Chapter Two

The lever rests at DEFCON 5.

People pace around like lambs before the slaughter, their cell phones held to their ears permanently like they've been born with some strange deformity.

The same as any other day.

"Sorry about tha-". A voice fades into the noise and rush as a man about my age in an expensive black suit bounces off my shoulder. Poor guy.

Just another business man in a monkey suit.

I have to get away from it before that little vein in my forehead explodes and kills everybody around me. And I'll be just fine, standing in the center of the blast radius, my smile scattered across the smoking asphalt. Watch your step.

Stopping in front of a small local coffee shop I pull the last cigarette from my pack and close my eyes for a moment before lighting it. Always make a wish on your last smoke. It may be the only thing keeping you sane until you can scrounge up the change to buy more.

I take a few puffs of my sweet cancer, savoring the burning of my lungs, loving the feel of chemicals rampaging through my body. It takes ten minutes and thirty-six seconds to have a cigarette. I breathe in again and hold it. Who the fuck wants to be ninety, anyways?

Such is life. We live and we hate. We die and are forgotten, outlived by our words. Suck it the fuck up.

"Hey, you can't smoke in here, get out!" The manager's yelling again. What else is new. He's a middle aged man, no older than 40, with chestnut brown hair and a good physique. He looks great for 40. "Self improvement is masturbation". Tyler Dourdan's words fill my head. 

I continue my walk into the shop with the cigarette still smoking between my lips.

"I'm calling the poli..." He stops short as I glare at him from within my drawn hood. He realizes who he almost fucked with. Walking over to the counter, I look down at his cup'o'change and am unable to control a sneer over the 73 cents he's managed to make in 5 hours of work.

What a sad man.

"You know what, fella?" I ask him. A couple feet of wood is all that seperates us. "Here you go, I'm going to make today the best day of your life."

"Excuse me?" A look of fear is painted on every inch of his face. I smile.

"How much do you make working here? Annually."

"I don't see how that's any of your..."

"Just answer the question, please." Courtesy. A sign of weakness, but the situation calls for it.

"Are you robbing me?" Panic fills his eyes. "I promise you, it's not worth your effort." A quick scan of the room with it's cobwebbed ceilings and dust covered tables verifies his claim.


"Quite the opposite, I'm going to make you more money than you'd make in a year."

"What do you mean?" he asks me, his fear seeming to disappear the instant I mention money. Pathetic.

"Once again, what do you make working here? I'm walking out if you don't answer in five seconds. Four. Three. Two..." I turn around and head for the door.

"$10 000 a year, before expenses," he admits sadly. "Fucking waste of time." His eyes darken and he looks away, wiping a few drops of water from his cheeks. I've been told they're called tears. Mine have long since frozen with my heart. I will never cry again.

But I can still love.

"And this shithole is insured for at least double that, right?"

"Give or take a thousand. Why?" He still hasn't caught on.

"Alright. Go lock the door, we have some things to discuss." He walks through the gate in the counter and heads to the door. He actually does it. "Good. Now, go home. I've got some things to do".

I knew I heard a click! "Get out of here, now!" he yells at me, finally catching on.

"It's out of your hands now. Have a good life." And with that, I jump the table and break his face with my elbow. Fucking funny bone. Not so funny today, is it?

Whistling no tune whatsoever, I drag the bag of sorry flesh into the back alley, cover his unconscious body with an old box, and walk back inside.

Before I go any further, you need to understand that I am not just a cruel, violent, rebellious person. I have morals and values, too! I may have just attacked an innocent man, yes, but I had a reason. And he will thank me.

Shut the fuck up, you self-righteous bastard. Kill yourself. Refer to chapter one of the manual. Back to business.

Casually, I walk into his office, still whistling tunelessly. I grab a few of his things; a picture of his mediocre wife and children, his business degree from the University of Average, and the three books he owned. I throw them outside next to his limp body. He groans.

Unable to find any gasoline, I settle for cooking oil. The smell of grease fills my nose as I pour it all over the kitchen and lobby. Just like my roommate taught me, I put a pot on the stove, turned it on full, and filled it with oil. Fuck him.

As I walk out the back door into the alley, I hear the whoosh of the oil igniting. My boot crushes the man's already swollen face. Content, I walk off in search of more drugs.

Soon, all of humanity will be like me.

Soon enough...