THE SELFISH MODE

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Many Funerals To Attend

I prioritized the list much like an intelligence officer might decide the fate of accomplices that needed to be lost, those that knew the most or that had access to public channels such as the print or communication media needed immediate attention, those that had no immediate access but that could eventually be interviewed by an inquisitive historian were at the end. Historians are always capable of misrepresenting the truth, and through generations rewriting it, so if through some misfortune of mine they were left alive it was a fair risk. Please do not think that I am being to verbose writers get paid by the word so we never enough words, editors get paid to cut cost. If writers were not, as they are, more intelligent than editors all the classics would be telegrams. Many went to war, wounded, dead, good side won. A really good editor would even delete wounded and dead arguing that war implies wounded and dead.

During a questionable period of my life I had befriended black market pirates and so it did not take long for me to secure some delectable milk chocolate poisons that I was told were impossible to trace, a revolver with a built in silencer and enough ammunition to secure a second shot per victim just in case they fell to the tendency to cling to life, I had also purchased a crate full of popular drugs that could be consumed in a jolly social atmosphere with devastating results. I was also fortunate in the fact that a couple of my friends suffered from suicidal tendencies that were well documented by their psychiatric records.

Now the reader might argue with me and say that I am acting irrationally or giving in to action but nothing could be so wrong, I was attempting to save a thought process from being improperly pirated and disseminated. I was attempting to retain intellectual property rights on something that was mine from birth and in attempting to collect proper royalties and securing that no adulterated copies of my thoughts be distributed I was protecting all parties concerned, even the ones that I would expedite out of existence.

Soon after my plans were set in stone a sore the shape of a tear developed underneath my right eye, it was a sore that would grow irritated red, and diminish, and grow and I saw it do this every time that I saw my face in a mirror and I deduced from it that it was a spiritual tear for my dear lovers and friends that I would miss. sentimentality was a weakness of mine. And the tear signified the end of friendships because after the killings in order to maintain maximum secrecy I would not be able to share any intimate thoughts or emotional moments, anyone could betray me, I could trust no-one save for myself and indeed I sometimes held myself in suspicion, sure I had to trust myself but I was not above imagining that this self that I am was capable of duplicity and that in a massive case of self deception I was doing destinies dirty work. The tear never went away.

Mathilda was to be my first victim, dead to be ironically she was not a dear friend but she had been around to raise me and to watch my thoughts in progress she was first up because she knew to much but more important because she was old and would be an easy first target to arouse much needed courage.

I, by listening and not by asking, found the rest home where Mathilda had been instituted do to her poor health she suffered from many ills but she had suffered with many ills all of her life and none showed any promise of killing her any time soon. One evening I went to visit her, unannounced, of course, and retaining my silence camouflaged as a nurse for the dying I entered her room. I did not need to turn the lights on to identify my victim, Her breathing always a snore was ever present, you could not tell from it that she had been ill all of her life. she always had this signature smell about her that made my nostrils want to clamp shut perhaps produced by the fact that at seventy-four she was still a virgin saving her self for God ignoring what the virgin Mary might have to say about that.

I stood by the bed and made whispering calls: auntee, auntee, hello auntee its me your nephew, the one you always hated as a child, the one you told he would grow up to be a garbage man, the one that you always wanted to convert to religion by violent means, auntee its me, wake up, its time to wake up auntee, so that you can sleep for good. The vermin filled woman did not lift an eyelid. I hastily climbed on top of her as one would mount a horse, her circumference equal to many redwoods, her gray hairs showing many dead roots, and my hands begun to strangle her, and strangle her with force, with anger, she did not violently buckle, she did not make me feel like the rough rider on some cowboy adventure, she made me feel like if I was killing someone that was already dead, that had been dead for many years. Her neck failed to compress I felt it as if it was a huge rubber bag full of fluids. She died the doctor in me took her pulse she failed to report a heartbeat, she was reporting to the god that, unlike me, liked his women unspoiled.