A departure from the usual. Creepypasta

My kids have been going on about Creepypasta for the past, I dunno, maybe year, and recently Tabitha has been going on about it as well. “Some of them are so bad that you could do better writing one, and Emily could narrate one immensely better.” At least that’s how I think that went when Tab was telling me about Creepypasta’s YouTube channel a couple weeks ago. I’m still not sure if it was a compliment, insult, challenge or all of the above. I don’t have a clue, but I wrote something anyway in answer to Tabitha’s whatever. It was written on the fly, with emotions running high and zero proofreading in the tradition, or so I’m told, of Creepypasta.

Life is but a Dream

What is life? You wake up, go to your job, work eight to ten hours a day and then go home to your empty apartment, or house, or maybe you have a pet like a dog or cat. Or maybe you have a family, and your kids are great and your wife is an angel. Or maybe your wife is a shrieking harpy and your kids are spoiled ingrates that love you, but only for the things you buy them.

Maybe life is good, and you have everything you’ve ever wanted, or maybe your life sucks because you get up every morning, and go to a job you barely tolerate because society tells you that you have to have it. Fish gotta swim, and man’s gotta slave so to speak.

So on an average morning I got up like I always did and got dressed for work. I watched my wife sleep as I pulled my clothes on, and thought of nothing as I watched her quiet breathing. I went to the kitchen and retrieved my lunch bag from the fridge as my teenage son trudge half-asleep toward the Keurig for his morning coffee.

“Morning, big guy,” I said as he passed again with his cup of Café Latte in hand. He only grunted to me as a response. He was never a morning person. I used to be, but that was years ago when I had a stupid thing called youthful hope in my life. It couldn’t have been that stupid because I had sometimes wished my son had it. He was seventeen and already a skeptic and in ways I could never hope to be. God, I hated life. Today was the day that was going to change.

I clocked in at work, logged into my workstation, and proceeded to run the same program testing that I had for the past eight months. I was part of a team tasked with creating an accounting software to merge three different systems to one, effectively making the perfect real-time accounting data and journal entry creating, and ledger keeping system ever developed. I never like accounting, and thanks to this project I knew more about it than I ever wanted to know. I hated being a programmer, but that was going to change today.

I went on break down to the smoking area. I’d been quite since I first became a “vaper” 18 months earlier, and was very nearly about to quit that. I did it because I was a smoker that wanted to quit; not someone that wanted to be “cool”. Somewhere along the way in the past eighteen months, vaping had gone from smoking cessation to being a popular “cool-kid” thing to do.

For the past seven or eight months a couple of them kept shadowing me, blowing their “clouds” in my direction. I never stood near anyone when I was on break. Making friends was never a part of me, and I never wanted to have friends. Work was some place I needed to be to feed myself, the wife, the kids, and to keep a roof over our heads. But that was going to change today. Right now.

I pulled out my phone, tapped execute on a program that I had running in the back ground for six months, and turned to the head “cool kid”. He was staring at me, blowing those annoying large clouds and grinning at me.

“Problem,” I said, after three or four seconds of staring at him.

He grinned and blew a cloud at me. I heard his two friends chuckle behind the vapor screen. I waited for it to clear enough for him and them to see my .40 caliber Beretta pointed at him. I waited that extra second for recognition to kick in on his face before I squeezed the trigger. I had the special ear plugs in that protected my hearing while allowing me to hear normal conversations. They worked to a certain degree. The guy’s body hadn’t even hit the ground before I squeezed off a second shot into one of his friend’s face. The third on managed to say, “Oh my-,” before I shot them as well. I saw quick movement to my left. Someone was trying to be a hero I guess by trying to tackle me. It didn’t work. The sound of his death actually registered. The round made a wet pop as it sped into the top of his head. The momentum of his running carried him flying across the blacktop. The sound of his face and clothes ripping across the ground sounded very much like wet canvas tearing.

I made my way back into the building as the few remaining smokers, vapers, whatever, ran away. I’m sure some were shakily calling the authorities. Let them.

I walked up to my floor, and found everything as it should be. People were working diligently at their desks on whatever project they were tasked with, and I walked by only a couple people that I knew only in passing. I grabbed one at random, spun him around, and fired my pistol into his eye socket. That was gratifying.

There were a couple screams of surprise, and a few voices asking in astonishment if that had been a gunshot. “It had certainly sounded like one,” was the popular reply. I rounded my corner and shot a self-professed Christian in the throat. He was a flabby sack of hypocrisy, always trying to flirt with some female twenty years younger than he. He had a daughter close to some of those women’s age, and I never could understand why he did what he did. I guess to give himself legitimacy in his holier-than-thou life. He sputtered wildly, blood shooting in mesmerizing sprays from his mouth. It was fascinating to watch.

