Satirical Fiction Group Forum Post your work for reviews

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CHAPTER ONE    It Doesn't really matter how I got here. It doesn’t really matter how it happened. it doesn’t really matter why I'm writing this story. It just matters that you are reading it. But then again, who gives a s**t. Who gives a s**t about you? Those who do will be dead soon and if not you will be dead. so who gives a s**t anyway. But this isn't a story about you or me or the people you love. They are are all dead. and there you have it. It's narcissistic and lonely and here it goes because you can't keep your eyes on the highway while you see a truck go up in flames. I reverse my statement this is about you and me and them and the thems who come after. You are a piece of s**t. Again I reverse my position because s**t has matter. You do not. Neither do I. Why do we keep waiting around? She was just something that would pay attention to me, and yet I knew she was not going to hurt me because I was told she wasn’t. The one who told me was the only one I trusted. I listened. she met me on a highway late at night after an accident. Light in her hair and sprinkles of glitter on her vest. I was bleeding. "Pay attention to your father." "What about mom" "You are not qualified to do that" "Mom" "Your father" The Glass in my chest made it painful to move. The police reports made it clear that without my assistance my father wouldn’t have lived without my boy scout training at CPR. My mother who was uninjured through the accident tried running for help and fell into a ditch of a compound group. They had perimeters set with Punji sticks and died twitching with the toxins of some sort of compound poison. That's not what's at issue here, what is most pertinent is the fact that I don’t like the smell of lemons. Lemons infuriate me. But that’s not what is is the issue. The issue is I hate school. Which is why I'm a high school graduate. Which is why I hold two PhD's . One in Communications and one in Philosophy and a masters degree in Cultural anthropology with an emphasis in ethnography. I loathe anything that higher learning has to tell me and that’s why I had to master it. Danny Brown was a kid I my new neighborhood and was a little s**t but the only one who would talk to me. He smelled of burnt waffles He stuttered and drooled on the side of his mouth when he talked but he was the only one I could remember when I wanted to play. The first time I went to his house I knocked on the door and asked. "Um mm...is HE here?" Yeah they fetched the kid and there we went. Burned waffles and all. Stupid son of a b***h. Today, that’s a predator. who’s gonna ask for him? I'd ripped his eyeballs out and violated his anus. Just because I was his age. OK lets tell the story But first I must tell you That these people are not going to be killed because any of that that. they are dead because they were born dead, why else would they be standing here sobbing on the other end of my guns. K-doc, rancor, Whip, Fyre or Apoc wouldn’t do anything without knowing that they are dead also. I have been dead a very long time. Sorry, I said the story would be told. Let me start from the beginning, that’s where i am told where it starts.