(A.K.A. I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO NAME THIS PIECE OF DOGSHIT)

A Story by Mad Mezi

mad man.

“Her body was laced with sweat.”

There.

That’s how I’ll start it.

Wait.

S**t, that’s not it.

Her body was laced with sweat? That’s complete s**t. That doesn’t even--gosh, it’s just so lackluster. The first bit has got to grip the audience immediately--a big meat hook to their jaws, through the teeth and all. It has got to whip them onto shore the way a tornado whips cows to another yard. There has to be a sting.

But, her body was laced with sweat? That’s garbage. D****t.

Okay, okay. That’s okay. You’re a writer for a reason, right? Yep. You’ve got the skills to fix this, to make it right as rain. Let the rain fall, come on…come on…s**t.

And here I thought I’d be finished early today. I promised Rachel I’d take her out. She always wants to go out. Oh, I don’t mind. It’s nice to get out from this place every once in a while. But every night? All the time? Why we can’t we ever just stay home and watch a damned movie? There’s like a million movies in the world. There’s got to be one we could watch. It doesn’t have to be anything great. It could be a pile of c**k and I wouldn’t care either way.

We could go to the grocery and buy one of those two-dollar bottles of wine--get one for each of us. We’ll order pizza like normal people; pepperoni or cheese or whatever the f**k they put on pizza. I can’t remember. I’ve been shut away from society for so long, so consumed in my own thoughts, wandering through the swamps of my mental reckoning--but no f*****g mushrooms. I hate mushrooms. Who the hell ever thought it was a good idea to eat fungus? Those b******s must have been something. A true marvel of stupidity and reckless appetite.

And why would you ever eat something like fungus? Scientists don’t even know that much about it. It is the 21^st century and they still don’t know why it grows the way it grows, or how it does, or what it really is, or if it’s even edible"I mean, what the f**k is that? You’re going to eat something that makes science go, “eh, we don’t know.”? Why even have mycologists then?!

That’s what they’ll say. Also, why do I know that word?

“Her body was in a state of constant swe--”

No.

“Her body was in a state of ceaseless sweat.”

Hmm.

No, that’s too much. I don’t want to scare them. Ceaseless sweat? Does she have some sort of dermatological disease? She’s panicking, but she’s not chronic.

“Her body was perpetuated by sweat--perpetuated in sweat--perpetuating with sweat and all that f*****g junk. You all should kill yourselves. The written word is dead. God isn’t real. Jesus was black and the Jews stole their religion from Babylonian myths. Blah, blah, blah.”

Okay, get a hold of yourself.

You haven’t been drinking--that’s the problem. Oh wait, you have been. Actually, you’re quite drunk. Possibly too much.

Maybe I should be standing; that’s how Hemingway did it. Whiskey and legs. It’s all about the stance. The stance is power. The whiskey is…all gone. I have beer. Well, Rachel has beer. She’s never going to drink it; I may as well have one. Or several. F**k it.

Why do I even bother? I should have been an engineer. Or an architect. That’s what my parents said I should have been. That’s what my sister became. Now she’s got a huge house up on a hill, one of those swell places on the precipice of a mountain, overlooking the entirety of the city, almost as if mankind’s invention meant nothing to the awesome power of simple nature. It’s all about the stance. The stance is power. I have got to stand like a mountain.

“Her body was laced--” I mean what the f**k does that even mean? Is the sweat forming strings? How the damn hell can she be laced with sweat? And how can sweat itself even be laced? Let’s start off somewhere else. Maybe I shouldn’t focus on her. Maybe I should write a different story. With a different character. A different setting. Different plot. Oh, and a different writer. That would help a lot.

“Her body was busty. She had really milky tits, with sharp n*****s. They had those veins on the side, and cute freckles. When you fucked her, the area above her tits would ripen red, with all the blood pushing to her chest. Then she’d sweat--really sweat. Almost as though her body was laced with the stuff.”

Oh, what time is it? Rachel will return soon. And she’ll want to go out. Again. What a distraction she has become. Or has always been, I suppose. I just had the patience then. None of it now. In fact, I’ve lost patience for a lot of things, writing included. They’re just words. They don’t mean anything. I should just give up. The pain is too much. The nights too long. The days too…s**t. They’re really s**t.

