I am, in fact, a god.

Not the god mind you, simply a god.

There is no the god. If anyone says they are the god, slap them with a live trout. Right in the fucking mouth. They have no business in this world, and the world has no room for their lies.

If you accept me as your lord and savior, you will be blessed. I will bestow positive thinking and harmonies in your short, pointless, and meaningless life. It will feel good through out your lifespan, which standing next to the universe, is less than a blink of the human eye. Giving this means nothing to me, since in the time it took to come down to my study and write this…..many human lives have ended.

If you deny me, well that’s just your thing man. I don’t hold a grudge. I mean, shit, you’ll be gone soon anyway.

Why won’t they believe me? Where do the cigarettes come from? They all have them. There’s no more food, except for the dead, but they continue to have cigarettes.
There are forty nine left, thousands have gone away.

There is no god. No god exists. There’s only belief, and blind faith.

Touch based machinery is horrible. I hope it goes away.

Leg sun burns are terrible because you have to wear pants and socks. Sun burns on your feet tops are even worse because you can’t wear shoes. Even flip flops kill.

YOUR HERO, CHESTER COLLINS

I was sitting in my chair that day. It was my favorite leather recliner. Actually it was pleather. You know, the famous plastic leather. The heat outside was horrid; I believe the temperature outside was 107 degrees. Anyway, like I said, I was sitting in my recliner. Actually it was more like sticking, the air conditioner had broke and I was sweating my ass off. In front of me was my T.V. I was watching my favorite show, no, the T.V. was off, and I was just staring blankly at the black screen, all black except for this man sitting in a chair. It was weird because I would unstick my arm from the chair and move it, and the person in the television would move his arm too. I think he was mocking me. Imitating my every move. This wasn’t the first time he’d appeared; every time I thought I had turned off the television he was there, to mock me. Well, I hated the heat that consumed my apartment, and the stranger that mocked me in my television. I stood up and started to kick the hell out of my T.V. It seemed the stranger had the same idea, but I won. He was gone and I was happy again.

Still fucking hot though.

My name is Chester Collins, but Mr. Nubs (I’ll get to him later) calls me Cal for short. He says it’s short for Calvin, which is my first name. I’m twenty-four years old. I live in the WORST part of town, or so I’m told.

Let me tell you a bit about my apartment. It’s in the WORST part of town, or so I’m told. I have my favorite chair facing my television, which is in the far left corner, next to the window. About seven feet away is where by bed is. There are many stains on the carpet from the previous tenant. My landlord is dead now, so I have no one to complain to about it.

RULE 1: never, never kill your landlord. They just might come in handy one day.

I hate stains. Mostly what looks like jam permanently stuck to the carpet, and weird colors on the walls. Some stains are black, I guess from animals fucking on my carpet before it was mine. Animals do that you know. How do you think we get more animals?
Around four feet from my bed is my kitchen. I like my place for the most part. My upstairs neighbors are fat pieces of shit. THEY make me sick. Always moving around, walking around, making all kinds of horrible noises at all hours of the night. You’d think as much as the moved around, they wouldn’t be so goddamned fat. Do they not realize that I live down here? I too would like some fucking quiet sometimes. Fuck them. Fucking assholes. I don’t even know them, and I fucking hate them.
Scumfuckingbubblecocks.

MR. NUBS

Mr. Nubs is the rodent who comes out of the hole in the wall from time to time. The wall is somewhat disturbing to look at. It seems the previous tenant painted a naked woman, with the hole in the wall representing her…cunt. Some times, but not often, I think it’s funny to watch him crawl in and out of that hole. He calls me Cal for short, which is for Calvin. My first name is Calvin. Sometimes he comes out and we talk about making pillows with old potato sacks, and stuffing them with old tomatoes. Sometimes he comes up with some really sick shit. He really is an odd little creature. Most of the time though, I talk and he just listens. He’s really the only friend I have. Left.
He’s tough too. I’ve seen him in my rattrap at least four times a week playing dead. He doesn’t fool me though, I know he’s still alive, and he always comes back a week or so later. He detests the upstairs fatheads as well.

