I feel my brain melting into the same complacency as the vermin I exploit. You can do a lot: justifying how these scum are able to shuffle into giving their hard-earned value up to a thug like me, deeming yourself as superior to a stain, cutting off generations of stupidity. I used to go the extra mile; but I’ve realized that over-achieving is often met with contempt and exploitation.
I didn’t choose to be here; but the sheer fact of their existence allows me to thrive.
Dopamine, serotonin, ecstasy, freedom, are all concepts we take for granted. Imagine being able to name your lack. To vocalize your worthlessness is often met with sympathy and false attempts at breaking through. If you’re vulnerable, they’ll use it to rape you. But shouting that to the nothing festers real strength.
I am privileged enough that I understood how pathetic I really was before I reached adulthood. Some of these scraps really think they can cultivate meaning out of what they do not, cannot, and will not possess. This facade of lack makes them ignore the screaming child, naked, scratching at the walls you imprison them in. I am not able to ignore this festering distraught and angst. I am there; I am screaming; I am naked; I am begging you to let me out.
The internet was a mistake; I recognize that. And I also believe that I would probably be in a better profession than this if it wasn’t around. Assassin just sounds so much better than what they call me.
Son, mother, father, scumfuck, fucktard, piece of shit, carpet muncher, piss drinker, dick sucker, satanist, sheep fucker, dog fucker, I mean list any animal that is associated with a country that is occupied by brown people and I have been accused of sexual interaction with them. However, they never look back at the screen they are cursing. I am abroad, I do not exist if I do not invade your life, I am a phantom occupying your mind and phone before I enact my revenge. Of what, you may ask? Of your existence.
Your existence allows me to thrive. I see how you sexualize your children, I see how you allow cripples to handle guns, I see how you parade around a pile of shit. Except you do not. I may be similar in literal circumstances, but you abstract your self-worth so much that no amount of rarity (which let me be clear, has never been the case) can escalate to value. Do you think that the last trace of polio was met with disdain? Raid the bunkers that keep these viruses and die with the infection.
I know what I am. I take pride in the fact that pride and shame are shackles that I buried a long time ago. I have survived, against a strategic napalm bombing of my livelihood every fucking day. I have survived; what the fuck have you done? Contributed to a charity.
But everyday I recoil at the phone. It takes mountains of mental fortitude just to dial the first number. My mind flash-backing to all the accent training, recorded calls, and cult-like sales presentations: I am awash with anxiety and disdain. I hit call on an impulse; because they make the green button so attractive to push; and the red one so painful to touch.
The phone starts ringing. I pray to every fucking god out there that it goes to voicemail, or even better a disconnected line, or even better a line connected to someone else like me and we can test our pitches against one another.
“Hello, you have reached… MEGAN… The per-“
Click. I can only let the message go through for so long or my bosses will notice I’ve been fucking around all day leaving messages.
“Hey! What’s up it’s Troy! You kno-“
Dammit. I once got 24 calls in a row go straight to voicemail. It was a nerve-racking record, met with utmost euphoria until call number 25.
“The number you have dia-“
I don’t know where they are getting these numbers, but I feel like they’re wasting their money.
“Hello, Gunner Agency, how can I help you?”
Click. If they hear the boilers and attempt at AC in my office they will get my number in trouble. Best to hang-up and move on.
It’s obvious by now that the only power I have is persistence. I do not relish in the hatred that is thrown at me; because I know that it is not of my doing. The murderous rage that fills you when you get cheated does not rely on the action itself. It does not even rely on the connection or person that has betrayed you.
The label of “sucker” transcends any insult they have the vocabulary and cultural knowledge to spew.
We are all orphans. Only a few simulate the wonder that comes with a placenta splayed on the floor.
“Ahem…”
A period of silence ensues. A benefit of the doubt.
“Hello?”
Noise cancelling has accelerated at the same rate as genealogy. I start into my pitch.
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? YOU HAVE TO BE SOME KIND OF-“
Congrats. You passed the moron test. I cannot imagine why Christ would come back down. Why sympathize with this crock of shit? How can you express all of the folies of humanity; and still align with its existence?
“Hello?”
I’m on the verge of tears, similar to when a fisher has a beauty on the line. If you mess up at least they’ll repopulate. But, if you pull at the right time, you’ll fucking have it. You’ll have something that contains no lack. Value instilled; born with; liquid gold.
“Is anyone there?’
I really hate to admit it, but the coarse fry of an older woman’s voice really gets me off. I will pop a boner, but I don’t have enough bathroom time to finish it off. I am grinning ear to ear, tears rolling down my face, while the stuffed cubicles sense my arousal. They are jealous but have a shit-eating grin, because they know I’m going to fuck her. I’m going to fuck her, her daughter, her granddaughter, her son, her son’s wife, her grandson, god I’m going to cum in every single fucking crease that her stupid, worthless flesh creates. Like a petri-dish I am going to cultivate my seed in her fucking will. My yellow-stained semen will be worth more than her coffin. I can’t wait to jack off in the car before I go home, thinking about raping her cunt bag of a granddaughter right in front of her. My focus, not on the tight, tearing vagina I am sodomizing, but the sheer disgust she sees in my facial contortions. By god I’m going to eliminate her last name from the fucking census. I hope to everything that is holy that her entire family commits suicide right after they skin their young.
This is what keeps me going. I know for a fact these vessels of meat have worse fantasies about me. I do not feel this way of thought as repulsive. I admire that I am able to traverse these boundaries of the acceptable and realize I am nothing more than everyone else.
With someone this tight and wet, the pitch comes naturally. Muscle memory, like tying your shoes, kissing lips that are puckered, squashing the spider. Almost rote and routine, but when you see your desktop light up, you almost moan.
The only form of blue-balls comes from the fact that they haven’t checked their bank account yet. I have been bringing this up in sales meetings. I rationalized this by saying we could better track our profit margins; but everyone laughed and called me a sick fuck.
I got my first promotion from that.
What is rewarded is what is gained, nothing more, nothing less. I have gained this ragged inoperable bitch’s pussy. Did I get a raw deal? Do I have something that is worth more than what I had to do to get it? Was I scammed?
I often laugh at this thought. My profession, beating down the fourth wall until someone stops me. How weak your grandsons muscles seem, even after hardening under the pressure of incarceration, 10,000 kilometers away. You cannot hurt me, and it took so little to hurt you. If I am morale, if I am upright, if I am sympathetic in any way that decreases my worth. Would you want some unguided violent youth teetering on death or suicide with every sway of their eyes, be on the other line?
No, you want me. You want this skin-tight skeleton that fucks goats in his free time. You want some brown pre-pulverized skin jacking his thick 12 inch dick in front of your face. Stay on the line long enough and hopefully you hear gasps of nothing regurgitating moist liquid sounds similar to when someone drowns in their own blood.
Do you expect me to back down? To assimilate to the country and its citizens that have tortured me? Do you not hold yourself to the same account? Do you really want my family to starve because I couldn’t tie the noose around your grandma’s neck?
You are me, and I am you. I have come to the Buddhist conclusion that you are able to become me and I am able to become you. We are one in the same. My attitude, my actions all symptoms of your ability to live, to procreate, and to fester. I am from the soil, and you a byproduct of convenience. I thank you for your contribution.
I am better off without you.
ZCUMCORE 
Leave a comment