Destructive Fiction | The Stalker Imperative

What I’ve Become

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 04:04:00 +0000

My name is… Daniel Beadle. And I am alone.

My thoughts wander from one memory to the next. I remember the elation of falling in love. I remember the despair of losing it. I’ve imagined myself in so many different guises, in so many different forms and avatars, all as a means to deal with the isolation that I always return to.

I cultivate all my darkest emotions, and picture them contained in a living shadow known as Mr. Dark. I unleash every impulse I own, and all my anger and infinite frustration into a twisted reflection of myself. I call him Jake. And I imagine myself as someone more capable and attractive than I really am, and he’s the Man with Sunglasses, and, eventually Dylan Thorne. And then I imagine myself as an undying romantic. But that persona got dark and twisted when love was removed from my life. That’s who I call the Stalker.

In my life, I’ve learned so much, and so few of the lessons I’ve learned are welcomed by the mainstream. None of them are acknowledged on after-school specials. All relationships are temporary and superficial. No one cares about your life unless you can make it entertaining. All anyone cares about is himself. All females are either whores or sluts. Life has no intrinsic value, and there are no absolute truths. There is nothing worth fighting for, and nothing remains the same forever. Life can and will always get worse than it currently is, and all you can do is realign your perceptions. Love is the path to hate, and in your darkest hour, in your most desperate times, no one will help you but your own imagination.

So what did I do? I spilled out my angst in a rambling story about a cheap parody of myself, a grotesque love story that weaves into and out of reality. …The kind of love story that could only be written with a broken heart. Ultimately, it was a means to purge all the emotions associated with romance. I took out the parts of me that weren’t working properly, the obsolete ideas and useless feelings. Maybe it’s partial suicide. Now I operate as something less than the whole, with a life less pleasant, and less painful. Love infected me, and threatened to break me. Apathy was the cure, but perhaps a cure worse than the disease.

I have either evolved beyond the typical human need for love, or I have been so severely damaged by my experiences that I no longer am capable of it. Jill was one among many instigators of the long, jagged scar that is carved across my psyche. It’s a wound that refuses to heal properly, and I may have become a twisted and broken human being because of it. I have constructed my entire persona around my extended state of isolation. This makes it impossible, or at least improbable, that I will ever fall in love again. In order to survive, I have nurtured my most negative emotions, and used them to create a wall between the prospect of human relationships and me. If ever I am confronted with love, I see it as a façade… as a short-lived lie. I doubt I’ll ever be able to tell someone I’ll always love them. Because I won’t. I don’t genuinely care for anyone. Not even myself. And because of that, I can’t justify my own happiness.

In the wake of a broken heart, I recognize the nature of my relationships with others. They are shallow and short-lived. I realize now… relationships are the product of convenience. Women, romance… love… are luxuries in life. They are not necessities.

…Of course, there’s the possibility that every conclusion I’ve made is erroneous. Maybe someday I’ll meet a shy girl who will put her hand in mine… and make me believe that guys like me can have a happy ending.

But I doubt it.

“I am but a stranger… as are we all. Lonely inside our separate skins, we cannot know each other’s pain and must bear our own in solitude. For my part, I have found that walking soothes it; and that, given luck, sometimes we find one to walk beside us… at least for a little way.”
—Phantom Stranger

The Sweetest Goodbye

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 04:03:00 +0000

Stalker’s existence fades from memory. He is a shadow of myself, carrying with him an emotion that has long since outlived its usefulness. No longer am I the silent narrator who describes his every action and thought, but I am the main character now. And as I feel Stalker slip away into silent oblivion, I’m in the green field were I first met the girl I fell in love with. Her name is Jill. And I see her walking toward me, wearing a white summer dress. I join her, and hold her hand in my own. I speak the words that I know she’ll never hear.

“I miss you…” I say. “I think I’ll go on missing you for quite a while.” She smiles at me, but her eyes are filled with sorrow. “As often as I look at pictures of you, none of them quite capture how beautiful you are in person. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you… and everything we shared. It was like… being complete. I desired nothing more than to be with you. …To laugh with you. …To love you. Completely.”

I pause as I look away. “I’m sorry that had to end. I wish I could repair what we had. …But I can only live in the past for so long. The truth is, we don’t share the same future.” I look into her eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll ever stop loving you, Jill. But I hope that your life brings you all the happiness that I couldn’t give you.” I kiss her hand, and I whisper “Goodbye.”

And I walk away.

"Well, I'm gonna get out of bed every morning... breath in and out all day long. Then, after a while I won't have to remind myself to get out of bed every morning and breath in and out... and, then after a while, I won't have to think about how I had it great and perfect for a while."
—Sam Baldwin

Emotional Purge

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 04:01:00 +0000

“You'll feel your senses changing,” says Mr. Dark. “You might even see things/places/people that aren't even there. You'll notice that your resentment towards women will melt away. When love goes, it takes a lot of emotions with it. You're perceptions will change/alter/sharpen, and your connections to others will wither/fade/die. And as that unfolds, you'll find other impulses fill your mind. Something... dark.”

Words and events fall out like poetry. Circumstances and situations that never existed take shape. It’s like swimming through darkness. Voices echo. Shadows come alive. Thoughts bleed.

“Sometimes the smallest choices have the greatest consequences. Sometimes it all comes down to chance; it’s chance that turn us into unrecognizable monsters, or the embodiment of everything we’ve aspired towards. It’s all arbitrary.” My words echo in silence, and the Man with Sunglasses is talking about women.

"Women are like cars; you can buy 'em at full price and cut through the bullshit of the sale... You can haggle and get them at a discount (and this is the preferred method)... Or, you can steal them."

So Dylan speaks up. “Women don’t deserve your respect. They deserve your contempt.”

“…But…what do we do with the past?” I ask.

“Burn it. Burn it all,” says a man covered in bandages. He walks away. “It was a sorry and meaningless life. They all are.”

I see all my anger, all my frustration and bitter rage... and I call it “Jake.” I see everything dark inside of me, and every hateful thought, and I call it “Mr. Dark.” I see everything pathetic and emotional in me, and I call it “Stalker.” The decisions I make are arbitrary; nothing I do has any real meaning. There is no good. There is no bad. There are only actions and consequences.

Stalker mutters to himself. “She’s made me do such ugly things. She’s made me think such ugly thoughts. I don’t consider myself human anymore. It makes what I have to do much easier to stomach. It makes what I’m about to do look a little less revolting.”

“‘S a shame you couldn’t be normal,” I tell him. “You are everything you thought you were trying not to be.”

“No, it’s not okay,” says Jake, liquor dripping from his chin. “Nothing is okay.”

“I see no redeeming qualities in the human race. There is nothing in this world worth saving. There is nothing in this world worth fighting for. The only thing this sorry world deserves is a sudden and absolute death. And nothing would make me happier than having a hand in that process.”

“I have grown beyond human needs,” says a man who’s been a soldier his entire life.

“That just takes a level of imagination that you don’t have, buddy.” Jake winks. “I would rather live recklessly and die young, than die a coward’s death by my own hand. How many friends do you think you have? I can count my friends on one finger.” He flips me off with a smirk.

I pass a girl in the hallway. Her eyes linger on me longer than they should.

“I can give you a million reasons not to kill yourself, pal. Unfortunately, I can also give you a million reasons to the contrary.”

“The end is in sight, Graham,” whispers Mr. Light. “The state that you’re in… it won’t last for much longer. You think you’ve lost everything… even your identity. There is a way to regain that.” A gap in time. Missing pieces of a forgotten conversation. “…Happiness is not permanent. Happiness isn’t an end goal, Graham. The happiest moments of your life are pieces along a greater path. …It differs from one person to the next. …But don’t get stuck trying to figure out the meaning of life. People spend lifetimes worrying about that one. Life only has what value and meaning one puts into it; there's no intrinsic value there.”

Gone from him are all the memories of a life he once knew. He is free from the chains of his mistakes. No past. No memory. Just the here and now.

“How long do you think your happiness will last?” asks Mr. Dark. “You've constructed your entire persona around your constant misery. It's no wonder you've had such trouble acquiring love, let alone keep it. It was almost impossible for you to let anyone into your life, and when you did, it challenged everything you knew about yourself. It became almost impossible to reconcile the fact that you are society's reject with the fact that someone actually loved you.”

“If I look fake, it’s because I am. I can’t tell you how many times I get the nagging feeling that I’m just some artificial thing, some flat character in some fictional story. Am I a person? Or am I a character? What’s the difference? I had a life once. Something that closely resembled happiness. That doesn’t exist anymore. It never will again. Every day, I look in the mirror and see the face of my killer. He’s gonna finish the job someday.”

I respond with a question. “You have to ask yourself how your consciousness arrived in this particular body? Why am I confined to this one perspective in the collective reality? Without a body, who am I really? You begin asking these questions, and you can almost feel your soul rising out of the back of your skull. You snap back by concerning yourself with the mundane details of your life, but you're left with a disturbing after thought. There are no solid answers to any of your questions. (No man likes to think this deeply.)”

Graham holds Jennifer tight in his arms, as the rain showers them both. “I love you so much. I will never let you go.” And you can be sure that he made good on that promise.

“People only see what they choose to see, son. They look at the details that make them right.”

“…It all hinged on one human emotion: Love. Love was the one thing that brought you the greatest happiness, and the most potent despair.”

“How many times, son? How many times have you reached for that phone, desperate for a friendly voice, and realized that there wouldn’t be one? How many times have you realized how alone you really are?”

“Too many.”

“Most humans have such a vague sense of purpose, and determination. So few actually know what they want from life. The man who does not hesitate, the man who knows exactly what he wants, is a formidable man indeed.”

“Does it matter? Of course not. Nothing really matters, especially not in this environment. Everything you know, everyone you thought you knew, is a temporary construct of your overactive imagination. Those you choose to love, and choose to hate, will all cease to exist soon enough. There is only one path to follow. No deviations exist. Everything goes according to a singular plan. Remorse is irrelevant. Regret means nothing. You have no free will. You might choose to argue all this, but eventually you will come to agree with me. Eventually, everything you put value into will be lost, and you will come to know that nothing lasts forever, and happiness and belonging is a vague delusion of your mind. Happiness teaches you nothing. Pain is the only source of knowledge. Expect it. Enjoy it. Pleasure is temporary. Pain is forever.”

“The human mind can be manipulated to almost any end. For instance, I can convince you that you are in love with just about anyone. And that love will cast a shadow over all reason and rationality that you ever thought you had. …I can make you love or hate anyone you choose. Both emotions are passion, and yet only one serves any purpose. Of course, I can’t imagine what constructive purpose love could possibly have for any man.”

“Mine is the voice that cannot be silenced.”

“It’s only a matter of time before you see things my way. I never lie, and I never err. Every disappointment, every failure, and every tragedy will reinforce everything I tell you, and will chisel down the walls of naivety that you currently surround yourself with.”

“Through the eyes of Mr. Dark, all life becomes meaningless,” she tells me.

“Why is life so precious to someone who wastes it? You think you're so goddamned unique, don't you? Like you're the only one who's ever suffered from a broken heart?"

"You look at me as if you know you're better than me in every way. I recognize that look all too well. Sometimes, it seems that's the only way people look at me."

“Victory. It’s not about being the best, son. It’s about being better. …Sometimes only slightly. Your life… your world… it’s not what you’d expect. Did you honestly think people like me didn’t exist? Did you think that your life actually meant something? There is no such thing as good or evil. There is just evil. It’s remarkable how often genius and madness become intertwined. When gods fail… we call them devils. Don't fear death. Fear me.” A broken speech from a broken man feigning at greatness. His words drip with pretentiousness.

"She was just an actress, son. Some pathetically eager waitress with dreams of Hollywood. But you wouldn't stop pursuing her, so I had her removed from the board. In that sense, you caused her death."

"Don't you put that on me, you prick."

“I see the worst people in the world procreate, and it trivializes the whole concept of reproduction. I care for nothing of the future of my planet.”

“So what are your intentions? World domination?”

“Please.” Dylan looks out the window and sighs to himself. “The world is not enough.” He chuckles to himself.

“I find myself withdrawing from my peers. I have very little in common with those I’ve become surrounded by. The only meaningful conversations I have are with myself.” I understand his words too well, but I say nothing.

A shift, and Mr. Light is talking: “A sunset lights up the sky differently… a rather apt finale to a weary day. I suppose there’s a certain… calming effect at knowing the day’s work is done. And it’s only at the end of things that we can see the bigger picture… and appreciate it.”

“How much longer is this going to go on?” asks Stalker.

“…That’s something only you can know, Graham. "

Stalker feels his eyes water. “I want to be a good person… so badly.”

“I don’t think you’re a bad person, Graham.”

“I’ve done such horrible things…”

“Everyone has. At least, in their own minds. There’s a big difference between imagination and action.”

“Hope can sustain a life, and its absence can destroy one. A man without hope cannot last very long. …The end of hope is the beginning of despair.”

“That’s all I have. Despair. Isolation. My life has become one miserable experience after another. Even my dreams have turned to nightmares… I exist now in a constant and deep state of depression. Every day, I get a little closer to death. Closer than I want to believe.”

“And what stays your hand?”

“Fear.”

“Of what?”

“The future. I’m terrified of life on this earth, but that pales in comparison with the unknown of what lies beyond death.”

“…What dreams may come, right? You have to appreciate the fact that the most famous soliloquy in literature was the contemplation of suicide. To live or die. This thinking is universal, Graham. Anyone who’s lost something of value knows despair. You needn’t feel so lost.”

“Of course, it all sounds so trivial, doesn’t it? I lose a girl and wallow in misery… turn into something I can barely recognize in the mirror. …But I spent my whole life thinking that all I needed was to fall in love. …To find someone I could be happy with, someone who would make my life seem valuable. And I found her. I found someone who loved me as much as I loved her. It just seemed so perfect. …She was beautiful in ways I can’t even describe… and she made me happier than I’d ever imagined I could be. And now she’s gone from me… and it’s like everything I thought I could count on is gone with her. How can I trust that feeling again, knowing full well that everything is so damned temporary? It’s all so trivial… And if that’s the case, then what’s the point of life? If happiness is just something that slips through your fingers?”

"…A quarter of the way through my life's journey, I found myself in a dark place... the right path lost."

"It's not hard to imagine a better life,” I tell him. “What if Jake was a friend? What if the Man with Sunglasses was a little less obscene? We could turn this whole thing into a comedy.”

“It is a painful thing, to find that you are a victim of causality. All humans struggle to assert their will, their ‘free will,’ as they often claim it to be. But fate, like death, overcomes us all. And there is nothing we can do to stop it, no matter how frequently we tell ourselves otherwise.”

“Maybe I want the world to end so I don’t have to kill myself.”

"It's in everyone's best interest that you keep believing in love."

“I see the face of my killer every time I look in the mirror. He’s coming for me; this fact is indisputable. I am the creator of my own misery, and as such, I will be my own killer. There is no other possible end for me.” How little you know.

“Are you sure you’re not confusing love with limerence?”

Mr. Dark trains his gun at Stalker's face. "You killed her, and so many others. There's only one end to this story." Stalker meets Mr. Dark's glare. "It's a shame you don't have the ability to do it yourself."

Stalker speaks through gritted teeth. "I never killed her."

Mr. Dark pauses. "Now what makes you think that?"

Stalker swallows. "My memory isn't what it used to be... but the memories of her death... they were inconsistent... spotty... certain key details were missing... there were logical gaps... In fact, I never killed anyone."

“Sometimes, I like to imagine what Heaven would be like… Like a big party or some special event, a wedding maybe… where everyone you love, and all your friends are there. I try to imagine that… but all I see is myself standing in an empty room talking to myself.”

“You’re only a loser if you choose to be.”

"My whole life is a lesson in apathy."

Stalker falls to the ground, beaten in ways that not measurable in any one understanding of reality.

“Why do you wallow in your own self-pity?”

“I like it.”

“There’s a time to laugh, and there’s a time to cry. I want to laugh.” Time flows and Jake is saying something different in front of the nightclub: "...’S the people that are involved in the shit that know all the little differences within it. To a guy like me, the Scots and the Irish is the same thing. You ask a Scot, and they'll learn ya real quick. ...Talked to some nerdy chick, she tells me there's a difference between geeks and nerds. Go figure. Now there're two groups of people I'd like to drown in a toilet. …Course you realize that most of what you see in fiction is just one man have a conversation with himself. That's the author talkin'."

“My words are hollow and meaningless. She has turned me into the kind of person I hate: weak and emotional.”

“This world has to end. I will do everything in my power to make sure that happens.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong. Yeah, just keep telling yourself that, you fucking shit.”

“You deserve…”

“Nevermind. It’s all fucked. Fucking fucker’s fucked. Beyond all recognition.”

“Ugly as sin. And just as fucking attractive.”

“I feel like a freak. I am a tangled outcast. I have no love for anyone or anything. The same is true for others; no soul loves me. That makes me happy in such a wrong way. I want to destroy. I want to tear down everything good in this world. I want everyone to hurt. I want everyone to be in pain. The type of pain that makes them wish for death. I want no one to escape. I want destruction and decay.”

“I’ll destroy you. Too late. You already have.”

“Fucker! I hate you.”

“Never again.”

“True love is supposedly the purest form of romantic love… But it's more like a distortion, a mental high that comes from finding someone who is enamored of you. It feeds your ego and makes you think your life is important. And if you're lucky, you die before the feeling subsides. In that case, it's called ‘everlasting love.’”

“Love is a bubble of fleeting happiness that keeps the forces of chaos and ruin (and reality) at arms length. But it isn’t long before those external forces creep in, and rip that bubble apart. It is inevitable. As surely as death follows life, heartbreak follows love.”

I think of the future, of the relationships yet to occur. I think of the promises that lovers make, and how hollow they inevitably become. After all, a promise is a lie until is fulfilled. I imagine these promises that I might have to make again someday. And all of them are tainted.

“I love you,” I say, but it’s hard to know for sure. “I’ll never leave you,” I say, but I know I eventually will. “You’re the only one for me,” but I know there’s probably a few others who are better. “I’ve never felt this way before,” but I actually have. “I’ll always be there for you,” but there’s a good chance I won’t. “I care about you,” until you stop being relevant to me. “Everything’s going to be alright,” but I can’t know that. No one can.

