Artifice and Ash

You spin me right 'round

baby right 'round

ahem It appears to me that I have, to put it scientifically, completely lost my shit. I suffered an overdose, broke out of a hospital, and spent the better part of two hours talking to a new imaginary friend named ‘The Slender Man’ whilst walking to the river to solve problems for dead people. Which I am one of, apparently. Yes, I am now, according to scientific terminology, a fucking zombie. Walking dead. And I see dead people. So, I’m an M. Night Shamalyan zombie. What a twist.

Well, call me Mr. Cynical, but I’m not entirely convinced of the fact that I died in the first place, so I assure my new-found figment friend that I have completely lost my shit, and once I’m done hallucinating at the river, I’m going to go hallucinate a bullet into my head. Yeah, that’s right, after several years of contemplation and two close-calls, I think I’m done. I have enough self-doubt to reconstruct the Challenger and blow it up pre-launch this time and all the extra heapings of of brain-melting super ghosty shit kinda puts ‘living’ well beyond the borders encompassing the region of Shit-I-Want-To-Do-istan.

However, on the off chance that my internal dialogue was on the level, I also inform ‘Slendy’ that if lead to the head don’t get the job done, then I’ll be a little better at taking anything he says seriously. There you go. Bases covered.

Fuck sake, the walking. First off, I had walked from the hospital to just south of Blackstone, then I walk from just south of Blackstone AAAAAAALL the goddamned way to Alex’s house. See, shortly before The Incredible Terry tore Alex to shit, I remember them arguing about someone going to get Alex’s stuff from his house, and Alex being upset that his gun was not included in that stuff. Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to Alex’s gun I go. His phone was there, so I grabbed that too.

Now, on a scale of logic ranging from one to ten, going to Z’s place was about a six. My shit was at Z’s place, including my phone, which I was going to use to record some words from my face and then destroy my face with a gun. On that same scale, getting into Z’s garage, forgetting about my phone and then just using Alex’s to do that rates about “what the fuck”, but there I was in Z’s garage, recording my final thoughts into Alex’s phone before pressing the barrel to my head and tendering my resignation.

Not even a split second later, I’m wrapped up in a carpet. Seriously. It was ‘bang’, then ‘carpet’. Now, looking back on that particular moment, it seems to me that normally I’d be bothered by this. I’d be bothered by all of this. Here’s the rub of it, though: I’m not. I’m not… afraid. Anymore. I’m not worried. I’m not shaken. I am, for the first time ever, completely and undeniably content. That is, except for Slendy’s immediate “I told you so.”

So, Abby helped me out of the carpet, which really begs for a sex joke, but that’s neither here nor there, and begins to be off-put by the situation. You know, for being such a self-proclaimed zombie apocalypse survival expert, she sure doesn’t know anything about zombies beyond Hollywood portrayal of them. She is completely unwilling to accept the fact that I am undead(and okay with it) based entirely off of the fact that I can speak coherently. Well, sour grapes to her, as there is no other explanation for my current state of being.

Everyone was gone but me and her at the time, so I set about cooking up a big breakfast. I wasn’t going to eat all of it, but I figured the others might be hungry when they got back, since the only one of us that ate and The Noir was me, and all I’d had was a gaggle of penises. I suppose this new demeanor of mine has to do with my suicide. I mean, it would make sense that I’d had my brain completely full of fear and self-loathing right before destroying it with a bullet, so now I don’t have those anymore. It would make sense that Alan Jackson Garrett is actually dead, and I’m just the stuff that’s left over. I am what he could have been without those two things. I ponder this as I undercook the bacon, handle the eggs well enough, and outdo myself with the steaks.

Well, I ponder it and flirt with Abby. Maybe new me doesn’t mind sex with women. I guess I’ll have to find that out later, since Abby’s still hung up on old me. She’ll get over him eventually. Oh, she also seemed to be working on her figure. Working on DESTROYING it! c wut i did thar? yyyyyeah, she kept trying to pick at the food while I was cooking it, so I slapped her hand. Then she punched my face. So far, that makes Alex the only one of us that hasn’t done that yet. I’ll begin working on fixing that immediately.

Jesus, I’m taking up a lot of words, huh? Well, most of the important shit is covered anyway, so I’ll cut to the chase: Otto’s late with his info and Abby’s getting pissed. She pulled a Terry, but it was much slower, and she didn’t kill Alex, who it turned out, wasn’t dead. Someone dropped him and Z off in the yard. Considerate, I thought. Abby put Alex on the couch, and I gave him food. Apparently, the bacon was worse than I thought, ‘cause he puked that shit up right fast. Abby put Z in the tub, so I gave him food, and he didn’t want it, so strike two for bacon, but Abby ate it, so my bacon is redeemed. Then again, Abby seems to be eating everything now, so we’ll still call it strike two.

Terry showed up, I don’t recall when, and handed me a tablet with words like I’m some kind of professor of archaic languages. Wouldn’t you know it, I am. It was Acadian. I recognized it from one of mom’s old books(like, one of the ooooooooold books), so I started up good ol’ Google and worked on a translation. Amid my poking about the writings, I managed to stumble on some fairly creepy information. Apparently, the inscription on the tablet has something to do with what’s been going on lately, and apparently what’s been going on also went on 20 years ago, and apparently, Terry’s parents were involved. No offense to Terry, but when I paused at this, and he asked what I’d found, I passed it off as something to do with Z’s family. I love the guy and all, but he does NOT take stress as well as I do, and I don’t- well, didn’t— take stress well at all. I just didn’t feel like trying to explain it to him.

So, I found a good source for translation and wrote down what the tablet said, then went back into the garage to copy down the writing from that sweet-ass hot rod. Z followed me in there, curious as to what I meant about his family being involved, and I explained it to him. 20 years ago, there were killings that followed a similar Modus Operendi as Terry’s little trip to the park(which Z filled us all in on), and Tarry’s parents were involved. Presumed victims, though their bodies were never found.

I think I’m going to bake a cake next time I get the chance.

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Nesbitt

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