botulism smith

the faint tang of scrotal sweat assailed him as he entered the room and he knew that botulism smith had been working on revisions of what they were hoping was going to prove to be one of his masterpieces.
until you visited the ramshackle abode of this most eccentric of intellects you might be forgiven for thinking that his world, that described in his fictions, was one which could never truly exist in reality – that its tenuous cobweb intricasies of coincidence and odd magic were too fragile to survive in the workaday world.
botulism did not possess that delicacy himself though – he was like a slab of raw meat planted uncooked and bloody in the centre of the most ornate of doilies. carol often chuckled when he was reminded of these inconsistencies. the call for reworking the last few chapters of this latest book had provoked the usual prolonged outbursts of vitriol that tied up the office phonelines for days at a time – well, one specific phoneline which, based upon the experience last time, was assigned to botulism.
botulism was a genius and what did these lowly cockroaches scuttling in the shadow of his greatness think they could possibly offer him as suggestions that might be worthy of his notice? still, he did what was asked of him and made the cuts and additions that would turn this from a mildly successful book to the toast of the literati.
botulism swore that he never gave two shits whether or not some hoity-toity pretentious bloomsbury fanclub member liked his work or not, but he definitely appreciated the trappings that his fame and wealth brought him. copious magazines of victorian erotica were stacked six foot high around the room – ankles and wrist fortnightly being his favourite.
‘so,’ offered carol ‘do you have the final manuscript ready for me to take?’
‘of course i do you insufferable little pipsqueak. and do you have the requisite amount of cash which i requested in my last missive? for if you do not i will wipe my arse upon this fine piece of literature, and damn the papercuts!’
‘i have it, mr smith.’
‘good – take this; give me that; leave.’
‘of course.’
carol thumbed through the stained pages and knew, once more, that this strange reclusive specimen of humanity had cast his omniscient gaze into the heart and heads of so many.


child killer

and what would expect if you heard the phrase child killer?
well, you might reasonably expect that what was being referred to was a killer of children. what you would not want to even think about was the possibility that what was being talked about was a small human being capable of the kind of devastation patrick killarney was reputed to have caused.
very rarely does the term ‘power tools’ inspire such gut wrenching fear, but when that twelve year old with the manic look in his eyes imitates the high-pitched whine of a drill and then cackles like some ancient crone from a fairytale, you can’t help but wonder if you have adequate means of defence against the hell spawn sat across from you.
one of the kindergarten supervisors was considered missing until the chunks of flesh in patrick’s sesame street lunchbox were matched for blood types. quite how the recoil from the ak47 had not hurt patrick or knocked him to the ground was a mystery no one could quite explain, the marks his trainers had made in the smeared blood in the playroom did suggest a struggle though – as did the bullets which were recovered from the various walls.
the school psychologist, whose head was erected on a pike, with a copy of patrick’s psych evaluation rolled up and stuffed into her emptied left eye socket provided a chilling commentary on the state of the young boy’s mind.
quite how he had managed to carry out the massacre, which conservative estimates put at lasting several hours, without being disturbed is another serious question authorities are trying to answer. security is being stepped up in all of the nation’s schools, and despite the contributing role his psych evaluation and drug regime may have played in his actions, it is being recommended that all schools introduce mandatory psychological profiling to avoid similar events from occuring in the future.
patrick killarney will remain in a maximum security facility on suicide watch for the forseeable future. his mother and siblings were unavailable for comment but it is believed they are all receiving counselling to help them cope with the fallout of the week’s tragic events.

an eventful week

when he realised that the world was a jigsaw that he had been trying to put together for the longest time he heaved a sigh of relief – the fact that he had been doing such a sterling job whilst having no idea what the picture on the box looked like cheered him.
he had been accused of living in a solipsistic, navel-gazing, masturbatory version of reality, and no matter how hard he argued against it he had very little real proof that this wasn’t exactly what he was doing.
his claims of blandness – supported by a large stamp collection and several sets of holiday snaps converted into slides – were roundly refused admission as evidence into the case for the plaintiff. one look at him and you could see that there was something odd about him.
he had next door neighbours who had summoned the third incarnation of mammon and gone into business with him selling ‘kiss me quick’ hats. the house they were currently reconstructing on the other side had been decimated when a terrorist had mistaken the timer on his bomb for the one measuring how long his hard boiled egg had left to go.
to arrive at a theory of everything whilst sat in the bath dipping rich tea biscuits into a mug of ovaltine was just not normal. to arrive at an answer which dissolved reality and found everyone returned to the primal energy based forms they had been at the start of the universe could be labelled somewhat odd. but that was just the way of things with him – destroy the false notions which allow the universe to persist on tuesday morning, reconstruct reality from a quickly sketched holographic on wednesday, and have lunch with jesus on thursday. an eventful week to be sure.