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  BAD AS FUCK

  JASON ARMSTRONG

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  MAN CHANGES MIND

  MORNING BREATH

  REJECTED

  ASS TO MOUTH

  EMPLOYEE OF THE YEAR

  MAN CHANGES MIND

  I'm trying to decide whether or not I want to be a serial killer.

  I mean, I'll probably just finish up with school and get a good job in management but it just seems like I should be doing something bigger with my life. But I think every young man has this conversation with himself at some point. Don't get me wrong, I'd rather be a superhero. I've had that dream since I was five but there's no such thing as superheroes.

  There's no such thing as superheroes. But serial killers are real.

  I don't really have any real tendency towards violence. It's fun on video games and I like horror movies and all but to actually murder a real person would probably be very different. I punched a kid when I was in sixth grade and I still feel bad about that. Technically he started it but he started crying and I just went home.

  I still live with that.

  I suppose I'd have to create a separate personality to do the actual killing. I'm not sure how to go about doing that; I guess I'll have to do some research.

  It's not that I hate people or anything. People as a whole do tend to get on my nerves but when I get to know them individually, for the most part, I usually end up liking them; or at least empathizing with them enough to tolerate them. So that might be a problem. But, like I said, if I get a separate personality I won't have to worry about that.

  Really it's not about the killing, I suppose. It just seems like the best way to be famous; it seems like the best way. I mean, everybody knows who Charles Manson is. But can you name one movie with Sharon Tate? Plus, it's like the least amount of work possible. Actors and directors and politicians have to work their asses off refining their craft and then they still have to kiss ass on the business end of things. All those celebrities still have to answer to bosses in one form or another. But serial killers have it easy. Just stab your way to success. No bosses or critics to answer to; and if anybody tries to say shit it's just stabby stab.

  In the movies the killer always has a collection of newspaper clippings that the hero discovers which gives them away. I think if I become a serial killer I'll turn the articles about my atrocities into a scrapbook. That way when people see all the stickers they'll also be able to see my sweet side. I mean; I don't want to be just another one-sided psychopath. That could be my thing: the serial killer with a heart of gold.

  It's not like I'm an asshole. I'm not like the nicest guy in the world or anything. But I'm not someone who anyone would describe a dick. Anytime people have been mad at me it has usually just been a misunderstanding and they forgave me pretty quickly. I don't even like to kill bugs; I try to shoo spiders outside rather than squish them.

  I'd have to come up with a gimmick, though. You need to in this day and age; everybody has seen everything already. Jack The Ripper killed prostitutes. Dahmer was a cannibal. Gacy had the whole clown thing going on. Berkowitz had a talking dog. How do I compete with that? It's so hard to be original nowadays; everything has been done already. I suppose I could do some sort of homage to my favorites but then I'd just be called a copycat killer and I don't want that kind of criticism. I wouldn't want to be the first failed serial killer. If I'm going to go to the electric chair I want people to be afraid of me, I don't want people saying how much I suck and giggling behind my back.

  And you have to get caught, right? I mean, what's the point otherwise? That's how you get famous and get your face on t-shirts. If you don't get caught you just have to keep working at a stupid job and spend your life in mediocrity with everybody else. If you get do get caught, you're set up for life. You never have to work again. And the publicity takes care of itself. I could write a book and let all the major publishers fight over the rights. Maybe I should start working on my autobiography now in case I don't have time before they send me to the gas chamber. Everybody wants to know what goes on in the mind of a serial killer. Nobody gives a shit about the nice guy who lives next door and keeps to himself. You don't care about the guy who bags your groceries until you find out he has a graveyard in his basement.

  That's another thing. I'd have to buy myself a house that has a basement with a dirt floor. Right now I live in an apartment with a roommate. My landlord wouldn't let me build a dungeon; that would forfeit my deposit, I think. And I'm just a poor college student; I can't afford a house. I don't have the credit. Plus, after I graduate I'll be paying off student loans until I'm in my thirties. Becoming a serial killer might have to be more of a long term goal. There's lots of things I hadn't considered. It just seemed so simple until I really thought about it.

  I don't know. I think I'm just going to eat some pizza rolls and go to bed.

  MORNING BREATH

  I'd been waking up lately with drool all over my pillow.

  Much more than normal.

  It got so bad that I started to worry that I had a tumor or at least some kind of sinus problem. I wanted to ask my wife what she might think was going on but we already hadn't had sex yet that month so I decided I didn't want to do or say anything to jeopardize any potential “situation” that might arise. So finally I decided to stay up and see exactly what I was doing in my sleep for myself.

  The last time I remember looking at the clock it was about two in the morning. The next thing I knew I woke up to my wife spitting into my mouth. I was so shocked that I didn't move or say anything. Never before had I been in this sort of situation so, not knowing how to react, I simply did not. She wasn't exactly spitting, she was actually sitting over me and letting a thick strand of saliva flow into my mouth. After the initial shock wore off I rolled over, still pretending to be asleep. I wanted to ask her what the fuck she was doing but at that point I didn't know how dangerous the person I shared a bed with was. I was scared just to turn away from this strange attack but she silently un-straddled me and went back to her side of the bed. After I was sure that she was asleep I got up and brushed my teeth. Twice.

