Okay, I know what you're thinking. You think I'm crazy, don't you? Well, let me tell you something--I'm not, okay? I'm not crazy. I may be in a straightjacket in a mental hospital, and my story may be considered strange, but it's true. It's true--and I'm not crazy. Here, here's my story...
I'm sure most of the doctors here would start right in the middle of my tale, where I committed my crime. That's probably why it is so easy for people to call me crazy. After all, they're psychologists, not storytellers! Heh. Anyway, to stop delaying, here's the beginning.
This tale probably started about two years ago, when I first got the apartment. I loved that place--still do, despite what happened. It was pretty cheap while still in a good neighborhood, and my neighbors were all pretty nice. Hell, I'm probably going back when I get out of here.
Anyway, my neighbors were great, especially Barry next door. He'd regularly come over every Friday and we'd unwind after the tiring week with alcohol. One time, we got so s**t-faced drunk that we were both hanging off the fire escape like rabid chimps and we yelled out comments of foul nature to every member of the opposite sex. Barry, at one point, saw a girl walking down the sidewalk in a tight black dress and gave the "cunnilingus" signal to her. It was hilarious.
But, everyone, no matter how good a person is, has at least one flaw. His? His fault was...well...he farted.
Now, I know this sounds insane. After all, a person of "rational" means would think that is a very strange motive for my crime, but you have not seen his contorted face as his bowels erupted in a chorus. You have not heard the thunderous bang, like an atomic bomb exploding in the Senoran Desert. You have not smelled...oh dear God you have not SMELLED...imagine spoiled milk shoved into the stomach of a dead person, along with sulfur, manure, and firecrackers set to explode at any second. The aftermath of said explosion is the smell of one of his lesser bursts of gas.
Even still, the idea of my crime did not even come to mind until six months ago. I was over at his apartment, and we were both sitting on the couch playing one of those sports games. After a session (I won), Barry stood up and asked if I wanted a beer. I answered favorably, and as he turned to the kitchen, his a*s erupted in a sharp boom of a form of gas so terrifying, it should be labeled as a weapon of mass destruction. Even worse, the blast was aimed right into my face.
No words could possibly describe the pain and horror that coursed through my body. The sound sent shockwaves through my body, making my organs jump and shrivel. The smell raped my nostrils and invaded my body, ripping and tearing into nerves and muscles like a flesh-eating virus. The immense pain flowing through me was topped only by the shrill yell that escaped my lips and the hysterical laughing that came from Barry.
It was at that moment, when the offending, ghastly blow echoed through my body, with the source of my pain laughing right into my face, that I realized what I must do.
I had to kill him.
But while my first thought was to kill him right there and then, I knew that I couldn't--when he was aware, he could easily either stop me or make enough noise so that others would be alarmed and call the police. No, I knew I would have to wait. I waited and planned, planned and waited, for six grueling, agonizing months. If there was any clue of my sanity, it is that--an insane man would not have waited that long, and would have sloppily killed Barry and then prance in public in a sunflower-designed dress with "I did it" spray-painted on it. But I did not do that. I would not do that. I am a sane, patient man. Besides, I don't even have spray-paint. Heheh.
Anyway, it all came together just a few months ago. I waited until 2 AM, when everyone on my floor was either deep asleep or long gone for night-time adventures. I crept down the hall, so slowly, so silently, to Barry's apartment. I took from my pajama pant pocket a copy of Barry's key in my hand. If you are wondering how I obtained such an item, it was because I house-sited for him several times during my two-year tenure in that building, when Barry went on vacations. Back to that night, I slowly opened the door, so that nothing could disturb the room, to cause Barry to stir from his slumber. I just as slowly closed the door and set my way to Barry's bedroom.
There he was, the b*****d. Sleeping with a silly smile on his face, a*s poised straight up. I quietly snuck into the room, one foot softly gliding over the other, until I made it to his bed. When I got right next to his bed, I took a pillow that was under him and quickly pulled it off. I saw him start to stir so I quickly jumped on him and put the pillow over his face.
He squirmed, he moved, he even tried to scream under the muffling cotton. His hands flailed, trying to grab onto me so that he could pull me off. His legs flailed and tried to kick me. All of that was to no avail. I killed him. I killed the b*****d. The plan has gone completely right.
Or, that’s what I thought, until his rump gave a final goodbye to the world. I forgot that when someone dies, they instantly piss and s**t themselves. From his a*s, erupted a foul explosion akin to an old-fashioned cannon. I truly believe that the sound shook the very foundations of the apartment.
When the fart started to give away, leaving only small bursts, I take out the hammer and use the pulling side to start taking away nails at on the floor. When enough of them were taken away to make a hole, I quickly grabbed the body and dropped it into the hole.
After I nailed the boards back together, I let myself relish in what I had done. I have gotten away with murder.
Then Mr. and Mr. Jones came in.
“We heard an explosion! What’s going on?” One of the Mr. Jones’ yelled.
Now, most would quiver at this point and give up. But I didn’t. I pulled the perfect crime. I ran with it.
“Yeah! I heard it too! I thought it came from here, so I ran out to see what’s going on!”
Suddenly, I heard it. A sharp release of gas. I look at the two, thinking one of them might be the culprit, but their faces gave nothing away.
“Did you see anything?” The other Mr. Jones asked.
“No, I just ran in here and found nothing.” It happens again. A wet explosion.
“Uh…not that I mean to pry, but, why do you have your shoes on?” Mr. Jones asks. Another explosion.
“Well, I, uh, I slipped them on really quick before heading out. Yeah.” I said. I heard another explosion. My heart was starting to beat quicker. I felt sweat coming down my brow.
“But your shoes are tied. You must be very quick at tying your shoes.” Another explosion. Another. My head started to throb.
“Well, I, uh, I, I already, uh, kinda had them on! Yeah. Already had them on.”
“Why?” Another explosion.
“Uh. I had some, uh, errands to run.”
“At 3 in the morning?”
“Yeah!” The explosions were becoming quicker, more persistent, yet somehow even louder, fouler smelling. My head felt like it was being crushed in. My eyes started to water. I felt my stomach start to churn and I would give anything just to be away. I would have rather been dead then to feel like that.
The explosion—The Jones. They knew. They must know! They had to have heard the explosions, they must have! They knew. They knew what I did! But they won’t admit it. They want a confession out of me!
My interrogators must have noticed my sweating, heaving state. One of them lightly placed his hand on my shoulder.
“Are you okay?” I finally snap.
“No I’m not, you butt-humping Brady Bunch! You can stop now! I know what you’re trying to do and I admit it! I admit it! I killed Barry! I suffocated him to death and buried him under the wood of the apartment! Tear away the wood—see the rapid explosions of his loud, deadly farts!”
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