The Most Non-Luminescent Eidolon, chapters 1-17
....The Most Non-Luminescent Eidolon....
I awoke on my filthy mattress, drenched in stinking red blood. It wasn't my own blood, though, because obviously I wasn't wounded (I was real depressed, though). Six, maybe eight inches of blood covered the floor. I sighed and lit a cigarette.
The phone rang. It made kind of a gurgling sound, because it was on the floor and submerged under the blood. Lighting a cigarette, I answered it.
"Is this Mr. Rasmussin?" the throaty voice said on the other end of the line.
"Speaking," I said, lighting a cigarette.
"This is Keith Thompson, I'm a manager at the Apex Poultry Slaughterhouse, you know the one next door to your depressing, bohemian apartment?"
"Yeah," I said, lighting a cigarette.
"Well, it turns out it got down to about five degrees last night, and one of the pipes burst. One of the chicken-blood pipes. Everything for about a block is flooded with chicken blood. You're probably aware of this by now."
I sighed, and lit a cigarette, "Yeah," I said, "Yeah, I am,"
"And in case you're wondering, there's fuck-all we can do about it," Keith Thompson said.
The cashier at the 7-11 was this old guy with jail tattoos, and there was David Lee Roth blaring over the loudspeaker.
I gave the cashier four dollars.
He gave me some cigarettes and fifty cents.
Life is a stultifying bore punctuated by the blackest screams of abject horror.
I lit a cigarette.
I sat in the doctor's office, somewhat self-conscious about my underwear. I had been wearing them for a week, often as main item of outerwear as I shuffled around the gray, dreary world indifferent to all my suffering and everything, like in that one music video with the guys and it's all depressing and stuff. I lit a cigarette.
The doctor came in, looking all doctor-y.
"Mr. Rasmussen," the doctor said, "The tests are back, and we've got an answer to why you're coughing up all that blood."
I lit a cigarette.
"Mr. Rasmussen," he said, "you're going through seventeen packs of cigarettes a day. And that is a conservative estimate. I cannot stress how much you need to quit smoking."
Lighting a cigarette, I asked him if I'd stop coughing up blood if I quit smoking.
"No," he said, "You also have the plague."
I sat in a bar, smoking, until they kicked me out for filling up all their ashtrays with cigarette butts. All of our hopes, dreams and ambitions are shit.
The cashier at the 7-11 had shot himself. I put four dollars on the counter, took my fifty cents from the register, and left. It kind of felt weird not to take advantage of the situation, so I went back and stole a single stick of beef jerky.
We are all disposable enemas sitting unpurchased on the back shelf of a convenience store with a dead convenience store clerk manning the counter.
I lit a cigarette, and went to sleep. Maybe the blood soaked mattress would douse the cigarette before it lit the mattress on fire.
I awoke covered in brown, stinking shit. Also, it had mingled with the blood, forming a horrible, squalid bio-stew where my mattress was a spongly island with my underwear-clad body on it.
The shit-covered phone rang. Lighting a cigarette, I answered it.
"Hello?" I said, lighting a cigarette.
"Mr. Rasmussen? This is Keith Anderson, from the city sanation department. We made your toilets back up because we hate you."
"What was that?" I said, lighting a cigarette, "I was lighting a cigarette and couldn't hear you.
"Fuck you," the man said, "Fuck off and die."
We are all doomed to languish and die in total obscurity.
By mixing ordinary household ammonia with benzene and dissolving old vinyl records in the mixture, a person can make powerful plastic explosives.
Oh, right. The 7-11 cashier was dead.
"Is there some reason you're naked and covered in filth?" the cop said.
"I need more cigarettes," I said, lighting a cigarette.
"Well, you need to go somewhere else," the cop said, "this is a crime scene."
"So it's a crime to commit suicide?"
"Yes," the cop said.
I stood on top of the world's tallest building and jumped.
Obviously, I didn't die, because I'm writing this in the first person.
I lit a cigarette.
Actually now I was out of cigarettes. I wept with pride and punched myself in the face.