  She has to work before I do so we didn't see each other until the next evening. I didn't bring up what happened the night before. Like I said, we hadn't had sex all month and I didn't want to get into a fight. I figured if she wanted to bring it up I'd let her but I wasn't going to rock the boat. But she didn't say anything and seemed fine so as we were getting settled down for the night I decided to try put the moves on her.

  “Oh, honey,” she said. “I'm just so tired. I'm ready to pass out.”

  I bet she was. She always was the first one to fall asleep. Now I knew why; she was resting up to spit in my mouth in the middle of the night. But I didn't say anything. Instead I tried rubbing her back, hoping to change her mind. But my plan backfired because within five minutes she was fast asleep. After having not slept the night before I was wiped out but I needed to know what was going on. It was horrifying having to go to sleep not knowing what was being done to me while I was unconscious. So I set up our video camera on my book shelf in a way that she was unlikely to notice it the next morning and allowed myself to fall into a disturbed sleep.

  The next morning I got up and right away checked the video even before I went to the bathroom. And what I discovered was truly terrible. Around three she slowly sat up and mechanically got on top of me again. On the video you could hear me snoring; I couldn't believe I didn't wake up but I guess I was exhausted. I figured I was going to watch her spit in my mouth again and have the physical evidence that it wasn't just a dream I had the night before. But instead she began picking her nose slowly and methodically and flicking the boogers into my mouth. Over and over again she would de
posit one into my mouth and return to her nose to get another one. The horror I felt bordered on an existential meltdown. Suddenly I could taste the dried snot in my mouth and throat and began to gag. As I threw up I was sure I could taste the boogers I had involuntarily swallowed in the night and that just made me vomit even harder.

  That day at work I could focus on nothing else. I spent every moment when my supervisor wasn't watching to try to some research about what I was going through. But this situation was so odd that I didn't know what to Google. So I just wandered the internet aimlessly and eventually began to find hints that she was somehow connected to the JFK assassination. This was getting out of control. I couldn't go on like this; I wasn't thinking clearly in my exhaustion.

  So I did what any man would do. I got myself a mannequin. Don't ask how; I've got a guy. The plan was to catch her in the act and confront her from a safe distance. I mean, what was her problem? Why couldn't she just come out and tell me what her problem was? How immature. I wouldn't act like that.

  That night I didn't even try to hit on her. In the back of my mind I had hoped that would work to my advantage and make her want what she couldn't have. She didn't; instead she said she wanted me to watch P.S. I Love You with her. This, perhaps, was almost more shocking than anything else. This woman obviously had it out for me. But what kind of sociopath would look me dead in the eye and expect me to watch a chick flick with her?

  “Didn't you just watch that last week?”

  She menacingly fluffed up the pillows on our bed to make herself more comfortable. “Yeah, but you wouldn't watch it with me. I thought maybe we could spend some time together.”

  I didn't know what she was trying to pull but I certainly wasn't going to fall for it. “Uh, no, sorry. I've got some stuff to do.”

  “Oh, okay.” She looked like she wanted to say something else but didn't. Instead she stared straight ahead at the FBI warning on the screen as if I had already left the room. So I left and went into the kitchen and made myself a pot of coffee into which I mixed a handful of caffeine pills; a sort of un-

  roofie to make sure I would be on my guard later that night.

  About halfway through the movie she fell asleep. So I began to set up the room to execute my plan. I slipped the dummy into my spot in the bed and pulled the comfort over my fake self. In her sleep, she rolled over and threw her arm over it and couldn't tell the difference. That kind of hurt my feelings but I needed to stay focused on what was important. So I went to the other side of the room and sat in the chair. I put on a pair of night vision goggles I had also bought that day and in my hand I gripped the can of pepper spray that I got out of her purse.

  I was too wired to sleep but I was so tired that my mind began to dream despite my being awake. After three days without a good nights rest my mind had definitely begun to play tricks on me. And at three, like clockwork, she once again sat up like a woman possessed. I sat up straight in our chair and gripped the pepper spray, ready for action. This time instead of straddling me she began punching the dummy which she thought was me over and over again in the groin. Once again I was shocked into inaction and simply sat there stupefied. After about five minutes of punching me in the balls she got up and walked out into the hallway.

  Enough was enough. I jumped up and confronted her there.

  “I got you! What the hell do you think you're doing?”

  But she didn't respond. Like a robot she continued down the hall and into the kitchen. It was then that I noticed that she didn't look right. Her eyes were open but they were somehow vacant. Even though I was right beside her she didn't seem to notice me. I would have thought she would've reacted to the fact that I had tricked her with my mannequin or that I had my weapon aimed at her. But she didn't; instead she opened the fridge and took a drink from a jar of pickles.

