Samuel Alexander awoke at about 7:06 am on Monday. Hate was already boiling through every vane and artery in his body. He got up and walked though his tiny 1 bedroom apartment in downtown Seattle. He opened the door to his dingy little bathroom and began to scrape the green mold growing on his mirror, but stopped when he realized he didn’t want to see what he looked like anyway. He decided to not brush his teeth or shower or any of that, and besides, his water was rusty anyway. He continued through this putrid cesspool he called a home. He made his way to his door and put on his only clothes that he owned, a pair of molding blue jeans and a shirt that had lived though the sixties. He put on his shoes and exited the apartment, shot gun in hand.

As he walked through the hall of the apartment building, his landlady approached him. She began to ask him for rent, but noticed the shotgun in his hand. He raised it and, before she could scream or run for help, he shot her in the chest. The twin bullets screamed though the air and penetrated her skin jus above the waist. Her blood splattered onto the surrounding walls and doors, splashing little droplets on Samuel’s shirt, causing him to react in even more rage. He took the butt of his gun and began to beat her lifeless body, until it was merely a bloody mass of flesh, blood, and thrift store clothes. He continued down the hall his body trembling in anticipation of revenge, revenge on those who caused so much pain and agony, those who called him freak, dork, weirdo, pimple face. The mere thought of what they had called him enraged him to the point that he stopped and smashed open a door and began to ruthlessly shoot the tenants inside, leaving them to bleed to death. He continued to leave the building, causing much disturbance as he shot the glass door open when it was locked.
He walked out of the building and went to his mailbox. He took his key from his pants pocket and opened it. Inside was actually a letter! It was the first letter he had EVER received in his entire life! He opened it in anticipation and found the contents an answer to all his prayers! It was an invitation to his high school reunion! He decided then and there that that was when he would attack, but he had to figure out a perfect way to kill everyone in the “popular” crowd a different way. He went to his rusted old ’68 Ford Ranger. He got in, accidentally kicking a hole in the rusted floor. Cursing at his damn car, he drove off to the only place he felt really at home: the gun and ammo shop two miles away.

He drove along the crowded highway, screaming, cursing, and giving the finger to as many people as possible. He drove into the parking lot of the shop and got out. He walked over to the solid steel door and knocked the secret knock. A balding man in coveralls answered the door and greeted Samuel. Samuel and the man entered the damp building, even with the lights on the shop was extremely dark due to the fact that there were no windows anywhere in the building. He proceeded to walk through isle after isle of handguns, shotguns, automatics, semi-automatics, through isle after isle of grenades, time bombs, plastic explosives, trip lines, and so on. He picked up 90 pounds of plastic explosives, 35 bottles of poisons of various types, and of course 20 boxes of shotgun shells. He went to the man at the cashier and purchased the items and left the building. He proceeded to his crappy truck and got in. All he had to do was wait 2 days.

He drove home and began to work out a plan of how he would kill each one of those ass-holes. He made a list of all their names so he could keep track of
How many of them he’d killed so far. He wrote down Wanda Jenson, Jennifer Erickson, Dave Rholg, Dan McOrmic, Wendy Parkenson, and Josh Leiman. Just writing their names filled him with an uncontrollable rage. He lashed out in anger smashing is 10 inch T.V. set and breaking his only bowl in his house. He finally calmed down and tried to fall asleep but couldn’t because of the rage still running through his head. He finally got up and got his only needle. He’d used it over a hundred times before, but he didn’t care, he loaded it up, and injected his best friend and worst enemy, heroin. His high finally got him into a restless sleep, but sleep nonetheless. When he woke up he felt horrible. He went into the bathroom and vomited, and came back even worse. He got dressed and reveled in the pure genius of his plan. He sat and waited with bated breath for the time when he would go and get his final revenge on all those who had caused him so much pain.

any particular reason for posting it??

The squeaking of a rusted pulley accompanied by the pressure of his widening jaws awakened Paul to Nightmare #2. He opened his nightmare eyes to the wet popping sound of dislocating joints to see the demon release the handwheel and kneel down to test the tension on the steel wires running from his jawbone and teeth up to the skeleton's spine hanging from the chandelier above the bed. Through tears of pain, Paul watched the demon pluck a steel string on the makeshift harpsichord and smile wickedly at him as a sound that can only come from a nightmare mind filled the concert hall, resonating through Paul's tightly gripped skull and seemingly dissolving upon contact with the demon's shiny red eyes. Absolute absorption with nary a ripple did the sound of the harp cease once meeting the surface of the grinning demon's eyes.

Another demon, smaller than the tuning demon, scurried across the ceiling to make minute adjustments on the spine. Paul listened to lead crystals clinking against one another as the chandelier tilted from the weight of the demon. He felt his head being pulled tight against the nail-studded harness which cut deeper into his forehead as the hanging demon and tuning demon continued to fine tune their demon harp while the audience waited impatiently and occasionally nipped at one another as they sat in bleachers made of bone surrounding the bed.

In one corner of the granite room sat a pristine and gleaming Wurlitzer Jukebox with blood bubbling and churning through it's shiny glass tubing. Behind the glass cover protecting the turntable and needle mechanism, a human hand held a vinyl record awaiting the demon conductor, who paced back and forth in a small hole carved in the granite floor beneath the bed; The Conductor's Hole, a noble and grand darkness occupied by demons of only the highest musical genius.

Paul's bed lifted from the floor several times registering the demon conductor's agitated intent to perform. The audience began clicking and scraping their black talons along the granite signifying their growing lust for performance as the tuning demons nervously re-adjusted the steel wires once again.

Paul watched the hanging demon move two steel wires over to another vertebrate in the spine and blood from his harnessed forehead poured into his eyes, blurring his vision as the tuning continued and the tightening increased. The tuning demon bent forward and licked the blood away so that Paul could continue to witness the demon-tuning and fuel it's tonal balance with adequate fear into perfect demonical harmony.

The audience clawed, the audience roared.

Paul wanted to scream, but the demon conductor beneath the bed held fast to his spine with sharp claws through the mattress, controlling his body, controlling his mind. The demon conductor would decide when Paul would scream.

The genius of music knew it's instrument well.

With the steel wires tuned and taunt, the demon tuners moved quickly to the sides of the bed and knelt down before their master at eye level, beckoning it to come forth and perform.

The audience fell silent as the first black arm appeared from under the bed. Claws dug deep into the oak frame of the bed as the demon conductor pulled itself out from it's cherished hole of nobility. In the conductor's right hand, it held a bone staff with razors criss-crossing the tip. It raised the staff up above it's head and slowly turned in full circle paying due respect to it's audience. Then it pointed at the Jukebox with one black claw and the human hand slowly lowered the record and positioned the needle.

The concert began.

The conductor played it's instrument in unison with the human recording of It's A Small World Afterall. Paul's musical screams enchanted the enthralled audience enticed by the conductor's perfect plectra of pain. With a sharp claw, the conductor dug deep into Paul's intestines to achieve desired pitch as it strummed the harpsichord with precise note for note demonic perfection. Changing pain balance with an occaisonal brush of the staff across the face, chest and groin, the conductor and Paul left the audience in want of more as the record began skipping at it's vinyl end.

With the sounds of scratching, popping vinyl and moans of human agony filling the concert hall, the conductor decided to give it's audience an encore. It motioned to the Jukebox's hand, and stood patiently by the musical bed as the hand flipped the record over, waiting to perform Nightmare # 1 once again before the instrument expired.

The audience clawed, the audience roared.

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