- Age / Gender:
- 25, Male
- Manchester, UK
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"You want a government to lead you in your wars and ensure your prosperity. What governments actually do is draft you to fight their wars, and enslave you to ensure their prosperity." - God, allegedly
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Level 43 Melancholy
Ranked as Police Lieutenant
apparently people still occasionally visit my profile page
you can see all these stories at http://earfetish.abortedfoetus.com and they're at the top of the page and separated properly
INTIMIDATED BY A PISSYPANTS DRUNK
"I don't know what you're talking about. Leave me alone."
Kevin's conversation with his friends had just been interrupted by a red-faced drunk. It was the end of a school day and they were chatting idly at the bus stop. They knew this man. He was a well-known local hazard.
Kevin's awkward, spotty baby-face and gangly body sprouted underneath a mop of messy hair, which he hoped would look more badass when he got older. He had just entered the fury of puberty and was full of self-doubt and anxiety. His friends were worse - Kevin was a dweeby weakling but someone even skinner and two girls were all he had to back him up, and they were even more withdrawn, quiet, and lost.
Also at the bus stop was an attractive young mother, holding her daughter with one hand and her baby's pram with the other. The drunk had accused Kevin of 'starting' on this woman, although he hadn't exchanged a single word with her. This disgusting old fart was renowned for starting fights with adolescents with long hair for no reason and they could've guessed trouble was brewing when he came out.
"You heard me, stop starting on that family," he slurred. It was earlier than 4PM and his plans for tomorrow were identical. If he wasn't so vicious and violent he would've been pitiable.
Shouting over his shoulder, a panicky Kevin asked, "Excuse me Miss, but have I said anything to you?"
He was hoping she'd calm the drunk down - his useless friends weren't going to say anything - but she replied, "no," and continued ignoring the situation. It wasn't any of her business. She had her own kids to keep safe; she wasn't going to put herself in danger to protect someone else's. Kevin thought if she had been more vocal she could've diffused it, but maybe the woman was wiser.
"Y'hear that?" Kevin replied."I've not done anything! Chill out, everyone's cool."
"Don't you cheek me," he snarled, obviously unsatisfied with any confrontation that doesn't result in non-consensual violence against someone a third of his age. He smelt quite badly. Kevin noticed he had dark urine stains on his pants.
Kevin's frustrations and fear cracked across his face. He wasn't a good fighter, he wasn't tough, and he was a peaceful, placid pacifist. Maybe it would've been wiser for Kevin to come out all-arms flailing at this point - knock the drunk off his feet, crack his head off the kerb, throw him into the road - but he was never one to make the first move. He'd often tried to argue his way out of violence, which was comparable to arguing Keynesian Economics with a Neanderthal baby, and this time his hand articulation got on the nerves of his opponent.
"If you put your hands in your pockets one more time, I'll kick your fucking head in," the drunk man spat. Kevin removed his hands from his pockets.
"Put your hands in your pockets," the drunk challenged. Kevin was a coward who should've known he was being asked to initiate the fight, but he didn't, and therefore obligingly put his hands in his pockets.
Instantly, the sloppy drunk lunged towards him, arms outstretched, wrapping his gnarled fingers around the young boy's throat, and pressed them against his windpipe, his sunken eyes flaring with ego and misplaced anger and drunken pride, staring into the shocked face of a young teen. Kevin smashed his fists against the man's arms until he let go, and staggered back towards his weedy pussy friends who hadn't so much as complained, let alone helped him. "What the fuck," he gasped, swallowing hard to try and open his gullet. The choking sensation continued, despite his free airways, and a raw, reddened mark bloomed around his neck.