MEETING THE FAT

The first Thursday of last month I was standing in the elevator, waiting for the door to shut. As it started to close, a disgusting mound of hairy flesh with five extensions, somewhat resembling a hand caught the door and it reopened. When it did, god, I’d never felt so ill in my life. This disgustingly obese woman was standing there, breathing hard and drops of sweat beating down her face. Her arms were rolls upon rolls of sweaty flesh. It was as if her skin was fatly draped over her skeleton. She was wearing a huge t-shirt that was advertising a new weight loss pill. I couldn’t help but laugh about this. The sickness worsened when I looked over the disgusting stains on her shirt, namely the ones formed around her neck area from un-eaten food. Or children. As if this wasn’t bad enough, the fat bitch was wearing cut off shorts, her legs oozing out forming feet at the bottom. I really don’t know how I held back from vomiting all over the elevator.

As she entered the elevator, I noticed the weight limit sign, and hoped. It was a small elevator, maybe eight feet by five feet. I had already pushed my floor number. She held up her hand, slowly, and pushed the floor above mine.

“So, you’re the tubby whore who lives above me?” I said to her.

Her breathing was too heavy and the elevator was too loud, she couldn’t hear me. I was completely pressed up as close as I could get to the inner wall of the elevator. Trying my hardest to not touch her. Sweet Jesus, the sounds her fat made were disgustingly horrible.
Finally my floor had come. I squeezed past her, still trying my best not to touch her. As I exited the elevator, I looked back and envisioned watching the steel doors of the elevator starting to slowly close, then one of the cables holding the lift snaps. Her grotesque face realizing that she was about to fall, the look of shock, (that’s my favorite reaction; shock.) and her finally falling to her demise. That’s when I noticed her smiling at me; I couldn’t hold a smile, Christ I could barely hold my lunch looking at the fat bitch. I turned and walked to my apartment. Fat fucking sow.

TUESDAY

I’m stoned. I’m at the top of my building. I like to stand on the edge and just look. Look at the people at the bottom. Looking at them and wondering just what the hell they’re in such a hurry to get to. Old age? A closer death? Work? Hmm, I’m looking over the left (your right). There’s someone being mugged. I hawc a lugi up, and spit it down. I’m falling with the spit, spiraling downward. I missed. I sit down on the ledge and enjoy watching for a bit. It seems the mugee (I’ll call him Tom.) is putting up a fight. This should be interesting. Tom is really giving the mugger (I’ll call him Theo) the business. Hmmmmm….. Theo pushed him to the ground and shot him. Twice, it looks like he shot him in the head, I can’t really tell from sixy eight stories up. Sixty eight? Sithy eigth? Sixy ate?

Wow, ok. Theo is gone now, and Tom is lying on the ground. What a bad place to die. In what I hear is a bad part of town. I wonder if Theo is happy? Tom put up a fight for what? Thirty dollars, and a watch? Twenty dollars, and a gold chain? Ten dollars? Stupid, especially since he died for it as well. Oh well, another john doe at the morgue. I don’t think to highly of Theo either…

I go back to the other edge of my building; I climb back on the ledge. Standing, arms far apart. The breeze is nice. These are the times I think the best. So close to death, wondering what it would be like to jump. Freefall down, only for a few seconds, and then it’s over. It’d be nice to know what that type of exhilaration feels like, only I wouldn’t really know, because I’d be dead soon after. Why the hell would I want to kill myself anyhow? That’d be dumb. Especially when I can kill other people, and, from what I can tell, get away with it.

I imagine falling sometimes. Close my eyes, and stand there on the edge of the building. I wonder if I did jump, would I fall on someone. I think I’d try to on purpose. Just to fuck someone over. That’d be the worst, I think. Walking down the sidewalk happy with life, then BAM! It’s over. You didn’t even know it was over, but it is. Sort of like that joke I heard a while back about the guy walking down the sidewalk and a poodle fell out of the tenth story window. The goddamn thing fell directly on his head. Killed them both instantly of course. The next day the headlines read: MAN KILLED BY BEST FRIEND. That would be fucked up. Though I think I’d have to laugh a little, even if that happened to me. If I wasn’t dead, that is.

FRIDAY

Why does everyone get SO damn excited about Friday? People are stupid sometimes.

No, they’re stupid all the time.

Getting excited over a day, new shoes, new car, a napkin. While I was at the store today, an old lady bumped into me, she fell down. I looked down at her, I could’nt understand why exactly she fell. It really made no sense whatsoever. So, I laughed. This seemed to upset her a bit, since she told me to “FUCK THE HELL OFF!”. I kicked her in the ribs and walked off. Fucking wrinkly old whore. Old people need more of a sense of humor, they are way to uptight.

