Post by Biblically Accurate Angel on Apr 11, 2019 18:25:11 GMT -5
Chapter One
The damn phone just rang and rang and rang and rang. It's not really the ringing itself that bothers me; it's that people keep trying to get a hold of me at all hours of the day, particularly the worst ones possible. God, it pisses me off. My opinion on phone calls isn't really important to this story, because I am not a character in it. I'm just the writer; but goddammit, if I've got to tell this story - and really, I don't, but I'll do it anyway - then I'm gonna do it my way, and mine is the most atrociously pedantic you'll ever see this side of Moby-Dick.
Let's get down to businesses: the man was dead. There's no need to beat around the bush. I can do that later on, because the way he died is going to play a part in this narrative. But I don't want to hide from you the Important Fact That He Was Dead. You can thank me later on; a check would be nice. Please and thank you.
God, I'm going off the rails again, aren't I? Fuck. I was hoping this time I could just tell a straight story that was worth a shit, but that's impossible. I'm really a horrid writer. This entire story is absolute cockshit hidden under an extravagant style of writing. I'm not even hiding this. I keep calling this a story, but it's really so much worse than that. I've just started writing it, so I've no idea how long this will be. Maybe novel length; maybe in another two pages I'll throw in the towel and burn this. Wanna place bets?
Alright, alright, enough shitting around. The man was dead, but she didn't know that. Who is 'she'? His estranged wife. She was so tired of her idiot husband that she packed her bags and got the hell out. "But what about the children?" Fuck the children. They'll come up later, so stop interrupting. She'd left ol' dead boy Jones about six years before this story takes place. I'll make him a writer, just like me, so that you can understand how justifiable her actions were.
So obviously, given she stopped giving a fuck about her deadbeat, not-worth-the-paper-he-wasted husband, she would not be the first person to discover his demise. As it was, however, she was the second. "How?" you ask. Well... that's where the phone call comes in. I may have taken an inane route to get here, but I swear I knew what I was doing! That's a lie, no I didn't. But just wait because there's more inanity and lies on the way. It's what you get for reading this nonsense.
But onto the phone call! It came at 2 o'clock in the morning. Mrs. Jennifer Stewart - I picked that last name from a name generator because I'm such a terrible fucking writer that I can't even come up with a good last name myself - Mrs. Jennifer Stewart (nรฉe Harmon) was trying her goddamn best just to fall asleep. Work had been shit as always, and she'd been tempted to rise up from her office and just beat the fuck out of that coworker of hers who wouldn't. fucking. stop. whistling. But, thank you for your self-control, Jennifer, you're an angel, baby. She just took it out on herself at the bar that night. Last night, actually. Now, Mrs. Stewart / Jennifer, or, as her estranged-now-late husband once called her, Guinevere - as he'd say, "the Guinevere to my King Arthur" - that was his name, Arthur Stewart - anyway, Jennifer was not an alcoholic, but she drank a lot of fucking alcohol. Surprisingly, she never got "drunk" and was always as sober as those who drank nothing. Let's call it a genetic mutation. No genetic mutation, however, could stop the migraines from coming. And good lord, if you could see her livers. Looks like something out of the rubble after the Dresden bombings. The fact that she's still alive is a miracle, but fuck it, my story, my rules. Just accept it and follow along.
The call came in, as I said, and to Jennifer, it was like a KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK on her noggin. Holy shit, fuck that fucking phone!! She reached for the sledgehammer next to her bed to finally get rid of that shit for good. Oh wait, there was no sledgehammer, just as most sane people don't keep sledgehammers by their bed. So instead she just fell out of the bed. Fuck, now I - she - hurt(s) all over. Fuck that fucking phone. Fuck. That. Fucking. Phone.
With a headache^2, Jennifer moved slowly over the floor, using her hands to pull herself forward. Have you ever done that? It makes you feel pathetic. Like a dog. Absolutely sad jams. Jennifer reached up to the nightstand where her phone lay. Feeling around for that cursed object, she accidentally knocked over a vase. It came down and broke over her cranium. "Fuck!" she muttered. Glass, water, and lilacs lay on the floor. And that phone was still ringing. Is that even possible? Oh well, my story, my rules.
She picked herself up, tried her best not to step on the glass, failed, grabbed that phone, opened her door, stepped out, and promptly fell down the stairwell. It was a bloody great crash. She went head over heels to the bottom. The phone went flying. She lay there wishing for death for a full minute before she picked herself up and found that phone in pieces. The batteries were scattered. The body was dented. Parts littered the floor. And it was still ringing.
Well, nothing better to do than just answer the damned thing. She picked up the battered but resistant object and clicked the accept call button. Is there another name for that? I dunno. Anyway, she answered:
"Hello?"
"Mom?"
It took a moment for her to register whose voice it was. "Anne? What are you" - hack - "calling about so late at night / early in the morning?"
"Mom, Daddy's dead."
Aw fuck, now this shit.
"Say that again, dear?"
Daddy's dead. His body is in the living room and there are pieces of him all over the wall."
Jesus - "Well have you tried calling the police?"
"No, I - I didn't - I -"
"Look, call the authorities and I'll speak to you again in the morning."
"But Mom, I'm scared -" but Mom had already hung up.
Jennifer walked over to the bathroom to try and clear her mind. God, that man was dead. Sonuvabitch. Of all the rotten things he could do... Oh well, so much for that.