Fortunately, the bus finally pulled up and Kevin got on. The pissypants drunk followed him, smelling like a toilet and moaning bitterly about kids with long hair under his breath, staggering up the aisle, kicking Kevin's schoolbag, and sitting in a scruffy heap behind him. Kevin could feel his raspy breath on his neck, hear his drooling mouth smacking, and smell the bittersweet fumes of toxic alcohol emanating from the gross caricature. He felt fear, apprehension, but also confidence. A tiny spark of testosterone had released itself from his underdeveloped testes and sunk warmly into his brain. He knew the drunk was no real trouble - Kevin had the speed advantage, and he was going to be inches from home anyway - but this vile wreck was still dangerous, and disgusting, and was following him.
The bus pulled to a halt at Kevin's regular stop, and he hauled himself out. The drunk fell after him, using the bars like crutches, swinging down the railings and sprawling out of the door just behind his adversary.
Kevin strode down the road without turning around. The drunk roared, "Eh, you! Come back here and let's sort this out!"
"Fuck off and hide in a kid's playground," Kevin responded weakly, immaturely - it was an ad-lib, I'm sure he could've come up with something funnier if he'd been preparing - and darted around the corner, pressing himself behind his fence until the coast was clear. The drunk meandered along the road, desperately trying to confirm his existence by hunting down and beating up little kids, eventually giving up and smashing his head apart with whiskey outside the off license.
Seven years later, Kevin was thrown out of the Red Lion pub after pummelling the shit out of a surprised-looking red-faced gentleman.
ODE TO LONG HAIR
I have long hair.
I think it's because of my distorted view of the 60s. After viewing show after show of the hippie stereotype, I became convinced that they were all long-haired, carefree, that they sat in parks smoking weed, making daisy-chains, playing the drums, talking in metaphor-peppered riddles about life's most intoxicating questions.
Hippies probably didn't, and neither do I. But we should.
Long hair is the badge of harmless youthful rebellion, of peacefulness and approachability - people feel more inclined to approach the long-haired in the street asking for whereabouts.
It's good that Heavy Metal has cultivated such an image for itself. Gore-splattered albums loved by laid-back party animals, friendly nerds who lost their way. If your music is full of anger, passion, intricacy, soaring moments of bliss and crushing sombre lows, then you can chill out the rest of the time.
Yesterday I walked past a guy with similar hair, wearing a Burzum t-shirt. Feeling we were brothers under the One True God that is Metal, I roared "BURZUM" in a cookie-monster voice and flashed him the devil's horns. He looked briefly surprised and then ignored me. Usually you get a response.
Beethoven would be Cannibal Corpse's lead guitarist if he lived nowadays. Heavy Metal is orchestra music with better drumming. Long hair adds to the spectacle.
In the scary world of jobs and the future - far scarier than any Death Metal song - people might not be so hot on long hair. You're only unemployable once, I say, so you may as well dress the part. My heart bleeds for people who grow up too early; friends and relatives my age who are engaged, who have kids, who buy All Bran instead of Ricicles, who came to university to study and complain about the noise. You've got an assignment in tomorrow? How come you're not awake at 5AM completing it?
When I was in high school, it allegedly looked like a mop, and people who didn't like me much called me 'mophead'. Younger girls who denied fancying me would pull it. In a different setting - some dingy dungeon somewhere - I could've enjoyed it as well; I should try and hook up with 'em.
"When you gonna get your hair cut / boff chopped?" dickheads would whine through their nose regularly. How bizarre. They never enquired about my day, all that concerned them was my hair. If you don't know my name, don't give me your fashion tips. And lose that bogus nasal accent.
I'm never chopping my boff. And fuck your short back and sides, or your dumb spiky tufts; your mum was lying when she said you looked smart. You should embrace your individualism, let it grow from your brain and rain in ringlets down your back; wear your personality on your forehead. What a waste of a life, to be bullied into changing your appearance. Just because of you, it's going to reach my bellybutton. People waste their lives following the herd; it's always the interesting people who are standing at the side, commenting on the symmetry of the buffalo.
"But aren't you conforming to the non-conformists?" people claim. Better them than your mates.
I knew in time my hair would look gorgeous, and when I could put it in a ponytail, it became perfect. It was pulled straight at the top before falling into a mass of ringlets and curls, perfect for rocking out with integrity. Now, I look in the mirror and see a skinny Viking. Maybe I wear it in a ponytail too much.