She's not dead, but she may as well be. I know I'll never see her again. No matter how much I learn about women, I still know nothing. I have no sense of belonging. Women have nothing to offer me. They hold no sway over my actions. Romance is nothing more than the path to self-destruction.

Random thoughts. Splintered memories.

“You never know how far you’ve come until you look back at what you once were.”

“I have no real connections with anyone on this world. I am my own conscience. My best friends are those that I choose to create. I feel no sympathy for the lonely female. She needs only to use an arsenal of cosmetics to make herself attractive, and secure a mate. No further action is required.”

Sex is a bodily function. There’s no need to romanticize it.

“Romance is just the means to alleviate loneliness.”

“You look at me and you feel a sense of disgust. You wonder, ‘What kind of a man is he? Who would possibly do those terrible things?’ You wonder. But are we really that different? I am a slave to my obsessions. But I act on those obsessions. Some people might consider that bravery, or devotion. Others call it insanity. The difference is slight. Subtle. Significant. My name is Stalker. I hunt women. I would kill them if I could. But that isn’t my way.” Stalker is a twisted man.

“I can help you.”

“No.”

“She betrayed everything.”

“Nothing will ever be the same. Oh sure, I’ll fall in love again. I might even believe myself to be happy. I’ll lie to myself and to whomever the next one is, saying that we’ll always be together, and that ‘I’ve never felt this way before.’ Not that any of that will be true, it’ll just sound really nice at the time. But in the back of my mind, I’ll have your memory scratching it’s way to the surface. How easily I was replaced. How easily anyone can be replaced.”

“I am stained. I can never return.”

“Here’s the new target information you requested,” says Mr. Gray. He hands me a file. “Make sure that she finds this to expedite the future split. You’ll need a resurgence in misery to spur your creative process.”

“I have evolved into something I’ve never been before. I don’t recognize myself anymore.”

“Fuck off.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“My life has been irrevocably changed. I can never be who I once was. The past is dead. There are no u-turns in this life. Only the endless scarring that the experience leaves you with.”

A demon whispers in Stalker’s ear. A devil pulls at Stalker’s marionette strings. Stalker undresses in front of a bed whose occupant flashes us an evil grin. Stalker removes a happy facemask from a face filled with hate. Stalker reaches for the sky as demons claw at his clothing. Stalker is gangly and used up.

“I’m so alone.”

“I have never let you down. Single you are, and single you remain. I promise that you will never have to compromise who you are for the sake of a female. I promise that you will never be tainted by their caress, and drowned in any love that lasts any longer than a month. You have a freedom that most men will never know. Love is not the deus ex machina that everyone presupposes it is. Love solves nothing important. Love is an evil, the likes of which this world refuses to acknowledge.”

“I’m so alone.”

“I’m so alone.”

“I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
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“Preemptive stalking. What a concept.”

“I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so
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“You like to think of yourself as a victim. How would you like that to feel a little more real?”

“I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.”

“My pain is self-inflicted; you don’t have to pity me.”

“I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone.
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I’m so alone. I am so alone. I am so alone. I am –”

“I’m alone.”

“You think that’ll change?”

“Now who’s being naïve?”

“What kind of a person doesn’t flinch?”

“Someone who’s not afraid to die.”

“Let me tell you something about women. There are three basic ways to acquire them. One: You negotiate.” The Man with Sunglasses smirks and leans in closer to the female wearing glitter in her hair. “This is the most accepted method, but it takes time and salesmanship. Two: You steal them.” Jake elbows a girl in the face and starts screaming in silence. “You take them against their will and make them your own. And three: You buy them, and cut through all the lies.” Dylan pushes an envelope across the table toward a high priced whore.

“Why are you single?” she asks me.

“Why isn’t everyone else single?” I ask.

“Do you know why I don’t fear death? Because I’m already in hell.” Stalker’s scream tears open the sky.

“Can I even be who I once was? Am I even capable of loving anyone anymore?”

“But to me, I have to ask the bigger question: To what end? Why hunt women? Why pull them into your life? The immediate answer, as any man would tell me, is sex. To me, sex is little more than urinating or farting. It's a bodily function that releases the hormones that cloud one's thinking. It's a load blow. There's no need to romance that. And so the additional answers to my original question fall in: Love, marriage, family... and as those answers spill out, I like them less and less. My life is difficult enough without a family in tow, and certainly wouldn't want to curse anyone with the genetic and mental flaws that I carry. ...And love. I suppose in the abstract, life is best lived by striving for happiness. And love is focused happiness. But I've also seen the lows that it drags one to, I've seen that flimsy line between love and hate. Love takes you to such amazing highs, and such desperate lows. Now, a life without love... that keeps happiness and misery in a much narrower range. Maybe that's the better option. As you can see, I have no incentive to pursue women or romance. I have no doubts that I will die with a wealth of regret. But I can't see that changing no matter what I do.”

“Take out a pen and write down the barriers: Sublimation, involuntary celibacy, desire for independence, avoid being emotionally hurt, misanthropy, including an aversion to offspring, love-shyness, inferiority complex, social isolation, circumstantial, fear of rejection, learned helplessness, social anxiety.”

“Here I am missing her all over again.”

“It’s nice to know that people are so reliable, yes?”

“Some days… I can’t decide who I want to be. I can’t decide who I am.”

Stalker kisses a specter.

“Great day, huh?” says an optimistic stranger. Stalker gives him a perfunctory glance and answers out of necessity.

“Some say.” There is a long pause.

“What brings you here?”

“Why do you ask questions when you don’t care to hear the answers?”

“Whoa! Someone’s in a bad mood today. I’m just making conversation.”

“Why? So you can fill the deafening silence with meaningless chatter?”

“No offense, pal. I can see your down on your luck.”

“Luck only exists for those who believe in it.”

“Oh well, I tried. I didn’t want to be confrontational.”

“…”

“See over there? That’s my son and my wife. I used to be like you. Angry at everything, and everyone. However, it all disappeared when I met Linda. It’s just like something… clicked. There’s something very refreshing about finding someone to love. It’s almost as thought the whole world changes for the better. Anger is fleeting next to joy. I’m sure you’ll find that out one day.”

“…Yes. It all sounds so familiar. You say you used to be like me? Well, I used to be like you too. I used to think that love would solve all my problems, that love would calm me down, and numb my pain. However, love is a drug, easily replaceable, and infinitely fleeting. To me, love is just a painful memory, one among many. Look at your love. Look at the emotional connection you’ve made with another human being. You’ve compromised yourself because you were too weak to face the prospect of a life in solitude. You see strength, but I see nothing but a man deluding himself into a sense of security, playing into the game that is shoved down our throats. You sicken me beyond words. Nothing would please me more than to watch your family betray you and leave you for dead. Joy is a drug. Love is but a fart in the wind of time. Fuck you and everything you stand for. I’m leaving.” Stalker stands and flicks his toothpick at the ground. He walks off and leaves the optimist behind. The man stares in shock at Stalker for a moment or two, then looks over at his family. They disappear like a fleeting thought. The man gasps for air as he feels his own existence vanish in a like manner. The bench is empty, as the wind turns cold with the approach of winter.

“Are you ready to die? I hope so. Things are going to end badly for you. I hear his voice echo in silence. How did you meet Mr. Dark? He gave me a choice. There’s a difference between being ready for death, and wishing for it.”

A gangly man stumbles through a graveyard as lightning crackles through the sky.

“This is my reality. This is my insanity.”

“…All those horrible characters… you can reject them, and let them be your adversaries. Or you can tame them, and make them your allies.”

Stalker’s voice is nothing more than a gravely scrapping of vocal cords: “I’m going to tear this whole fucking world apart.”

Stalker removes his contact lenses. Those green eyes were just a lie.

“It won’t be long before I know everything about you. Every little detail will be mine. In time.”

“It’s going to take more that you have to find love again.”

“My hate makes me whole.”

"You gut the pieces of yourself that you don't want anymore. The hate, the fear, the pain. You remove these emotions from yourself, and give them names. Jake. Mr. Dark. Stalker. You become less than the whole, but better able to survive because of it."

"Congratulations. You understand now that the cure for love... is apathy."

“We all have our scars, don’t we? Some cut a little deeper than others.” Stalker looks at the scars on his arm, at the rotting flesh between each mark. He scratches it, peeling off layer after layer of skin. It tears away, like paint chips and old paper. He keeps peeling until there’s nothing left.

“I’m not who I really am. I am someone else entirely.”

“Things need not have happened to be true. Tales and dreams are the shadow-truths that will endure when mere facts are dust and ashes, and forgot.”
—Neil Gaiman

Dark Truths

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:58:00 +0000

Stalker sits alone on a bench in front of an empty house at the end of the world. His eyes stare transfixed at the dead grass at his feet.

Memories flash through Stalker’s mind as he tries to grasp the nature of his reality. He sees himself moving in to kiss Jennifer on a summer day. He sees himself kissing her as he lifts her into the air. He sees them wearing formal wear, laughing. He watches himself walk down an empty hallway. He sees himself falling to his knees, crying. He sees his SUV involved in a violent car crash. He sees himself in a field, raising his arms in despair. He imagines Jake swinging a baseball bat in a bar. He sees a hand let go of a plastic tulip. A tear rolls out of his eye as he sees himself holding a revolver to his head. He imagines himself smiling as a truck races toward him. He sees himself standing on a building ledge, leaning forward. He sees Jennifer’s face, whispering the words “I love you.”

“Do you understand it now?” asks Mr. Dark.

Stalker says nothing.

“I suppose there’s no need to lie to you anymore. In order to test the boundaries of reality, one needs to seek out the edges of the known world, and catch a glimpse at what lies beyond. Of course, this becomes much more difficult when your world is constructed on a sphere with no natural borders. By making contact with Daniel Beadle, it seems as though you’ve found the border. This is the one place where two separate realities meet.”

“Who am I?”

“You are a shard of another man. A piece of someone else’s psyche. Just like Dylan. Just like Jake. Just like the Man with Sunglasses. You are all fractions of someone else… You, specifically, are the romantic. Think of it like the inner child who dies when he finds out there’s no such thing as Santa Clause. You’re the one that harbors that pathetic notion that love exists as some sort of… deus ex machina. Some be-all, end-all solution to life’s constant barrage of misery.”

“How is a stalker the personification of romance?”

“Well, you didn’t begin as one. Where your life intersected with your creator, we called you ‘Graham.’ But how is stalking tied to romance? What was it that the Man with Sunglasses said? The only difference between being creepy and romantic is your success rate? If you were successful at reconciling with your lost love, we wouldn’t call you a stalker. We’d call you a suitor. A… hopeless romantic, with undying devotion.

“But you’ve served your purpose. You’ve pointed out the unnecessary angst and despair that accompanies a broken heart. Love comes at a price, a price far more dangerous than it should be.

“As such, you existence is no longer required.” Mr. Dark removes the glove from his right hand.

“What happens now?”

“You are going to be removed from the parent psyche, along with all the outmoded notions that you embody. …The capacity for love being chief among these. Think of it… like partial suicide.”

“And who are you?”

"I am known by many names, and by many faces. The most enduring of these... is Death." Mr. Dark reaches out to Stalker. And everything goes black.

“Would you believe me if I told you the sun would not rise tomorrow?
There would be nothing but darkness when you open your eyes tomorrow?
Would you trust me if I told you everything was a lie today?
Would you believe me if I said you were going to die today?”
—The Truth

The Search for Daniel Beadle

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:56:00 +0000

Daniel Beadle. The name isn’t much to go on. While Stalker considers himself an expert tracker, it’s the initial gathering of information that proves the most tedious. Dead-ends are encountered too often, and too soon.

As with any search, Stalker begins with the Internet. Spelling becomes the first issue; the word “beetle” is not a common last name. It’s been used before, on a botanist who died in 2003, but few others carry that surname. Stalker considers an alternative, “beatle,” but that proves even less likely. Stalker considers the word “beat” as it relates to music. Perhaps the name has a different basis. If only he could get a bead on this person. A bead…

Stalker searches for another name. “Beadle.” The results are many. It’s an English name, derived from the Latin word for “herald.” Coupled with the given name “Daniel,” there are too many results to choose from. But if Mr. Light set him on this path, Stalker calculates that there must be some connection between himself and this mystery person… a connection that he would recognize. A biblical prophet who interpreted dreams shares the name “Daniel”. He also foresaw the end of the world. Does this have some bearing on Stalker’s situation? Or is this just apophenia in action?

Stalker delves into the social networking sites, scanning through the photos of strangers. A child. A husband. A musician. Who are all these people? he wonders. All these faces… these lives that connect and separate like pools of rainwater on a pane of glass. He looks at their friends, their acquaintances. It’s a lot of information to sift through, so he limits his search to the United States, and begins looking for something—anything familiar.

The search is fruitless without more insightful information. Stalker needs facts that aren’t found in bulleted lists and stat sheets. So he finds the phone numbers, and he braces himself for the awkward conversations to come.

Stalker stares at the numbers on the screen, and then slowly begins dialing the numbers. He waits nervously for a response.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I’m looking for Daniel Beadle.”

“Yeah, he’s out right now. You want to leave a message?”

“Just tell him that Graham was looking for him.”

“Yes?”

“Who is this?”

“What was your name again?”

“Sta—Graham…”

“Stan?”

“I’m just looking for Daniel Beadle?”

“Daniel Vito?”

“I’m sorry pal, he’s gone now.”

“He’s busy.”

“That fucker left town. Good luck finding him.”

“You tell him he owes me money!”

“I’m Danny Beadle.”

“Do you know about the Stalker Imperative?”

“No. Should I?”

“Who’d you say this was?”

“I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

“Who are you?”

“This is Dan.”

“Do you recognize my voice?”

“I’m sorry, you got the wrong number.”

“Hello Graham. How’s the search going?”

“Beadle, not Veal. B-E-A-”

“Oh, D, as in dog.”

“Exactly.”

“Last name first.”

“Daniel.”

“You mean Danny?”

“Dan. Dan Beadle.”

“Damn Beadle?”

“Like the bug?”

“Like the band.”

“I’m not who you’re looking for.”

“How do you know him?”

“Does the Stalker Imperative mean anything to you?”

“Impera-what?”

“Well, according to my files, Beadle’s last known address was… 110 Phoenix Street in… Glendale, Arizona… But he’s…”

“Thank you.”

“…Wait!”

“Daniel Beadle died years ago.”

“Hi, I’m looking for a… Daniel Beadle?”

“Ahh, yeah… he used to live here, but he moved out about a week ago. Moved up to Massachusetts… somewhere on the cape, I think.”

“Are you Daniel Beadle?”

“I am.”

“What can I do for you?”

“This might sound crazy, but… I was told you could help me out…”

“Help you out?”

“With information.”

“He doesn’t live here anymore.”

“No one’s seen him since last summer.”

“Good luck finding him.”

“I thought he died.”

“He doesn’t come around much anymore.”

“But you’ve seen him, right?”

“Who is Daniel Beadle?”

“I need to find him.”

“Why?”

“HAVE YOU SEEN HIM?”

“Is this Daniel Beadle?”

“This is.”

“He’s dead.”

“Married.”

“Divorced.”

“Engaged.”

“Dead.”

“…No records beyond 2005…”

“What’s your last name?”

“You related?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mr. who? Sorry pal.”

“Came in here a few times. Friends with some guy named Devin.”

“Devin Manning?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t know me, but I’m trying to find someone named Daniel Beadle. I heard you were friends with him?”

“And why are you trying to find him?”

“I know this sounds weird, but I think we’re related.”

“Sure.”

“I’m serious. Look… did he disappear after the summer of 2005?”

“No… I just haven’t seen him since then.”

“Do you any idea where he is now?”

Dead ends. False leads. Confusion and miscommunication. What is the Stalker Imperative? Stalker remembers his encounter with Dylan Thorne, where the Stalker Imperative was effectively a prelude to some larger scheme. A necessary test of causality. But that was a dream, wasn’t it? What would some stranger know about the Imperative?

Stalker rubs his face, casting his eyes down at the scrap papers on the desk before him. There are two-dozen Daniels named “Beadle,” and twenty-one of them are easily ruled out. A list of people oblivious to his existence. The others are unresponsive. One completely dropped off the face of the earth. Stalker looks at the address of the missing Daniel. Some small town halfway between Boston and Providence.

Five hours later, Stalker is standing in front of the last known location of Daniel Beadle. It’s a small suburban street, with colonial houses lining either side. Stalker imagines that the windows of the houses are eyes that watch his every move. It’s midday, but the sky is overcast. Clouds hang in the air, with the eerie threat of an approaching storm. A faint breeze trickles through the air. Stalker holds out his hand to feel the invisible touch of the wind.

“You find him, and all this ends.” That was the last thing that Mr. Light told Stalker. Stalker remembers bleeding on the bathroom floor of a motel. He recalls the sinister smirk of Jake Alberts, and the unnerving conversation with the Man with Sunglasses. Stalker struggles to picture the face of Mr. Dark, but his mind redirects to the face of Dylan Thorne. Random shards of a broken mind? He barely remembers Jennifer’s face. Did he make her up for the sake of hurting himself? No. Stalker dismisses the thought, and returns to the here and now.

Stalker’s looks at the house before him. It used to be something better, something brighter. But the ravages of time have reduced it… no, perfected it to its current state. The house is a memory in a land without memories. It appears as a representative of a childhood that no one ever had. A dead tree holds a tire swing. An empty bench sits in the front lawn. Everything seems like a shadow of something that could have been, but never was. Stalker savors the view, the calm stillness of this land, and remembers the notion of the Dark Heaven. When he imagines death, he does not always see pleasure or pain, reward or punishment. Sometimes, he imagines a world that exists in the empty space between Heaven and Hell, containing aspects of both but devoted to neither. Has he died? It’s unclear, but he continues forward, regardless.

Stalker enters the house, but is not entirely sure how. Maybe he kicked the door in. Maybe he broke a window. Maybe the door was unlocked. Or maybe someone invited him in. It’s a dark place, and Stalker feels a frisson of fear run through him. He’s not sure he wants to find what he’s looking for.

