Next door, a young man of 22 was attending to some business. He slunk towards his restrained victim, a man with a stupid goatee. The man had made the mistake of laughing to his friends about the "skinny little freakshow" and tripping him as he passed, but he would live to regret his mistakes.
Then he would die a terrible death.
"So, how are we doing today?" said the thin young man, grinning with false friendliness.
"I'm glad I remembered you. Today is laundry day, and I just got back from the dry cleaners. Unfortunately, my clothes got all crumpled up on the way back. Now, this is a problem. See, it seems that there's always something about me that people interpret as different, and therefore inferior. This would imply to them that I deserve criticism." Here, he took a shirt out of his bag and put it on his victim.
"And since those people have decided to show me no mercy, none shall I show them." Now he pulled a pair of pants out, and pulled them on over the man's other pair.
"And certainly none shall I show you," he growled, plugging in an iron.
"But one does what one can to avoid this whole unpleasant situation. Ironing my clothes will perhaps detract from my objectionable appearance. While the iron is heating up, I would like you to reflect on something. Consider a person, just any generic person, who would like to have cereal for breakfast. This person goes into his cupboard and opens the box. But as he is pouring, he senses something amiss. Now, imagine this person's horror and revulsion when he spots a larva, a larva of those fucking little grey-and-brown moths, right there in his cereal bowl. Then he finds another. And another. Soon, our person realizes that his cereal box is infested. And, to add insult to injury, a fully-grown fucking moth flies up right into his face!!" He snarled, his eyes blazing with anger and revulsion. The victim drew back in fear.
"Unfortunately the man is forced to throw out his cereal, but when he looks into his cupboard, he finds something much worse." Here a cold, quiet, desperate anger filled his voice.
"Moths. Grubs. Pupae. A whole colony of disgusting creatures that serve no purpose except to spoil whatever they come into contact with. Now, our person represents, of course, me. And the moths, established in his grain products, represent the masses of those feeble-minded conformist sheep who thoughtlessly ridicule anyone who is in any way different. I just can't seem to escape them. Unfortunately, you and everyone else who have passed through this way made the mistake of ridiculing the wrong person. But I digress. Back to our hero. Here he is, posed with the problem of an established colony of moths in every stage of their life cycle, breeding there in his cereal boxes. What's a person to do?" the young man asked, cocking his head expectantly, waiting for a reply from his victim.
"Uhhhhhh... have... porridge?" he said. The captor's eye bugged, and for a moment he quivered in anger.
"I FUCKING HATE PORRIDGE!!" he exploded. The man turned away, shaking.
"FOOK!! NO, YOU IGNORAMUS! THE ANSWER IS SO CLEAR! EXTERMINATION! WHY SHOULD I HAVE TO EAT PORRIDGE WHILE THEY KEEP CONTAMINATING MY CEREAL AND TAUNTING ME FOR IT? AND YOU! TELL ME WHY YOU DESERVE ANY MERCY! TELL ME WHAT MAKES YOU SO DIFFERENT FROM EVERY OTHER FILTHY PROTO-HUMAN SACK OF WASTE THAT I'VE BROUGHT DOWN HERE?" he ranted. He pulled out a knife from his coat and advanced. Murder was in his eyes, and he prepared to slit the man's throat...
Hsssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhh...
Immediately he froze, then smacked his forehead.
"What was I thinking? It's so rare to find somebody who fits my clothes. Now hold still. This may hurt a lot..." He advanced, grabbing the now steaming hot iron. A look of sadistic delight crossed his face at the man's squirming, screaming, flailing attempts to escape. He closed the gap, and pressed the scalding hot iron firmly against the man, using him as a living, breathing, screaming ironing board.
After he had ironed his clothes and the victim was nothing but a bundle of cooked flesh and denatured, warped enzymes, he decided to go to the 24-7 for a brain freezy. Mmmmmmmmmmmmm. I crave freezy freeziness, he thought as he went towards the door. He glanced at the clock on the way out. It was seconds away from midnight. Good, he thought. I won't have to worry about that irritating papercut of a clerk turning off the machine. What's with paper being able to cut you, anyways? ...Inspiration!! He walked off to the door, ready for a freezy and maybe to find a victim and explore the cutting potential of paper, but a voice stopped him. He spun around but saw nothing. Still, he suddenly felt he wasn't in the mood for a brain-freezy anymore. Then the voice came back, louder, seeming to resonate from all directions:
"Forty-eight hours, Johnny. Forty-eight hours and I will be free."