The guy next door to me also has long hair. He's American, and he actually waited until he was 21 to drink. He's a proper Christian, he has never smoked dope, and I heard him shamelessly confess to being a virgin. Beyond the hair and the underlying nerdness, we're totally different. In the 60s, we'd spend long hours in the kitchen, listening to endless psychedelic music and discussing which political system would bring us closer to communal love, or which was born from love, but social niceties have stopped me from breaching any of our major differences in any meaningful manner.
Hip-hop seems to contain the most cunning linguist stoners nowadays, but I don't like their haircuts.
I put the lighter to my final cigarette and inhale. What a childish habit.
My first drug was spinning until I was dizzy. The second was fire. Fire meant power. An entire element, gripped in a fist. Whenever I pressed the button, my heart jumped. Touch the flame against paper and it accelerated; adrenaline soared through my veins. Breath heavy, palms sticky, I would watch, wide-eyed, as the yellow ate the white.
Light a match, put it in a full box, and turn the box upside-down. The matchheads would glow white-hot, all the phosphorous igniting simultaneously; hisses and huge fireballs decimate the contents. The boxes were surprisingly flame resistant, perfect coffins for thousands of charred wooden bodies.
I was too sensible to be doing this, even at 14. I suppose that was half the joy, and always will be - allowing stupid urges to override your internal monologue. The lighters and matches were a nag, just as real as the urge to eat, shit, drink and fuck; my mind would flash to them when I was bored, and the resulting inferno would satiate the delicious pyromania. I loved controlling the uncontrollable. My behaviours and whereabouts for every moment were stipulated by my parents, but I could do all of this, and get away with it.
I wouldn't regret it so much if I had taken my habits outside. Lighting paper in my bedroom was dumb. Losing control and burning the house down never crossed my mind; now I'm older, the potential for disaster is all I consider. Arson, the firemen would say, and I would say, no, it was me. I was playing with fire.
I stopped doing it at around the same time I started smoking cigarettes, a vice that stuck for years. I like to think that this was slightly less moronic. The fire was even more controlled now, a hot cherry advancing towards my face. The master's scope had extended beyond mere flames, to wanton self-harm, choking down burning fumes and enjoying them. I took this into nature; go to the park, pull a Lambert and Butler to my mouth (the most advertised brand, replaced with roll-ups) and suck the smoke into my lungs. Countless times have my eyes focused on that glowing ember, the smoke trapped in a cigarette paper, funnelled into my mouth.
Individualism. When society hates cigarettes, it doubles their appeal.
It was only when the reality of being in control of my own life sank in that I decided I didn't want to smoke. The fire of youthful rebellion flickers under the wind of imminent employment.
The first time, the nicotine racing through my blood, seeping into my brain, dizzying me, weakening my legs, and I'd lie back and sigh in a crazy haze. It was amazing how easy it was to get away with it. It's different now. Enjoyment moved to satisfaction, and that moved to addiction, and now it's disappointment. I'm done. Fire is the only ember left to be extinguished.
I strolled haplessly into the mouth of McDonald's. I had never intended for this job to take over my life, for it to be my raison d'être. It was just supposed to be pocket money, experience, a stop-gap until greater ideas came to fruition. It was hard to find work, but fast food was always available, and I'd heard they had promotional opportunities.
They showed me the ropes. The pay was bad, but put in extra effort and you might get commission. It didn't take much, they said. Speedy work, a friendly exterior, manage to get a decent ratio of SuperSized orders, and massive promotions are yours for the taking.
We used to come in early. They said it was under the instructions of The Management. The higher-ups in our chain, the Leaders, would herd us into a room. New Recruits would stand up and talk about their aspirations. We would all applaud, and say 'To Ronald' in unison as a means of a salute. It was just a company motto, they said. It was bewildering. Work hard, they said, and you can become management! You can run your own chain, lay back and watch the money roll in!
