Ach. Ye Bastards got me. Well played.
Now, Id like to think that I'm a competent person. A tad arrogant, maybe, but incredibly competent. Perhaps I am prone to be rather contrary, which, in hindsight, is what's landed me in this mess. You see, I was just waiting around, smoking a joint of good ol' east coast weed and thinking about how superior the east coast is to the west coast. And then, suddenly, a figure appears, grabs my joint, takes a hit and hands it back to me. "Yo. Pick a number." He said. As I gazed up at this mysterious apparition, I noticed that he was wearing a Blue Jays hat. My oh so high mind wandered, winding down a road of pure non-logic, arriving at the conclusion that this man was a Canucks Fan. A brilliant idea popped into my head and a giant grin split my face. "62 mother fucker" I uttered. The Apparition only stared blankly at me, questioning why I was so happy. "Milan Lucic! Ha! Its his number!" I exclaimed, immensely pleased with myself. A look of disgust crossed the Apparition's face and he reluctantly handed me a knife. "It is your turn" he said, then vanished into the clouds of smoke.
The next day I awoke and found myself still holding the knife. It was time to get to work. I hacked, slashed, stabbed and drowned my way through my victims, not giving a care as to how they died, just wanting the prize at the end. The ultimate goal, attained only by one other. The Title of the King of SK. Then, one day, after completing the days work, A man approached me. "Hey. Are you the killer?"
My instincts leapt into overdrive, paranoia and anxiety that I had been discovered seized my heart as he uttered the words. I kept my face a mask of pure indifference and said "No". The fool, who was either incredibly brave or stupid, proceded to tell me who the spy was and who the other suspects for my crimes were. But I was not drawn in by his gambit, because I am far from an idiot. In fact, I think I am extremely competent. I let the mob take care of the self professed "Bat Man" and silenced the spy, careful not to injure any of the other suspects. I would win, I HAD to. But they began to close in on me. The third act had come around, the end of the tragedy.
I knew they were drawing close. I KNEW it. So I laid back and lit a joint, waiting for the apparition to come. As I sat there, I loaded the pistol I had recently bought, cocking it and placing it on the end table of my bed. Nothing happened and after a while I passed out, drifting into a deep slumber. I awoke with a start, afraid that someone had come to kill me in my sleep. But no, there was no one in my home. My drug addled mind began making plans, plans that would save my ass, so that I could come back and win. I had to get out of town. I grabbed my trusty knife and my gun and took the next bus to New York. No one would think of looking for a Boston fan in the middle of Manhattan. It was brilliant! And so I rented a penthouse apartment and took up smoking cigars. It was little past a week in my newest place that a boot kicked down my door. I dressed only in a bathrobe, smoking a cigar while making myself a cup of tea. I dove for the pistol on my coffee table, scoping it up and training it on the door. I put a bullet into a black helmeted head, sending the SWAT officer flying backwards. They had found me. But they would not kill me. I would not let them have the satisfaction of being "winners". And this is the part where my tendency for being contrary comes back to bite me in the ass. I put three bullets through the closest plate glass window and dove out of it. As I fell, I caught a glimpse of the room I had just left. The door was hanging slightly ajar, the teapot was boiling. My couch sat unoccupied in front of the flickering television, with a rerun of the three stooges on it. As I am falling, my only regret is that I have not won. But at least those damn bastards wouldn't have the satisfaction of killing me! As I near the ground, I see the lights flashing, the cars speeding. I see a dog that has been run over by a car. I smile at the irony. Interesting how ife can can play the smallest jokes at the most opportune time. Soon I would be spread eagled, dead in the street, the police would search my apartment, find any amount of evidence. Perhaps the picture of me that I photoshopped the president into. Maybe the Costume my mom had made me for Halloween when I was 10 that I didn't have the heart to leave In Massachusetts. Hell, perhaps I would even get my name into some madman's private journal. Ha! The thoughts that I have when I am only seconds from death! Its all just a distraction. Ahhh... Another regret. I wish some one could have hear my last words. Not that I have anything clever to say, its just it would be nice to have one line that would make me immortal. What a joke, my final wish is to be remember for a stupid one liner. Peace out?
The next day I awoke and found myself still holding the knife. It was time to get to work. I hacked, slashed, stabbed and drowned my way through my victims, not giving a care as to how they died, just wanting the prize at the end. The ultimate goal, attained only by one other. The Title of the King of SK. Then, one day, after completing the days work, A man approached me. "Hey. Are you the killer?"
My instincts leapt into overdrive, paranoia and anxiety that I had been discovered seized my heart as he uttered the words. I kept my face a mask of pure indifference and said "No". The fool, who was either incredibly brave or stupid, proceded to tell me who the spy was and who the other suspects for my crimes were. But I was not drawn in by his gambit, because I am far from an idiot. In fact, I think I am extremely competent. I let the mob take care of the self professed "Bat Man" and silenced the spy, careful not to injure any of the other suspects. I would win, I HAD to. But they began to close in on me. The third act had come around, the end of the tragedy.
I knew they were drawing close. I KNEW it. So I laid back and lit a joint, waiting for the apparition to come. As I sat there, I loaded the pistol I had recently bought, cocking it and placing it on the end table of my bed. Nothing happened and after a while I passed out, drifting into a deep slumber. I awoke with a start, afraid that someone had come to kill me in my sleep. But no, there was no one in my home. My drug addled mind began making plans, plans that would save my ass, so that I could come back and win. I had to get out of town. I grabbed my trusty knife and my gun and took the next bus to New York. No one would think of looking for a Boston fan in the middle of Manhattan. It was brilliant! And so I rented a penthouse apartment and took up smoking cigars. It was little past a week in my newest place that a boot kicked down my door. I dressed only in a bathrobe, smoking a cigar while making myself a cup of tea. I dove for the pistol on my coffee table, scoping it up and training it on the door. I put a bullet into a black helmeted head, sending the SWAT officer flying backwards. They had found me. But they would not kill me. I would not let them have the satisfaction of being "winners". And this is the part where my tendency for being contrary comes back to bite me in the ass. I put three bullets through the closest plate glass window and dove out of it. As I fell, I caught a glimpse of the room I had just left. The door was hanging slightly ajar, the teapot was boiling. My couch sat unoccupied in front of the flickering television, with a rerun of the three stooges on it. As I am falling, my only regret is that I have not won. But at least those damn bastards wouldn't have the satisfaction of killing me! As I near the ground, I see the lights flashing, the cars speeding. I see a dog that has been run over by a car. I smile at the irony. Interesting how ife can can play the smallest jokes at the most opportune time. Soon I would be spread eagled, dead in the street, the police would search my apartment, find any amount of evidence. Perhaps the picture of me that I photoshopped the president into. Maybe the Costume my mom had made me for Halloween when I was 10 that I didn't have the heart to leave In Massachusetts. Hell, perhaps I would even get my name into some madman's private journal. Ha! The thoughts that I have when I am only seconds from death! Its all just a distraction. Ahhh... Another regret. I wish some one could have hear my last words. Not that I have anything clever to say, its just it would be nice to have one line that would make me immortal. What a joke, my final wish is to be remember for a stupid one liner. Peace out?