“…No records beyond 2005…”

Has this house been abandoned since then? So many years ago… Stalker looks at the pictures in the living room. A family with frozen faces, feigning happiness. He looks at the trinkets and memorabilia… artifacts of lives no one will remember. An old computer sits in the corner, surrounded by dusty papers and old files. Stalker begins sifting through them, finding an old composition paper with a single sentence written in pencil:

“As the wind blows, the leaves on the trees dance and sway. So pretty to see.” Nonsense. He turns the paper over, and his heart stops. It’s a list.

“…Hair toss. Hazel eyes. I love you. Accidentally in love. Applebee’s. Sinatra. Caramel kisses. Boxers or briefs. Lady in red. Kissing in the rain. Stealing love. Slow dancing. Waiting for the night to start. I’m in heaven. Flower in her hair. Plastic tulip. Rain plans. Last dance. Neither one of us deserves the blame. Party for two. Diner. Sleepover. We’ll take these. Scrambled eggs…”

A list of details. A list of memories. Stalker notices two letters written in the corner: “S.I.” He looks beyond the paper, and notices a pink piece of yarn sticking out from under the stack. He fishes it out, finding it attached to a note written on heavy stock paper. A card. He reads the feminine handwriting on the back.

“I miss you everytime we are apart… I miss your smile… I’d hold hands forever as long as you never let go.” Stalker hears Jennifer’s words on the night they parted at summer’s end. But the note isn’t signed with her name. Beside the heart, the note is signed “Jill.” Stalker flips the card over, looking at the hearts on the cover that accent the name “Dan.”

Stalker looks up, out of the house. Fear grips him when he sees a man sitting in the bench in the front yard. Stalker drops the note and walks to the front door. He exits the house slowly, trying to keep the panic that grips him at bay. There is no sound. No wind. The trees, the world is motionless. Like a nightmare, there is nothing obviously frightening about the circumstance, but there’s a tension in the air. There is an indescribable fear. Stalker keeps his eyes fixed on the man on the bench, stepping cautiously over the dead lawn. His heart thumps against his sternum and his mouth goes dry. He tries to speak, but nothing comes of it.

The man on the bench does not move. His face is identical to that of the Stalker’s, sans the scarring. His eyes are brown, not green, and his hair is slightly shorter. As Stalker approaches him, he makes no sign that he even knows Stalker is there. He stares forward, lost in a trance. Stalker sits beside him, not sure of what to say or how to say it. He calms himself as much as he is able, and voices his most pressing question.

“Are you Daniel Beadle?”

The man is silent. Stalker wonders if he asked the question out loud.

“I once tasted life…” whispers the man. “I loved someone. I loved someone who loved me.” He looks to the sky. “It was painful letting her go. Our lives… separated.” He lowers his eyes to the empty street. “I considered making some grand romantic gesture… winning her back. I considered it. I almost made the trip. …But I didn’t. Just because you want something doesn’t mean you can get it. It’s not like she was my soul mate, or anything that dramatic. She was a just a girl who walked beside me for a while…”

The man sighs. “But the whole experience left me with a lot of emotions scrambling for release. So I wrote them all down. …It was imperative that I got them all out.”

Stalker stares at the ground as his mind fits all the pieces together. He feels an overwhelming sense of loss and isolation. He feels alone. And he is.

Daniel Beadle is gone.

“If you wake up at a different time, and a different place, could you wake up as a different person?”
—Chuck Palahniuk

Mr. Light

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:53:00 +0000

Stalker sits on a lonely hill, bracing himself against the winter wind beneath a dead tree. His eyes are fixed on the horizon, watching the sun disappear. The sky takes on a bright orange glow. Stalker stops shivering momentarily as a calm feeling washes over him.

“We do not recognize our souls until they are in pain…” says a voice from behind Stalker. “A man named James O’Barr wrote that after his fiancé died.”

Stalker turns to see a man standing a stone’s throw away. The man has a solid frame, standing at just over six feet tall. His white hair is combed back, but a few strands from the center of his widow’s peak wave in the wind. His eyebrows are thick and black, and his eyes are a pale blue. The man has a square jaw, and a look of strength that is contradicted by the warmth in his eyes. He wears a grey trench coat over a matching suit with no tie, and holds himself up with a wooden cane. His eyes stare at the horizon. He has more senses available to him than the average man, and he sees more than any of us will ever know.

“Are we sure I still have a soul?” asks Stalker.

“Of course. As much as you like to deny it, you are still human. …With all of their emotions, their desires… and their flaws.”

“Too many to count.”

“Perhaps. But not many more than anyone else.”

Stalker feels tears form in his eyes. “I’ve done such horrible things…”

“All men have.”

“I’ve killed…”

“You’ve fantasized about it, sure. You’ve imagined yourself as a monster to cope with your pain. …To cope with your disillusionment. But you’ve killed no one. You’re not a monster, Graham. You’re just a person who fell in love. You remember love, don’t you?”

Stalker feels his eyes begin to water. “She was beautiful in ways I can’t even describe. I loved her so completely… and now it all means nothing.

“We had been apart for a month when I visited her at her school. A five-hour drive, but she was worth it. When I got there, something was off. It’s like the chemistry was gone… like we were two strangers going through the motions. I kissed her hand and told her she’d be fine without me. We both knew it was over. …Before I left, she told me that I hadn’t done anything wrong…

“I know it doesn’t seem that dramatic. There was no big fight. Our lives just… separated. There was nothing we could do about it. I guess… love isn’t always enough.

“But there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of her. I think of all the details… the song we danced to on the night we kissed for the first time. The names we came up with for all the different types of kisses we shared. The plastic tulip that she wore in her hair during the Hawaiian-themed party. The midnight breakfast at the local diner. The way ‘I’ became ‘we.’

“I’m not even sure who I am anymore without her. Am I her stalker? Am I her killer? I exist in a constant and deep state of depression… like I’m drowning in storm, and no one cares. My memory has gotten so unreliable. I can’t even remember what life was like before I met her. And now I’m confronted by an endless stream of characters, each one more grotesque than the last…”

“Those are the projections of a mind struggling to find a sense of self. From the id to the superego, and everything in between. …That’s the difficulty with human relationships. People define themselves through their interactions with others. In the absence of human contact, one is forced to carve out his own identity. Sometimes, it’s an idealized view… in other cases, it’s something far more sinister.”

“And who am I now?”

“Someone who’s lost his way. …But there is a way to find it again.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have no claim to an identity anymore, and nothing in your reflection or in your memories that is recognizable. But there is someone who can give you answers, someone who can illuminate your past and help you understand who you are.”

“His name?”

“Find Daniel Beadle. Ask him about the Stalker Imperative.” The man walks away. "You find him, and all this ends."

Stalker is confused, but voices his appreciation. “Thank you, Mr. Light.”

“If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent Him.”
—Voltaire

The Darkest Depths

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:46:00 +0000

“That situation at the bar left a bad taste in my mouth... and I’m not talking about the metallic taste of blood, neither.” Jake spits on the sidewalk. “But like I was saying… that blonde pop star… It’s not that she’s particularly attractive. It’s just easy to find yerself attracted to someone at the center of attention. ‘Course, I listen to her music… makes me feel closer to her, like I can practically crawl into her mouth… dick-first. Too often do I look at some mildly attractive bitch, and just yearn to drag a sloppy, half-hardened dick across the outside of their thigh. But it’s the really beefy ones you just want to deep fry and eat the muscle off their bones. Gotta love that deviant shit… I figure, if yer gonna be offensive, you might as well go all the way. …Like raping the rotting corpse of a same-sex relative. But I’m digressin’ a bit. Look at that one. You see that shit, you gotta wonder what kind of noises she makes when she orgasms…”

Jake and Stalker are standing on a cold city street across from a nightclub. Jake takes the occasional drag from his cigarette as he and his companion watch women enter and exit the building. Naturally, Jake is speaking without a filter on his thoughts, dispensing a plethora of misogynistic insights.

“Of course she’ll tell you she has a boyfriend. The way I figure it, all girls will tell you they have a boyfriend just to cool you down a little. No guy ever has a girlfriend because he’s always keeping his options open.” He pauses as his eye catches a female with an hourglass figure. “Look at her… I just want to crawl into her womb and be unborn. You know what I mean? Just revert to fucking fetus for nine months.”

Time rolls forward, and Stalker feels disoriented as he listens to Jake’s tirade of sleazy remarks: “I just wanna fuck her throat… I just wanna take her home and play with her... like wholesome stuff. I just wanna pet her... heavily if necessary. I just wanna to tell her my feelings. I just wanna stick my finger up her ass. I just wanna nibble on her a little. I just wanna choke her softly, maybe spit in her mouth…”

The last comment throws Stalker off, because he’s not completely sure who spoke it. Jake’s spontaneous singing stifles his uncertainty: “I'm a girl watcher, I'm a girl watcher... Watchin' girls go by… My, my, my.” Jake licks his lips. “I'm a girl watcher, I'm a girl watcher... Here comes one now... Mmm mmm mmm...” He stops singing and points out a girl that’s caught his eye. “That one. Look at her. Looks kinda like Briana Banks.”

Stalker expresses his reservations with a grunt.

“What’s the matter with you? Lower your standards, god dammit. Look, she’s thin and she has no major deformities. What more could you ask for? Besides…” Jake squints. “Her friend’s got nice hammers. C’mon.” Jake stamps out his cigarette as he walks briskly across the street. Stalker follows, feeling partially non-existent in the shadow of Jake’s bombastic personality. At what point, he wonders, did he become relegated to a supporting character in his own story?

Jake hums a tune once more: “I wonder if you know, that you’re putting on a show… Could you please walk a little closer?” Jake and Stalker arrive on the opposite sidewalk, now half a block from the nightclub entrance. The two girls are walking briskly away from the club as the boys approach. Jake speaks softly to Stalker: “I like the way her ass moves when she walks.” The boys quicken their pace. “You gotta get close enough to get their scent... So you can almost smell that pussy..."

Stalker feels an overwhelming sense of déjà vu mixed with disgust.

“HEY!” shouts Jake. “You girls need a ride?”

Stalker hangs back as the girls turn around. Even from a distance, Stalker can hear their slurred speech.

“Who’re you?” says the blonde.

“I’m a good guy… trying to keep hot girls like yourselves from getting attacked by some weirdos.”

“Weirdos? Are you saying that you’re not weirdos?” The girl begins laughing as she looks at Stalker.

Jake dismisses it. “Don’t mind him. He’s a virgin. You want a butt?”

“We gotta get back to the hotel… My boyfriend is coming to pick us up…” She hiccups. “He drives a Porsche.”

Jake smirks. “Yer boyfriend?” He begins laughing.

“What’s so god damned funny?”

“Nothing.” Jake motions for Stalker to circle around. “Drives a Porsche, eh? The official car of douche bags and tools trying to seem younger than they are.”

“He’s loaded.”

“I’m sure he is.”

The brunette rummages through her purse. “Stacy? You have any Xanax?”

“Listen,” says Jake. “I could be your boyfriend tonight.”

Stacy looks at him blankly. “You’re not my type.”

Jake shakes his head. “…Because I’m not some 40 year old geezer with deep pockets, right? Well, that makes for a very bright future for me, and a very shitty one for you.”

“You’re a…. asshole.”

Jake grabs her hair and jerks her head back. “The second I fuck you, you lose all superiority you ever thought you had.”

“I’m not scared of you,” says Stacy with a shaky voice.

Jake smiles and says, “That’s because you don’t know me yet.” Jake slams his forehead into hers, and she falls to his feet.

The brunette begins shouting, “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”

“Grab her, man.”

Stalker pulls the girl’s wrists behind her back as Jake approaches.

“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLES!”

Jake grits his teeth. “Shut…” He punches her across the face. “UP!”

The brunette falls. Jake spits on the ground, then mutters, “Help me drag them into the alley. I’ll bring the car around and we can take them from there.”

* * *

Stalker shivers as he looks at the adjacent highway. He and Jake are on the second floor of a gutted building in a forgotten neighborhood at the edge of the city.

“There,” says Jake as he steps back. “We’re all set, buddy.” Stalker turns to see the two females fastened to the ground with an odd assortment of electrical tape and extension cords. Their faces are covered in tape as well, with dirty rags shoved down their throats. Their garments are torn but intact, and the tarp that they lie on collects blood leaking from the back of their heads. Jake rubs his dirty hands as Stalker walks over to his position.

“…So I drilled holes in the back of their skulls, and it puts them in this zombie-like state… a trance. They won’t resist anymore.” Jake catches an odd glance from Stalker. “What? You think just cause I don’t have a fucking degree means I’m not smart?” He motions at the two women. “Now tell me… is this not every man’s fantasy? Two hot bitches bound and gagged, spread eagle, just waiting for a dick up their twat?”

“Why are we doing this?”

“Oh come on. How else are guys like you and me gonna get this shit? We’re the wretched. Girls won’t touch guys like us, and I don’t know about you, but I can’t afford a prostitute. Pussy is like a can of soup in a supermarket. You buy it, or you steal it. And I haven’t eaten in days. Now come on. Hold the blonde in a head lock and lick her face while I see how far I can drive this metal piping up her box.”

Something sinister has been growing in this man named Jake. Something ugly. There was a point when Stalker considered Jake an ally, something of a kindred spirit. But the worm has turned, and Jake is now a grotesque reflection of everything he is, and all that he fears becoming.

The moments flutter in the shadowy atmosphere. Grunting mixes with panicked breathing. “Let me give you that unwanted orgasm, sweetheart.” Muffled screams, severed flesh. This is a dirty deed. “I gotta tell ya…” mutters Jake. “I don’t think I’d be able to get off if they weren’t suffering. …As someone who is able to find something as grotesque and alien looking as a vulva attractive, I'm certainly capable of being aroused by things far more obscene… Now grab those nails.”

Jake nibbles on her ear, then moves his face over hers. The kiss is forced, and Jake fishes her tongue out of her mouth with own. Her eyes widen as he bites down and pulls away, spitting her tongue across the room. “YOU LOVE THAT SHIT, DON’T YOU?!” He drops a shoulder on her face, then reaches down her throat and pulls on her uvula until it snaps.

Jake grabs his worn out baseball bat and slams it down on the pubic bone of the brunette. He repeats the process until he hears the bone snap, and watches a spurt of blood shoot out of her crotch. “HA!” he cries.

“…Like gouging out the eyes of the young, before you skull-fuck them and leave them for dead.”

He feels a lazy fist hit his eye, and he laughs. “YOU FUCKING WHORE! (double standard double standard) I HATE EVERYTHING I DON’T LOVE. And I sure as shit don’t love you.”

Jake drags a dirty finger along a bloody thigh. Shoves that shit deep. Organs writhing, blood spilling. He looks at Stalker and laughs. “This is a lesson in trauma,” he says. “Are you dead on the inside yet? You will be soon enough.” Like animals fucking. Rape isn’t frowned upon in every culture. Is it? Horrible, disgusting. “It’s the hormones that drive us.” Fuck the cunt that gushes the blood of life. YOU HATE EVERYTHING. What is the distance between you and a monster? How much does life have to kick the shit out of you before you kick back? “I wanna FUCK YOU. I WANNA TASTE YOU!”

“Gotta rectify the past. …The less I say, the smarter I sound. …No shit…”

Look at your girlfriend with eyes of discontent. No, even worse. Loathing. She turned you into some weak and emotional sack of life. Why don’t you make a pathetic phone call and apologize for being honest for once?

“See, girls are attracted to confidence, and guys are just attracted to looks. You think I'm talking to you because you have a great personality?”

Blood splashes on his face, and he licks it up.

“…I live to offend. So, how low is your self-esteem tonight? You better have low standards. You have a boyfriend, eh? Does that mean that you’re sexually satisfied?”

What is the fantasy of every man? What does he not admit? How much does he want to demean the women that reject him?

“…So, what did you say your cup size is?” (This isn’t happening. This can’t be real.) “Have you considered implants? I can’t wait to hear you moan. I wanna give you a little taste of what I’m about right here, right now. I’m gonna be the first to do everything to you.”

Decay is the natural process of things. You wait long enough, and everything falls apart.

“God DAMMIT, yer wearing a lot of make-up. If I had the opportunity to kill off everyone on this shithole planet, I would take it without a second thought.”

“You can’t do this—”

“You’d be surprised at what I’m capable of. I aughta fix it so you bleed when you shit. We are the wretched. Cry for me. (I never had anyone.) Well how about this? HA!”

Women are like toilets. They collect the waste that drips from your limp dick.

“Fuck your lies. I hate. YOU CAN’T ESCAPE ME!”

Jake cracks open her skull with a baseball bat. He can’t help himself from eating the bits of brain scattered across the floor.

“YOU LOVE IT! Bend over. You are weak.”

And Stalker pisses and moans about some cunt he fucked for one season. Sure as shit’s fucking someone new. He watches the women being tortured, raped, killed… but he doesn’t stop it. Does he enjoy the balance that this act creates? Women who toy with emotions and fuck a new man every day? But why single out the females, when monsters like Jake are just as real? Truthfully, all humans are wretches. And he knows it.

“ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?!” cries Jake. His clothes are tattered and his whole body is splattered with blood. Stalker winces like a boy who has just been beaten by his father.

Why are you still reading this?

(The screams don’t sound human.) Stalker hears the voice of some asshole he never met. “…Gotta fuck that bitch ‘til she bleeds out. Like breaking a god-damned horse.” How did all get so twisted?

“Every time someone dies, I can’t help but laugh. God I love killing people. …Hey hot lady. How would you like to get raped and killed in some back alley somewhere? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA HEH HEH HEH HH. Ha!”

“You become the offensive, and nothing is offensive to you anymore. Fist fucking ass shit licking whore I’ll kill and kill and kill and kill (and rape) but it never stops the world from spinning I hate everything I don’t love, but that’s all a lie anyway, right?!”

Jake gazes at the head on the floor. She looks so peaceful, he thinks. Nails have been hammered into her eye sockets. She has the smile of a ghost on her lips.

Jake licks the blood off his fingers. “I want to rape and kill every fucking woman on this piece of shit planet. And then I want to die.”

This is every man’s fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is your fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is every man’s fantasy. This is YOUR fantasy.

Stalker retreats to a back room, quickly clasping his hand over his mouth. His torso is wrenched upward as vomit spills out his mouth. His disgust is infinite, as is his guilt. He falls to the floor as he listens to the fading laughter of the man he knows as Jake Alberts. Stalker begins to cry.

