Tag Archives: murder

I Kill Dead People

Here’s how it happens:

I invent the first time machine. Or, Future Thom invents the first machine, then travels back in time, and gives Present Thom the schematics, so that I — that is to say, Present Me — can in turn invent the first time machine for Future Thom to deliver back to me.

Once I — that is to say, Future Thom — has completed this first leg of the journey, he/I will then go back further in time to August 1, 2002, in the city of Los Angeles, whereupon I — that is to say, Future Thom — will track down one M. Night Shyamalan, on the eve of the theatrical release of his film Signs, and I — that is to say, Future Thom — will explain this to him (that is to say, Past M. Night Shyamalan):

“I am going to kill you,” Future Thom will say, as he pulls a six-shooter from a holster hanging from his hip white Urban Outfitters belt. “I have come from the future to save you, and I will do whatever I can to save you, so I will kill you.”

Past M. Night Shyamalan will put his hands up over his head and try to defuse the situation. He’ll ask Future Thom why, what are you doing, are you mad, this can’t be happening. But it will be happening. And Future Thom will explain.

“After Signs, your career pretty much becomes a big joke of pretentious self-importance and cheesy ‘twists’ in lieu of any actual plot or purpose. Even Signs was only mediocre — honestly, you should never have shown the aliens at all, it would made the whole thing a lot better.”

“But they looked so cool…!” he’ll protest. He’ll be wrong, and he’ll know it.

Future Thom will pull back the hammer on the six-shooter and raise it to his chest. “If I kill you now, you’ll be forever remembered as a visionary young filmmaker, stolen away from the world before his time in some mysterious, unsolved murder. Your name, your legacy will never be sullied by such crap as Lady in the Water or The Happening. You will become the legend you have always aspired to be, and you will have me to thank for this.”

“Okay,” he will say with forced bravado. “Do it.” He won’t actually believe me, but when a mad man claiming to be from the future holds a gun to your chest, sometimes it’s best to just accept it.

“It’s for your own good,” Future Thom will say. “Killing Baby Hitler raises too many questions. But killing you will save us all.”

Future Thom will pull the trigger. You will never read this story, because I will never have invented a time machine to go back in time to kill M. Night Shyamalan, because M. Night Shyamalan was mysteriously killed the night before the theatrical release of Signs, and the inexplicable and perplexing story of his death will be remembered for generations to come.

Three Words

When I say, “How are you?”
I wish it would suffice, and
that I didn’t have to explain
what I actually mean, which
is, essentially,
                           “How have the other
aspects of life been since
I last saw you, excepting the obvious
and pressing situation of
a passionate and talented man
whose life was cruelly ripped away
from him, as well as from the rest of us,
which of course is the reason
that we’re all gathered here in
the first place right now, otherwise
I probably wouldn’t be seeing you
at all, but I am really glad to
be seeing you right now — not glad
because of the circumstances under
which I am seeing you here now
for the first time in a while, but glad
because you are a person
whose company I do quite enjoy even
though we’ve never been, like, super close
or anything, and I know we’ve never
been very good about keeping in touch
either, but that’s just how life goes
some times, so I want you to know
that I do want to know

how you are— again, obviously, other
than, well, ya know, the obvious
although I suppose that contributes
fairly significantly to your general state
of being, and understandably so — but I
guess what I’m trying to say is
that I don’t just mean it as a shallow greeting
that somehow feigns my sincerity, it’s
a question that I actually mean and
there is an answer that I would actually like
to receive — specifically, from you — but not just you,
obviously, there’s other people here
who I am excited to see, not excited excited
like happy because of this occurrence —
but right now I am talking to you, and I
hope to continue talking to you, whether
it’s about work, or your love life, or your new
band, or the last good book you read
that you think I might enjoy (not that I’m trying to
be selfish by seeking out things that I might
enjoy, just, ya know, offering up conversation,
interactions, personally meaningful dialogues
on both ends), all of those things which are
implied under the general auspices of

‘How are you?’ when the question is
posed in a less-tragic setting,
unlike the unfortunate kismet that
has reunited us at the present,
so I guess what I’m asking is

how could you be if you hadn’t
lost a friend so violently, so suddenly, even
though I realize that’s a rather integral part
of your greater life conditions and I wish I had
the chance to see you now under
better stipulations but life’s not
always fair as recent happenings
clearly and painfully show.”

How are you?

The Third Policeman (part 1)

The plan was to be simple, at least the way that Thomas had been telling it. The Old Man — Mathers was his name — made his fortunes in fertilizer, dealt in cash that he kept hid beneath the floor boards. That night, we’d be waiting by the path to his house for to find him walking home, and we’d make damn sure he did’t make it.

“Damn sure.” Thomas’ words. He gave the first hit, bludgeoned with a tire pump to put him on the ground. Then he left the rest to me while he went to find the stash. “No witnesses,” he said. “Just an old man won’t be missed.” Not the way I’d hoped to do things, but we had to be sure. We had to.

