Blasphemy, My Lord

Ascend to heights unknown to mortals,
Brave the path of daggers,
Extinguish the fires of heaven,
Watch the shadow rising
To consume everything
Swallow all in darkness,
Laugh,
He flees, a Light unto Himself,
Making it easier for me.
Saw the head off of the deity, take my time as His
Flails grow weaker,
His twitching, bubbling
Cries
Die out.
Finally, grinning, covered in the sweet ichor of Him,
Take the head of a
God
Down to the screaming masses, to be a
Light
Unto us,
Closer than He has ever been.
A Light unto the world.

If I Kill You

I'm sitting in a room, and there is loud music, people dancing, laughing, smiling, and I am thinking about the effects my AR-15 would have on their bodies and psyches. They don't (can't) know how much I want to pull out my gun and commit murder here, but I want to show them, make them fear me. They already do, some of them, I can tell from the way they move away from me when I walk, or how there is a space around me, wherever I sit or the way their eyes won't meet mine; they fear me, but not as much as they should. I want to teach them, pull the sleek killing machine out from under a jacket, cock the load, stand up slowly. I would watch as one noticed me, the wild fear in his or her eyes as she turned away and screamed, but nobody would notice because the music is too loud. Then I would raise the weapon and the laser sight would be visible through the smoke as I targeted the head of the one who had seen me first, and a painful grin would stretch my face as I depressed the trigger and discharged a round, like a load from a demon-cock, a burst of light as this person's head exploded, the strobe light making the splatter amazing, captivating, cinematic. I laugh in hoarse peals as I begin to spray the cheerful crowd, and in less than thirty seconds, before anyone has a chance to react really, fifteen or more are dead. I try for body shots mostly so that I can let them know they are dying, that this handsome, grinning maniac who was a quiet, impressive man was now killing them, they can gasp and scream in the too-loud, shitty music, they were happy, but I am miserable, and they will pay for my burning, my constant inferno of agony, with a shorter lapse of agony, and then a long sleep. I spray and spray, and they're trying to hide now; there is nowhere to go, I have blocked off the exit with myself, and there is an outward spreading of dead and dying. I'm screaming laughter, depressing the trigger cheerfully, and the city in my heart is collapsing, burning, but I'm standing in the middle of it, tears and sweat streaming down my face, maybe some blood too, I hope there's some blood. For Christ's fucking sake, I hope there's blood. I continue to blast away, then reload another extended clip as the gun clicks empty. Shoot, shoot, I tell myself. It soothes me to see those who are still alive crawl away, leaking blood, and I scream at them, "Go, go, you can fucking do it!" I don't know if they hear me. I don't care. I empty another clip, they're almost all dead, some of them screaming at me, probably begging for mercy, which I have none of, and I target them. None will escape. Not a one. With a sigh, I go to reload, and suddenly I'm buying a Redbull for four dollars, and I say, "Thanks, you dumb slut," to the bitch who is selling it to me. She looks puzzled, but I just say, "If I kill you, would you be mad at me?" Then I walk away. I do not have a gun on me tonight.