“He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.”
—Samuel Johnson

Bar Scene

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:42:00 +0000

"Do you ever get the feeling that you're playing chicken with God?"

Jake throws back a shot of whiskey, and then tucks his chin into his chest. "Every fucking day." He rises from his stool, and pats Stalker on the shoulder as he wanders to the back of the bar.

Stalker stares at his drink, trying to drown out the deafening music that fills the divey watering hole he’s found himself in. A nearby conversation catches his wandering attention.

“…I guess I’m just looking for a nice, caring guy who is respectful of me… Someone that’s not fake… and is real with me about everything.”

“…Well, it’s nice to have dreams,” says the Man with Sunglasses. “So tell me… who’s fucking you nightly? And more importantly… does your boyfriend know about it?”

Stalker looks at the female to his left, and sees a smirk on her face. “Creep,” she says.

“The only difference between being creepy and being romantic is your success rate,” responds the Main with Sunglasses. He catches Stalker’s eyes. “Am I right, buddy?”

Stalker looks down. The song ends, and a new song kicks in on the jukebox. The female starts screaming, something to the effect of how the tune was her theme song at some point in her short life, and she runs to what could be loosely called a “dance floor” with her other female friends. Stalker vaguely recalls the melody from a car commercial, but the significance of it is lost on him. The Man with Sunglasses orders another drink, and leans on his elbow as he stares at the dancing women.

The Man nods at Stalker. "It's called a 'neg.' It's a light insult designed to defy a woman's expectations and amuse her a little. You see, the most beautiful women in the world are immune to the standard compliment. Calling them pretty is only gonna make you look pathetic."

Stalker nods. “I’ve heard of it.”

The Man with Sunglasses measures Stalker. “You’re a shy kid, aren’t ya? You remind me of myself ten years ago. Just a nice young kid, looking for love… but love betrayed me. And now, love and I aren’t the best of friends. Nope.” He shakes his head. “It’s all about pussy now. Physical love. That’s all that’s real. And it’s not easy to get.”

Stalker squints his eyes at the Man with Sunglasses as he continues his thought. “All women have to do to get laid is ‘present.’ Nice hair, a shit-load of makeup, implants, and a sliming eating disorder. Turns a goblin into a fuckable piece of she-meat. And that’s looks. They can afford to be shy, and they can still get a dick in ‘em nightly. The phrase ‘love shyness’ means absolutely nothing to these cunts.” The Man looks at a nearby female. “Hey, sweetie. You ever hear of ‘love shyness’?”

She stares at him blankly through artificially enhanced eyelashes. “Why are you wearing sunglasses?”

The Man smirks. “It makes you look better. I can barely see your acne right now.”

“You’re a jerk, huh?”

“I can afford to tell you the truth, because I have no intention of fucking you later. I only bang pretty girls.”

The girl walks off. “You see that? She didn’t have a clue.” The Man with Sunglasses throws back a heavy sip of his dark beer. “I treat women like children because they are. Women are idiots," he continues. "They hit their physical and mental peak at, what? Twenty?" The Man surveys the bar. "They have no idea what they want. The think they want someone who looks good, or some asshole with a lot of money... but that's not really true. The man who's going to be fucking them by night's end is the man with 'game.' Game," he reiterates, "The ability to sell yourself. The ability to leverage your confidence, and make them respect you for it. Money can inspire confidence, but it's the confidence itself that they're attracted to..."

The Man with Sunglasses shakes his head. “Women don’t know the lengths that men go to acquire them. They play defense. They're unaware of game, of playful negs... two steps forward, one step back... opening women, closing women... the entire art of seduction that men destroy themselves trying to learn if they aren't masters already.”

“So much for the nice guy.”

“The nice guy? Let me tell you something about the nice guy: The nice guy is a loser. The nice guy will never get anything. He will fail, just like he has in the past. He will fail again and again, until his niceness is a rotten core, until nothing is left of his heart but a gray lump in his chest. Girls sympathize with the nice guy. They love the nice guy. But they never reward the nice guy. They give him sighs of sympathy, they open up to him and give him just a tiny taste of what love can be but never is. They deny him. They keep him on as a friend and, in doing so, will torture him within inches of his sanity. The nice guy will be nice to them and get nothing in return. He’ll worship them, while those girls go off and fuck their asshole of a boyfriend. The nice guy will rot and decay, he will fall and no one will care. The nice guy rolls into the gutter and is pissed on. Too emotional to be a man, too romantic and chivalrous to be appreciated. The nice guy is a failure in every respect. He will be fucked over repeatedly, until his existence is a memory that girls think of with fondness but never with yearning. The nice guy is the definition of vain; his efforts are futile and wasted. It takes all his energy, and it drains him of everything he holds sacred. The nice guy will lose…” The Man with Sunglasses trails off. "How old do you think that one is?"

Stalker tosses a wayward glance to the other side of the room. "Fourteen?"

"Fake ID? You think I should introduce myself?" The Man smiles. "Look at her. She looks like someone's daughter." He chuckles softly. "Maybe I should impregnate her. Ruin her life a little bit. Just imagine the tearful conversation she would have with her parents. ...Relating some sad tale of a man who promised her everything, but delivered more than she could handle." The Man snatches up his drink. "I think I will."

Stalker finishes his drink as a girl approaches the bar for a refill. He watches her, in her tight pink shirt and short brown hair. She’s beautiful. Beautiful in such way that Stalker imagines lying down beside her in a field of tall grass. He imagines romantic things culled from fiction. Offering her a flower, telling her how much he appreciates his time with her. (Choking her to death when she doesn’t reciprocate his affection.)

But where does it begin? What mix of words brings two people together? Is it a sales pitch? Does he need to be clever and cunning, like the Man with Sunglasses? Where does he draw the line between funny and offensive? How does he make himself attractive to someone who has every reason to distrust men?

“You look at anyone long enough, and close enough, and you’ll see their flaws.” Yes. This thought puts Stalker at ease. Look at the mole on her neck, or her crooked teeth. Think of the diseases that swarm in her groin. He can’t have that.

Thoughts clash in Stalker’s mind. He wants her, he hates her, he needs her, he can’t have her. ...Some people just aren't meant to reproduce. He might be one of them. The inner tension grips him, and he sits there, incapable of any action but drinking his poison and pretending not to care.

"You don't have enough love in your life. It's twisted you.”

"I don't need love. Love is just a means to an end."

"What end?"

"Happiness."

"And you don't need that?"

"There's a big difference between what a man needs and what a man wants."

“You’ll be fine. Someday, you’ll meet a great girl who will love you very much.”

“What gives you the foresight to say that, you FUCK? So you consider yourself an optimist, huh? Forcing your thoughts against the natural current, and assuming everything will turn out for the best? Every fucking glass you see is half full. But where’s your optimism for the mother of three dying of a malignant tumor in her brain? Where’s your optimism for the twenty-year-old man slicing his wrists over a recent break-up? Where’s your glowing optimism for the teenage Brazilian getting raped by her father? Or how about the artist who just lost his eyesight to a crowbar to the back of his skull? Nope, everything’s gonna be ALRIGHT! EVERYTHING’S GONNA BE FUCKING FINE, RIGHT? WE’RE ALL GONNA DANCE THROUGH FIELDS NAKED AND LOVE EACH OTHER! EVERYONE GETS A TICKET TO HEAVEN!”

Spit flies from Stalker’s teeth, but he opens his eyes and let’s go of the fictitious conversation.

His thoughts are interrupted by Jake’s return from the back of the bar. He immediate grabs the girl’s ass and moves her aside. “Move over, pumpkin tits.” The girl is visible offended as Jake sits next to Stalker.

“Pervert.”

Jake looks over his shoulder. “That’s funny, coming from a whore like you. What? Did I offend you? You wanna fight me?”

“Maybe I should.”

Jake laughs. “It’s physically impossible for you to hurt me. I’m inhuman!”

The girl walks off and Jake returns his attention to the bar. He shoves aside a beer and asks for a shot of Wild Turkey. “Fuck beer,” he says. “Drinking is the means to an end, and that end is blacked-out drunkenness. I’m a man who drinks with a purpose. It’s not fun, and it sure as hell doesn’t taste good. It’s just me trying to lose accountability for my actions.”

“Sounds reasonable,” says Stalker. “I was about to say something stupid to that girl before you showed up,” he lies.

Jake burps. “What were you planning on saying?”

“Not sure. Apparently, I’m supposed to insult women… but playfully.”

“Oh yeah. Some asshole wrote a book about that once… Could you imagine that? Negotiating for sex. And THAT is the accepted means of picking up women. You want pussy? I can show you how to get pussy, kid. No need for social skills and all that BULLSHIT. …And I’m not talking about whores either.”

Somewhere above the noise, a voice, a man’s voice shouts. “WHO’S THE ASSHOLE?”

Jake takes his shot, and through gritted teeth says, “He’s probably talking about me.” He shakes his head. “This world always finds new ways to piss me off.”

A large man with a buzz cut makes his way over to Jake, as the girl in pink points him out. “Are you the asshole who grabbed Christine?”

Jake keeps his back to the man. “I touched someone’s ass, that’s for sure. I thought it was a little boy, judging by the haircut.”

“I’m gonna kick your ass, you homo piece of shit!”

Jake gets up from his stool and turns around. “Look, we can threaten each other all day, but none of it really matters. In the end, it all comes down to is who’s got the bigger dick.”

The man dwarfs Jake, standing just shy of seven feet tall to Jake’s five foot seven. “Keep talking, little man.”

“I like to masturbate to violent music and fantasize about raping women. Violent and bloody, just like I like it.”

“You stupid fuck. You don’t know the kind of pain you’re in for.”

“You’re bigger than me, sure. You probably go to the gym almost every day. I’ll even bet that you have sex with girls like Christine, who you don’t buy with tens and twenties, but with jewelry and dinners. Maybe you’re a better person, and a better fighter than me. Maybe. But there are three things that make me a threat to you: I’m ridiculously drunk. I fight dirty. …And you have way more to lose than I do." Jake winks at Christine. “I’d love to stick my finger up yer girl’s ass—”

The man takes a swing at Jake, who instantly steps to the side. Jake takes a beer glass and smashes it into the man’s forehead, then gives him an elbow to the back of the skull. Jake hooks his fingers into the man’s mouth and yanks his head to one side. He then bites into the man’s left year, and chews off his earlobe. The crowd rushes in to pull Jake off. All the while, Christine is screaming “OH MY GOD!” Stalker escapes in the confusion.

Moments later, Jake is stumbling out of the shadows in the adjacent alley, muttering something too offensive to repeat. He catches sight of Stalker and joins him.

“That girl was cute, huh? Christine I’m talking about here.”

“Are you okay? You look like shit.”

“I always look like shit. Shit’s the way to look. It scares people and makes it easier to get ready in the morning.” Jake looks back. “But no, I’m fine. I’ve taken worse than that. We better get out of here before the cops arrive.” The duo walk off. “C’mon. Let me show you how the everyman gets pussy. I’m not a rich man, and I sure as shit amn’t a salesman… but I got my ways of getting women.” His smile hints at something sinister.

Stalker feels a chill in the air.

“They call it a ‘watering hole.’ That is a lie. Water brings life. Liquor brings false confidence and dull wits and broken lives and slow death.”
—Frank Miller

Murderer

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:40:00 +0000

Stalker stands in the bathroom of his motel room. He tears off his shirt and wipes the sweat from his brow. He leans forward on the sink, staring at his wretched face in the mirror. “It’s done…” he repeats to himself. “It’s done.”

Voices, images flicker through his racing mind. He hears a man speaking, a man whose voice cracks at intervals and changes into his own voice, then back again. “The task has fallen to you.” It says. “You are the one who must destroy this world. You have to show these people that’s it’s not okay to be alive. Love does not conquer anything, and causes more problems than it solves. Humanity is a plague, some abomination that has no solid reason to exist. Humans are worthless, and their collective lives amount to nothing. You must show these people that truth. You must offend them. You must ridicule them, and mock everything that they stand for. You must take away every excuse they have for delaying death. You must rip their world apart. Destroy all concept of acceptability. Destroy everything. Rip their whole fucking world, and their understanding of it, apart. Tear down everything that has gone before, and scorch this dead earth to prevent anything from coming after.”

Stalker quivers with an inner angst. “You know what must be done.” He closes his eyes and imagines a computer screen in an empty dorm room. A lonely instant message waits to be read. “You looked nice today,” it says. A nice, creepy message waiting for some female about to become very paranoid.

Stalker turns his head, and thinks of some sappy love song that could easily be interpreted as something sinister. After all, unreciprocated affection is condemned. Flirting is sexual harassment to a woman who doesn’t want to hear it. A man who courts an unresponsive woman can be called a stalker. He recalls the first time he watched young Jennifer, wondering if he had any intention of confronting her, and make some dramatic plea for her love.

“Sometimes I remember it one way…” he recalls someone say. Memory is a tricky thing. What makes memories any different from fantasies? Or dreams, for that matter?

“How I long to escape,” he mutters.

“From life?”

“From my memories.”

“You have become very adept at talking to yourself, haven’t you son?”

Stalker imagines shards of glass covering the bathroom floor. He imagines confronting a girl he once loved. He imagines standing in the rain, shouting “You can’t get rid of me that easily.” Where do you draw the line between a romantic and a creep?

“Do you remember me? No? All those fucking promises you made… All those hopeful words, all those fucking lies!”

Stalker winces at the memory. He remembers the preparation. Dressing himself in dark clothes. Looking in the mirror on that horrible night, trying to rationalize it all. “I am a twisted and deformed state of humanity,” he said to himself. “I can no longer exist as I once did. I am foul. I am stained. Nothing can bring me back.”

Stalker imagines Jennifer talking with her friend about her day. They have their dialogue in her cozy, overtly feminine room. Jennifer talks about her new boyfriend in an idealized sense (it is a new relationship after all), and goes on to discuss the workload that her classes have thrust upon her. Stalker does not pretend to know how two females would speak to one another, and imagining a feminine mind, and how a conversation would flow from one, is beyond him. But he visualizes it, like some introductory scene from a horror movie, where two college females rope in the audience with witty banter, and lull them into a state of complacency. He’s sure that they share laughs, maybe some discussion of homework, maybe a recall of previous shared experiences, and maybe even a hint of remorse at past transgressions that didn’t quite pan out they way they expected. Who knows?

Jennifer leaves the room, pouring over the encounter, the conversation, in her mind, chuckling to herself about the lighter moments, and considering whatever advice she received. Maybe she even considers herself lucky for who she is, and where her love life, if that’s an appropriate term for it, has taken her. But just when she and the audience are caught up in her thoughts, the tone changes, and a heavily scarred man, who has the look and stink of death and desperate obsession on him, grasps her face and presses her against the wall of the building. Jennifer inadvertently took a different route back to her room and found herself confronted by this sorry excuse for a man, this thing that lives in memories, and lives to hate the mockery that his memories are to him. The man is ugly, in such a way that he was once handsome, but scarring and an absence of grooming have turned him into a disheveled mess. Jennifer is the contrast, a beauty with flawless skin. Her beauty contrasts with his faded glory, and the more beautiful she is, the more ugly his mind becomes. This man, this stalker, this abomination is her killer.

“My thoughts always rush back to you. I can’t let go,” he tells her. Stalker takes her from her soft life, and he drags her down into his sorry pit of depression and constant loathing. Stalker hates all things, but hates himself the most. But in this girl, in this beauty, he has found a scapegoat. He has a target to surpass all others. Every point of obsession, every previous target, every other female that preceded this one was never obtained. Loved but never secured. This one, this beauty, this college girl, this FUCKING CUNT, was the only one to reciprocate his love.

She loved him first. And she stopped loving him first. Oh, sure there was that other one, right? But that reached a meaningful and satisfactory conclusion. This one, this last one, this was the one that left him alone. This was the one that returned him to that dark place, that place that he always returned to, no matter how beautiful life seemed, this place, this misery was always waiting for him. Stalker lives in shadows. He knows them well. He constantly walks the corridors of imagined pain, the pain that comes from extended introversion, the pain that is entirely self-inflicted, and always inescapable. It’s the kind of pain that never heals. It’s a mental wound that opens wide with each new pleasant experience that inevitably goes horribly wrong. Life equals pain, for men such as these. And to him, pleasure is something to be feared. Because pleasure invariably begets pain. And so this man looks to his past, looks at the pleasure he once knew, and is mocked by it. He has nothing. He wants everything. But now, he can only think of her, the perfect symbol of every beautiful and disgusting part of living. She is at once the symbol of his perfect love, and of his sublime hatred. She is the key to everything that tortures him.

So the Stalker finds her. He captures her. He renders her unconscious with chemicals and an old T-shirt. Moments jump, and time is inconsistent. Seconds confuse themselves with minutes, and minutes with hours. Stalker is in the driver seat of his black SUV, glancing periodically at the unconscious female in the back seat. He drives slowly, and the rain that falls from the black sky justifies it. He remembers how he became accustomed to driving with one hand on the wheel, and the other holding hers. He remembers looking at Jennifer in the passenger seat, as she would softly caress his palm with her delicate fingers. Stalker shakes the memory as he looks at the campus before him. This is it, he thinks. The destination. This is where it all started.

Stalker considers it oddly appropriate that it’s raining, just as it had on the night of their first kiss. He parks in front of the dorm he once lived in, and pulls her limp body from the back seat. “Inevitable,” he thinks. “We will coexist in such a perfect way. I will make you so beautiful, listing through your perfect qualities. I am yours, you are mine. I’ll never let you go. We’re together forever. We’re in this together until nothingness. I love you so much, you perfect piece of ass. I will love you as no one ever could. I will envy no man. I will rule. I will dominate your life, and nothing will ever be as it was before me. I am your man, and that will never change. Nothing will take you from me, not distance, not loss of affection, not college life… nothing will tear us apart.” Change a few words, change the circumstances, and his thoughts could easily be considered romantic.

Stalker rests her down on the bare mattress of a lost dorm room in the attic of the old building. He calmly brushes her hair out of her face. “We could have been so perfect together… And we will be again… I can make it so we’ll never be apart again. I can fix it all. I have the tools for the job.” He takes a syringe out of his coat. “I have the means. I have the motive. Oh yes, I have everything I need to make her need me forever. I love you, Jennifer. I love you forever. I will be your end. I will make you perfect in every fucking way. More perfect then you ever thought possible… I am your man. Forever. And ever. Always.”