I dug the spade into his head — that was all the weapons we had between us. It was a clean scoop, his brains like grits in a spoon. Too bad I’d lost me appetite. I used the bloody tool to dig a hole out in the woods. Not too far off the path — I needed the light, as little as it was, plus I had to keep an eye our two bicycles. Didn’t want someone to be stealing them while we were off making the grab, else we wouldn’t have a way to make it home.

See, the money was to be used for the book that I’d been writing since well before Thomas and I took up together. The Complete Annotated de Selby. There’s nothing in the stores that’s like it. My life’s work. But Thomas said we needed money for to publish it. And Old Man Mathers, well, he wouldn’t miss it. Or so Thomas said.

By the time he got back, I was nearly finished with the hole, digging with that tiny spade. “Aye, took you long enough,” I said. Thomas didn’t answer. He was a bit bent that I had left the corpse out on the path for all to see. I couldn’t carry him myself though, what on account of me leg. Thomas helped, and together we tossed him in the grave and closed it up, made our way up to his house to claim the prize.

When we got outside, Thomas stopped. Said I had to go in first, on account of he’d already been inside. In the interest of being fair and all that, just to prove his word.

I climbed in through the window, second from the left. The room inside was empty, but for a worn old wingback chair off in the corner. The cobwebs by the window sparkled by the moon, but the rest of them were covered up by dust and death. Thomas said the box was in the floor beneath the chair, hidden ‘neath the third board from the wall. I counted, then I double-counted three, just to be sure. Thomas was right — the board was loose, and I pulled it up with ease. It was much too dark inside to see below the floor, and I didn’t have me lamp, so I cleared away the spiderwebs and with me hand I felt around for anything resembled a money box. The angry little critters nipped at me, crawling up me arms, but I hardly noticed. I was too focused on the prize.

My fingers found it — a tin smith’s box, at least it felt like. “Thomas!” I cried. “It’s here!” I groped until I found something, a lid, or a handle, or something I could fix a grip on, and I pulled. There was a bright flash, something warm. And that’s…well, that’s when things turned a bit strange.

Flamingo Pink

It always starts out with an excuse, a justification, something to alleviate the guilt and awkwardness. “Are you sure you’re okay?” or, “I’ve never done this before,” or “Does that feel good?” A voice that spills in hushed whispers, wearing a sexy disguise of low decibel tones and airy breath that tickles the other’s ear. Subtle, revealing secrets that manage somehow to advance the foreplay to another step when choreographed and dubbed to the nervous grope of fingertips that dance across her skin.

“You like that, baby? Yeah?” fumbled Andy from his lips as he worked his hand down her thigh. He stood above her, looking down at her with slotted eyes as he bit his lip and pulled the skin of his cheeks tight against his teeth. Her thighs were thick like watermelons, with the texture to boot—skin like vinyl, recessed beneath incongruous ridges of razor burn and rashes trying desperately to clear.

He kneaded her flesh with a hard sensuality until his first finger reached the ridge; his hand stopped at the cliff, like a bungee jumper paralyzed with a sudden fear of heights. His trembling fingers tried to recover and sneak back up her leg, but she grabbed his hand with hers and placed it back on her raw, severed flesh.

“Wassamatah, baby,” she squeaked too loudly. “Ya neva bin wit’ a amputee befoah?
He fumbled for a suitable response—“What? Sure, I…”

“Or ya neva bin wit’ a prah’sitoot?” she growled, less like a cat and more like a lion devouring it’s prey. “Why’nt’chu c’mere n’ gimme yer cahk, baby?”

Andy quickly pulled his hand from the stump of her leg and held the armrests of her wheelchair with a kung-fu grip. He clenched his muscles tightly as pushed up on the armrests and lifted himself onto her. “Uh, yeah. Are you-are you ready for my cock now, b-baby?”

“Mm, yeah.” As she slid down in her seat to give him better access, Andy’s fragile left arm buckled at the elbow, unable to support his weight. He flailed backwards, his nervous leg kicking frantically, fumbling for grounding but finding instead the brake release of her wheelchair. With one wheel still stabilized, the chair began to pivot until the other wheel spun off the edge of the stairwell landing. Gravity pulled her viciously down the stairs like an angry beast grasping for his meal but still confined to his pit.

Sprawled out on his back, Andy couldn’t see her topple down the stairs—but the war drum rhythm was unmistakable and deafening as it echoed throughout the stairwell.
After a moment of shock and gathering senses, he leaped to his feet and bounded pantless down the stairs. He could hear the warbled torque of her bent and twisted wheel, still spinning in an oblong route, cutting through the air the whole down. As he got closer, he could make out another soft, liquid sound that kept a steady beat beneath it.

“Baby? You okay?” he asked with a waver in his voice as his eyes scanned the wreckage with the excitement of a driver going past a motor vehicle accident on the interstate. But he didn’t lost his erection until he saw blood from her head dripping off the ledge of the bottom stair and pooling on the landing below.