She sat on the toilet for a few minutes.
Then she threw up.
The damn phone just rang and rang and rang and rang. It's not really the ringing itself that bothers me; it's that people keep trying to get a hold of me at all hours of the day, particularly the worst ones possible. God, it pisses me off. My opinion on phone calls isn't really important to this story, because I am not a character in it. I'm just the writer; but goddammit, if I've got to tell this story - and really, I don't, but I'll do it anyway - then I'm gonna do it my way, and mine is the most atrociously pedantic you'll ever see this side of Moby-Dick.
Let's get down to businesses: the man was dead. There's no need to beat around the bush. I can do that later on, because the way he died is going to play a part in this narrative. But I don't want to hide from you the Important Fact That He Was Dead. You can thank me later on; a check would be nice. Please and thank you.
God, I'm going off the rails again, aren't I? Fuck. I was hoping this time I could just tell a straight story that was worth a shit, but that's impossible. I'm really a horrid writer. This entire story is absolute cockshit hidden under an extravagant style of writing. I'm not even hiding this. I keep calling this a story, but it's really so much worse than that. I've just started writing it, so I've no idea how long this will be. Maybe novel length; maybe in another two pages I'll throw in the towel and burn this. Wanna place bets?
Alright, alright, enough shitting around. The man was dead, but she didn't know that. Who is 'she'? His estranged wife. She was so tired of her idiot husband that she packed her bags and got the hell out. "But what about the children?" Fuck the children. They'll come up later, so stop interrupting. She'd left ol' dead boy Jones about six years before this story takes place. I'll make him a writer, just like me, so that you can understand how justifiable her actions were.
So obviously, given she stopped giving a fuck about her deadbeat, not-worth-the-paper-he-wasted husband, she would not be the first person to discover his demise. As it was, however, she was the second. "How?" you ask. Well... that's where the phone call comes in. I may have taken an inane route to get here, but I swear I knew what I was doing! That's a lie, no I didn't. But just wait because there's more inanity and lies on the way. It's what you get for reading this nonsense.
But onto the phone call! It came at 2 o'clock in the morning. Mrs. Jennifer Stewart - I picked that last name from a name generator because I'm such a terrible fucking writer that I can't even come up with a good last name myself - Mrs. Jennifer Stewart (nรฉe Harmon) was trying her goddamn best just to fall asleep. Work had been shit as always, and she'd been tempted to rise up from her office and just beat the fuck out of that coworker of hers who wouldn't. fucking. stop. whistling. But, thank you for your self-control, Jennifer, you're an angel, baby. She just took it out on herself at the bar that night. Last night, actually. Now, Mrs. Stewart / Jennifer, or, as her estranged-now-late husband once called her, Guinevere - as he'd say, "the Guinevere to my King Arthur" - that was his name, Arthur Stewart - anyway, Jennifer was not an alcoholic, but she drank a lot of fucking alcohol. Surprisingly, she never got "drunk" and was always as sober as those who drank nothing. Let's call it a genetic mutation. No genetic mutation, however, could stop the migraines from coming. And good lord, if you could see her livers. Looks like something out of the rubble after the Dresden bombings. The fact that she's still alive is a miracle, but fuck it, my story, my rules. Just accept it and follow along.
The call came in, as I said, and to Jennifer, it was like a KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK on her noggin. Holy shit, fuck that fucking phone!! She reached for the sledgehammer next to her bed to finally get rid of that shit for good. Oh wait, there was no sledgehammer, just as most sane people don't keep sledgehammers by their bed. So instead she just fell out of the bed. Fuck, now I - she - hurt(s) all over. Fuck that fucking phone. Fuck. That. Fucking. Phone.
With a headache^2, Jennifer moved slowly over the floor, using her hands to pull herself forward. Have you ever done that? It makes you feel pathetic. Like a dog. Absolutely sad jams. Jennifer reached up to the nightstand where her phone lay. Feeling around for that cursed object, she accidentally knocked over a vase. It came down and broke over her cranium. "Fuck!" she muttered. Glass, water, and lilacs lay on the floor. And that phone was still ringing. Is that even possible? Oh well, my story, my rules.
She picked herself up, tried her best not to step on the glass, failed, grabbed that phone, opened her door, stepped out, and promptly fell down the stairwell. It was a bloody great crash. She went head over heels to the bottom. The phone went flying. She lay there wishing for death for a full minute before she picked herself up and found that phone in pieces. The batteries were scattered. The body was dented. Parts littered the floor. And it was still ringing.
Well, nothing better to do than just answer the damned thing. She picked up the battered but resistant object and clicked the accept call button. Is there another name for that? I dunno. Anyway, she answered:
"Hello?"
"Mom?"
It took a moment for her to register whose voice it was. "Anne? What are you" - hack - "calling about so late at night / early in the morning?"
"Mom, Daddy's dead."
Aw fuck, now this shit.
"Say that again, dear?"
Daddy's dead. His body is in the living room and there are pieces of him all over the wall."
Jesus - "Well have you tried calling the police?"
"No, I - I didn't - I -"
"Look, call the authorities and I'll speak to you again in the morning."
"But Mom, I'm scared -" but Mom had already hung up.
Jennifer walked over to the bathroom to try and clear her mind. God, that man was dead. Sonuvabitch. Of all the rotten things he could do... Oh well, so much for that.
She sat on the toilet for a few minutes.
Then she threw up.