Mr. Indasia used to live in the apartment next to me, he was crazy too, He always complained when I’d bang my head on the walls too loud. One time he started banging on the walls, he was yelling something of the T.V. being too loud. So I beat a hole in our mutual walls with a hammer, then looked through it. As I thought he was looking through as well, so I took my .44 and placed it through my side of the wall. (of course) I brought the hammer back, gently squeezed the trigger. His face was dripping with sweat, it was really priceless. Since there was no bullet in that chamber, it simply clicked. He dropped right fucking dead of a heart attack.

That’s my point exactly; old people have no sense of humor whatsoever. If he could have laughed that off, he’d be alive today. Maybe.

THREE-LEGGED DONKEY WHORE

I could never see myself as an old man…..does that mean I’m gonna die early on? Oh, well. I think I might prefer it that way, sometimes. No, all the time, I think.

I remember I was walking down the street a while back, and I saw this old man walking his dog. He had the biggest smile on his face. I remember thinking: “What the FUCK is he so god damned happy about?”
Was he happy because he made it another day? Had viagra helped him out the night before? Did his dog just take a great shit, and he was proud of it?
Well about the time I was thinking about this, some kid ran by and clubbed the back of his legs. Of course, he fell straight down. My bet is he was thinking of either the extreme hurt he felt. Or how he wished he’d bought a dog bigger than a fucking poodle. So the kid took his wallet out of his back pocket, and began kicking the shit outta his side. Then proceeded to kick his face in. I guess the old fucker didn’t have much in his wallet. The little bastard (who couldn’t have been more than thirteen) took off. I walked up to the old man and checked his pulse.
Then his wallet. Greedy little shit must’ve taken what little he had in there. His fucking poodle was barking up a shitstorm, so I punted the fucker. Unfortunately the leash was still being held by the old man, so he didn’t go far before the leash stopped him. As soon as he hit the ground he was back up yapping up a fuck load, so I think I did him a favor by stomping his head in the pavement. I mean, he couldn’t have been too happy being a poodle, right? Oh, well. I noticed something had fallen out of the old man’s pocket…….a baggie. I walked over and picked it up. It was dexnophem, or the great red pill. I love dexno.

PILLS THE GREAT, SHIT YOUR MOM’S LATE

Earlier today, I took what was left in that baggie of dexno. I popped about seven of them I think. The recommended is not to exceed three in a twenty-four hour period. Within ten minutes, I was again plastered to my recliner. This time it was only eight degrees outside, and nighttime. I started to nod off; when out of the corner of my eye I noticed two penguins pacing back and forth in my living room/bedroom/kitchen. Then they took to fucking on my rug. I thought to myself how stupid their faces were. I hope I don’t look like a god damned penguin when I fuck. I assume it was the male on top, because he stopped in the middle of it, looked at me and shit on my rug. My favorite fucking (not penguin fucking, mind you) rug, my only fucking rug. Apparently the little shit could read my thoughts. Then he took to shooting his little wad on his own shit. Wretched little fuck, I thought to myself. He heard this too, because he then proceeded to rub it in my rug with his foot. Or flipper, whatever the fuck it is.

Maybe I was actually talking aloud.

He was wrong. The foul odor of a butt cookie filled his personal space. If only that bubble he called his personal space was real, it would trap the revolting scent. He tried a new tactic, something that was probably the most foul thing he could think of. It was also the only real option he had. He started to suck in all the air he could.

Gagging quietly as to not alert the men with guns, he inhaled his own dookie fumes, tears forming around his ocular cavities.

Did he get it all? No. Just enough wafted over to the man on the left. The one with the ponytail of black hair. He sniffed at the air, raised a brow and asked the other man, the one with an eye and soul patch “Did you fart?”

The man with the eye and soul patch replied with a no, but the answer wasn’t good enough for the man with a jet black ponytail. He pulled his gun from it’s holster, but the man with an eye and soul patch was faster.

The managed to get the drop on each other, and both fired at the same time. Gut shots. They slumped downward in their chairs, holding their bellies.

“It was me, actually.” said the man tied to the chair on the other side of the room. “I told you guys I’d step on some ducks if you fed me baby food.”

The two gunmen, one with a jet black ponytail and the other with an eye and soul patch, took the rest of their energy and raised their arms up, pointing their hand guns at the man tied to the chair and fired a round each.

When he was 19 he smoked powdered laundry detergent.

