I was a hitman. I hit people, not with a baseball-bat, or a cricket-bat, or the infamous hockey-stick, but with a bullet, a 7.62x39mm bullet. A bullet, which when moving at 710 m/s, spurted blood with merciless precision— beautiful, indeed. I wanted the blood to reach further distances with every shot, just as a baseball hitter wants the next home-run to break all records.
It was a psychopathic condition, but I seemed to enjoy it. I didn’t know what a psychopath was until my girlfriend told me. She said she wanted to do me because I was a psychopath, the likes of whom she hadn’t been with before. When she said that, I took my pistol out, put it on her head, and did her as if I were doing my normal job. She liked it. She liked the fact that I was a merciless psychopath. She once said, ‘we stick around well, you know what I mean.’ And I gave her that bad-guy look and replied, ‘give me a bullet and a head and I’ll show you what sticks around even better.’
She brought me a phone one day. A Motorola Razr. She said, ‘Hey, Vicky, keep this phone with you all the time so that I can stay in touch with you. Not in touch with you, but you know what I mean.’ So I stayed in touch with her, not as much with the phone as with her. The phone just like any other electronic device started to weigh down on me.
It’s fine if you’re taking care of a girl or a gun, but a phone, absolutely not; for something as ridiculous as a phone you need to be really demented. I hated taking care of the phone. Keeping it in my pocket, I would take it out several times every hour just to check whether it was working or not. With guns in my pocket, the phone seemed out-of-place. The light would always be on, but the bars on the far left top-corner seemed jittery. They would disappear on me every time I stepped out of hiding. In hiding, they were in surplus, more than the number of spoons I had at my place. It was weird. A phone? Why would anybody require a phone?—only if someone wants to carry something in their pocket. But if you’re so insistent on carrying something, carry rocks, or guns. What about bullets? I knew how lonely people were. Who did they think would call them?—not I. I could put a bullet in their head, but I couldn’t call them. One day a guy called me and asked me to hit him. Why? Because no one ever called him. So I hit him. A 9mm bullet hammered into his head, because no one ever called him. Cool.
I was about to hit this man the other day when my girl called. I didn’t know what a booty call was before that conversation, so I got scared when she announced it to be a booty call. Was I required buying her new boots? I didn’t like taking her out shopping, so the thought of new boots scared me. I rushed back to her, leaving my job untouched. And it turned out that the booty call was something else. If not as scary as taking her out shopping, it was enough to make me sweat.
Vicky, don’t be a dog, now. You like it, don’t you?’
I didn’t disagree with her, but I really wanted to return the phone, which had started all the sweaty, tiring, rocking, drama. I wanted no more of that phone. I wanted my freedom back. I wanted to feel that I could pop open anyone’s head without having to fear about its terrible ringing sound. But it didn’t happen. The crazy phone stayed with me.
Things got a little quiet between me and my girl. I enjoyed a lot more time with my guns. I stashed away the phone so that it would die its natural death and leave me alone. But no, it didn’t stop bothering me. It kept ringing and ringing, and I was booty called again and again. Away from my guns, I started to wither away. Just like a gun without bullets, I was rendered useless.
‘Hey Vicky, let me get you a Blackberry, so that I can stay in touch with you even more, well not in touch with you, but you know what I mean.’
Blackberry. That was it. My decline. A cool name but a horrifying product. I was no longer a man. I was a Blackberry subscriber. Internet. Email. All that other crap too. Just a click away. No, I didn’t need any clicks. I needed my gun, for god’s sake. Blood. Crap. Thud. End. Everything just a click away. I wanted some of those clicks. Heavens knew it, once I had the Blackberry, I was booty called more than ever. Actually, I spent more time taking care of her booty than my guns. I didn’t want any calls anymore. I wanted my guns. I wanted them all.
‘Hey Vicky, let me get you a laptop. That way you can be even closer to me. Much closer.’
And so I got this Laptop.
A “black box,” I’d say. Two layers sandwiched together, with buttons on one layer and a TV-like screen on the other. Switch it on, and the fan starts throwing out heat waves. I very rarely switched it on, but whenever I did, she was here and it was cold.
‘Why do I require a laptop?’
‘Vicky, you require a laptop, because it makes you human. A laptop makes you a complete man. Before the computer you were a primitive man, but now you’re a modern psychopath. I haven’t done it with a modern psychopath, so I bought you a laptop.’
Laptops make a person human? How? Guns and bullets make people human. Whack a head or two and enjoy the feeling. But no, I was required to open the damn black box and search for ways to satisfy her booty. Google, Yahoo, and all those Chinese herb names that can help men grow stronger and bigger. What crap! What about a gun and a few bullets to help a man grow stronger and bigger? What a waste! Where the hell are my guns, I shouted? And she said, ‘Yeah, come on.’