  “Honey? Are you sleepwalking?”

  She didn't respond but instead got back into bed and once again spooned with the dummy. I stayed up the rest of the night disposing of all the evidence. I cut up the dummy and buried in the trash can under a pile of garbage.

  The next evening I was so tired and confused. But, in one last attempt at self preservation, I offered to finally watch that movie with her. She seemed very excited at my idea since she had fallen asleep the night before and missed it. So I sat with her and pretended to enjoy it. And ultimately my story had a happy ending.

  REJECTED

  Jason,

  Thank you for your submission to The New Flesh but I'm afraid we're going to pass on this one. Please feel free to submit again in the future

  William Pauley III

  editor of The New Flesh

  Jason,

  Not only am I going to pass on this story but allow me to say a few things about it. First of all, simply writing a play by play of you taking a shit is not a story. It's not even acceptable as an entry in your diary. In addition I want to say that we here at The New Flesh have no room for writers who lower themselves to the level of using toilet humor. We are a strictly a classy operation and our readers expect only the most respectable material around. Finally, I would like to add that referrring to yourself as the Jay-Z of Bizarro fiction in your bio only makes you look like a complete ass. Not only is that absurd way for an artist to describe themselves but, in your case, it is totally unfounded.

  William Pauley III

  editor of The New Flesh

  Jason,

  Normally I wouldn't even take the time to respond to this sort of submission but in your case I will make an exception. How the fuck did you think you would get away with submitting a story by simply resubmitting your poop story and using Jordan Krall as a pseudonym? You have been told before that this is not the kind of story that will be published here. And how did you think that we would be fooled by your pen name? IT CAME FROM YOUR E-MAIL! Are you insane? I'm not sure if this is a new form plagiarism you have discovered but you should consider yourself if this doesn't lead to some sort of legal action against you.

  William Pauley III

  editor of The New Flesh

  Jason,

  Please be advised that this e-mail is set aside solely for story submissions. I would be upset that instead you tried send us a curse via e-mail if it hadn't been such a miserable failure. It seems that your lack of writing ability has been eclipsed by your inability to perform magick. And that's saying a lot! You clearly have no powers of sorcery and this is illustrated, for one example, by your inability to even spell correctly any of the names of the Elder Ones. Also I would add that the sigils you attached show a crude understanding at best of The Necronomicon. I suggest that you not only take a break from writing and spell work but from life in general and take a long, hard look at yourself before continuing with anything in your life.

  William Pauley III

  editor of The New Flesh

  Jason,

  Your recent idea for a story that is nothing but a series of rejection letters from TNF is a new low even for you. It's such a shoddy story; I refuse to subject my readers to such an obvious gimmick. Let me advise you that a story contains a narrative. And this contains none. Unless you count this being a chronicling of your swift descent into madness as a narrative. In which case I would suggest you present this story to a psychiatrist rather than to any publisher.

  William Pauley III

  editor of The New Flesh

  Jason,

  Before you even consider submitting to The New Flesh again please allow us to reject you in advance. Nothing you have ever written or will ever write will be published by us. Nor will it be published by anyone anywhere. You may even be the first person to be rejected by a self publisher. Please take our advice and give up on yourself.

  Respectfully,

  William Pauley III

  editor of The New Flesh

  ASS TO MOUTH

  I was about halfway through my shift at the Try N Leave convenience store when I finally had enough. At that time of night nobody was likely to come i
n so I took the gun that was kept on hand in case of a robbery and walked up to the ATM that stood near the doorway.

  “Alright, give me all your money,” I demanded as I pointed the gun at the machine.

  “Oh my God!” it said in a startled voice. I think it had fallen asleep on the job. And I don't blame it; I had just been dozing off myself before I decided to carry out the plan that had been slowly developing in my brain over the last few years.

  “Don't try to call for help or I'll blow the shit out of you!” Normally, I'm not a tough guy but I was sick of this job and I wasn't going to let some heroic cash machine get in the way of my freedom.

  “Please don't kill me. I've got a microwave and two iPod shuffles at home!”

  “I don't give a shit! Just give me the money and you won't get hurt.”

  “Why don't you just take the money out of your safe? Why do you have to be fucking with me?”

  “Because, goddammit, I forgot the combination. And I know you've got way more money inside of you and I want it now!” I pressed the muzzle of my gun-well, the store's gun- up against the slot where the receipt prints out to show him I meant business. He was so scared the ink began dripping out of it.

  “Oh, come on. Don't freak out; I just want the money and I'll leave you alone.”

  “Why are you doing this?” A bunch of sad emoticons appeared on his screen.

  “You wouldn't understand, you're just a machine. But working in this place sucks. I don't make shit for money and all day long I have to deal with dip shits and freaks.”

  “I wouldn't understand? At least you get to leave at the end of your shift. I'm here twenty-four hours a day every day. My family has to come here to have Thanksgiving. I have to put up with idiots too. All day long I have people pushing my buttons.”