My release.

        I seriously think I screwed this one up. He lays there lifeless, staring at me with glassy eyes. Tongue slanted to the side hanging off of its blood stained  teeth. The parts lay on the table slightly unrecognizable. I make apologetic statements to myself such as: All the bones will come out anyways, no one will be able to tell; or I rushed into this one without a plan and I was too out of practice for instinct to kick in. But, as I look, all that can be seen is a leg here, something that might have been the back or belly possibly. Blood pools slightly from the spot that I sawed off the foot. I just stare at the red drop, thinking this isn't my best work. Hell it is not even in my top fifty performances. I carefully wipe down my knives and the two saws and pack them into my tool bag, finally cleaning the table. With no traces of flesh and blood left to be seen I hide my tool kit and put on my backpack while leaving the building. As I leave I think "Well, at least the head came off clean."
 
     Walking to my car the whole scene replays in my head. Try as I might to forget, it just repeats. I open the door and chuck my backpack on the passenger seat, hook my phone up to the radio, and fire up Pandora. During the drive home I hear The White Stripes, some Black Keys, and The Pack A.D. Traffic is non-existent due to the rain now coming down in a torrent.  Most people stay in because of the risk of street flooding, so I just relax light up a cigarette and slightly roll down the window to let out the smoke. As I do the cigarette gets soaked, I chuck it out the window and think "cant one thing go right for me today". The window comes up and I drive the last mile with as much rain in my head as is outside coming down.
      Finally home I walk up the stairs and open the door to my apartment. The beer is cold as I grab it from the fridge, I pop the last of the leftover pizza into the oven with a little water to steam it as it warms up. As I sit down on my futon I turn on my TV and light a smoke. Poltergeist starts to scream from the speakers as I smell the salami heating up in the oven. Finally at ease I pull the pizza from the oven and enjoy each slice as a tree eats a kid on TV.  

    Calm an relaxed I think about the cuts I should have made. The head comes off first, always first, then the feet. That squares everything up making the next two cuts easy. But what's the next one. Hmm. I cant think, so,  I draw up a diagram.  Actually I draw about twenty, filling the steps in as I go along. The TV seems muted as I madly scribble on paper. I usually go into a Zen state when I break down a fresh slaughter. It is my release, all the stress of the day goes away. I go to a happy place when the whole process starts. A place filled with puppies and kittens, where the last unicorn drinks from a pristine lake as butterflies float and birds chirp away. But, not this time. I just hacked away, trying to destroy the evidence. There was no joy in it at all. 
  I, of course, know now where I went wrong. My excuses were partly right. I rushed through it, said it didn't matter if the cuts were clean, I was testing something out. Really I started off in the wrong state of mind. I hadn't planned on doing it until wed but, I had the time. If I only had manifested the desire then something good would have transpired, something my body, no heart, needed. And as I said the only thing I felt needed to be done by the end was hide the evidence and act like it never happened.
  
    As I look out the window, at the gleaming moon, a calm takes over me. I hear the voice in my head whisper of harmony. In two weeks I know it will all happen again. But this time everything will go as planned. This time I will cut that pig in all the right parts.

In Progress, Madness before subterfuge

Requiem For a dream..Not the one where Jennifer Connelly does double dildo action with a hooker to score more heroin.

                    Walking along the beach I see a party that seems to be pretty lively. There is a roaring bonfire and a few smaller fires going with makeshift grills. Just before the beach line there is a big house with cameras being set up or taken down. I cant really tell. I smack my half empty beer on my leg and consider the options, knowing far too well I intend to crash the party.
          The sun is about an hour from setting and the sea breeze feels nice so I sat by the fire for a few minutes while I plan my back story. Out the corner of my eye I notice a familiar wiry looking guy turning prawns on one of the grills. I walk over sure of my story that confirms I was invited and say hey.  Standing by the grill with an intense smile on his face as he looks at the prawns is Ferran Adria, dressed in a black jacket with white shirt and blue jeans, looking like every casual photo of him around on the internet.
          I am in awe as I am standing at arms length to one of my heroes. I fumble for words slightly as all I say is "those look fuckin' great," he chuckles and hands me one. Some freak of nature turn of event occurs and I am no longer socially awkward. Questions and conversation happens easily, I talk about food, sports, any and almost everything. He tells me he too walked by and decided to crash the party so he could cook treats he garnered from the nearby ocean, and that it is apparently a cast party for a new VH-1 show called Bama Shore, an attempt to gain some raitings by copying that MTV show.