It was a psychopathic condition, but I seemed to enjoy it. I didn’t know what a psychopath was until my girlfriend told me. She said she wanted to do me because I was a psychopath, the likes of whom she hadn’t been with before. When she said that, I took my pistol out, put it on her head, and did her as if I were doing my normal job. She liked it. She liked the fact that I was a merciless psychopath. She once said, ‘we stick around well, you know what I mean.’ And I gave her that bad-guy look and replied, ‘give me a bullet and a head and I’ll show you what sticks around even better.’
She brought me a phone one day. A Motorola Razr. She said, ‘Hey, Vicky, keep this phone with you all the time so that I can stay in touch with you. Not in touch with you, but you know what I mean.’ So I stayed in touch with her, not as much with the phone as with her. The phone just like any other electronic device started to weigh down on me.
It’s fine if you’re taking care of a girl or a gun, but a phone, absolutely not; for something as ridiculous as a phone you need to be really demented. I hated taking care of the phone. Keeping it in my pocket, I would take it out several times every hour just to check whether it was working or not. With guns in my pocket, the phone seemed out-of-place. The light would always be on, but the bars on the far left top-corner seemed jittery. They would disappear on me every time I stepped out of hiding. In hiding, they were in surplus, more than the number of spoons I had at my place. It was weird. A phone? Why would anybody require a phone?—only if someone wants to carry something in their pocket. But if you’re so insistent on carrying something, carry rocks, or guns. What about bullets? I knew how lonely people were. Who did they think would call them?—not I. I could put a bullet in their head, but I couldn’t call them. One day a guy called me and asked me to hit him. Why? Because no one ever called him. So I hit him. A 9mm bullet hammered into his head, because no one ever called him. Cool.
I was about to hit this man the other day when my girl called. I didn’t know what a booty call was before that conversation, so I got scared when she announced it to be a booty call. Was I required buying her new boots? I didn’t like taking her out shopping, so the thought of new boots scared me. I rushed back to her, leaving my job untouched. And it turned out that the booty call was something else. If not as scary as taking her out shopping, it was enough to make me sweat.
Vicky, don’t be a dog, now. You like it, don’t you?’
I didn’t disagree with her, but I really wanted to return the phone, which had started all the sweaty, tiring, rocking, drama. I wanted no more of that phone. I wanted my freedom back. I wanted to feel that I could pop open anyone’s head without having to fear about its terrible ringing sound. But it didn’t happen. The crazy phone stayed with me.
Things got a little quiet between me and my girl. I enjoyed a lot more time with my guns. I stashed away the phone so that it would die its natural death and leave me alone. But no, it didn’t stop bothering me. It kept ringing and ringing, and I was booty called again and again. Away from my guns, I started to wither away. Just like a gun without bullets, I was rendered useless.
‘Hey Vicky, let me get you a Blackberry, so that I can stay in touch with you even more, well not in touch with you, but you know what I mean.’
Blackberry. That was it. My decline. A cool name but a horrifying product. I was no longer a man. I was a Blackberry subscriber. Internet. Email. All that other crap too. Just a click away. No, I didn’t need any clicks. I needed my gun, for god’s sake. Blood. Crap. Thud. End. Everything just a click away. I wanted some of those clicks. Heavens knew it, once I had the Blackberry, I was booty called more than ever. Actually, I spent more time taking care of her booty than my guns. I didn’t want any calls anymore. I wanted my guns. I wanted them all.
‘Hey Vicky, let me get you a laptop. That way you can be even closer to me. Much closer.’
And so I got this Laptop.
A “black box,” I’d say. Two layers sandwiched together, with buttons on one layer and a TV-like screen on the other. Switch it on, and the fan starts throwing out heat waves. I very rarely switched it on, but whenever I did, she was here and it was cold.
‘Why do I require a laptop?’
‘Vicky, you require a laptop, because it makes you human. A laptop makes you a complete man. Before the computer you were a primitive man, but now you’re a modern psychopath. I haven’t done it with a modern psychopath, so I bought you a laptop.’
Laptops make a person human? How? Guns and bullets make people human. Whack a head or two and enjoy the feeling. But no, I was required to open the damn black box and search for ways to satisfy her booty. Google, Yahoo, and all those Chinese herb names that can help men grow stronger and bigger. What crap! What about a gun and a few bullets to help a man grow stronger and bigger? What a waste! Where the hell are my guns, I shouted? And she said, ‘Yeah, come on.’
