DISCLAIMER The story you are about to read, if you want, is pretty graphic. It is purely fiction, and was written entirely for me for you guys to read. If it gets positive responses, aka mature responses, then i'll write more. I thought about posting it in the creative section of the site, but I said to myself, fuck it, it belongs in this sick-as-hell forum. Anyways, hope you're baked to high heaven, and enjoy the read. Year 2025 Dan Look at Dan. He is ragged and parched. He is tanned and ghostly. He pushes a demolished shopping cart down 12th street, downtown South Central Los Angelos. He passes the leathery crack monsters collapsed sideworn in unhinged cardboard boxes. They croak at his passing shadow like souls in purgatory, they hiss at the blur of his sourly bleeding feet. He pays them no mind. The perimeter nearest the blackened gas station is a modernized morgue, death incarnate. Decapitated bodies, crispened by oilrags, dwindle smokingly in the ground like burnt shadows of flattened tarantulas. He has seem them before, smelled the greasey wanton curls of flesh cooking gapingly in the unstopped breeze. He kicks at a nearby buzzard gorging on a killed infant. It beholds him disregardingly, wings flapping; skeletal head jerking. It does not stop. He halts, looks at the animal, and places a lean hand slowly within his rusted cart. Within an instant he leaps upon the bird, a machete stained orange from blood gripped tightly under his arm. He slices it in half before much of anything happens. Wiping viscera and webbed intenstines from his green woolen jacket, he places both halves gently in his cart beside a stack of elderly magazines. He regards his dinner in a parently fashion, and if not for an instant, a look of transcendance half-moons upon his face. He smiles; his front teeth are missing. He presses on, looking for disregarded cans, broken watches. Anything to trade in for weed, anything. The year is 2025. The month is October. The boy is Dan. He is 18. Already he has killed, he has seen warfare and bloodshed and agony and barbarism in the ruins of South Central Los Angelos, U.S.A. How and exactly he arrived there he does not know. He was born in Pennsylvania. He is the son of a printer. His mother left him when he was 3. He does not know her. He does not know she is dead. She has been dead for years. By the time Dan was 10 North Korea invaded the western coast of the United States of America by way of supersubsonic underwater nuclear advanced placement stealth missiles. By the time he was 11, nearly 150 million Americans were killed or missing. His mother is one of them. His dad, whom Dan regards alive and in hiding, is also lying nearly disintigrated in a mass-unmarked grave outside of the Greater Shaler area, Ross Township, Pennsylvania. He has a brother who lives hiding in the shadowy wilderness of Alaska. He will never speak to him again, he will never write or hear from him again. The world is in chaos. The world is in perpetual war, every country, every man, every woman. Every child. Children are not sent to school anymore. They are handed weapons and told to fire. They kill, they die, they bleed, crying always. They are never to stop. But these are nuances to the current facts. Dan, thin and pipely and starving, is now pushing a demolished cart along an abandoned railway lane near Granttree Steet, South Central Los Angelos, U.S.A. He sees a corpse, mummified by the scorching heat and slightly atomized breeze. It is hanging suggestively from a power line high above him, bent in half, corn-husk wasps of hair weakly swaying goldenly like precious spider webs from some mythical Oepedian storybook tale. He thinks it is a young girl, it is wearing a dress; it is in fact a teenage boy sodomized and tortured and killed and humiliated by one of the various killer gangs that haunt the population by night. Not sure which one, you can never be too sure. He moves on, unfazed by the carnage and largely abandoned destruction lain waste around him. It is a part of him. He is a part of it. There is nothing else to discuss of the matter. He moves on, cart creaking zombie-like under the yellow bastard sun. A bulkily dressed man steps out from behind a steel grating pole near Dan. He is wielding alumnium baseball bat. Over his head, a baseball cap; on his face, a hockey mask. Dan is too fast, too desperate. He sidesteps a lightning quick swing of steel and plunges a shard of glass into the man's eyehole. He screams, holds his hands up to his face. The bat falls to the floor and rolls into a grasspatch like some forgotten cyborgian snake. The man is now lying in a blood puddle silently. The circle of blood grows larger and Dan picks up the baseball bat. He crushes the man's head in by the front, mask cracking plasticly akin to a overgrown china doll's face. He does not stop swinging. Pretty soon nothing is left of the skull but a churned collection of bone, brain, and mud and maroonish plastic. Dan discards the bat in a near trash can. He moves on without checking the stranger's pockets, spurts of red like childlike waterfalls weening from the palm of his curled fist. His head goes thump-thump. He is lightheaded. Four football fields away he lies down for the evening in a brown-skinned garbage bin. By the light of his cracked solar cell-screen, he can in the pitchblack barely make out a dead man in an overcoat decapitated on the far side of the wall opposite him. The stench is futile. Dan ignores it. He falls asleep. He awakens in a room lit by a single lightbulb. It looks like a masquerade sun, swinging, swinging. A brass knuckle slams into his cheekbone, shattering it. The fist belongs to a man dressed in a convict jumpsuit and a lionface mask. He is surrounded by men wearing masks. To be continued
[quote name='"dantino"'] I will post an equally long post either tonight or tommorow. Trust me, it will be good![/quote] I trusted you why must you too with me