Pistol Wrists 3
Copyright © 2013 by D.e.e.L
Disclaimer: This story involves intense situations and is not recommended for everyone. Please be aware of this before reading and proceed at your own will. This story is completely fictional. Do not attempt anything within the context of this story. Discretion is advised.
Hunger, we are all enslaved by it. One must eat in order to survive; we must pay for life’s needed nourishment. Without money we die, that is the world brought to existence. The beast not becoming of me quick enough, I require bread.
I devour my mind into what it craves to fill me. I need an array of gestures to be placed in front of me, enough to satisfy the gluttony of a dozen walking drones. A convertible drives by and I halt it by stepping in front of the wheel. Tires tear apart; the moving cave almost rotates its upper half to the ground. His hair thinning, he grabs from the left side of his glasses, close to his ear and then whips them into the air and to the ground. Madness engages his lungs as the air being sucked in is used to force out words of my insanity. I listen for a moment, to hear what he has to say. He does not understand “It”, now he never will.
My own hair, still existing in patches of singed brown snaps at the air as the weakening black strives towards its endless necessity to rotate to move forward. The radio is still singing my name, people want me, want me dead, want me captured, want me forever sleeping, want me on television in front of the world. I am not chasing anyone, any singular beat, just drifting through the crackling man-made seconds of time in order to understand “It” better than anyone.
It’s lonesome, in the center of here. I step out of the car; adjust the tinted glasses upon my face that I had retrieved from the delicate asphalt. The shirt he used to bare now covers me, “It”. I am still battered, face a decaying unjust look at the world, my arms now covered by clean blue turning faintly red as the blood from “It” seeps through. With each shot, it awakens the former pain, the pain first felt when sending men in the convenience store home. The wet red does not disturb me as it once did, nor does the pain, I embrace it, laugh; smile.
They will refuse to serve me, this I know. I’ll need to make them, give them no choice but to fill my plate of desires. The cops will be called, I’ll deal with them when they arrive, first I need existence.
Horror, that’s the look on her face when I step in front of the door closing behind me. I tell her I need a table for one and I am not expecting anyone to join me. She screams and everyone sets down bent metal to look, to place gaze into the immortal beast they have seen endlessly flickering on the televisions placed about the walls. People, workers, failed dreamers or soft sleepers rush to aid her, insult me, tell me I am not welcome. I nod my head, walk the floor and pass by everyone I’ll soon know. Her, she’s pretty. She has her neck bent so that her face stares into the crumbs of her plate. I place my hand on her shoulder, then cuff my hand beneath her arm and quickly shift her to a stance. I walk back to the front of the restaurant, perhaps they are already on their way, or perhaps everyone too nervous to think. My right wrist rests upon her right ear as I tell the drones what I need to consume. They scramble, even apologize to me.
She backs up slightly into me, peculiar. People shriek softly as she tilts her neck back and approaches her tongue to the dried blood of my neck. She licks away others as I begin to trust her. Small black holes encase us both as surrounding visions mask the world. My biggest fan, yet still fears me, was unsure how I would treat her, if as I a beast or a living soul. The bounty of my request is placed onto a table; she holds my wrist to her skull as I consume using my left hand to snatch life.
Wet food feels as if liquid as it passes through my throat, hot food filling my content as the burning falls to the acid. Drifting sights pass and fade from me, unsure if they allow to look at the food still before them. I nudge her, nod, she yells to all that it is okay to eat. This bowl of pineapple, so sweet.
One rotting winking drone assumes he is partaking in voyeur, the girl’s obsession with me growing. He’s the one; he’s the one that called the cops, his pleasure prolonged by the knowing of end. I have only minutes now, seconds put together to create a new entity that constrains “It”. A young child was crying, was crying, hushed by his mother’s words; she must love him as I know my mother once loved me. I finish the bread without sounds of sirens, though if smart they would be silenced, pushing a portion of man into suits of armor and endless ammunition, just to rid the earth of the only person to truly understand “It”.
I stand up beside her, she lets go of my wrist, I lower it to my side. I give a grateful thank you for the food and stride to leave, face the employees of denied justice. She grabs me and pulls my arm to bring her closer to me. She tells me, tells me I have no chance out there without her, a hostage, a victim, sweet as the fruit that was destroyed by acid. Them, the ones outside, will no longer care about bringing me in, or even her, they just want “It” to end. The car, there is still a pistol in the car, waiting to fill me once more. If the trigger rests to her finger then extended is my chance to claim “It” as my own.
She opens the door to find nothing, not a figment of humanity shrouded by the uniform of conformity projects their image before her. She walks to the convertible, finds the life bestowed to the seat and enters it to her hand. Small invisible foot prints trace steps to my side once again. Nobody called, nobody here brave enough, nobody here understands “It”. They all assume I’m some sort of jester to the portrayal on the television. I did not come here to take life, only to consume life. Gripped loosely and nervously in her hand, she does now question her own sanity. I grab her wrist and raise her arm up into the air, facing the end of her new life into the decaying heart of the rotting winking drone. Nobody makes a sound as he is silenced, no tear falls a child. My image is now her desire, the eternal decay of my composure, flesh evaporating, eyes appear soulless and grey. She walks into the kitchen and howls. A returning beauty has faded to ashes. The stove was hot as she placed her conformed face to its fire. Expression of desires to have the pistol placed just as mine, though such a task was planned, carefully developed, for me, only me. I brush my chin from left to right, meaning no. Understood scowl resides.
