I see you red shirt bro
Looking at me, because I have sunglasses on
Don’t you know it’s because I can’t stand the fluorescent lights?
They drive me crazy.
I don’t like your hat or your shorts.
Your shoes are okay, but it’s not enough.
I am going to brutally murder you.
I came armed and ready to murder you.
I have water, and Coke, and cookies, and tea,
Matches, lighters, paint samples, sunglasses, and pens.
And one fucking hell of a knife.
It’s lime green, and really meant for kitchen use.
But its sharp as hell and I really want to murder you with it.
The red blood would look spectacular against the pastel green hilt.
And it wouldn’t show up on your red shirt, because its red.
I want to stab you everywhere, but I would go for the throat.
I could open the door, casually, and stand as if I were smoking a cigarette.
Maybe a trunk twist or to, I’d want to draw your attention for at least a second.
And then you would turn away.
I know you like staring at me. But you really can’t keep staring at me.
I am staring right back at you, buddy, and boy do I want to kill you.
Maybe I know you, is your name Seth?
It doesn’t make me not want to kill you.
I don’t even like that name, I think that’s reason enough.
Don’t fucking look at me, its making me grin;
I keep thinking about how glorious it will be when I murder you. Brutally.
I would take you when you turn back to your fucking miserable paper.
I can tell by the way you look that you are a terrible writer. It’s quite obvious.
Stephen King is the only writer I know who wears a hat and he fucking blows.
I think he enjoys fucking animals, but then again so did Catherine the Great.
The point is, you are already quivering and twitching in blood in my dreams.
I would grab you in your wheely* chair and pull you into my room.
My room is I, the I stands for inevitable. Your inevitable death.
Or invincible. My invincible knife. Or incredible. The way your blood looks on my hands.
Either way, it’s making me really hungry. I want to devour your rocky mountain oysters.
Once I had you, with your muscles relaxed, dragged into my room, to me, a mere five feet,
I would kick the chair over and hastily shut the door, lest you make a peep.
And in one fell swoop I would fall upon you knife first, straight into your ugly neck.
Your eyes would bulge, you would be quite surprised. Although you suspected I was odd,
Given that I was wearing sunglasses, you had the impression I was eyeing you murderously.
It’s only because I was eyeing you murderously. The image of your neck as a fountain of blood
Raining upon my shoulders makes me want to fuck like an animal.
But not with an animal.
You wouldn’t be able to make a noise, other than to gurgle.
It would be a silly little gurgle, covered in blood like ketchup.
You’d twitch and spasm, like a hot dog in a microwave, or a fish in the hands of a child.
You looked at me again, you son of a bitch! I think you can tell I am getting excited.
Maybe it’s because I keep touching myself while stroking my lime green knife.
So I guess at this point I would crumple up your dead body, like a used condom.
Disgusting, and worthless, something you yourself, while eager to try it on a moment ago.
Barely can imagine touching the dirty filthy thing you once needed desperately.
Red shirt bro, his life having been turned into no more than a filthy disgusting used condom
Would be crumpled in the corner. I would not be able to fit him in the waste basket.
So I would stack the three extra chairs in my room I, for Incendiary Red Shirt Bro Death,
Over your ugly crumpled body, and pretend you weren’t there.
I see you walking away, horrible red shirt bro. Suddenly I am lonely, without your miserable existence
Neither staring at me like a circus freak nor crumpled dead in the corner of my room I,
for International Currency Exposures,
Buried underneath a sea of blue wheely* chairs. I suppose I would have to return yours
Lest the next victim ask me for a chair, and then notice your dead body
Crumpled in the corner under a pile of chairs, and me with my sunglasses
And blood stained clothes. Maybe they would figure it out then and not ask me for a chair.
I’d give it to them, politely, and smile, and wait for them to stare at me or leave again.
Like red shirt bro. I am very lonely, and I only have my lime green knife to soothe me.
I must wait until the next poor bastard comes to OIT desk number 57.
I could wait until dawn, I have a lot of uppers on me, and a bottle of wine.
It’s in a brown bag. Maybe I could put it next to your dead body, and pretend it was yours.
“I didn’t kill him! It looks like the bottle did him in. The moral degradation of society!
Truly, I am appalled.” It’s shocking what people can get away with these days.
Wearing red shirts, wearing sunglasses at night, stabbing bros brutally in the library,
And Plaid shorts. I fucking hate plaid shorts. Fuck you, bro.
I didn’t even get the chance to rape your dead corpse when the loneliness set in.
It would have been spiteful and angry. I would be crying and screaming at you
To get up, so I could kill you again. It’s better than fucking animals, like that freak Stephen King.
That guy really grinds my gears. I wonder where he lives. I hear he likes hot dogs.
I read it in some shitty newspaper article, where he talked about the Red Sox.
And his love of Fenway Franks, which are hot dogs. Steamed hot dogs.
I don’t particularly like them, nor do I like any of his works.
Maybe it’s because he enjoys fucking animals.
I was going to enjoy spite fucking your dead body, red shirt bro,
But you’ve left, and now I need to stop giggling to myself about how I am going to kill you.
And do some fucking work. And by work, I don’t mean jerking off.
I could get arrested for that, doing so in the library.
“The moral degradation of society!” they would say. I’d be in the papers.
And not for the brutal murder of a common red shirt bro, but for a creepy affair
When someone walked by and was appalled by the degradation of the library
As if any of you horse fuckers weren’t doing at least the same or worse.
I think it’s all this moral degradation of society that’s keeping me from my work.
I think it would be best if I went home, jerked off, and took a nap.
In the comfort and privacy of my own bed. Not meant for horse fucking.
It’s making such a racket, that is preventing me from doing my work.
I can’t stand it, and with the sounds of the fans, and the fluorescent lines
Glaring at me like a common circus freak, well,
it really makes me want to kill somebody.