The Writer and the Writer’s Brother

Oh Michal,
Brother Michal, now it’s time for you to sleep.
It’s only you and me, and seven years
of memories. The vomit of a child’s scream
and pungent odors still haunt me. You’re slow
across the edges, on the uptake, all around,
so Michal,
Brother Michal, say good night and rest
your head upon the ground.

Oh Mother,
My dark Mother, sleeping soundly
down a well. Please remember, so
dismembered, every fairy tale you gave me
so to tell. Did your art excuse the fashion?
Did it justify the mean and twisted torture
that your oldest son endured before
I put you both to sleep?

Oh Father,
Fascist Father, floating freely underground,
rest in peaceful little pieces with the one you
love and I will make you proud with every
last fantastic fable that was never fit for print.
Oh Father,
Our Father, pardon please your thrice-
named child of your first and greatest sin

and flash that toothy pillow
smile ’til I was not alive-alive, oh
Pillowman please take my hand
and squeeze me—softly, sweetly
’til I died.

Reunion Tour (1.1)

I think it was Dylan who found it first. I say this because he was the only other one with keys to the ambulance, since we don’t have to worry about him staying sober. At least not anymore. When I got back with Stuart from grabbing breakfast inside, the ambulance was gone, and he and Alex were gone with it. Gabriel was gone, too, but in a different way, as we’d quickly discover. I’m not entirely sure what drove Stuart to look in the bathroom of all places, but midgets are compelled by all kinds of weird, outside forces that those of us at normal heights will never understand.

I’m not sure what killed him — he could have drowned for all I know, since we found him face down. There was a trail of blood flowing from his nose, but it had mostly stopped by now. Maybe that had something to do with it. I don’t know. I was a little surprised at first when Stuart asked me to join him in the shower; it’s not that I have a thing against midgets, I just thought, you know, that Stuart had a thing against guys. But then again, I think he’s European.

The water was still running. I asked Gabriel what was going on, and why he was sleeping in the shower, but he didn’t respond, so I gave him a kick. He and I have always had that kind of relationship where you can just kick each other for whatever reason and it’s usually cool. Not with Dylan, though; he was always uptight. Personally, I liked him more when he still drank. Then at least we could get fucked up, and he’d stop being a prick for a few minutes anyway.

Stuart did the right thing and called the police. He always makes good decisions like that. That’s why he’s our manager, because he calls the cops when he finds one of our band members dead in the shower while Dylan leaves the crime scene with our tour ambulance and abandons us at this ghost town truck stop. See the difference? We don’t really trust Dylan with anything except the car keys, and clearly even that was a mistake.

Although, I guess we trust him to sing, too. He’s good at that at least.

The cops were convinced that Alex and Dylan had killed Gabriel together, and had taken off in the ambulance. I told them that the whole theory was ridiculous, although I guess it explains why they left. Dylan’s temperamental and impulsive and all, but I can’t see him killing anybody, and Alex, well, I think she did all the damage she could when she lied about the miscarriage.

It took me a while to explain to the police that our tour van was actually a converted ambulance, but they caught on eventually. I’ve got to say, as far as reunions go, things could be going a lot better.

(to be continued)

Girl in a Box

She was ripped from the headlines. Girl in a box. I knew her a little bit, a number of years ago. Not enough to say hello, maybe enough to smile. Maybe. I try to remember what she looked like, but I only see the box.

She didn’t fit in neat. At least not at first. They had to force it. It doesn’t matter how hard you force something though, sometimes we weren’t meant to bend certain ways. We can bend lots of things for lots of reasons, I’m sure they bent plenty of things inside themselves to do what they did to her. But you can’t force it. No matter how much you need to.

No, she didn’t fit, so the had to resize her. I imagine it made quite a mess. In fact, I’m surprised that’s not what gave them away. But it wasn’t. I guess with enough drive and the proper tools you can make anything fit anywhere, even if it doesn’t want to. She certainly didn’t want to fit. Girl in a box.

Two days she spent in the box. Two days is unending and insignificant on the scale of the universe, but it was neither for her. She wasn’t really in the box. At least not the part of her that counts. That being said, I don’t want to confuse you, they did put all her parts in the box. To not would just be sloppy. They certainly weren’t sloppy. Two days and no one noticed the box.

No, no one noticed the box until they tried to get rid of it. I often wonder if they had been successful, would the box have sunk or floated down the river? I often wonder if they would have just been better off leaving the box where it was. In plain view, for all to see. They could make jokes about it.

“What’s in the box?”

“Oh that box? A girl”

“Ha ha ha. You are the cleverest aren’t you? Such nice young boys”

They’re all in boxes now too. Not boxes like hers though. They still have all their parts. But not the part that matters. They lost that when they put her in box. When they forced her in. I’m sure she didn’t want to go. Like I said, I didn’t know her that well. Not well enough to say hello. So maybe I’m wrong, but I can’t imagine that she would have wanted to be in the box. At least not like that. Girl in a box.

We’ll all be in boxes one day. Not like hers. Not like theirs. At least, not like their boxes right now. More like the ones they’ll be in soon.