Versions

© copyright 1996-2009 by Michael G. Breece



Diner

Armageddon v4.0

“The sight of this fat man nearly drove me to an irrational act, like sticking that fork, the one that went in and out of his fat face like a cock in a hookers mouth, right into his fat fucking forehead. The problem was that this fatass would merely think that the blood spewing out of his head was ketchup for his hash browns and would simply continue to eat until the pressure dropped and his head fell into his plate. So, anyway...back to what I was saying, before being rudely interrupted by that culinary Casanova there, I heard that if you do not have at least a version 4.0 the second the clock on your computer turns to the year 2000…every god damned thing will be lost and we’ll all start running amok on the streets looting, killing, raping, who the fuck knows what else. But, my software dealer assures me not to worry about it. Besides, I have a fall-out shelter in the back of my house stocked with at least 3 months of food and a rifle with a box of shells. So…”

The one and only

She was sitting over by the coffee. She had long brunette hair that was as straight as a board and a few strands would wave hello every time one of the waitress’ would fly by. I was dressed in my garbage pick-up suit, just before work, and was trying to eat scrabbled eggs, but every time I would attempt this task she would do something unexpectedly cute and throw me off. It was as if she was on a stage and I was her biggest fan. I would watch adoringly from the corner of my eye. Until, that is, a large man in a hunters cap and plaid obstructed my view. “Lousy son of a bitch”, I thought. If only I were 50 pounds heavier and had the toughness of a prisoner on death row. “I would have kicked his fat ass,” I fantasized.

A photograph is worth a thousand words

He was naked and hogtied in a downtown alley near a trucker cafe. The only sign of entry was a small trickle of blood from his left ear. No semen nor fingerprints were found at the scene. I had just graduated from school when I took this job. Of course, I figured that it wouldn’t exactly be a day in the park, but…jesus…this scene tonight reminds of my second assignment for the precinct. My second fucking assignment… She had been brutally ravaged in her basement while doing laundry…fuck it…I can’t go into detail, right now, sorry.


Grocery Store

1:30 p.m. - 2 p.m. Monday February 8, 1999

Behind the restaurant, he balances all 207 pounds of himself on an empty cardboard box. The box collapses in on itself, without breaking it down he then throws the remains into the enormous green dumpster which is now full due this negligence. The flying insects are disturbed. He ponders smoking a cigarette but, he stopped years ago, only a faint smell memory of burning tobacco remains. Though not quite as much as the one involving pot, it's a surprisingly sweet trip through the mind's eye. There's something about the air…the breath that flows…he feels too alive. He's quit every single job he’s had…there will not be a difference here. It's only a matter of time and…that time is now. As usual, he does not give warning, there will be no two week notice, he simply walks off to a nearby grocery store still wearing his stained white apron. Gingerly, he enters the store. Self-consciously, he walks over to the dairy section and behaves as though he's stocking frozen food items. A woman, 43, approaches him, “where can the sour cream be found?", she quarries. “I'll show you," he walks her around the store. "So, how's 'bout that there weather…huh?", he exudes. "Ummm…yes, that's fine." And she asks, "are you sure you know what you're doing?" He replies, "nnno…do you?" She furrows her brow and walks 23 feet to the cashier at the front of the store and begins speaking, out of range, and pointing at the young man in the soiled white apron, flailing her arms around in a somewhat violent manner. He waves with an absurd smile plastered across his stubbled face. And to think…that only a few hours ago the cavities that drill holes in his teeth were the ones crying out for attention.

11:08 a.m. - 12:33 p.m. Tuesday February 9, 1999

My grandmother was a drug pusher. My parents dropped me off one weekend, she had gone grocery shopping, said she'd be home in about an hour. I was playing with my action figures, Yoda had just beat Luke Skywalker's ass and I looked up at the clock..."11:57! It's lunch time! Where's grandma?" I thought. Thirty more minutes had past and I was falling into a hunger delirium. I climbed the stairs, into grandma's room I ventured. Through the closet, past the stench of moth-balls and... "What's this!" some sort of a jewelry box. I’d never seen grandma wear...a pause to allow a cricket symphony. "Pills...funny looking pills, strange little bottles filled with clear liquid, needles, and..." in the far right hand corner, behind some fake fur... "medium plastic bags full of... (sniff-sniff) pleasant smelling plants. Pleasant smelling dried plants." I hadn't a clue. 15 years later, it hits me... “MY GRANDMOTHER WAS A DRUG PUSHER!”


Telephone

New York

the next phone call will be that of an ex-lover. Speaking of giving forced-head to two strangers while snorting cocaine. How did that come about? Two strange women approached her at a New York nightclub. They treated her to breakfast. The next thing she knew...she was abandoned at a New Jersey apartment with two men exposing themselves.

Pictures of you

The ringing of the telephone - 10:53 a.m. the ringing of the telephone - 11:08 a.m. "from time to time, I miss seeing you naked. I thought I would ask if I could film you. In order for me to edit photographs from the footage, and...would you have agreed? Even if I told you that I would have intended to use the photographs as an aid, late at night, to reach orgasm?" Tucked away, in my head as the ringing of the telephone - 2:12 p.m. brings me all the closer to you.