Jennifer’s eyes flutter, but never open. She moans softly, like a child fighting to stay asleep on a school morning. Tears form in Graham/Stalker’s eyes as he fills the syringe with air. He imagines himself as the agent of a higher power. He imagines himself as a hitman. A murderer. Is he doing this? Has he already done this?

Stalker inserts the needle into her neck, and hesitates. Jennifer’s eyes snap open, and suddenly, Stalker is reliving a bad memory in the bathroom of his motel. Did he kill her? When was the last time he spoke to her? Stalker imagines himself writing some pathetic love note, pouring out his useless emotions in some ill-conceived attempt at winning her back.

“No. It’s too late for her. They… he got to her.” Like it was all a movie plot… with some rich villain manipulating the protagonist, relieving him of his guilt. "You wish it could be that dramatic, don't you?”

“…And when I seek help, I find myself miserably alone. In these times of need, I realize who my true friends are… I really don’t have any. My life feels directionless and empty. I don’t really know who I am. I don’t know who I’d like to be. I wish someone could help me. I wish someone would listen to me. I wish I could find someone worth talking to. I wish I wasn’t so alone so frequently. I wish I had an external self to talk to.”

Something dark inside of him mutters in his ear: “I want to gut her vagina with a twelve-inch blade. I want her uterus to bleed out. I want to bathe in her blood and put a bullet through her skull. I want to destroy everything she believes in. I want her to hate living as much as I do.”

“I’m not a well-adjusted human being,” he says. “It’s all falling apart. I’ve lost everything that ever meant anything to me. I have nothing.” He looks up at the mirror, and his heart skips a beat when he sees a shadow in the corner of the room. For a brief moment, he imagines himself covered in her blood.

“You knew something like this would happen, son. You were about to start something that would only serve to chip away at you, and lead to your eventual destruction. You have to understand one very key concept: Relationships serve to lasting purpose. You must differentiate two basic concepts in your mind, those being what you want in life, and what you need in life. Never confuse the two, because that will only lead to suffering that’s near impossible to escape.”

“How often I contemplate death,” he responds. “I am a sorry soul, a sorry excuse for man. I hate everything that I once loved. I have no natural state of evolution. I am a prisoner of my own mind. I fear my life will be a sorry excuse for who I am, and that my creative energy will find no outlet, and that I will kill myself out of frustration and eternal despair. I am a prisoner of my thoughts. I wish I could let things go. I wish I wasn’t so fucking sensitive. But I am. And I have to live with that. For now.” He glances at the window behind him. “Does anybody identify with me? Is there anybody out there who can tell me that I deserve to live, for more than any stereotypical reason? I’ve loved in vain. That hurts to the core of me. I’ve done it so often, but this last one, it almost seemed like a worthy cause. Damn it. I wish I was more optimistic. Not too much more, but just enough so that I could make it through one day without considering death as a viable option for my future. Damn it, Jennifer. Why did you do this to me? I can’t blame you completely, but it sure is easy to. I have nowhere to go. I feel so lost. I feel so weak. Maybe I am.”

The memories splinter, and Stalker’s reading a love note that Jennifer once wrote. The words are sweet, but he only sees the mockery they’ve become. Her signature is a death threat, a promise of destruction from the inside out. Love. Only a memory now. A memory… a fantasy? If a person leaves your life, how is that any different than their death?

Hate. It burns inside of him like a hunger that he can never rid himself of. “I hate optimists.” He looks at the man in the mirror. “I hate everything you are. I hate everything I am, and everything I’m not. I hate everything that reminds me of what I once had. But more than anything else, I hate who I am. I hate everyone because all I see in others is a twisted reflection of what I hate about myself. I hate looking in the mirror. I look at your face, and I feel a swell of contempt. I spend all my time listening to your lies and half-assed excuses. Maybe I wouldn’t hate you so much if you weren’t so goddamned ugly. Although, I don’t think there’s a face nice enough to cover your shit-stain of a personality.

“I hate everyone because all I see in others is a twisted reflection of what I hate about myself. No one will ever know me. I hate all that I don’t love. I destroy everything I don’t protect. I’m a narcissist who can’t stand his reflection. I’m too sensitive by far, and inflict all the pain that I feel. I look at all the beautiful people, and I feel an anger boil inside of me. I hate them for being everything that I can't be. All those people who don't suffer from deformities of the body and mind that I deal with on a daily basis. I try to be romantic, but they call me a creep. I don't blame them; I look the part. I can’t look at her face without feeling a swell of contempt. I hate everything that she is. I hate everything she has made me become. I hate. Fuck it all you fuck. I hate everything you are. I hate. I hate it all. Fucker.”

He quells the sickening anger and angst. “I hate her,” he whispers. “I love her. I want to watch her die. I want to spend the rest of my life with her. I want to tear out her eyes with my teeth. I want to pet her gently and until she falls asleep. I want to bathe in her blood. I want her to feel the way I feel. I want vengeance. I want her to be happy. I want to let her go. I want her to be with me forever. I want her! I HATE HER. I LOVE HER SO MUCH. I WANT THIS TO END. I’M SO TIRED. So tired. So tired… so tired… so tired…”

Lose the memories. Let go.

Stalker slams his face into the mirror in front of him. The mirror turns into a spider web of broken glass, and the blood pours out of his forehead. He catches his splintered reflection, and for an instant, imagines that the blood forms a red X across his face. “I don’t even recognize my face in the mirror any more. I am a stranger to everyone,” he mutters in a daze. Memories escape him as he becomes light-headed. He collapses on the bathroom floor, cracking some of the white tiles.

Thoughts flicker and fade. “My mind bleeds,” he thinks. Darkness envelops him. Memories escape him. Stalker opens his mouth, “I still love you.”

“All of us are potential villains. In spite of ethics, morals, codes of conduct, and a general respect for laws, if we are pushed far enough, pressured beyond our breaking point, our self-preservation system takes over and we are capable of terrible villainy.”
—Ollie Johnston & Frank Thomas

The Love Lie

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:30:00 +0000

LOVE AS FICTION:
"...When analyzing love, we analyze a presumed aspect of the human psyche. I say human psyche, because animals do not seem to be bound by the emotion called love. Animals procreate and many care for their young. In addition, in as much as humans like to think themselves superior to animals, they are actually more inept, as they seem to have a capacity for self-annihilation. If we assume love exists for humans, then we see love as an emotion, not unlike happiness or anger. However, if we break down the emotion further, we see that love exists only as an extreme happiness, which is actually a temporary high in the brain. This high is often immortalized in works of fiction, such as movies, television, magazines, Internet, and most obvious of all, music. With love at the central core of fiction, we find that fiction takes a fleeting emotion, and builds it into something that it actually is not. Romance is derived from this point. When fiction/art imitates life, the tendency is for life to imitate art. In this sense, fictitious depictions of love serve as a propaganda system to naturalize romantic relationships. This serves to initiate relationships, which create more humans, born into cooperatives called families. However, what this creates is an entire species acting on love (the mental orgasm), which is ultimately a flimsy pretext. Regardless, if enough people believe they should think something, they will follow suit, regardless of reason. We see, therefore, that the emotion we call love is actually a fictitious concept, whereby art has exaggerated the mild buzz that precedes sexual activity..."

HUMAN NATURE AND IMPULSES THEREIN:
"...Humans are animals with the inherent need to procreate. After all, the only mark of a successful organism is its reproductive efficiency. We see humans courting others for the purpose of reproduction, which is cleverly made attractive by way of the orgasm. Therefore, when confronted by another human being of relative attractiveness, we feel compelled to open negotiations where at least one of us can use the other to achieve orgasm..."

FIRST RESPONSE TO COUPLING:
"...As humans pair themselves off for procreation, they rarely have this goal in mind. Perhaps companionship (humans despise isolation), or especially sexual appetites compel humans to initiate their relationships..."

GOALS AND INEVITABLE RELATIONSHIP TERMINATION:
"...However, what does a relationship achieve aside from possible sexual outcomes? Why initiate the relationship? Here we find the convenient use of love. Thinking that they are supposed the feel obsessed with one another, humans go with that impulse and call it ‘love.’ However, when initiating a relationship, few look to the inevitably tragic outcome that will result. Love is not actual, but a fictitious exaggeration of a temporary high. If this is the basis for a relationship, the relationship can only be temporary. If, however, the lie of love is continued indefinitely, then marriage, a legalized union for procreation purposes, is the outcome. Thusly, the propaganda supplied by the entertainment industry has created a family unit, which proves invaluable to consumer society. Of course, the spouse will invariably die off, and the widow(er) will be left alone, losing their fictitious connection, and be faced with the lie that love actually is..."

CONCEPT OF OWNERSHIP:
"...As music teaches us, relationships can take on the form of ownership, whereby a man achieves a woman as if she is game and he is a hunter. Capitalist courting techniques encourage gift giving as proof of successful providership. In addition, the concept of love being the willingness to do anything for someone perpetuates this idea of owning another individual and calling it ‘love.’"

DEFINITION OF A RELATIONSHIP:
"...However, what are the actual characteristics of a relationship? If we define it as two people who share commonalities, then what would be the difference between a relationship and friends? Thus, we turn to sex as the only quality that can hold two people together..."

IF NOT LOVE, THEN SEX:
"...As love does not exist in reality, we look to sex to explain why relationships exist..."

SEX AS A BODILY FUNCTION:
"...The act of sex is the process by which an orgasm is achieved. In this sense, sex acts are the results of bodily urges, which are relieved, and fluids transferred. This description frames sex as nothing more that a bodily function, akin to urination or bowel movements. Once the orgasm is achieved, the relationship has no more value.
Continuance of a sex-based relationship can be compared to carrying a bedpan or toilet for the purposes of relief..."

LIFE BETTER WITHOUT:
"...Without love, or at least believing in love, humans can evaluate their relationships practically. What bonds are actually shared?"

LOVELESS LIFE PERSPECTIVE:
"...Without the guilt that ‘love’ gives us, we see relationships as nothing more than temporary encounters which end as quickly as they form. Family is reduced to those who share genetic material, while friends are merely those who find their lives slightly easier to bear with your company. The lie of love has a way of blinding even the sharpest of minds. When the illusion has been stripped away, we can see the true world clearly, with all of its flaws, its foibles… and its secrets.

"Without love, all human relationships begin to fall apart."

“What about love? Overrated. Biochemically no different than eating large quantities of chocolate.”
—John Milton

Breaking

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:26:00 +0000

Graham stands in front of the dormitory, watching the college students walk by. The sunlight is fading, along with the summer warmth. Graham keeps his head low, in his instinctively shy demeanor. But eyes catch sight of something remarkable. A girl in a white dress, softly billowing in the warm breeze. Her eyes star back at him, with a look of quiet elation. Graham smiles as she runs toward him. The couple embraces, and Graham lifts Jennifer into the air. She giggles, and he lowers her back to the ground as they kiss. “I missed you,” she whispers.

Graham looks into her eyes. “I’m sorry it’s been so long,” he starts. “But we have all weekend together.”

Graham catches a look of apprehension in Jennifer’s eyes. “Of course,” she responds.

The couple kiss once more, but something is lost. Graham notices her reservation, and when she pulls away too soon, he feels a foreboding wave wash over him.

“Come on. Let’s go inside.”

Graham looks at the darkening sky and feels an autumn chill in the air.

“…I figured it out now... Breaking’s what the heart is for.”
—The All-American Rejects

I’m Watching You

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:23:00 +0000

"I'm watching you. I'm looking at you right now as you're reading this. I can see you staring at your computer, slouching in your chair.

"You ever get that feeling that someone's looking at you? I get it all the time. That's why I started looking for you. I could feel you watching my every move. I got the sense that you were watching when I picked myself up off that bathroom floor. And when I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I knew that my reflection wasn't the only one looking back at me. You were too.

"But I ignored you. I went about my business. But it didn't take long before I revealed too much about myself, and I inadvertently let you in on details that should only have been mine alone to know. I said and thought things I shouldn't have, and you heard it all. When I realized this, I decided I needed to find out more about my watcher... about my stalker.

"You weren't too hard to find either. Even now, as you read my thoughts, your computer is tracking your information and giving away your location. I peeled back the layers of code, the kind you find on any web page, and pinpointed your computer. More importantly, I found you.

"I traced the IP address back to your home address, and it wasn't hard to find you from there. I used simple deduction to differential you from your family, and find out your complete name, and with that, I was able to access every online trace of your existence. I know your nickname. I know your favorite musicians. I know all your hobbies. With that, I was able to extrapolate your personality. But that's all frivolous, isn't it?

"With a small fee, and a few hacks, I was able to gain access your to your birthday and social security number. Now I know everything. Your medical history (which is incredibly interesting to me), along with how much money you have to your name. There's really nothing I don't have access to. But that's not what I really care about.

"I don't care about all those numbers, and what you are on paper. I like watching you. I like following you. I like knowing your routine, and seeing how you interact with other people. It amuses me. I get a thrill every time you take an unexpected turn, and almost catch sight of me following you. Sometimes, I walk in front of you, just because I know I can. You never pay attention to me, and I love you and hate you for that. But right now, I enjoy telling you all this because I know that there's nothing you can do but fear me. I'm sure you wondering right now if this is all a ruse, if I'm just making this all up just to scare you. Maybe I am. Are you reading a fictional story right now? Am I stalking you, or are you stalking me? Which one of us knows more about the other? Even if I'm looking at the back of your head, you're looking right into my head. So which one is the bigger violation?

"I'll see you around."

“Every breath you take, every move you make... Every bond you break, every step you take... I'll be watching you.”
—Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner

The Last Dance

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:21:00 +0000

Graham leads Jennifer out to the patio. It’s a warm summer night, and the music from the dance echoes across the campus lake. Graham wears an ill-fitting black suit with a silvery-blue tie. A light stubble accents his jaw line, and his black hair falls into his green eyes. He smirks as he looks at Jennifer, who is wearing a red dress that hugs her slender body. Her long brown hair cascades down her exposed shoulders, and Graham can’t help himself from running his fingers through it. But of all the elements that make Jennifer beautiful, it’s the eyes that capture Graham. He looks in her eyes and sees his love for her reflected back at himself.

Graham pulls himself away, and kisses her hand with a soft kiss. “I wish today was yesterday…” he says, then looks up at her. “…So I could spend one more day with you.” Jennifer is taken with the comment, but there’s a hint of sadness on her face. Graham continues to hold her hand as he begins to kneel. “Jennifer…” he begins. Jennifer’s face lights up, as she covers her mouth with her other hand. “My knee is killing me.” Graham pauses, then smirks and stands back up. “Nah, it’s fine.”

“You jerk!” Jennifer shouts at him. Graham laughs, and Jennifer can’t help but join in.

Graham hugs her and pets the back of her head. “Gotcha.”

“You really are a brat.”

“You love it.”

Jennifer pulls back and looks at Graham. “I love you.”

Graham savors the moment before responding. “Me too.” He reaches up to tuck her hair behind her left ear. “It’s not going to be easy, you going back to school in New York, me staying here. That’s about five hours away, each direction.”

Jennifer furrows her brow. “Can we make it work?”

“Absolutely. I can visit you on the weekends, and we’ll talk every night.”

“You don’t have to visit me every weekend.”

“Every weekend I can.”

Jennifer begins to choke up. “I miss you every time we’re apart, Graham. I’d hold hands with you forever as long as you never let go.”

“I won’t.”

The music from the dance changes to a slow song, the last of the evening. The melodic tune reverberates through the night air. Graham kisses Jennifer’s forehead and holds her tight. Their bodies sway to the music. “We’ll be alright, Jennifer. I love you to much to let you go.”

Graham looks into her eyes, which are now quivering beneath a well of tears. They kiss, and Graham feels his eyes begin to water. “We’ll be alright.”

“There was a woman… There was a man… Call them lovers. For the moment.”
—Neil Gaiman

Robot Boy

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:18:00 +0000

Imagine, if you will, a world not unlike our own. Imagine a world of trinkets and toys, of circuits and gears. Imagine a world populated solely by robots.

About two stars away from the one you call your sun, there is such a world, orbiting a small orange star. This planet is a bustling metropolis, with millions of robots in all shapes and sizes, rushing to and fro, going about their daily business at inhuman speed. Trains rush to all corners of this globe, whisking their occupants from one tower to the next. For a city that covers a planet, it is a busy place indeed. This is Robot World.

But on any give day, if one of these machines were to gaze skyward, and look beyond the shining city lights, they would see a dozen and one moons spinning in the sky. One moon, called Supellex, is a mining facility. Another, called Flamma, is a factory. Sero is a garden moon; Fervens is a steel mill, and so on and so on. But on the smallest of Robot World’s moons, nearly forgotten and orbiting at a distance so far as to make it barely perceptible, is Perdo.

It was a long time ago that the tiny moon of Perdo was where all of Robot World’s garbage was left. But times had changed, and no more waste was made. Soon, the need for a landfill was no more, and Perdo was left alone. But don’t write it off just yet. There was a small boy, a Robot Boy, who agreed to stay behind on this small satellite, and find what materials he could to recycle. But the years had passed, and his task wore on with little progress. For in this cold world, Robot Boy had begun to rust, and he moved a slower pace. Fortunately, his toils were not of pressing importance to the other robots, so they bothered him little, if ever. And so Robot Boy was slowly forgotten, and he tried not to care.

Being alone, on this tiny moon, Robot Boy tinkered with the metal objects he found. He created small gadgets and devices, some which worked, some that didn’t. But it mattered not. There was no one to impress, and no one to disappoint but himself. He even created a small ship, that he thought could carry him back to the main world, but he had no power supply to fuel it. The only power supply he knew was glowing inside of his tiny chest, and he needed that to survive.

And so, when Robot Boy felt alone, he found his eyes drifting skyward, looking at Robot World with all of its bright lights, wondering what it would be like to go there someday. Wondering if there were other robots quite like him.

On a day like any other, Robot Boy searched through the scraps of metal for something to complete his latest device. And as his tiny metal fingers reached for a scrap, the ground began to shake, and Robot Boy became frightened. His eyes darted around, and he looked skyward at a small metal craft descending on a nearby clearing. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had a visitor, so he hid behind a pile of debris, shyly observing the craft touch down merely a stone’s throw away.