Staff grinned inanely around you, shook your hand, welcomed you into 'The Family', and you'd spend the rest of the day filling orders.
And we'd work to bleeding fingernails. There were people who'd been on the shop floor for years, always striving to become a Leader, a hype-man; other staff would drop out quickly, disillusioned with the whole mad charade.
I worked at it, though. I found myself buying into it. 'To Ronald' drummed into your head, repeating it in the early morning, going to 'chill out' sessions after work to show your face, going out for pizza with the staff - but I suppose I didn't care. I was going broke. I couldn't afford the heating when I was at home. I'd turned off my fridge, but all it had in it was a half-drank bottle of Pinot Gris. Days when no-one SuperSized, I could barely afford to get to work the next morning. I thought I was playing the odds, I thought they would work in my favour after days of bad luck.
I met a friend there, Greg. He had been a Leader before, but had fallen from grace, and had spent 6 years 'Doing It For Ronald'. He was becoming disillusioned with the franchise, with his job; he thought his talents would be better employed elsewhere. I thought he was pretty hopeless myself, but I suppose he could've sold the Big Issue or something.
After the chill-out session after work, discussing the day's heroes, a few speeches from the best people, and an overall warm congratulations from The Leaders, Greg took me to one side. "I need to show you something," he said, mutinously.
I followed him to the security room. It was locked. He unscrewed the bolt and pulled it open.
Inside were dozens of monitors, mainly observing the kitchen area. Different speakers took up different areas, and Greg demonstrated their use by running to the cooker and saying 'can you hear me?'
I was amazed. We were being spied on!
The blood began to drain from my face. The whole thing began to look like a cult, feel as odd as it did when I first started. I felt brainwashed. Any aspirations I had of becoming The Management died that day.
Greg carefully screwed the bolt back on and closed the door on my previous worldview.
The next day, he was gone. The Leaders wouldn't talk about it.
I had been toiling for 6 months and had gained an element of respect around the broiler. But now the operation felt sinister. I couldn't work here; I couldn't support this manipulative cult. I left the next day and joined a commune.
Two weeks later, I came back with a bunch of hippies. "This organisation is using you to further its own Capitalist agenda," shouted one dreadlocked one in a dirty t-shirt. A barefooted girl in a see-through dress joined in on the chorus. "You've all just been brainwashed into believing in a false reality," she declared, quite brazenly.
"Shut up," I told them. "Guys, you've got to leave this place. They spy on you. They've done something to Greg. It's all a load of bullshit, saying you'll ever reach The Management; you're just going to hang around being a drone or a slimy Leader, perpetuating the same thing all over again. Viva la revolution!"
And the employees rose from their workstations. "Is that true? Are we being spied on?" "Do you do damage to us when we get in your way?"
The most senior Leader rose to his feet. "So you were in cahoots with Greg? I knew you were up to no good. You never accepted Ronald. How dare you damage his name?"
But the staff were mobilised. Armed with spatulas and colanders, they overpowered The Leaders and marched on to McDonald's headquarters.
The Battle of Oak Brook will probably go down as one of the most important in Human history. A civilian uprising, lead by someone retrospectively believe to be a paranoid schizophrenic, attacked the Mcdonald's Headquarters in the sleepy suburb of Oak Brook. Two hundred of their employees threw beef burgers at their windows before the manager approached, seeking calm. At that point, he was beaten to death by the swelling mob, armed with makeshift equipment and protected with pots, pans and sieves.
The after-effects of the battle were tremendous. Toyota closed up shop 2 days later, followed swiftly by Microsoft, ExxonMobil, Fortis and BP. Within 1 week, 378 of the Fortune 500 had shut down, and within a month Wall Street was used as a fruit and veg market. Innovation ground to a halt, and humanity began to retreat back to its present, simpler, nomadic form. IPods are now used as spoons.
Recent Game Medals
Total Medals Earned: 710 (From 66 different games.)