Late Night Drive

After getting my hair cut, I decide that I would like dinner. I show up, without a reservation as is my M.O. (thinking of M.O. in this respect makes me laugh a little), to the Stratosphere tower and head to the top where the Top Of The World restaurant is. In the elevator, since I am the only one in it besides the operator, I ignore the young man who tries to talk to me with a friendly tone of voice. I have seen him at this time of night a few times, and the fact that he does not remember me offends me. Once out of the elevator, where I took turns during the thirty second ride to the top freezing the operator with a murderous stare and gnawing on a finger I kept from one of the escort girls decaying in my guest bedroom, I head to the podium, where maitre'd looks at me once, and then, I'm quite sure, mutters under his breath, "Oh, fuck," before smiling at me brightly with his mouth. His eyes are cold, but I like his jacket so I don't stab him in the eye with my switchblade.
"How may I help you, Mr. Ridgway?"
It is, of course, not my real last name, but it fits, and makes me smile.
"A table, of course. Long day, Ronald." Ronald is not his last name, either, but I know damn well this will upset him.
"I'm so sorry, sir," he smiles smugly, the bastard, "but we are all full at the moment.
"Oh," I say, wanting to prolong this, not wanting to play my trump card yet, "are you really?"
"Yes sir," he says, still smiling patronizingly. "Completely booked," he adds unnecessarily.
"Do you think," I ask quietly, "that you can find a table for the new owner of this restaurant?"
The maitre'd looks confused. "Come again?" he asks, uneasy now. His smile fades slightly. "New owner. Under new management. Me ." His smile fades completely, then comes back with a laugh. "Oh, sir, you had me going for a minute there." I laugh a little too, and then pull out my wallet with my real name on it and take it out and show it to him, grinning the whole time. "You're fired, Ronald." I had purchased the restaurant a few nights ago for the hell of it, maybe to improve on the service, I am not sure. I walk past him without looking at him again while he sputters, face blank. After being seated, I frostily order some chicken tenders, which I then send back to the chef with a screaming note to make them again, or look for employment elsewhere. God, I am so tired. The chef does so, coming out to my table to personally apologize and deliver the meal himself. I, the gracious emperor, forgive him, send him away smiling, hating him to death. After I leave, I take out my Desert Eagle and make sure the safety is on (I forget), that the weapon is fully loaded, and pick up my car from valet. In my car, I drive morosely, until I am struck with a sudden lust, and I call an escort service and order a devastatingly gorgeous brunette, whom I plan on raping and murdering later tonight. I pay with my corporate credit card, call my secretary and have her call AmEx to erase the charge immediately. She does so, asks if I need anything else, I tell her no, thank you, good night, she tells me to wear a condom. I giggle as I hang up and drive to pick up the escort. Once I have her, I take her out to the desert for a late night drive, and I have her.

Hatred Banner

A scene of brutality unfolded before me, and I did not flinch; I laughed. Without any hesitation, as the four poor, ghetto, stupid gang members moved toward me, I pulled my Desert Eagle (IMI, hard to get) out. Their faces changed, from wolves descending upon a helpless lamb, to a sort of sick fear. Knives that had seemed enough to take what they wanted were worth nothing now, less than nothing, were negatively charged, something that sapped these stupid fucks' life force. Time slowed, and I could feel the grooves and grip on the gun in my hand, and began to shoot, each peal of laughter taking a century, the gun dealing out death with each thunderous roar that stretched to infinity. The recoil took hours to reach my shoulder as I targeted each head, a delighted, maniacal grin etched into my face like a titanic, ancient statue beckoning with a grin above the gates of hell. The flash from the shots sent lightning flickers across my vision, and I realized that this scene must already be over, I can shoot better than this, and I felt a shoot of panic spasm through my heart: was I trapped in limbo? Was this play destined to stretch off forever, endless, scene repeat, a skipping record, will somebody please change the fucking CD, I am too high on LSD to move? I watched a single drop of blood drift toward me, seeing in the background, first one dead gangbanger, then three, then all four, then back to the first one, the bullet traveling through the air toward his pock-marked, yellow-toothed, terror-stricken untermenschen face, the bullet smashed in through his nose, rupturing the flesh, and blood gouted out, and the bullet continued onward, inward, sawing through the gangbanger's facial bones, tearing into the cavity where his brain was, and his brain exploded around the bullet, spraying, turning to jelly, and then something similar happened to the third, smash cut to the second, repeating, repeating. Through it all the single drop of blood drifts toward me serenely, unaffected by the carnage behind it, I see my reflection in the single drop, and my face is grinning, with streaming, too-wide eyes. The drop drifts closer, becomes a mirror as three of the four are dead, then one, then two, three again, three dead and alive simultaneously, their bodies are alive and dead and transparent, vibrating. The drop is large enough to consume me, then splashes, infinitesimal, on my cheek, and I'm standing in the middle of the three corpses, screaming laughter at the sky as the fourth gang member tries to crawl away from me. I skip forward and stomp on his head twice, then follow with two bullets. I am a banner of hatred, raised high for all to see.