The ship came to rest on its four legs, as the main rocket cooled and cut out. Robot Boy couldn’t help but be impressed about its design. Nothing he had constructed came close. He watched as the door swung open, and in the bright glow of the cockpit lights, he saw a small, delicate robot emerge from the cabin. Robot Boy had never seen anything like this robot. While he was crude and clunky, this girl, this Robot Girl was a thing of aesthetic wonderment. She was not covered in metal, but of some smooth, white plastic. She had no seems or bolts. Just hinges. And as Robot Boy watched his visitor exit her ship, he saw a blue glow surround her. Surely, this was the most beautiful thing that Robot Boy had ever seen.

As Robot Girl surveyed the landscape of the tiny moon, Robot Boy quickly ducked his head out of sight. But his quick movement sent some metal tumbling to the ground, and Robot Girl was soon alerted to his presence. She slowly made her way over to the source of the sound, where Robot Boy slowly peeked up from the trash that surrounded him. Robot Girl looked at him questioningly, to which Robot Boy stuck out his tiny hand. Robot Girl looked at his little rusted fingers, then cautiously greeted him with a handshake.

Robot Girl led Robot Boy back to her ship, where she explained that the purpose of her visit was to see if this moon had any value as a future mining site. She explained that she worked for one of the major mining companies back on Robot World, and they already owned four of the other moons. Robot Boy had difficulty paying attention to Robot Girl, as he gazed with wonderment at all the fancy computer screens and arrays in the ship. Robot Girl caught his attention, and pointed out that if this moon was turned into a mining site, he could go to the Robot World. Robot Boy’s eyes went wide as he pondered the change in status quo.

Robot Boy continued to wonder about his future as he sat on a trash heap near Robot Girl’s ship. The ship had extended a drilling mechanism that bored it’s way into the moon’s surface. Robot Girl was checking her digital displays, as she tossed a wayward glance at Robot Boy in the distance. She slowly climbed the trash heap and sat next to him. Robot Boy explained that he had never been to Robot World before. He had been built on Flamma, the factory moon, and was sent to Perdo with a small team to manage the garbage. Little by little, the team grew smaller, until it was just he. Recycling had eliminated the need for a garbage dump, he explained. Robot Girl felt a twinge of sympathy for Robot Boy, who asked her of the Robot World. And so she talked of the bustling city streets, and the towering skyscrapers, and the bullet trains, along with robot museums and art galleries.

Robot Boy was impressed, especially with the art galleries. He told Robot Girl that he creates things himself. And so Robot Boy led her to see some of his trinkets and creations. Among them, Robot Boy showed her a small metal dog he had created. Not a living one, of course, but it had the look of one. He showed her a model of spaceship, and a small metal building. Robot Girl inquired as to how he knew what a building looked like, to which he produced a small, grainy hologram of Robot World’s capital city. Robot Boy explained that it was broken when it arrived, but he managed to fix it. Robot Boy stated that sometimes, robots throw things away when only a piece of them are broken. Robot Girl nodded in agreement, recalling that she had probably done likewise. But Robot Boy grabbed her hand and led her excitedly toward a tarp that covered an even bigger contraption. Robot Boy pulled off the cover to reveal a full-sized space ship, one only slightly smaller that Robot Girl’s. Robot Girl was aghast, as she inspected it. It was a clunky and rusted thing, but all the pieces were there. She asked if it could fly, to which Robot Boy said “no.” Without a power source, it couldn’t. Robot Girl began to speak, but stopped herself.

And so time passed on this tiny world, with Robot Girl conducting her studies, and Robot Boy collecting his things and dreaming of a life very different than the one he had grown used to. But in the latter half of the days, Robot Boy and Girl would talk of their lives, of what had come before, and of what they wanted to come after. And for the first time in his short life, Robot Boy found himself with a friend. He would enjoy the time he spent with Robot Girl, and from what he could gather, she enjoyed their time just as much. On one special day, Robot Boy constructed a flower out of tin, and gave it to Robot Girl as a gift. She said that she would cherish it. And on those nights, Robot Boy and Robot Girl would stare into the sky, not at Robot World, but at worlds beyond. And they would dream of better lives than either of them would ever know.

The drill withdrew from the moon’s surface, and Robot Girl examined her readings. When Robot Boy asked if the moon was going to be usable as a mining site, Robot Girl said that she wouldn’t know until the results were run back on the main world. Robot Boy nodded silently. Robot Girl packed her things, and boarded her ship, while Robot Boy assisted her. Once all her things were stowed and packed, she stopped and reached out a hand to Robot Boy. As Robot Boy shook it, he felt something small and warm slip into his hand. Robot Girl kissed him on the cheek, and boarded her ship. The last thing she said was “find me.” And so Robot Boy looked down at his hand as her ship blasted off. It was a power cell.

Day turned to night, and Robot Boy retreated to his den. He looked at the power cell, glowing with its blue energy. And he threw his gaze to the skies, looking at the other moons that spiraled toward the main Robot World like a series of stones in a silent summer pond. He looked at Robot World, and all of its tiny, city lights. And he wondered which one belonged to Robot Girl. In that moment, Robot Boy felt for the first time what it was like to miss someone.

Time passed, and Robot Boy began to slowly unpack, unsure that he would ever hear word from Robot Girl again. He gathered bits of tin, and reconstructed the flower that he had given her a lifetime ago. He twirled the metal flower in his tiny robot hands and looked at the stars. He then took out the hologram of Robot World’s capital city, and looked at it with longing. Robot Boy furrowed his metal brow, and marched over to his ship. He pulled the tarp off, and quickly located the dead power cell within it. Robot Boy raced back to his den and snatched up the new power cell, then flew back to his ship to insert it. The ship rattled and hummed with life. Tiny fluorescent bulbs blinked on, and the roar of the engine threw debris in all directions. Robot Boy jumped on board, and the ship sputtered into the sky. At the last second, all systems shut down. Robot Boy slammed his tiny fist on the dashboard, and the rocket flared to life once again. Robot Boy was thrust to the rear of the cockpit, as his ship blasted off toward Robot World.

Ships and hover cars whizzed through Robot World’s capital city. Robot dads and robot moms raced through the streets, rushing to work, rushing to lunch, rushing anywhere but wherever they currently were. One robot man looked to the sky as a clunky ship poured a plum of black smoke into the air. Cars and other ships swerved around this new arrival, as it dipped and bobbed toward the planet’s surface. Robot Boy swerved his tiny ship to avoid the vast array of traffic, his eyes wide with fear bordering on excitement. To avoid a massive cargo ship, Robot Boy jerked the wheel to the left, and careened into a side alley. The rocket slowly cut out as the craft landed on its four legs. Once it landed, one of the legs bent, and Robot Boy struggled to exit his tilted craft. Robot Boy exited the alley in wonderment, looking at the bustling metropolis before him. Never had he seen so many robots, and all their impressive machines. It was truly overwhelming.

Robot Boy held out his hand to stop a passer-by for directions, but one after another, robot men and women shoved him aside, muttering the occasional “excuse me,” and “watch where you’re going.” Robot Boy looked dejected, until his eyes rested upon an interface booth. He quickly tried to cross the street, and was spun around by the hover cars going this way and that. He sprinted to his destination, and then let out a sigh of relief as he got to the other side of the road. Unfortunately, a hover bike knocked him down just as he had arrived on the sidewalk.

Robot Boy pulled himself to his feet, and entered the interface booth. He looked inquisitively at the blank screen, then saw a few dangling wires below it. He twisted them back into place, and watched the screen light up. When it asked for money, Robot Boy tugged at the wires some more, and accessed the database. Robot Boy watched names and numbers flicker on the screen. He typed in “Robot Girl” and his heart sank as 5 million matches came up. Robot Boy exited the booth with his head hanging low. A massive mining truck beeped into its docking bay a few stories up, which caught Robot Boy’s attention. He circled around the building to see that it was the headquarters of one of the major mining companies on Robot World. Seconds later, Robot Boy entered the main lobby, and was awestruck by the massive paintings that lined the walls. Robot Boy made his way to the front desk, but the robot girl working the counter was too busy checking in robots in to notice him. Robot Boy became frustrated, so he walked past her toward the lifts. Suddenly, the receptionist was shouting at Robot Boy, and a very large, angry looking robot grabbed Robot Boy and threw him into the street.

Struggling to regain his senses, Robot Boy heard the voice of Robot Girl. He looked up in surprise to see Robot Girl exiting the building with a much larger robot man. They were discussing the moon of Perdo, and that mining it would cost more money than it would gain. Robot Boy called out to them, but they boarded a hover car and zipped off into the sky. Robot Boy began waving his arms frantically, which grabbed the attention of a passing taxi. Robot Boy jumped into the cab, and he zipped off after her. Robot Boy pursued the car as they landed at a restaurant high above the city. As Robot Boy exited the cab, the driver asked for money, to which Robot Boy explained that he’d procure some inside. Robot Boy approached the front of the restaurant, and was promptly turned away at the door. Robot Boy insisted, but as he was arguing with the staff, he saw Robot Girl laughing with the robot she was with. The wind went out of Robot Boy’s sails and he walked away. Robot Boy shuffled back into his cab and asked to be taken back to the street. As the cab dropped him back at the front of the mining headquarters, Robot Boy explained that he had no money. The cabby kicked Robot Boy to curb, shouting that he should have known that Robot Boy was a loser. Robot Boy sat silently on the curb as the sun set in the sky. There was no more hope in his tiny robot heart.

Suddenly, Robot Girl spoke his name, and Robot Boy looked up the girl he once knew. Robot Boy stood and embraced Robot Girl, who hugged him back. Robot Boy told her his story, including how he had seen her at the restaurant. Robot Girl explained that the robot man was her boss, and that they had decided not to mine Robot Boy’s home. Robot Girl took Robot Boy’s hand, and the pair walked off into the night.

Robot Girl entered her apartment, turning on all the appliances, which amazed Robot Boy. She had display screens and brightly colored decorations everywhere. Robot Girl spoke a mile a minute, telling Robot Boy about everything that had happened since she got back to the main world. She told him of the core tests, and the increased traffic, and all the new construction in the city. She told him of her friends, and all the adventures they had had in the past few nights. Robot Boy tried to keep up, but she was talking faster than he remembered she spoke, and she was rushing from one end of the room to the other, turning things on, and shutting things off. Eventually, she settled down, and asked about Robot Boy. Robot Boy thought for a few seconds, and finally said that he had just wanted to see her again. Robot Girl was calmed by his words, and the two robots went into sleep mode for the night.

Robot Boy slowly awoke, looking out the window at the moons hanging in the sky. A massive cargo ship flew through the air, blocking Robot Boy’s view of the sky. Robot Boy asked Robot Girl if she remembered looking at the stars, but Robot Girl dismissed the thought quickly as she began messaging her best friend. We can’t see the stars from Robot World, she explained. The city lights were too bright. Robot Boy sighed and looked around the room. It warmed his heart to see the flower he had given Robot Girl on the shelf. Robot Girl asked Robot Boy if he wanted to join her and her friend as they ran errands around the city. Robot Boy shyly nodded his head.

The day moved at break-neck speed, as Robot Boy was whisked from building to another with Robot Girl and her friend. At first, Robot Boy had been amazed at the city, but it soon hurt his senses, and overwhelmed him. Everything moved too quickly, and nothing was savored. There were no peaceful moments here, only the rush to get from one place to another. Robot Boy saw this in Robot Girl as well. She seemed to be operating at a faster speed, and Robot Boy came to realize that whomever he had met back on Perdo was not the robot he was currently with on Robot World. And so Robot Boy grew silent, and as Robot Girl asked where Robot Boy would like to go next, Robot Boy replied “home.”

Robot Girl dropped off her friend, and she and Robot Boy retired to her room. The sun sat low in the sky, but the city never stopped humming with movement. Robot Boy looked at the sky though the window, unable to see more than a few specs of light. Robot Girl said that it wasn’t the same as it was on Perdo. Robot Boy sighed as he agreed. He went on to say that he never expected life to move so quickly on Robot World. Robot Boy confessed that it was too much for him. Robot Girl nodded. Robot Boy said that he had missed Robot Girl after she had left, and that he would probably continue to miss her in the future. Robot Girl was silent. Robot Boy said that he was grateful for every moment that he had shared with her. And so he left.

Robot Boy found his ship and flew into the night sky. He noticed that the ride back to his home was faster, and he wondered why. Robot Boy eventually found the small, cold moon of Perdo, and landed his craft in a small clearing. As the ship touched down, the fourth leg bent even further than it had before, and broke off. The ship collapsed, and Robot Boy was tossed about in the cabin. Robot Boy lifted the latch to check on the power cell, and saw that the surface had been cracked. The blue glow that it gave off was quickly fading to nothing. Robot Boy watched it die completely, and then emerged from the ship. He looked around at the piles of garbage and debris, and felt a shiver run through him. This was home; it always had been. But for some reason, it felt colder than it ever had in the past. Robot Boy wandered back to his den, and found the tin flower he had made a short time ago. He then cast his eyes skyward, and looked at Robot World. And he wondered if there were any other robots quite like him. No, he thought. Not quite. He dropped the flower to the ground and walked off.

“And in these long, terrible moments, he knows that a place of torment does not have to be a lake of fire. …Nor must the damned always shriek and moan. Sometimes, they suffer in silence.”
—Dennis O’Neil

The Return of Jake Alberts

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:17:00 +0000

It’s a cold winter day in upstate New York, as Stalker sits alone on the bleachers overlooking a small baseball field. He’s hunched over, trying to keep himself warm, but there’s a certain level of numbness that has taken hold of his body, then his mind. He watches his breath, then speaks softly to himself: “How do you measure the value of a life?”

Stalker hears the sound of ice crunching beneath heavy feet. He looks to his right to see a thirty-year-old man light a cigarette while looking off into the distance. The man has the look of a poor-man’s Johnny Knoxville, with short, disheveled hair and a bruise on his left cheek. He gestures to a young woman on the other side of the park. “I bet it would be disturbing to see her naked. ...Like a five foot tall midget with muscles."

The man squints as he looks over at Stalker, then lets out a dirty laugh. “How the hell are you?”

Stalker searches his memory. “You’re that Jake character…”

“You got me. We met once before. You’re that morose motherfucker who lost his shit after a few drinks.” Jake walks over and sits down on the bleachers near Stalker. “How have you been?”

Stalker considers his answer, and then decides to forgo the typical lie. “I’m as close to death as I can be without having a terminal illness.”

“I know that game,” says Jake. “We all have our scars, don’t we? Some cut a little deeper than others.” He takes a drag from his cigarette, then fills the air with more words: “I was in the bookstore the other day, and I notice they have a ‘self-help’ section. They got books telling people how to get their lives together, you know. Of course, it got me wondering, ‘where the hell is the self-destruction section?’ That’s what I want to know. I just want to tear shit up… I just want to make a mess of myself. Just be a wreck.”

“Some people don’t get it,” Jake continues. “There’s not much in this world that actually matters. You find yourself with a problem too fucked up to fix, the best thing to do is make it worse. Make it so bad, that you come through the other side.” A college girl in the distance catches his eye. “Look at that one. I wonder if she takes it up the ass.” Stalker looks up. “I wonder if her boyfriend fucks her hard or soft… maybe he chokes her, slaps her around a little bit. Blows loads on random parts of her body.” Jake chuckles. “You think she’s ever taken a load to the face? These are the kind of questions that demand answers.”

Stalker is unsure of how to respond. Does this man disgust him, or is his attitude oddly refreshing?

“Or how’s about that one over there? Classy looking cunt. Just imagine her jerking you off under the table of some fancy restaurant; wearing some sultry dress with her make-up caked on like a thousand-dollar hooker. I bet she’s an expert in all types of dick-play.” Jake takes it further: “I wonder what kind of freaky shit she's done... the holes she's held open while some hairy guy pounded her like a railroad spike. What loads has she swallowed? Imagine her, sucking down some white-hot man glaze, balls twitching on her chin... Tugging on some chode of a cock, MILKING it.” Jake slams his boot down on the bleachers.

“How about that pair over there.” Jake points to a young couple, their features mostly hidden beneath winter jackets. “They probably fuck face-to-face. GOD DAMMIT.” Jake shakes his head. “I’ll tell you this, buddy. The longer you go without sex, the stranger your sexual appetites will become. Soon, you’ll want to cut off a girl’s head because it’s the least attractive part of her. You’ll see a girl in a short skirt with thick legs, and you’ll want to deep fry her thighs and eat ‘em.”

“What about love?”

“Jeeze, here I am trying to have a normal conversation, and you take it in a weird direction.” Jake lets out a plume of cigarette smoke. “But I’ll play. True love? There’s no such thing. Love is a lie,” Jake begins. “Every work of fiction, TV, movies, you get the idea… They all create this illusion and feed it to the masses. It’s like the media is shooting a load into our collective faces. It’s just a big lie. More people believe in love than in God. The concept of love has found its way into every fucking genre, every medium. Movies always include love interests. Songs… well, music’s only subject seems to be love, in one form or another.” He pauses and glances around. “Even ‘Octopus’s Garden’ was about a romantic get away.”

“So you’ve never had a broken heart?”

"No. But then again, I'm not a homo like you.” Jake flicks his cigarette. “I do know pain though. Too often have I been the reject… like that little rosebud of shit that doesn’t clump with the main log. I know. Walking alone in a crowd of strangers… all those fucking zombies whose lives don’t intersect as often as they cross. Bridges burn… relationships… they all rot and fade.

“…Lonely bastards like yerself look at happy couple, and think that you’ll have that one day, you got another thing comin’. That’s just setting yerself up for failure. If you compare yourself to other people, you will always be dissatisfied with your life. It happens every day: Poor people compare themselves to rich people. Average people compare themselves to beautiful people. Girlfriends are always buzzing in their boyfriends’ ears, ‘Other people don’t have it this way.’ Of course they don’t! If you look at other lives, you’re always gonna see a countless amount of better ones. You show me a perfect couple, and I’ll show you something that isn’t. There is no normal. Your life is your own life. There are better lives, and there are worse, but the determination of those two are subjective, I’m telling you.” He taps the end of his cigarette. “I’ll bet you think relationships are normal, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because…”

“Exactly. Because of comparisons. What makes you think it’s normal for two people to pair off in a relationship?”