I walk past all of my new friends and find a phone sitting in front of a youth older than myself. Placed into my hand I make the call they are all too afraid to create. A stranger answers, and I tell her where I am, send people right away, she understands.
Looks of confusion baffle the faces of the meager. I rub my fingers upon each knit of ammo, then look to her and smile.
No sirens, yet I know them to be here. They will send the vests wearing helmets in to take me out. Her and I walk to the kitchen, grab knives, place them into the hands of friends. To them I have done no harm, in calling I have showed them I am right. I have spread vast understanding of “It” within time created by man. Some will defy, cut deep through me, though others, others will slip beneath the vests to evade decay. Counting, seconds, whispers, halting, pushing, forceful entrance and they are trapped.
The people look of hostages, all sitting enclosed in their minds, dreaming of what I have made become of them. The vests do not see me, only her, wounded in appearance with pistol placed behind to where her hair ends. A man walks up to her to ask if she okay, if she has seen me, he does not truly care for what has happened to her, only wants to find me, needs to use her. To his jaw she places and fires. Astonished cannons aim and fire at the girl now hidden. I count them, count myself, count the people, and kiss her three times.
Souls bare my weight as I stand and clench firing fists in the air, penetrating only the thoughts of the surrounding people I have met as they all rise to push sharpened steal into men. Confusion of unknown prevents the vests from stealing a single life. From behind me a woman tries to take my might with the gift I had placed to her hands, gone is she before presenting me with her effort.
More will try to deliver what she did; they could even turn into vests themselves. Though in moments now past they have learned “It” to the extent of the boy from the convenience store, send them home, they are hungry and need to rest.
Helicopters, I can hear them, multiple, or just a few. Outside they do not know what has taken place within; they might think me to be rotting now, though the silence shouts out to them, and no man exiting cries merciless.
A man waking from his dream injects himself with metal. The sender of red halts and bleeds. He falls and everyone looks to me for help. I lower to his limps and handle the knife before handing it off to another. The helicopters have landed; I can no longer hear them. There will be brave news crews, the soul trying to get the story to make their dream come true, using my existence to raise theirs to the standard they have made believe is the highest. What is it that makes a job worth living? What makes a dream a dream and a widow a warrior? Nourishment, we are all dead without nourishment, yet we bask in pools and plastics to make life feel worth it, to make believe it’s worth working away our decay.
The building will be surrounded; they will shatter the few windows of this hole. They will explode the locks of every door, and if failure arises again they will make fall the walls.
From the back where the kitchen is vests are put to sleep by the sharpened points of the workers. The entrance is tried again, but quickly mimics the opposing placement. A woman not wanting her children to witness anymore erases an entire family from the earth. All of those around me, seeing what I have created, witnessing all that I have put forth, spewing their eyes into mine, my grey. I look back into them; I see blue turn to grey, hazel turn to dust, green turn to grey. She picks up a gun from the ground, then another, looks to me and I nod. She walks around and hands rifles to friends, pistols to known strangers, people place on vests, only she and I remain unchanged. She grips harshly the pistol in her right hand as she picks up another with her left. I place unnamed into my lower arms.
They will have caught on by now, know that sending people in will create no gain. The gas, something they have yet tried, hoping only I existed to stop them, hoping one beast could be taken down by ten vests. Glass that remains is shattered as canisters fall to the ground and attempt to drown us all. Friends kick them all quickly to a single center and the fire blanket is placed on top them all. One friend even blares the extinguisher into the mess, one dumps on a bucket of water, another drinks a soda and shrugs.
Grenades, they could, assuming they no longer care for the assumed innocent. They are innocent, they are becoming beyond conformity, they are receiving the gift of “It”. One by one they each enter the kitchen to resurrect the actions of the girl, yet not a howl is heard. Some singe their scalps to resemble my own. Some wound their arms; shoot their souls; just to feel no pain.
Walking drones have embraced reality, no longer dreaming dreams, now just living life. I wonder if they have a tank yet, that would be fun to drive. The sound of a sleigh comes to a resting stop. More vests, armed with heavier metal will exit and make force into our home; we will all send them back to theirs. I motion away anyone trying to peer out a window; no longer do they appear innocent. A wall collapses and endless light flashes past the eyes of “It”. No longer do they care for anyone behind the remaining walls. A clink to the ground and only seconds to return the gesture. It explodes before reaching back to its owner, though does not harm any of my friends. The explosion makes clear their worry. My death could make a man quite wealthy, the one to grip my skull could stand atop a mound of gold. I look behind me to see them all waiting. I walk forward and escape the cage. A shell falls as my chest is pierced. She runs to my side and befalls the one responsible. Friends pour from behind me and make fly their intent. I dig fingers into my own shell to remove the now red lead. It falls as others do upon my clenching fists. Helicopters try to rid the immortals, yet all dwindle to the earth. The dreamer is denied the story, the vests are set free.
The ground becomes as it was before, quiet earth now bleeding. They all stand behind me, waiting to learn more. I nod to her and she cries out to all of them. We all enter the sleigh, the large bus like vehicle that was delivered now with regret. A friend sits behind the wheel and asks me where I want to go. I nod and he ignites the past. We drive, keep driving, understand all that we can before the clock rests. I pull bread from my pocket and devour life.
– This is the third “Pistol Wrists” story, please check out 1 and 2!!!
– “Pistol Wrists” By: D.e.e.L –https://deeliopunk.wordpress.com/2012/02/14/pistolwristsd-e-e-l/
– “Pistol Wrists 2″ By: D.e.e.L – https://deeliopunk.wordpress.com/2012/09/22/pistol-wrists-2-by-d-e-e-l/
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