I should’ve kept my wits together because someone was able to tackle me. I think he was screaming for someone to get my gun. My ears actually rang more from the tackled to the ground than the shots fired. He looked away just long enough for me to latch onto his right cheek with my teeth. He panicked and fought to pull away. All he did was assist me in tearing a swath of flesh and meat from his face. He screamed and screamed until someone shot him in the back. I think they were aiming for me. As luck would have it I had inadvertently moved in front of him as the employee with my pistol tried to take aim at me. She only did what I was planning to do. I never liked the guy. He was a smarmy yes-man who thought he was clever in his put downs of others. To be fair, I really didn’t like much of anyone.

In all honesty though, I did like the woman holding my .40 cal. She was twenty or twenty-five years older than me, and we’d had a pretty good rapport. “It’s okay,” I said, holding my hand out to her. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just give me the gun. It’s out of bullets anyway.”

She looked at it, angling the side of the pistol toward her face. The slide was forward, not back. That showed that there was a round in the chamber. I rushed forward, twisted the barrel of the pistol away from her, and heard the sharp snap of her figure breaking. She cried out for a moment, but that was silenced as I squeezed the trigger, firing the last round into her face. Now, it was out of ammunition.

I dropped the magazine and methodically went around putting “paid” to anyone still in the area. Did you get that? It was a kind of accounting joke. In all though, I had killed fifteen people in the ten minutes since I had started in the smoking area. I was keeping track of it all.

I moved to the fourth floor from the fifth, and shot two more people hiding there. Sixteen, seventeen. I passed by the door leading to the third floor and saw a police officer doing a sweep. We saw each other, and I briefly saw him speak into his radio. I made to look surprised and appeared to run. Instead I had dropped to the stairs, and waited. He opened the door, crouching low, and instantly took two rounds from my pistol. One round shattered his cheek bone while another punched through his throat. I cursed my sloppy trigger control. The spacing was too far apart. I rushed up the stairs, snatching at his AR15. I cursed louder than I had earlier at the realization that he’d had it secured to his person with a tactical sling. I tripped, as I tried to tug it free. I knew how the slings worked, but I acted stupidly anyway.

The stupid act bought me another ten to thirty seconds of life. Another officer had come through the door and taken several shots at me. I hadn’t heard them because they were so close to hitting me. A hiss means it’s close, a snap means it’s distant. I’d heard that a time or two in my life. I squeezed the AR15’s trigger repeatedly. Several shots took this female officer in her vest, while a few others fly by her. She stumbled back, and I took the initiative to end her as she had tried to with me. Two rounds in each of the areas where the groan meets the crotch. It was a definite hit on her left leg as the dark blood spurted out and her pallor began to grown ashen. I wanted to see what it looked like for a person to die that way. It was interesting I suppose. Nothing really to write home about.

In case anyone is curious; this wasn’t about revenge killing for perceived slights. No. A couple can be seen as that, yes, but mostly it was because I wanted to kill people in a very public, very personal way. I meant to kill people that I disliked, people I liked, and people that I was ambivalent toward. I had now done that, and I wanted to do more.

I don’t know when I fell, but I had. I don’t remember the shots that killed me, but that’s normal from what I’d read because gunshot survivors never remember the shots that felled them. I didn’t even feel any pain.

“Isn’t that interesting,” I mumbled, hitting the snooze button on the alarm clock. “I managed to get the second cop at the same time as she got me.”

“Still feeling that hatred, baby?” asked my wife as I swung my legs onto the floor.

“A little. It’s getting better though.”

“The ‘dream’? Or the hatred?”

“Both,” I answered, putting toothpaste onto my toothbrush.

“I think you’re getting addicted to the killing.” She smiled coyly at me.

I spat toothpaste into the sink. “Life’s a program.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” She laughed and kissed my neck. “Well this time, you only managed to transfer a quarter of a million from the company,” she said, joining me at the bathroom door. Her voice sounded a little irritated. “How many more of these back and forth trips do you think you need to make before we can all leave and make a better life away from this? The kids and I are tired of waiting.”

“Baby, all of that is going to change today.”

This is copyrighted 2016, by Jason McKinney. You can’t use any of it with permission, shithead.

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About Jason McKinney

I'm a word slinging, werewolf loving, zombie wrangling, scare master author, husband and father of three. When I'm not writing, I'm blathering nonsense to the world or taking orders from the family. You have my thanks for stopping by and I hope you enjoy the madness and mayhem! Stay delicious, my living peeps!
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