When he was 20 he ran over a homeless woman while driving drunk and getting a blow job from a homeless man. He promised the homeless man he’d drive him to the bridge that goes over the Santa Pan River, but he never made it. He ended up kicking him out after he ran over the woman.

When he was 21 eleven of his teeth fell out in under 72 hours. He drilled tiny holes in each one and made a necklace. He wore the necklace for eight years until the flimsy thread he used to CREATE it finally withered away.

When he was 22 his father died at sea.

When he was 23 he became an alcoholic, generally drinking upwards of 9 boxes of Fritz’ Spritz’ wne.

When he was 24 he learned that he was adopted, he started to search for his biological parents, but was sidetracked when he adopted two orange kittens outside of a mall parking lot.

When he was 25 he found his biological father. He was a drug addict, and two time convicted child murderer.

When he was 26 he strangled one of the orange cats he’d adopted. He cooked the flesh of the feline, and restructured the bones to resemble a cat that walked upright.

When he was 27 he attempted suicide by cutting his own throat, he got halfway across before realizing he wanted to live. His biological father was coming by for a visit as this happened, and took him to the hospital. On the way he muttered “When you were eight, I should have killed you.”

When he was 28 he went on a fishing trip with his biological father. Once they got far enough out in the water, he put the claw end of a hammer his biological fathers head. He pushed the body over.

When he was 29 he tried to eat grilled lamb, but ended up vomiting all over himself.

When he was 30 he cut off all but four of his eight fingers, and both thumbs.

When he was 31 he sat at a desk, fumbling with crayons and markers, wishing he could CREATE something, anything. The images that plagued his mind needed to come out, but they couldn’t. He had no release.

“Of course they are,” Altham replied “your feet are in a pan of filthy water.”
Relsh looked down, the best he could over his somewhat bulging belly. He wasn’t exactly overweight, but the extra pounds he had resided in his midsection.
“That water is filthy.” Relsh said, matter of factly.
“Yup.” said Altham, who was somewhat a specialist in the way of soaking things. He was quite certain if you put something in water, or a liquid of any kind, it may get wet.
“What do you suppose is in that pan?”
“First of all I’d guess water.”
“You’d probably guess correctly.” Relsh quipped.
“Actually, I’d like to re-submit that comment and say I’m sure it’s water.”
“Re-submit? You mean re-phrase? This isn’t a court of law.”
“No, no, I’m sure I wanted to re-submit that comment. I’m a detective, I know the law.”

Relsh cocked an eyebrow at Altham.
“You’re lying.” he tossed out, but tossed out with confidence.

“You’re right. I’m no detective. I know nothing of the law. You were probably right about the whole re-submit/re-phrase thing, too.”
“This isn’t comedy,” Relsh commanded “what the FUCK else is in that pan?”
“Well we’ve agreed water,” Altham said “and it looks like some rust particles, probably from the pan since it’s old and rusty.”
“Shit. It’s not from the pan.”
“Sure it is. The pan is quite rusted out, in fact, there’s more rust than paint on it.”
“How long have I been here?” Relsh questioned.
“Two years, I believe.” Altham answered.
“Shit. It’s defiantly not all from the pan.”
“There’s nothing else in there that could rust, and cause rust particles, and make the water so filthy.” Altham stated.

Relsh looked Altham square in the eye,

“I’m a robot.”

“Where’d you go last night, man?” the voice said on the line.

Groaning, he answered back, “The fuck is this?”
“You got a holo phone and you don’t even use it’s named function?”
“It’s broken. Fucking cat keeps hammerin’ himself in the head. Who. Is. This?”
“Dude, it’s Dunt, you were supposed to meet me at Rang’s last night.”
“I didn’t go?”
“Nope.”
“Shit, I don’t know what happened. I feel like fuck, and someone is showering in my room.”
“Whoa! Did you fuck, man?”

He lifted the covers to inspect his privates, finally opening his eyes. Dried semen coated his pubic hair, giving the answer away.

“Shit.”
“Oh, man, who?”
“I don’t fucking know, man. Are you sure I never hit Rang’s party?”
“Positive.”

He sat up a quarter of the way, looking towards the bathroom door, open and slightly exposing the glorious back and ass of a woman through the steam.

“It’s a chick, right?”
“Looks that way. Let me hit you later.”
“Dude, wait, the reason I called -”
“Later, Dunt.”

He hits the button again, ending the call.

“Who the hell is in my bathroom?”