in the sides. At one point the chairs fall to the side and I go with them, positive I cracked a rib against the brick of the bonfire in the process. There is an order to set me upright, and it’s done immediately.
When they set the chairs back up I lift my head and I see Eli, the man responsible for my current state, sitting with his legs crossed and a cigar in his mouth. When the smoke clears from around his face it reveals his amused smile.
The one I was going to cut from his face.
My pants are tugged down. I try to scream, to protest, but there is a gag in my mouth. One of the men puts his fucking hands on the cheeks of my ass and spreads them apart. They are poking at my asshole with the end of something and I scream through the pain as they penetrate me over and over again. I concentrate on the things I am going to do to them when I’m free to avoid passing out from the pain.
Because I will be free.
This was not the way I was meant to go out.
I think of revenge. Removing all of their teeth one by one with pliers. A guy in the club knows how to do it in a way that maximizes blood loss. The victim dies a slow painful death by tooth loss. That’s of course only after I remove their intestines through their assholes with a wrench.
They think what they are doing to me is torture.
These fuckers have no fucking idea what torture is.
I’m so still that one of them asks another if I’ve passed out. My eyes are closed when I feel the presence of someone in front of me. He pokes his finger into my eye and I don’t react. I’m in the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life, but I’ve found my place of calm and I’m not leaving it until I can kill every single one of these motherfuckers. I’m saving my energy for when I can actually use it.
I’m a fucking Beach Bastard.
Bitches have been gunning for me since the ink was still wet on my birth certificate.
Well, you’re handling this shit real fucking well Care Bear. My dead best friend said in my head. Preppy was as clear in my mind as he would’ve been if he were sitting on the edge of the bed. I’m one for a party but this isn’t a fucking party. This is where parties go to die. This motherfucker is about to need one of those Pulp Fiction shots to the heart.
“Shut the fuck up, Prep. Aren’t dead people supposed to be quiet? Because if so, you, my non-living friend, are failing at this whole dead thing,” I said out loud.
Awe, it’s so cute you think that being dead could get me to shut the fuck up. And I’m not fucking done yet, Care Bear. You were really mean to those whores and whores are like my favoritest people ever. Not cool, man. Not cool at all.”
“I’ll make a note of that,” I said, as the room began to spin. I closed my eyes in an effort to make the spinning stop, but it didn’t work. I kicked one of my legs off the bed and anchored my foot to the floor but my level of sobriety was way past that old trick working.
When I opened my eyes again not only was the room spinning even faster, but I could almost swear that I saw Preppy standing over me, looking down with a frown on his usually happy face, his bow tie swirling around and around growing darker and darker as black halos filled my vision.
I was seeing my dead best friend.
I was right.
A whole new level of wasted.
This wallowing in your own shit is starting to fucking depress me and I’m fucking dead!
It was the last thing I heard, or thought, or however this odd communication between my fucked up brain worked, before my vision became completely black and the darkness swept me under.
But even copious amounts of whiskey couldn’t save me from the dreams.
I feel heat against my side so close it burns. I hear the fire crackle and when I open my eyes I can see the embers from the fire pop into the air. I feel the singe of my skin when one lands on the back of my neck.
I try to get up, but I can’t. I can’t move my arms either.
I’m on my stomach, laying across a set of cheap plastic lawn chairs.
I’m tied down.
Men, several of them surround me. They’re laughing. Poking at me. Punching me in the face. Kicking me in the sides. At one point the chairs fall to the side and I go with them, positive I cracked a rib against the brick of the bonfire in the process. There is an order to set me upright, and it’s done immediately.
When they set the chairs back up I lift my head and I see Eli, the man responsible for my current state, sitting with his legs crossed and a cigar in his mouth. When the smoke clears from around his face it reveals his amused smile.
The one I was going to cut from his face.
My pants are tugged down. I try to scream, to protest, but there is a gag in my mouth. One of the men puts his fucking hands on the cheeks of my ass and spreads them apart. They are poking at my asshole with the end of something and I scream through the pain as they penetrate me over and over again. I concentrate on the things I am going to do to them when I’m free to avoid passing out from the pain.
Because I will be free.
This was not the way I was meant to go out.
I think of revenge. Removing all of their teeth one by one with pliers. A guy in the club knows how to do it in a way that maximizes blood loss. The victim dies a slow painful death by tooth loss. That’s of course only after I remove their intestines through their assholes with a wrench.
They think what they are doing to me is torture.
These fuckers have no fucking idea what torture is.
I’m so still that one of them asks another if I’ve passed out. My eyes are closed when I feel the presence of someone in front of me. He pokes his finger into my eye and I don’t react. I’m in the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life, but I’ve found my place of calm and I’m not leaving it until I can kill every single one of these motherfuckers. I’m saving my energy for when I can actually use it.
I’m a fucking Beach Bastard.
Bitches have been gunning for me since the ink was still wet on my birth certificate.
