August 31, 2008

Number three.

Filed under: Belles lettres — theinkhorn @ 12:11 am

Its noon and the sun is scorching. I’m strolling down the street towards a small restaurant that serves the most exquisite Moroccan cuisine, according to Kevin. His exact words, i think, were “Bloody fuckin’ awesome”. Today i’m meeting Campbell, supposedly to discuss the details of the upcoming major surgery. As i continue strolling, the heat from the sun bearing down on me, a boy with a hugely exaggerated mohawk haircut skateboards towards me. When he realises I’m not moving aside, he begins flailing his arms and gesturing wildly at me. He’s yelling but i can’t hear him because i have Nora Jones crooning into my ears from my mp3. Finally, he tries to stop but instead slips and lands hard onto the concrete, back first, his skateboard continuing down the street without him. I walk to where his head is, glance down at him and give him a smirk, then continue on my way.

In the restaurant, the air-conditioning is on and it feels good to be out of the heat. I spot Campbell in the corner booth, waving to me. As i head towards him, the smell of garbage overwhelms me and i start covering my nose and coughing lightly.


“Campbell, do you smell that? Holy… It stinks in here.”

“Smell what? I don’t smell anything.”

“You don’t? Jesus, get yourself checked.”

Campbell clears his throat, and requests that we get down to business in a tone which suggests he’s offended but i’m too distracted by the smell to bother. Campbell runs through the details of the surgery with me. We’re going to be using a robot that operates by making cuts less than one millimetre in width, almost the same size as a paper cut. He goes on and on about how incredible the technology is and how everyone can’t wait to observe the procedure and he’s starting to sweat and raise his voice and he’s excited but his enthusiasm doesn’t rub off on me and all i do is sit there and yawn and think about what i’m going to do with his rib cage when i finally obtain it.

August 25, 2008

Number two.

Filed under: Belles lettres — theinkhorn @ 10:30 pm

Making certain that no one is within range, I open the vial and do a line. Then I look towards Kelly and tilt my head up so she can inspect my nose. After getting the all clear, i slip the vial into the inside pocket of my Comme des Garçons jacket, sweep the remaining specks off and take a huge gulp of my scotch.

Out of nowhere, Fletcher appears and he’s walking funny so i know he’s either drunk or on something. He pulls a vanilla envelope from the breast pocket of his Armani, slaps me lightly on the face a couple of times with it, then walks away but not before dropping it into my lap. His expression never changes throughout the entire 30 seconds he’s in my face, that same look which also made an appearance when i showed him the femur bone of my paper boy, that same look which surfaced after his coach dropped him from the most important fixture of the season, that same goddamn emotionless expression that i abhor so much but just cannot bring myself to say anything about.

I gulp down the remainder of my scotch before picking up the envelope. It doesn’t feel like there’s anything inside and sure enough, when i open it, it’s empty. Just as i begin to crush it up and start cursing Fletcher, Kelly reaches out and grabs my wrist with such force that I immediately turn towards her and shoot her the “whats the story” look, complete with raised eyebrow. She takes the slightly crumpled envelope and looks inside. I watch as the emotions start playing out on her face, and i recognise them as shock, confusion, and fear, in that order.

She makes a few tears in the envelope and spreads it out so it looks like a weirdly shaped piece of paper and holds it out in front of me. Someone has scribbled something on it and i can hardly make out the words because of the coke and the alcohol but i move my face closer to it and my heart shoots into my throat because right there at the bottom corner, scrawled in blood red ink, are the words, “I want my leg back.”

July 30, 2008

Move along, Patrick.

Filed under: Belles lettres — theinkhorn @ 10:02 pm

I paced around the room calmly, half empty glass of club soda in hand, going in circles, counter clockwise, making sure each foot landed at least 2 inches away from the other one, heel first before the rest of the foot gently touched down onto the cold, hard marble.

I reached out for the scalpel, pressed the cold blade onto my cheek, and all i could think about was how to clean up the mess on my brand new off-white alpaca wool carpet. Not the poor kid tied up in the next room. Not the sound of him sniffing and weeping when i emotionlessly explain what was about to happen. Not the screams he would let out when i open up 2 three-inch long gaps on his face. Not the begging and grovelling when i make thousands of tiny cuts all over his weak, limp body and watch him slowly bleed to death. Not the sound of air hissing out of his lungs when i finally get sick of waiting and plunge my weapon into his chest and then drag it all the way down to his waistline. Not the sizzling of acid in a bathtub dissolving every last bit of tissue on his bones. All i could think about, was the fact that club soda wasn’t going to get the stains off.

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