=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= = F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. = =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Random Acts of Kindness ----------------------- I like guns. I don't know much about them, though. I couldn't even tell you what type of gun I am holding. All I know is that it is a rifle. With a laser scope of course. The best someone else's life could buy. I went to the gun shop yesterday. I walked up and down the glass cases admiring the glint and shine off of the polished metal that lined the red satin shelf lining. An ironic juxtaposition of color if you ask me. I asked the old fat man behind the counter what he would recommend for a high powered long range rifle. He spewed numbers and brand names out of his pathetic mouth. I don't care. Show me one. What price range am I looking for? The best. The fucking best. He cringed at my choice of words and moved to the back of the store. He brought out the gun that I am cradling in my arms now. It was pretty. I liked it. Only $3500 and it would be mine. What about the ammunition? Expensive as well. I'll take 100 rounds. He got them. He put them on the counter. Can I see your ID was all he said. I didn't like that question. I didn't like him. So I shot him in the head. The amount of blood and flesh that shot against the back wall was interesting. I wanted to know what his fat ass ate for lunch, so I looked. Even though I knew that I would see nothing because it was his soul that was splattered against the glass, not his stomach. I chuckled. That's okay. No big deal. I took the rifle and ammunition and left the store. I felt good. I felt alive. I don't think that gun shop's owner was feeling very alive. I bet you are wondering what I shot him with. I don't know. I told you, I don't know anything about guns. I know how to load them and shoot them. That is it. It was a small pistol. I took it off of some nigger gangster that I killed the other day. I don't like nigger gangsters, they bother me. He was walking down an alley downtown last weekend. He didn't even see it coming. That's okay. All I needed was his gun. He should have just given it to me, but alas no one really thinks about stuff like that. It has served its purpose. After I left that gun shop I got on the bus. A big Greyhound style bus. It was leaving the town where I live and was making a stop about 45 miles away in this moderately sized plains town. It smelled like cow shit when I arrived at my destination. I choose this particular town for my journey because it had a cool name on the map. I knew it was perfect. The bank building was the only structure in town that was over 3 stories. It was 15. A big building by that town's standards. It loomed over the entire city like a giant guardian. If only they knew. I chucked silently as I sat on the bus bench looking at it. I amuse myself. Perhaps you are wondering why I am here, in this quaint little backwards city. I saw a bumper sticker the other day. It said something along the lines of "Practice random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty." I liked it. I want to do that. It would be nice to contribute to society in such a way. My new rifle is beautiful, and it is kind too. It's name is Senseless. I named it after that bumper sticker. I took my bag and headed for the bank. When I got there I opened the door for some lady and her child who was whining about getting a lollipop from the teller. I gritted my teeth and smiled a twisted fake smile. I walked to the elevator and pushed the up button. Inside I was alone. I like being alone. When I am alone my only enemy is my thoughts. I can deal with them though. Not much else. I got to the top floor and hit the stairwell. Roof access was very easy to come by, I recall. Just a little hinged plate at the top of the stairs. And that brings us back to now. With me, and my rifle, on the building overlooking the town. The police station, the city park, the bank's drive through, a local high school, and what appeared to be the town hangout for the teenagers of the city, a small coffee shop looms before me. How quaint. This town should be in a Rockwell painting or some other happy sappy bullshit. I take out Senseless and caringly load the chamber with the first of one hundred rounds. It is a semi-automatic rifle, so I load several more rounds into the clip. I caress the stock and barrel and admire the perfection of my new friend. Scanning the scene before me I spot several police officers bullshitting around a cruiser. I hate police. I got a ticket once and it made me angry. I decide to start my random acts of kindness with them. I was going to shoot them and put them out of their ignorance and misery. That would be kind to them. That would be kind to everyone who gets tickets. I am excited. I love my new feeling of goodness and kindness and love that I embrace. I am ready to do something. Pop. Pop Pop Pop. Pop Pop. Pop. I admire the smoothness of the action as several bullets escape from their metal prisons. It is amazingly quiet. I