“But… reproduction calls for it.”

“Yeah, reproduction calls for mating. But does it call for dating and couples counseling… monogamy… marriage? BULLSHIT! Reproduction is achieved through fucking. And you’ve got all these relationships using birth control methods and condoms to stave off reproduction until they know each other well enough to create a living unit. A family. Fuck that, man. I won’t do it. You want a companion? Get a dog.

“It's straight up bullshit. Sure, you got chumps out there reading those articles, and thinkin' "How can I be more like what women want?" FUCK 'EM! I don't want to give those bitches the satisfaction of changing me, GOD DAMMIT! I'm gonna be everything they don't want, so they, and all THEIR LIES will leave me alone. I'm gonna be unfunny, mean, dirty, poor, and ugly... and I'm gonna enjoy that shit!

“I'm gonna be ugly and dirty, like men aughta be. Who says I need to change my underwear weekly? FUCK IT! So I'm ugly. SO WHAT? Who isn't? Take a look in the FUCKING MIRROR!” Jake burps, and a small glob of vomit lands on his chest. He swallows, then pulls a flask from his jacket and takes a sip.

“Fucking assholes. I think about the average man, and it makes me sick. The kid who steals a kiss in elementary school. The boy who has a high school sweetheart he loses it to at the age of 17. He fucks a few girls in college, maybe does something that’ll be used against him if he ever goes into politics. He moves to a city, starts dating girls, sifting through the FILTH until he finds a girl he can bang more than a dozen times without wanting to kill himself. He’s married by 30, pops out a few kids, and starts banging young girls every time he goes on a business trip. Ten or twenty years later, the wife divorces him, takes the kids, and he marries a younger bitch who he loves half as much. He disconnects, then reconnects with his kids, but in the end, he dies with a shitload of regret. Now THAT’S the life I would never wish for. Clichéd as all hell. …Like watching a football game and drinking beer.” Jake takes another swig of his booze.

Stalker fidgets with his hands, and then casts his eyes to the horizon. The two men are silent for a full minute before Stalker speaks. “How do you measure the value of a life?” Jake turns his head slightly, as Stalker continues. “...The value of a life... measured by a simple equation... The amount of pleasure weighed against the amount of pain one has and will suffer from. If pain is greater, a life isn't worth living."

Jake joins the discussion. "Seems to me like a man who concludes that suicide is his best bet is a man who's not done thinking. 'Course, what the hell do I know? I'm drinking myself to death. Maybe we're all on a downward spiral. Shit…” He shakes his head. “Aside from massage parlors and Friendly’s ice cream… there are no happy endings for guys like you and me.” Jake flicks his cigarette into the air.

“I'd rather laugh as a fool than cry as one.”

Stalker is silent for a moment. “Happy endings… that’s not an easy thing to measure outside of fiction.”

Jake looks at the sky. “I dunno. Maybe we’re all fictional characters. …And when God runs out of material, that’ll be the end of the world.”

“What good is a long life to us if it is hard, joyless, and so full of suffering that we can only welcome death as a deliverer?”
—Sigmund Freud

Physical Love

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:15:00 +0000

He remembers it. Remembers the sensation. The feeling of comfort, of exhaustion. Of unity. It’s gone now. Existing only as a memory.

Graham looks into her loving eyes. No, he stares. Those eyes… speak a story of complete adoration. The feeling is mutual.

Graham brushes her hair out of her face as he moves his lips closer to hers. Their eyes close in unison and their lips press together. His breath is held, and slowly exhaled through his nose, softly enough that it is a mere tickle on her upper lip. Her lips are so soft. But she doesn’t part her lips, and the only assumption that Graham could draw is that she doesn’t reveal herself to many people; she has a very clearly defined sense of security. She doesn’t let many people in. But as they kiss, and Graham moves his lips so carefully and slowly across hers, they part ever so slightly. In a quick and almost subliminal motion, he flicks his tongue across the opening. He can feel her smirk, and it instantly makes him feel a little more confident. Kissing as passionately as they are, there is only one logical progression from this point, and that progression is instantly signaled as her delicate hands grasp the back of his T-shirt. She begins pulling the shirt upward, and so he lifts his arms upward to complete the removal. The kissing pauses as the shirt comes between them, but it resumes instantly after the garment is removed. He slowly caresses her waist, hooking his thumbs under her shirt, and pulling it up over her head. The kissing commences yet again, and his tongue quickly wets his lips before the return of hers.

Their hands gently massage each other’s skin, as if feeling for the first time. Her tiny fingers fumble for his belt, as Graham uses his left hand to find the bulkiest part of her bra strap. He grasps the fabric at the seam, and lifts it away from her back just enough so that by pinching it, he wouldn’t pinch her. He squeezes the fabric, and feels the hooks pop and give up their slack. Her hands give up their attempt at undoing his belt, and methodically remove the bra. As she does this, Graham uses his right hand to unclasp his belt in one quick motion, in addition to promptly unbuttoning the fly and pulling the zipper down three quarters of the way. Now understanding the complexity of removing another person’s belt, she instantly takes control of her own at the mere hinting that his figures are motioning for it. Graham pulls her jeans down just below her ass, anticipating correctly that she would pull them off completely. The act of removing pants during foreplay usually results in awkward kissing. Their lips remain pressed together, and they chuckle at any clumsy attempts at removing clothing.

The couple pauses for a moment, kissing each other, Graham in his jeans, Jennifer in her panties, with their hands slowly exploring each other’s bodies. In an attempt to appreciate her underwear, Graham slides his fingers across, and occasionally under, the lacy fabric. An obvious show of masculinity is the act of grasping her buttocks, but releasing them gently enough to exude a sense of reverence. He then teases her with his left hand, slowly tracing her stomach, moving further down her abdomen toward her crotch. He can sense a feeling of anticipation in her, as she inhales suddenly. She instantly grasps his belt, forcing his pants down. And Graham, being self-conscious and mildly ashamed at his preference for briefs, removes them along with his jeans in one quick tug, snatching a condom from his right hand pocket before the pants fall. He shakes the pants from his ankles as she pulls him toward herself, and toward the bed. Almost as impossible as it seems, the thought occurs to Graham that she is aroused. He doesn’t pretend to understand a feminine mind, but the thought of a horny woman seems more like a male fantasy than a reality.

Jennifer lies down on the bed, kissing with more aggression, and Graham meeting her at every turn. He props himself above her, feeling his triceps scream from exertion. He slides his left hand down to her underwear and pulls it away from her body. She quickly finishes the motion, bringing her knees up, and slipping the panties over her clean-shaven legs and off her feet. He can feel his erection dangling over her, keeping himself balanced in an almost impossible position, propped on his right forearm and right knee. He carefully caresses her body with his left hand, not being fully able to enjoy the sensation of her exposed breast with his eyes shut and his muscles begging for relief.

Graham moves his hand down across her stomach once again, and Jennifer, recognizing the movement, inhales deeply as the hand moves lower. He gently caresses her inner thigh, flicking his middle finger at her crotch, attempting to negotiate the best angle of penetration. His middle finger slides across her labia, moving up to the clit, gently pressing it and massaging it before sliding down toward her anus. As he slides his finger back up the lips, he presses firmly, and feels an opening. His finger is swallowed into the crevice, and he can instantly feel the warm juices that had obviously been building up for the past few minutes. The inside of her vagina feels exactly like the inside of someone’s cheek. It’s soft and squishy, like you’d imagine an internal organ would feel. With his palm facing up, he quickly and deliberately flicks his middle finger up and down. Almost instantly, the kissing stops, as she lets slip a soft moan, not something bombastic or flamboyant like a pornographic actress, but more subtle, like the first few jerks of a satisfying masturbation. With no mouth to kiss, Graham moves his kisses down her neck, occasionally nibbling and licking at her ears, especially the lobes. In order to relieve the burning sensation that’s running up his left forearm from the finger flicking, he removes his hand slightly, pressing his ring finger into her along with the middle finger, and using them together, giving her a greater sense of satisfaction.

The entire procedure effectively estimates her sense of pleasure and satisfaction, and reaction to it. Graham keeps his kisses focused around her neck, but occasionally indulges himself by kissing her nipples, nibbling them slightly and moving back upward. He presses his fingers into her deeply, more deeply than either of them thought possible. But with his fingertips buried inside of her, Graham keeps trying to go deeper, until finally, he finds a small rough patch at the top rear of her vaginal canal. He attempts to give this area the majority of his attention, and her increasingly emotive noises assure him that he’s correct in this intent. When her moans soften, he slowly withdraws his fingers. He withdraws them so slowly, that it almost feels like the vagina is saying farewell as its lips follow his fingers out before separating. Graham then shifts his weight to rest equally on both arms, kissing her mouth softly as he rips open the condom just above her head. He plucks the condom from its wrapper with his right hand, moving it around in his fingers to determine its proper orientation. Then, grasping it between his index and middle finger, brings it down over the head of his penis, and upon securing it, rolling the sides down rapidly to the base.

In order to bridge the continuity gap between his fingers and his penis, Graham once again presses his middle and ring fingers into her, and very, very quickly flicks them up and down to give her one last taste of the rapid finger movement. Then, and this is important, he slowly removes his fingers, not in one movement, but almost like a receding ocean, moving in slightly, and then backing out more. By the time his fingers are extracted, her vaginal interior is molded to a smaller shape, fully swollen and dripping wet. Graham then presses the head of his penis against the lips, struggling to find the proper angle. Jennifer reaches down and guides him in, lifting her legs up, and spreading them further apart. The first thrust is the most important. He presses himself into her very slowly, feeling her vagina expand and react, fully excepting the new girth and added length of this new object. He presses himself in until he can’t go in any further. And then he presses more. Her exhale tells him all that he needs to know, as he angles his hips upward suddenly, giving that final yard of effort, and guaranteeing her satisfaction. He slowly slides out and presses in with the same care and depth. On the third thrust, he swivels his hips around, as if to fully explore her inner depths. The pace quickens, enough so that Graham could derive pleasure from the experience. And with every thrust, moving faster and faster, plunging deeper and deeper, his mind begins to wander. This is detrimental, because while the female’s pleasure is central to foreplay, the male’s pleasure is central to concluding sex altogether.

Graham’s mind drifts off, thinking of big-breasted porn stars, and Jenna Jameson movies that had previously kept him comfort on lonely nights. Unfortunately, his focus is off, and instead of enjoying the female he’s currently violating, he’s too busy focusing on fiction. And the instant he realizes this, Graham blanks his mind, and lets the impending climax build within him. At this point, he has a fleeting moment of reflection, wondering if females can even have orgasms. In the smallest span of time, he recalls all those sitcoms and shows that mock men for their poor sexual performance, marked by their inability to bring a female to climax. And in the moment that he considers this, and considers if the woman beneath him would reach hers, Graham dismisses it. “It doesn’t matter,” he thinks. “All that matters now is mine.” And in the last few thrusts, he feels the cum build inside of him, fully recognizing that its arrival is inevitable. In this realization is an extreme feeling of relief, that he has fulfilled his end of the performance, and that finally this disgusting act that had slimed his hands, and perhaps even infected his groin with unknown diseases, is nearing its end. His arm muscles are numb with pain, just as the last few thrusts press into her deeply. The cum erupts in that old familiar way, and Graham lets out a satisfied grunt, exaggerated for her sake, as if to say “I’m done, so this would be a good time to have your orgasm, if you can.” He slows the thrusts to a halt as a slight shiver runs through his entire body. He’s pouring sweat, and it drips onto Jennifer below him. He even feels the slightest hint of a stomach cramp as he finishes.

Graham looks down into Jennifer’s eyes, and he’s not sure what he sees in them. Amusement? Not easy to figure out. He slowly pulls himself out of her, the condom sufficiently drenched in ooze. He carefully plucks it from his rapidly deteriorating erection, and pinches the open end in his right hand as he rolls onto his side next to her. She closes her legs, and rolls onto her side as well. Graham is still catching his breath as he mutters some question about her satisfaction. Her response is something to the effect of, “you’re very good at this.” And while his humility doesn’t allow him to accept that he has somehow acquired the ability to be great at sex, Graham lets her compliment wash over him with a sense of mild surprise and subtle amusement. Yet, all he can think about is how glad he is that it’s over, and how tired and disgusting he feels.

“…Need to contaminate to alleviate this loneliness...”
—Trent Reznor

I Hate

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:14:00 +0000

“I hate. That’s a sentence all by itself. It describes me perfectly. Now I know, you don’t care. My life has no significance, and the fact that I wasted my time telling you this shows a dripping amount of narcissism that I’ll never admit to. Because of all the things I hate in this world, of all the things I fear and despise for giving me that fear, I hate myself more than anything. I am morose, I’ll admit. My identity is focused around pessimism. That very fact guarantees that I will die alone.

“I am alone now, and I will always be alone. I have to live with that. Why? Because I can’t properly deal with happiness. And because of that, my happiness in this life is as illusory as dreaming. But don’t pity me. I don’t expect anyone to care about my life. I deserve every bad thing that happens to me. My pain is imagined, and that means that it will never go away. Imagined pain doesn’t leave. It gets hidden sometimes, but it never goes away.

“But the more I hate myself, the more I despise everything that I’ve become, the angrier I get at the world. This whole world, this entire planet is filled with people who can’t wait to tear you down. Filled with people who want to rip everything you’ve accomplished apart, and piss on the remains. There’s a whole fucking society that wants to tell you are a shit stain in the underwear of humanity, and that they intend to anally rape you just to jam that thought home.

“I don’t know about you, but this makes me angry. This makes me so fucking pissed off at the world. An entire civilization of people who assume that they’re better than you in every way. An entire civilization that demands conformity at every turn. It’s the way of the world. I say, ‘Fuck that.’ Fuck all those slaves, and all their conventions. Get angry at this whole world, and recognize that no one will ever know you as well as they think they do. Get angry. Get pissed. Do things your way, and don’t compromise it. If you want something out of life, you have to take it. Turn a deaf ear to those fuckers who keep bringing you down.

“I hate. I’m angry. I’m gonna do things exactly the way I want them to be done. And fuck anyone who says I went too far, or who tells me who I am, and slaps restrictions on me. I will do what I need to do, and what I want to do. And no matter how depressing this world gets, no matter how many times my face gets thrown in the shit, I will never die by my own hand. You hear that! I’m not done with this fucking world. If I die, when I die, it will be because I lived too hard. Not because I lived too softly.

“I hate. Shouldn’t we all?”

“Who love too much, hate in the like extreme.”
—Homer

Are You Ready to Die?

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:11:00 +0000

Stalker gasps for air. He finds it difficult to breathe, as the black veil of his unconscious state is lifted. He hears the hum of his truck’s engine, and the overpowering smell of exhaust. His eyes blur and focus, looking through the windshield at the forest that surrounds this lonely dirt road. It’s late afternoon, and he’s lost between realities, sitting in the driver’s seat of his black SUV. He glances at the partially open driver side window, and the green hose dangling into the cabin.

Stalker breathes slowly, feeling the fumes of his car engine lull him into a state of complacency. He questions the events of his recent past, and wonders which of his memories actually occurred. Suddenly, the passenger side door slams shut. Stalker looks to his left to see the living shadow of Mr. Dark sitting beside him.

"You wish it could be that dramatic, don't you?” says Mr. Dark, in his typically cold voice. “…As if your life progressed like some movie plot, with all the answers given to you at journey's end. It must be comforting to think that there are larger forces at work, and that your choices aren’t your own. It frees you from guilt, doesn’t it?”

Mr. Dark motions toward the hose in the driver side window. “Let me guess,” he says. “You saw this in a movie once, and it seemed like a nice, peaceful way to kill yourself.”

Stalker stirs lethargically in his seat. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“My business is death… and the closer you push yourself in that direction, the more you’ll see of me.”

“Mr. Dark,” says Stalker, with a hint of condescension in his voice. “Something tells me that you’re not just a figment of my imagination.”

“Perhaps.” Mr. Dark sighs and looks out the window to his right. “How long have you wallowed in this state of perpetual misery? I forget. Has it been four months, or four years?”

Silence is Stalker’s only response.

“You seek death because you think Hell can’t be much worse than your life in this world. …But you have no true experience in pain, and the monster it makes you become. Sure, you’ve fantasized about it. Imagined yourself to be some savage killer… but you have no real teeth. You can’t even kill yourself properly.” Mr. Dark motions to the hose sticking in the driver side window once again. “Carbon monoxide poising is impossible with modern cars, son. You can thank your government and it’s air-quality regulations for that much. The best you’ll get is a mild headache, and maybe an altered sense of self.”

Mr. Dark hints at laughter as Stalker looks at him coldly. “You really are pathetic.” In an instant, Mr. Dark reaches out a gloved hand and grasps Stalker’s face, pressing the back of his head into the driver side window. Stalker struggles, fighting vainly against Mr. Dark’s grip. “Let’s stop playing games, son.” Mr. Dark uses his other hand to open the car door, letting Stalker fall onto the dirt road.

Before Stalker can rise to his feet, Mr. Dark is walking toward him from behind the car. Stalker watches from one knee as Mr. Dark produces a Mark XIX Desert Eagle from his jacket. Mr. Dark immediately kicks the side of Stalker’s head into the dirt, keeping his shoe pressed against his opponent's neck. Stalker looks up to see Mr. Dark’s black tie flap in the wind as he pulls back the slide and points it at Stalker’s temple. “Let’s stop half-assing this process. Are you ready to die?”

Stalker’s green eyes look up with an expression floating between shock and fear. Time slows to a crawl as Stalker looks into the silhouetted face of Mr. Dark. Stalker knows despair, he knows pain… but there are forces in this universe that are greater than anything he could imagine. Stalker fears the future, and considers himself ill equipped to deal with it. But the unknowns of this world pale to the unknowns of the next. And in that realization, Stalker closes his eyes and whispers his response: “No.”

Mr. Dark steps back, and offers a swift kick to Stalker’s sternum. Lying in a fetal position in the dirt, Stalker looks up at his antagonist. Mr. Dark holsters his weapon and straightens his tie, refusing to give Stalker even a wayward glance. “Humans are an endless source of disappointment. …And you… you really are a useless human being. Your influence is like the spread of some insidious disease. The misery that you inflict upon yourself is well deserved, I suppose. You’re a failure in every respect. Truth is… I’m surprised you haven’t tried to kill yourself before now.