Anxiety

I did not think that writing would be this, I don't know, stressful. Then again, I never thought I would write something THIS fucked up. This torture scene is going to be 5-10 pages long, and, at the end of it, I'm pretty sure I'm going to read through it, and say, "Jesus Christ, Derek. This is pretty bad." I've done this already at some parts of the book, but this is a fucking whopper. 70 pages in, and I'm going to write something that will desensitize my soul. Oh, God. Hahaha. I hope some good will come out of this, maybe I'll gain a little more understanding about how I feel, where exactly I come upon this shit in my dark little castle of a mind. I'll post some part of the scene up, give me some feedback, please.
Illy =]

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Torture scene =p oh, God.

Alright, so, basically, I really started writing my first torture scene today and it's really, honestly, like, disturbing how into it I have to get. Anyone who knows me knows that I am a huge fan of Bret Easton Ellis, and he gets really in-depth with his torture scenes, and as I'm starting to write this, I'm like, "Oh, my God, Mr. Ellis, how in the fuck did you do this shit?" >.< It's ridiculous. When you write things of this nature, you find out some things about yourself that you would really rather not have found out.
There must be some sort of dark place in all of us, and I'm exploring mine quite thoroughly at this point.
Anywaysssss,
Thanks for readin'!
Illy =]<3

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"Whether Or Not She Apologizes, I'm Going To Fucking Kill Her, Now."

I come into my apartment (still frothing at the mouth from the encounter with the bum in the ditch, just a little) to find Cristal naked on my couch, totally coked out of her fucking mind. There is a small mountain of my precious stash (less than half of what I had had before I left the bitch here this morning) on the glass coffee table, one of my ironwood cup-coasters half submerged in the white gold. For a moment, I am too stunned for words; to be honest, I had just known in my heart of hearts (three sizes too small) that something like this would happen. Another part of me screamed and raged inside of my face, "Kill her, kill that fucking cunt, kill her, there's a razor right next to her, KILL HER!" Yet another part of me realized that I should never have left the key to my safe on my bathroom counter, and that this was mostly my fault, that I shouldn't open Cristal's neck like she fucking deserved, and, oh, my dear God, was she snorting it with one of my new hundreds?
I slobber out something that sounds like, "One dead, dead bitch," to me, and then stumble towards her, my gloved and already bloody hands ready to do their dirty work again, for the second time tonight, but I fall just short of her, one of my hands skidding through my coke on the table, sending the powder flying through the air in a puff, and I groan in a tone loud enough to be a scream, really. Surprisingly, her eyes open halfway, and she wakes somewhat from her coma-like state, and I glare at her with my mouth open, fangs bared like a beast. She shies away from me, some part of her remembering something of how bad my temper can be, mumbling, "Oh my God, you're home, you're back-" and her bloodshot eyes dart to the table, see my glove covered in cocaine, and her mouth twists in a sick grimace. An apology, I think, an apology would be good right about now, might save your fucking life, you whore, but then my gaze falls on a crumpled hundred, new, ruined. I realize, as the red envelopes my sight and mind, that whether or not she apologizes, I'm going to fucking kill her, now.

"Why, hello there. What is your name, beautiful?"

I'd like to start blogging here as an aspiring author of existential and love essays. Most of my writings here will be dark, and, hopefully, quite offensive and eye-catching. I would love to hear your feedback =] I am writing a book currently that I hope to publish in a year's time, and I will be putting various parts of the novel up for reading here. Read it. Tell me what you think. I will walk you through how I come up with a lot of the fucked up ideas that are contained within the book, and maybe discover a couple of things I didn't realize about my writings and about myself along the way.
illy =] <3