“Her body was pale, languid; she appeared a phantom, a skeletal remnant of a human frame, as if she had been nothing; as if she had disappeared entirely, leaving a hole in the space of the universe, a vacant lot that sucked in the surrounding atoms and crushed them into a proverbial--a literal--a horrible oblivion. That’s what she was: oblivion. Nothingness. Void. Abyss. Endless endlessness. A vastness of nil. She was so blank that the universe had no choice but to be born, if only to spite her and her blankness.”

It’s not too late.

I could go back for another degree. Maybe something simple like finance. You could make decent money there. I won’t be working on Wall Street or anything, but some consulting for a bank or some s**t. Something tedious and life-draining. It’d be better pay. Probably get one of those boring blondes as my wife. Have a single child. Hopefully, he’ll grow up to be a serial killer. I hope he murders scores of people. Women, preferably. They’ve always been so cruel to me; I’d consider it poetic justice. Although, it could go either way. Maybe he’ll be a Dahmer and keep heads in his fridge--he’ll drill holes into Indonesian boys’ heads and fill them with paste. Let them run around the street looking for a cigarette. That’s a better life than anything.

Maybe the wife will kill herself in grief. Or she’ll die in a car crash. Most people die in car crashes. Albert Camus said that a car crash was the most absurd way a person could die--guess how he died?

If not a serial killer, then a politician.

“Her body was a vessel for the Dread Lord Chultulu, through which he would enter into our mortal realm and begin his dark reign. An eternity of suffering and misery for us. The Elder Gods are near, and they will feast on our minds and souls and bodies, which are laced with sweat--”

OKAY NOW YOU’RE BEING A F*****G PRICK!

I could do something in computers. Cyber Security could be fun. I’d learn how to hack networks and manage large systems of information; I could be recruited by the government. I’d fight World War III on the virtual plane, a surreal earth of numbers, data, and spouting electricity. Those Chinese dogs will eat their rice with sour--not sweet--faces, as I destroy their digital infrastructure and scramble their electronic society. And then I’ll take my lunch at noon; I’ll have a cup of coffee and a Turkey & Avocado sandwich. Every day we’d be attacking each other’s networks, databases, military files, etc. And not a single bomb or gun will be used. No blood. No guts. Only binary.

I’d have to rid myself of Rachel. She’s only into artsy types. If I’m not being artsy, then she’ll bite my head off. “You’re giving in? You’re joining them?”

As if being a normal person is so terrible. There’s a reason so many people do it, right? It’s got to be at least somewhat decent. What’s the alternative? Waste years of my life trying to figure out how to make “her body laced with sweat”, seem like the appropriate beginning to a story?

“Her body was laced with sweat.”

“Her body was laced wit sweat.”

“Her bdy was laced with sweat.”

“Her body was lased with sweet.”

Maybe I’ll be the one to do it. You know--end the world?

During this global conflict, I’ll be promoted to the top cyber security unit. I’ll be working from the Pentagon base with my comrades, a team of premiere technonauts, infiltrating a Beijing nuclear site. We’ll bypass its security defenses, gaining direct access to all components of its nuclear program. We’ll have our cybernetic fingers on the switch, armed to detonate at any moment. We’ll instant message our officers for confirmation, and they’ll post a social media status update letting everybody know the world is about to end.

I’d tell my wife I loved her, but only because of courtesy. I’d tell the people on my team that it was a pleasure working with them, even though I never met them face-to-face. I’d tell my kid that he ain’t missing out on much.

Then, one last time, I’d tell Rachel that she was my inspiration. She’d probably just laugh. But I don’t care. That’s the point of a muse--it’s someone you can’t have. The ancient Greeks made them Goddesses, and nary a mortal man could ever hope to reach a Goddess. I’d ask Rachel if she had any regrets--aside from me, of course. And then, I’d have myself a last beer.

The General would send us our confirmation. I’d sip the beer. We’d do a group countdown:

10. Sit back, relax, get comfortable.

9. Think about Rachel. What’s she doing without me?

8. We won’t be going out anymore. They’ll be no place to go to.

7. Think about my wife and kid. Should I be with them for this?

6. Think about my parents. Would they be proud?

5. Think about my childhood. Things were so much simpler back then.

4. Ugh, isn’t that what everyone says?

3. What was the meaning of existence anyway? The human spirit? The glorious beauty of creation? God? Sex? Drugs?

2. Maybe at the last second, aliens will come and save us. Do you think so?

1. “Her body was laced with sweat.” …It really wasn’t that bad of an opening line. I should have kept it.

And then finally…boom.