“Death is mercy for failures like you. There is a fate worse than death. It’s called life.”

Mr. Dark looks at the afternoon sky. “Perhaps… there is another option.” He looks down at Stalker. “But I’ll let you figure that one out.” He crouches down next to Stalker. “Just let me know when you’re ready to make a deal.” He smiles. “I’ll always be there for you. As long as it works for me.”

“Death is a safety-device because, once Man has fallen, natural immorality would be the one utterly hopeless destiny for him.”
—C.S. Lewis

Appointment with Dylan Thorne

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:07:00 +0000

Dylan Thorne sits comfortably in his tower of glass and steel, looking out the window of his office on the hundred and sixth floor. The symphonic melodies of Charles Gounod play softly in the background, as Dylan’s assistant, Mr. Gray, brings him up to speed on the day’s events.

“…Iran has amassed troops in Teheran as a result, so we should be seeing field use of the weapons we’ve supplied them with. Naturally, conflict won’t start without a spark, so we’re arranging for the Annihilator to —”

The intercom on Dylan’s desk interrupts: “Mr. Thorne? Sorry to interrupt your status briefing, but you have a visitor.”

Dylan turns his attention to the monitor on his desk. “No need to apologize. He’s expected. Send him in.” Dylan looks up at Mr. Gray. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow. I just have to tie up this loose end. Good night, Mr. Gray.”

Mr. Gray nods silently as he turns to leave.

Stalker enters the massive office, carrying himself with both nervousness and restrained malice. Mr. Gray looks at Stalker with condescension as he exits the room. Stalker sees something oddly familiar in Mr. Gray’s face, but he can’t recall what it is. Mr. Gray shuts the double doors as he leaves.

Dylan stands with his back to Stalker, looking at the twilight cityscape below him. He turns, and looks at his visitor with cold eyes. The two men stand nearly thirty feet apart, saying nothing verbally, but staring at each other with mutual animosity.

“Dad,” says Stalker.

“Graham,” responds Dylan. “Or should I call you ‘Stalker.’ Probably a more appropriate title. Would you agree?”

Stalker says nothing.

“It hurts, doesn’t it son?” Dylan begins. “It hurts way down there, where you can’t reach it. It’s like this disease rotting at your core. It sits inside of you, and sometimes you forget it’s there. But then something happens, someone does or says something about love, and it all comes flooding back. And you feel it… right in your gut.” Dylan pauses. “It will never go away.”

Stalker swallows before speaking. “You took everything that mattered…”

“No. I gave you everything that mattered. Who do you think she was, anyway? Did you think some young, nubile female just pranced into your life, and fell in love with you? Did you think that free will was part of this equation?”

Dylan looks away. “Let me tell you something about women. There are three basic ways to acquire them. One: You negotiate. This is the most accepted method, but it takes time and salesmanship. Two: You steal them. You take them against their will and make them your own. And three: You buy them, and cut through all the lies.” He looks back at Stalker. “Your beloved Jennifer was bought. She was nothing more than a high-priced whore, paid to give you the full ‘girlfriend experience.’ You’ll have noticed that she didn’t part her lips when she kissed you. Didn’t you find that curious? No? Figures that we had to hire someone to pretend to love you, since there’s no way in hell that any girl could on her own volition. Look at you. That funnel chest of yours gives you the posture of a vulture, not to mention your non-existent self-confidence.”

Stalker is hurt, but he doesn’t reveal it. “She caused me far more pain than she should’ve been able to.”

“Yes. That’s the risk you take when falling in love. But don’t feel so bad. All women are whores, son. It’s just, most of them don’t admit it. I can toss a wad of cash at any random female, and she’ll get on her knees. Even when you bargain for their company, you’re stilling paying for it in some sense.”

“So why the manipulation? What was this all about?”

“There were two goals I attempted to achieve with you. Number one was to see if I could suspend the free will of someone, and manipulate circumstances to reach a conclusion I desired. And number two was to make you a little more like your father. Like me. And by transforming you from some lovesick romantic into a killer achieved both goals. Destroying the object of your affection released you from the emotion she inspired.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Before you had a broken heart, you were hopelessly fooled into thinking that women were important. Now that they’ve let you down, you have no reason to cling to that pathetically outdated notion. The lessons we learn from pain make us the strongest. You know this. Pain will never go away, but it will push you to do things you never thought possible."

“But I didn’t kill her.”

“Is that what Phelps led you to believe? Who do you think he answers to?” Dylan shakes his head. “Is your memory that far gone, Graham? I suppose you’re looking for absolution in thinking I killed her myself. But that’s all on you.”

“How could you manipulate me into this?”

“Women are USELESS, son,” Dylan continues. “They serve no purpose, save that which we imbue them with. They’re completely unnecessary, and will drain you of everything you are, if you let them into your life and your mind. They will break you, and leave you begging for more. Is that what you want?"

Stalker is silent.

“Females are naturally inferior. This is because everything that they are is inexorably tied to sexuality. They can never escape it. Men, on the other hand, experience sexual gratification so briefly that the entire process can be likened to the release of bodily wastes. In short, women are little more than glorified toilets, waiting to receive the wastes we must regularly expunge.”

Dylan turns and pours himself a glass of brandy. “You’d think that emotional independence would be as highly valued as financial independence.”

Stalker approaches Dylan. "There is a darkness in you that found its way into me. Why did you have to put the burden of your legacy on my shoulders? Why couldn't you just paint a fucking picture or write a book?"

Dylan looks at Stalker, measuring his anger and belligerent body language. “Careful, son. As far as you think you’ve fallen… you can always sink lower. You of all people should know that. If you choose to make me your enemy, the pain you feel now is nothing compared to what it could be."

“Is that a threat?”

“Threats are so… pedestrian.”

“I’m not scared of you. …I have no fear. A man with nothing to live for has that much.”

Dylan observes a solitary tear roll down Stalker’s cheek. He finishes his drink and offers his next remark. “What’s the matter, Graham? No one to wipe away your tears anymore? I’d call you a faggot, but that would imply that you still have sex with people.”

Stalker lets the scalpel hidden in his sleeve slip into his hand, as he takes a swipe at Dylan’s throat. Dylan effortlessly blocks the blade, and punches Stalker in the face with an open hand. Stalker lands flat on his back. Dylan reaches down and lifts Stalker up by his neck, then braces him against the wall as he chokes him with one hand.

“Giving you a life lesson was only my secondary objective. I have no problem with ending your life right here.”

Stalker feels his senses distort the room, and the operatic music of “Ave Maria” takes on a sinister tone.

“There is a visceral thrill in killing a man with your own hands. It’s almost as if you can feel the life drain out of them at that critical moment.” Stalker gags as he struggles against Dylan’s powerful grip. "...Let me tell you something. I never wanted a child. I would've had you aborted if I didn't have some measure of curiosity over how you'd turn out. …There are few people whose lives I actually value. Unfortunately for you, yours is not among them. Your continued, pathetic existence vexes me.

“…That’s the problem with children. They either embody all of your flaws, or they surpass you, and make you resent them for it. Either way, they are useless.”

From Stalker’s perspective, Dylan’s face becomes a shadow. Reality seems to twist and flicker, like some malfunctioning film projector. For a moment, Stalker imagines that Mr. Dark is choking him. A tear trickles down Stalker’s cheek. Darkness consumes him, a darkness from which there is no pursuit for the living, and no return for the dead.

“…And if you think you've won, you never saw me change the game that we have been playing.”
—Chris Cornell

It Ends Tonight

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 21:58:00 +0000

Stalker kneels down next to the cot. Tears form in his eyes as he slowly brushes the hair out of Jennifer’s face, and tucks it behind her right ear. As his teeth clench, he begins to shiver with a maelstrom of emotions fighting for expression.

Her voice echoes through his memory: “I love you,” she says. “You didn’t do anything wrong…”

Stalker looks into her lifeless eyes, and it feels as though grief has wrapped its fingers around his throat. The sudden ring of his cell phone shatters his attention. He regains his composure and stands to answer. “Phelps?” he whispers.

“Everything Mr. Dark told you checks out. It all connects back to Thorne Enterprises. Did you find Jennifer?”

Stalker closes his eyes. “Yes.”

“Good. Tell me where you are, and I’ll be right over.”

“No. It’s too late for her. They…” Stalker pauses. “He got to her.”

“Wait, what? Graham, what happened? Is she okay?”

“I have to go.”

“Wait, Graham! Where are you going? What are you going to do?”

Stalker rests his phone on the nightstand, and then leans down and softy kisses Jennifer’s forehead. He stands and walks toward the door. The light from the dorm hallway silhouettes him perfectly in the doorframe. He turns slightly as he grasps the doorknob.

“I’m going to kill Dylan Thorne.”

Stalker shuts the door as he leaves.

* * *

Dylan stares into his computer screen, reading multiple articles on causality, chaos theory, determinism, and the butterfly effect.

Mr. Gray enters: “Sir?”

Dylan looks up.

“He’s found the body.”

Dylan allows himself a reserved smile. “Thank you, Mr. Gray.”

Mr. Gray nods and exits.

Dylan casually opens a file marked “The Stalker Imperative.” He scrolls to the bottom and types “all stated objectives met.” He saves and closes the file.

“Good. Now we can get started.”

“"Paranoia is just… reality on a finer scale."
—Philo Grant

Meditations on Love

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Thu, 13 Sep 2007 23:00:00 +0000

"Love? Love is a trite emotion, which is neither lasting nor significant.

"Humans use love to justify otherwise meaningless behaviors. It serves no practical or constructive purpose. It is a drug that intoxicates the human mind, and, when withdrawn, imbues minds with a horrible sense of loss, pain, and angst.

"Love is the route to the worst human emotions imaginable. All men are liars, and they will lie to themselves just as frequently as they lie to others. Humans go to great pains to convince themselves that the love that they feel is genuine, and therefore infinite in its duration. They lie to themselves to justify their lust, as well as their greed. They yearn for that prize possession, that companion who will possibly fill them with a sense of self-importance. The companionship they seek is the means to give meaning to a life that has none.

"Because humans cannot stand that icy grip of isolation, can they? They would rather find someone, anyone, to share the mundane details of a frivolous life with, and this desire makes all men desperate, and delusional. They trump up that mental orgasm called love, and pretend that it’s something noble, something lasting, and something indomitable. They convince themselves of the most inane notions: Their love is unique. Their love can overcome any hardship. Their love will last forever.

"And as often as heartbreak occurs, and as frequently as lives disintegrate in the wake of love, humans never seem to learn. No one ever seems to notice that love is one of the greatest evils in this world. And why? Are humans incapable of learning and growing? Are they that obtuse? Perhaps.

"But what I have witnessed, is that humans ensure each other that love will inevitably win out in the end, and that all that pain and suffering that it inflicts upon its users is an inevitable setback in a continuing journey that ends in happiness.

"Happiness. Love. What an odd pairing. Not to say that they don’t coexist. I’m just amused that most people believe that love is the greatest happiness. That’s not my belief. Because when love has been stripped away—and it will happen—the happiness that it once instilled is forever tainted, and dies in hindsight.

"Yes, love is trite. ...And it will ruin you if you allow it to."

“For with much wisdom comes much sorrow; the more knowledge, the more grief.”
—Ecclesiastes 1:18

The Big Picture

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Thu, 06 Sep 2007 05:38:00 +0000

“Did you really think this was just about some... heartbroken kid stalking his ex-girlfriend?"

Stalker looks up at Mr. Dark. "Let me tell you something, boy. You have set something in motion… much greater than you’ll ever know.”

Tell Me a Story

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Thu, 06 Sep 2007 05:35:00 +0000

The young lovers lay on the dorm bed beside each other, taking a respite from the day. Graham props himself up on a thick pillow, as Jennifer rests her head on his chest.

“Tell me a story,” she says in near-whisper.

Graham searches his mind as he intertwines his fingers with hers. “Well… I know this one story about a boy… a shy boy…”

“What was his name?”

“I dunno… Steve?” She chuckles. “Just let me tell the story. Alright?”

“Alright,” she says with a smile.

“Alright. Now there was this boy… and… he met this girl… she was a cute girl…”

“Not cuter than me, right?”

“Of course she was.”

Jennifer gasps. She sits up and playfully hits Graham.

“Alright, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Just settle down. Hey!” He points at her face. “Settle down.” She smiles and leans toward him. “No one is cuter than you.”

They kiss, and as they do, the room darkens, and the two lovers fade away.

Stalker is sitting on the bed, alone in the dark. A voice from the corner sends chills down his spine: “There was a boy… a shy boy… who met a girl. And she broke his heart… she turned him into a monster… and he did things he didn’t want to do… and he made sure that she would never hurt anyone ever again.

"That’s right, isn’t it son?”

The Word is "Suicide"

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Thu, 06 Sep 2007 05:29:00 +0000

“So why don’t you tell me what brought you here today?”

Greg Barnes, a man in his thirties, twists the tissue nervously in his hands. He’s lying on the couch, listening to the tick of the clock on the wall. The listener, his therapist, is sitting in shadow behind him, wearing an expensive suit with legs crossed and notebook in hand.

Greg begins speaking nervously. “I don’t know quite what I should do. It seems as if every avenue is somehow blocked.” He sighs and shakes his head as his eyes fall to the floor. “I’m afraid I’ll never be satisfied. I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

“You think you have no future?”

“Probably. If I can’t determine my next course of action, then what good will my life be?”

“You have hobbies?”

“Fruitless.”

“Interests?”

“None that are marketable.”

“Skills?”

“…Underdeveloped and non-specific.”

The silence that follows is accented by the ticking of the clock.

“Have you ever considered killing yourself?”

There is a long pause.

“C-Come again?”

“The word is ‘suicide.’ What do you make of it?”

Greg scowls. “Kill myself?”

“You’ve considered it before, haven’t you?”

“Well, I have a certain… capacity for depression.”

“And what stops you?”

“The thought that life could possibly probably get better.”

“Hope?”

“I guess you could call it that, yeah.”

“And now you are telling me that circumstances have evolved to the point where hope is gone again. Without hope, what good is life?”

“But I’m not depressed. Why should I commit suicide?”

“You’re not depressed now. That will change. Of all certainties in life, that one is paramount. Life will always become miserable in time.”

“So you’re suggesting suicide as a means of prevention? A… A preemptive suicide?”

“No. You came to me for advice. You’re telling me that your life has reached an impasse. A roadblock. Your future is uncertain. And with you penchant for moroseness, and all the havoc that reeks on your emotional stability, tells me that suicide is your best option right now.”

“I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”

“Look, this isn’t some… spontaneous knee-jerk here. You have no friends, no relationships. You have no solid standing in this world. You have no desire for a key aspect to conventional survival. Your life has evolved to the point where it no longer has relevance or meaning. Just because suicide is typically the end result of an emotional response doesn’t mean it can’t also be a reasoned conclusion and a viable life option.”

“I’m not depressed, though. The act of taking my own life would have to be an act of passion. It would have to be some heat of the moment reaction to a series of horrific events.”

“Are you sure? Why can’t we just anticipate the eventuality of those events—because we both know they will happen—and use that premise to cancel out how irrational an emotion-less suicide might seem.”

“You said it wasn’t preemptive.”

“It’s not. But thinking of it as such can root out the emotional component of the whole thing." He sighs. “Look, I’ll make it real simple for you: Your life is option less. You’ve lost everything you’ve ever valued, and although you aren’t in the throws of depression, that certainly isn’t a permanent state of mind. With no hope for the future, suicide is a logical course of action.”

“But I don’t want to kill myself.”

“I’m not talking about desire here. I’m talking about necessity. You need to kill yourself in order to avoid other choices, which will undoubtedly lead to a painful life. Death is a safety device. You’ve already fallen. Admit to yourself that you’ve given your life a good run and end it. There are no u-turns, no second chances. The life you had, the life you knew and loved, it’s gone. You’ll never be who you once were.”

“Your logic is flawed. You’re assuming that life won’t change in the future.”

“Not by any noticeable degree.”

“Sure it will. I was happy in the recent past. Prior to that happiness, I was no different than I am now. What’s to say I’m not on the verge of a new happiness? What’s to say that I’m not due?”

“Possible. I’m not saying happiness isn’t possible. All I’m saying is that suicide is reasonable, and, from all indications, necessary. Look at yourself. You know who you are. You know what you’re capable of. Do you honestly think that you are fit to survive your future? That you are strong enough to tackle the immeasurable difficulties that only become exponentially worse for the rest of your life?”

“I get stronger with age. I become more resilient.”

“How can you know that for sure? How do you know that your resources aren’t running out? What’s to say that you haven’t reached your maximum potential? Look at your recent past. Look at how close you came to self-destruction. Over what? Some petty loss. Something that most people wouldn’t care about. You are weak in ways most people can’t even fathom. You are a crippled mess of emotions and inabilities. You have no control over your future, and you have no control over your happiness. With all of your inadequacies, in the face of all that waits to destroy you in this life, how can you honestly tell me that not killing yourself is a good idea?”

There is a long pause.

“I can’t.”

Love's First Expression

noreply@blogger.com (Dan Beadle) — Thu, 06 Sep 2007 05:26:00 +0000

“But, I mean… Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. We barely even know each other.”

Graham holds back a soft chuckle. “But that’s what makes it so great. I just want to spend my time getting to know you. Finding out what makes you laugh… and what makes you cry. I want to know what embarrasses you…”

Jennifer smiles and looks away.

“…And what puts you at ease.” She looks back at him with a cautious hope in her eyes. “But there’s time. We don’t have to live our lives all at once. C’mon.” Graham holds out his hand. “Let’s take a walk.”

“A walk?”

“Just something simple. We don’t even have to talk, if you don’t want.” She smirks and takes his hand.

“I’ve just never felt… so much… so fast…” Jennifer is searching for the words that her mouth can’t quite say. “It’s just that I really care…”

Graham looks down at her. “I love you, too.” Her eyes meet his, with a sense of relief bordering on jubilation. Their lips meet. It certainly won’t be the last time.

"The words 'I love you 'til the day I die...' The self-deception that believes the lie..."
--Frank Sinatra