Tuesday, September 2, 2008

The Great Fear

Mortality, death, only the mad or lying do not fear it, every day is another step, slow succumbing to the ultimate STD.

We buy bagels, we buy starbucks, we use our Blueberry cell phones, we pick stocks, we sniff coke, we do NOT, we have NEVER realised mankind's true calling, our true vocation as DEALERS OF DEATH.

No other known beast treats other beasts so cruelly, no other animal keeps another in cages. We need to wake form this fear of death, and drink it deep.

We have seen these people before, the Awake, the Bloodhungry. They were in Ireland, a nemesis from the Queen herself who would kill and maim, shoot and attack to make these, these ANIMALS rise up and finally awaken to their human side; "Death is our business, and business is good".

One more, knows how to kill.

Not serial killers. not sexual sadists, pedophiles who inject battery acid into little girl's spines, not psychopaths who go to the army wanting to hurt.


They awaken.

They take these, these rejects of human nature and they strap them down. The offcuts of DNA, the useless bits, they rot in prison, sometimes, they awaken themselves with a noose, but more often, they just [/i]fester[i].

but then - then, THEN is the time when we cut them loose.

The Triforce, a trifecta, the holy triumvirate of chemical glory.

How much do you weigh, sir? 100kg?

Five hundred milligrams of the Father, of sodium thiopental, railed in saline takes seconds to reach the brain, and then the Son. Ten milligrams of pancuronium bromideto sit on your nerves and nibble, spitting out the sweat and your oh-so-precious acetylcholine has NOWEHER to go, but d-o-w-n into the kidneys, where it will be found in massive concentrations at your autopsy, because NOW you can't MOVE and there's NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT! The holy ghost is ironic, because you buy it at health food stores. Potassium chloride, or salt-free-salt, big bags of it. All you need, 100mEq in this driest of martinis, this spiciest of meat-a-balls.

but it gets better. the PC method is to strap down the animal, blindfold him and calm him down with a lungful of ketamine, then jam the motherfuckin' IV into his neck, into the left carotid.

There, it GRIPS you by the lobes and squeeeeeezes until your eyelids feel like molten solder and your ears want to BURST because they're full of fluid when you



A quiet death.

That won't do.

We want you AWAKE, not falling asleep again, even if only for a millisecond we want you to KNOW that THIS WAS YOUR LIFE! ARE YOU PROUD? CAN YOU STAND UP AND SAY, I AM THE BEST I EVER COULD BE?

I doubt it.

So we take our triforce, our perfect storm, in it's thick plastic IV bag, and place it in a bucket of ice, water and salt. To take the edge off, haha. Like a good akavit, death is best served cold. When it's down to about 5*C, they hook it up, and forget the ket.

Then it goes in the arm, giving you roughly thirty seconds as you feel that delicious, burning twitching ice creep up your veins. Oh, you can feel it, believe me, you can fuckin' feel it all right.

You feel it crawl up your chest, smack your heart and your chest locks up like a BSoD, one final thrash that drives it into your brain, and because it hit the heart first you're still AWAKE and LISTENING to the every word of your doctor-, your executioner, your parish priest praising the last rites but all you can think about is "Who put this fucking popsicle in my neck"

And then it ends.

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