Saturday, January 27, 2007
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Friday, January 19, 2007
After locking the stall door, she was about to resign herself to a life wrought with venereal disease, when she heard the bathroom door open. She quickly sat down on the toilet, and hugged her legs up to her body, hoping to disguise her presence. She wondered why she hadn't heard her friend, whom she had stationed at the door, warn her of the incoming visitor, but soon forgot about it, as she heard his heavy stride. The bathroom tiles crunched beneath his powerful, deliberate footfalls. She heard two powerful inhalations, like an animal catching a scent, followed by a declaration, spoken in a low, gravelly tone: "Hrmmm... smells like verjina in here!" This utterance was immediately followed by a crash, a yelp, and then another cry, as the door to her stall was kicked in, and she reacted in surprise at the door, and then in greater surprise at the man standing on the other side of it.
He was tall, probably around seven feet. He was dressed in traditional, depression-era rural clothing: dirty coveralls, a torn flannel shirt, a well-worn cowboy hat, and brown work boots. He was carrying a kerosene lantern in one hand, and a sawed-off shotgun in the other. These were all things that took her a few minutes to notice, as she could not quickly remove her focus from his face. He was old; his wrinkles almost enveloped all of his facial features, except for one spot where they relented: the smooth, blank spot where his left eye should have been. "Someone's in here," she cried.
"Yeah, someone what shouldn't be," he replied in the same low growl as before. "I's been sent by the powers that be to right this wrong and send you back to the hell what you been sent from, darlin'."
"But I didn't do anything! The stalls are private, why should it matter who uses them?" she reasoned. He thought about this for a few seconds, and until he had figured out the answer.
"'Cause I'mun shoot any woman what uses this bathroom." This seemed to satisfy him, and he smiled as he cocked his shotgun.
"I just don't see how 'I'm gonna shoot you' is an excuse to shoot me," she stammered as he lowered the twin-barrels to her face.
Her last feelings were those of regret. She didn't regret her decision, but rather the fact that the last words she would hear would be "git 'r done!"
Her friend had heard and seen it all, but was too terrified to do anything about it. The man, or whatever he was, soon finished her off, for "aidin' and abettin' a strumpet." The halls of the university dorm still echo, to this day, with the screams of that night.
"Git 'r done!"
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Upon witnessing such an event, there is no system of classification which can honestly catalogue these imbeciles in the same species as myself. I refuse it. These are not human beings, they are animals; primary observation leaves no other conclusion to be drawn.
On a side note: "I can understand rioting if you win, but not if you lose." I have never heard a more maddeningly ridiculous and asinine statement in my entire life.