           The conversation goes far too easy for meeting someone that I hold such huge regard for. I grab a smoke from my pack and light it up sitting by the bonfire and looking at the beach house across the way, Ferran mumbles something as a guy walks towards us. He looks like some jersey shore washout, bleached blond spiky hair and a wife beater. He looks at me and asks if I can spare a smoke, I slide the two I had out under my leg and tell him no, but he notices that I hid them and begins to get upset. As he walks away yelling like a gangster wanna be, I turn to Adria and laugh about the fact I have an unopened pack still in my pocket.  Ferran chuckles as the giant douche-bag eyes light up.
          The guy hears this and starts laughing and asking why I find this funny? He asks if I find this funny as he points a revolver at me. I laugh even harder as I say something about him being a bleached pussy. He threatens about pulling the trigger and as I tire with the whole act I grab his hand, hold the gun to my head, and pull the trigger six times. No shots ring out and I laugh in triumph as he once again furiously yells about the comedic value in the events that transpired.
         This time he pulls out an 9mm and ask if I want to try my luck again, I snatch the gun and aim it in the air pulling the trigger fifteen times, the gun actually fires on the third pull then never again I laugh and begin to pistol whip him on the nose. Blood spurts out of the freshly open gash, he screams as he storms off that he will be back with his "boyz". I tell him to watch this as I call the cops and tell them the story of some drunken guy assaulting me with a handgun and firing shots off into the air, smirking like a possessed demon at the VH-1 washout across from me. The party is starting to seem boring so I bid Ferran farewell as I walk past the beach house to go back to my car.
   If by magic I'm transported to a decaying neighborhood. Walking the litter strewn streets during the dark night, buildings that are falling apart and boarded up stare down at me as if they are remembering days of past grandeur. I am apparently on some desolate road in Alabama as all the cars parked on have the plates to match. Cop cars go squealing by as I turn down a side road and trash the gloves I was wearing for some unknown reason, as I get closer to my car the whole area gets an ominous feeling to it as i notice a red Mazda parked a little to close to my car. By a little too close I mean fused to the front quarter panel of my car. Having just got the car and unsure what my insurance would actually cover I get enraged and for some unfathomable reason try to pull the cars apart with my bare hands. This startles a group of inbred hicks who seem to have passed out in my car from too much booze and heroin. A random good Samaritan starts to scream at them to get out as it appears that they stole his car only to crash into mine. The driver only rolls his eyes as his head bobbles and attempts to start my car.
    One of the passengers stumbles out and runs off to the north as the Samaritan rushes of to follow, phone in hand. I think that my previous stunt at the beach house might have put a damper on any police response so I do the only reasonable thing and smash in the window and start to punch the driver in the jaw. As I do the car starts and he slowly works the two machines apart and drives away. I decide that running to the police station a few blocks away while attempting to reach them on the phone is the best course of action. I take off like a spider monkey running though a dense jungle, as I pass through one block a woman looks down and exclaims, "you don wanna go dis way," I ignore the warning and proceed on as I run through the block and jump on to some tables in what is now a Mexican restaurant, with blaring cantina music. Groups of people are sitting at some of the tables as I give them peace signs and apologize as I knock food around from the tables. They just smile or say "go get 'em," or "no problem" as I clamber on.

         Suddenly I gaze around the abrupt change of scenery as I hazily recall past events. My room is dark while music echoes from my TV. I remember something about my wrecked car, or at least what could have been my wrecked car but there were no actual bumper stickers on my vehicle in real life. And for some ungodly reason I could have swore I was just in some horrid Alabama beach-slum town talking to Ferran Adria about the exact topics covered in his books, which he recited verbatim. Slightly confused and trying to put the previous events in their rightful place seems to be an all too daunting task at three am so I just try to recall why I would even dream about this. And to be truthful I am more worried that if dreams are your brains attempt to remember events and information, how warped is mine to remember in this fashion. Ah well time for more bourbon.



       -SM-