watch as the entire group of pigs disappear in a hazy red cloud of blood and gore. No one notices. No one cares. They just go on with their lives. I am pleased. Drawing a crowd or a panic would make my plan harder to complete. But then again, they were just cops, so who would have really expected anything? It feels good, damn good. I really like the life that is pulsing through my veins. I am addicted; addicted like never before in my life. I look down at my hands expecting to see the blood that I imagine should be there. There is nothing at all. Just the pure white flesh of my worn hands. I embrace the rifle and clench the clip with my hand. It is warm to the touch. Not the cold hard steel that was before, but warm and alive. It is alive now. I gave it life and meaning and existence just like it gave me the same. I exhale and feel my pounding heart deep within my chest. I take out more rounds from the box in my bag. I gently kiss each one as I slide them into the clip. There. I am ready. I hear a slight commotion below by the police station. They have discovered the torn corpses of the police officers. There is shouting. I must be very quick. I line up a teenager standing in dirty pants with a skateboard by the coffee shop. I smirk as he notices the red dot on his chest. Pop. That red dot transforms into a massive red hole, enlarged and vibrant. He falls to the ground. Screams are everywhere as people are falling to the ground in fear. Silly people, I am above you. That just makes you better targets. Pop Pop Pop. Three more of the skater's buddies join him. Pop Pop. A yuppie with his cell phone and his laptop ceases to exist. So does his precious laptop. It flies through the air in a comical flight routine and smashes on the concrete. I swing my rifle around, farther down the small strip mall where the coffee shop is built. I see a liquor store. I can clearly make out the man behind the counter looking out the window at the commotion. He probably wants to see my ID. I don't like that. Pop. Glass shatters and his head snaps back grotesquely. There's my ID, mother fucker. Bang! Concrete snaps off of the lip of the roof near me. I close my eyes and grasp my head. The rifle falls from my grasp onto the roof. I have been spotted. Police are shooting at me from the station. I duck down. I must be careful now. People don't like me. I grab Senseless and move to the opposite side of the roof, putting a large ventilation structure between me and their line of sight. I reload the rifle. I stand up again and look over the edge. I see the park. People are running and screaming, hiding behind trees and under benches. It reminds me of a game I used to play as a little kid. There was this rifle arcade game where you shot the ducks and geese and deer as they ran across the screen. It was very reminiscent of those carnival games. This was a lot like that, I thought. I shot. A man with a briefcase fell to the ground and clutched his shattered knee. I shot his hand. I began shooting at the multitudes of pigeons that scattered the park. Nobody likes pigeons. Perhaps they will be happy if I kill them. I move to the side of the roof facing the main street. I take aim at cars and trucks and began shattering windows and destroying tires. I bet frogger would have liked to have me on his side when he was trying to cross that street. I think he would have liked what I was doing. I keep pulling the trigger even though I hear that I am out of ammunition. My mind races as I hear people coming up the stairs to the roof. I have a feeling that my game is over, at least for now. I go over to the hatch in the floor and watch as it slowly raises, revealing several very cautious policemen scouting the scene. They see me, holding the rifle with a twisted smile on my face. They begin yelling at me to drop the gun. They think that they have caught me. They want to stop me from having fun, from being kind, from feeling alive and existing. I can't do that. I won't let them stop me. I scream at the top of my lungs. What it is I scream even I can't understand. It is earsplitting and takes all of my energy to sustain. I stop and hear shots, so I run to the side of the roof. I scream again, louder this time. I have a secret. They don't know it. I will escape to live another day. Now that I have found that which makes me alive. I will get away. They can't stop me. They won't stop me. I hate them. They want me dead. They don't want me to experience my new life and vitality and existence. No! NO! NOO! They won't! Hahahahahaha! I laugh insanely. They don't know my secret. They can't hurt me. You know why? Because I can fly... .: illusionary:. .: illusion@cyberrock.com :. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= = Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, Submissions = = Mail: jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) = =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= = To receive new issues through mail, mail jericho@dimensional.com with = = "subscribe fuck". 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