Then he would die a terrible death.
"So, how are we doing today?" said the thin young man, grinning with false friendliness.
"I'm glad I remembered you. Today is laundry day, and I just got back from the dry cleaners. Unfortunately, my clothes got all crumpled up on the way back. Now, this is a problem. See, it seems that there's always something about me that people interpret as different, and therefore inferior. This would imply to them that I deserve criticism." Here, he took a shirt out of his bag and put it on his victim.
"And since those people have decided to show me no mercy, none shall I show them." Now he pulled a pair of pants out, and pulled them on over the man's other pair.
"And certainly none shall I show you," he growled, plugging in an iron.
"But one does what one can to avoid this whole unpleasant situation. Ironing my clothes will perhaps detract from my objectionable appearance. While the iron is heating up, I would like you to reflect on something. Consider a person, just any generic person, who would like to have cereal for breakfast. This person goes into his cupboard and opens the box. But as he is pouring, he senses something amiss. Now, imagine this person's horror and revulsion when he spots a larva, a larva of those fucking little grey-and-brown moths, right there in his cereal bowl. Then he finds another. And another. Soon, our person realizes that his cereal box is infested. And, to add insult to injury, a fully-grown fucking moth flies up right into his face!!" He snarled, his eyes blazing with anger and revulsion. The victim drew back in fear.
"Unfortunately the man is forced to throw out his cereal, but when he looks into his cupboard, he finds something much worse." Here a cold, quiet, desperate anger filled his voice.
"Moths. Grubs. Pupae. A whole colony of disgusting creatures that serve no purpose except to spoil whatever they come into contact with. Now, our person represents, of course, me. And the moths, established in his grain products, represent the masses of those feeble-minded conformist sheep who thoughtlessly ridicule anyone who is in any way different. I just can't seem to escape them. Unfortunately, you and everyone else who have passed through this way made the mistake of ridiculing the wrong person. But I digress. Back to our hero. Here he is, posed with the problem of an established colony of moths in every stage of their life cycle, breeding there in his cereal boxes. What's a person to do?" the young man asked, cocking his head expectantly, waiting for a reply from his victim.
"Uhhhhhh... have... porridge?" he said. The captor's eye bugged, and for a moment he quivered in anger.
"I FUCKING HATE PORRIDGE!!" he exploded. The man turned away, shaking.
"FOOK!! NO, YOU IGNORAMUS! THE ANSWER IS SO CLEAR! EXTERMINATION! WHY SHOULD I HAVE TO EAT PORRIDGE WHILE THEY KEEP CONTAMINATING MY CEREAL AND TAUNTING ME FOR IT? AND YOU! TELL ME WHY YOU DESERVE ANY MERCY! TELL ME WHAT MAKES YOU SO DIFFERENT FROM EVERY OTHER FILTHY PROTO-HUMAN SACK OF WASTE THAT I'VE BROUGHT DOWN HERE?" he ranted. He pulled out a knife from his coat and advanced. Murder was in his eyes, and he prepared to slit the man's throat...
Hsssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhh...
Immediately he froze, then smacked his forehead.
"What was I thinking? It's so rare to find somebody who fits my clothes. Now hold still. This may hurt a lot..." He advanced, grabbing the now steaming hot iron. A look of sadistic delight crossed his face at the man's squirming, screaming, flailing attempts to escape. He closed the gap, and pressed the scalding hot iron firmly against the man, using him as a living, breathing, screaming ironing board.
After he had ironed his clothes and the victim was nothing but a bundle of cooked flesh and denatured, warped enzymes, he decided to go to the 24-7 for a brain freezy. Mmmmmmmmmmmmm. I crave freezy freeziness, he thought as he went towards the door. He glanced at the clock on the way out. It was seconds away from midnight. Good, he thought. I won't have to worry about that irritating papercut of a clerk turning off the machine. What's with paper being able to cut you, anyways? ...Inspiration!! He walked off to the door, ready for a freezy and maybe to find a victim and explore the cutting potential of paper, but a voice stopped him. He spun around but saw nothing. Still, he suddenly felt he wasn't in the mood for a brain-freezy anymore. Then the voice came back, louder, seeming to resonate from all directions:
"Forty-eight hours, Johnny. Forty-eight hours and I will be free."