This is an attempt to get something out, word vomit, dump the refuse from between my ears. All while trying to be creative and give life to a story. I can think of my audience of whom really don’t exist unless I let them peer over my shoulder to gaze their eyes upon the work of “a madman” sounds so befitting if I was trying to take this story into a place of intrigue but the reality of it is. This story is more a stream of consciousness with no particular direction….

I see myself walking down the halls of a checkered floor with the methodic foot falls one equates to ominous news about to be brought in by some doctor or lawyer but upon realization that I control the beat of doom moving in metronomic precision I decide to skip. My shoes have now transformed to sneakers and the serious face is slowly uplifted to a smile. With my smile increasing with every stride I eventually have a shit eating grin smeared across my face and launch myself into the highest bound of all but as I descend a change occurs and I land with a parachute  break fall in full World War 2 Gi regalia. Hearing explosions and German gun fear wiz across my head as I look up at the deadly light show as my body mechanically detaches itself from my harness. I appreciate the beauty with a cold indifference knowing that I am about to commit acts of evil on my fellow man. I roll over to my stomach and asses wear the staccato of hate is singing in search of a lover to rape. I slowly inch myself to a slight depression buttressed by a tree freshly felled. I claw out a belly scratch and I give myself a window to take up aim. I don’t see a man but the lighting of the singer firing at the cyclic rate so I take aim right at its heart and fire. The monster stumbles holds its breath and resumes its barrage of lighting but now wounded and unsure of where the sting came from she fires erratically across the landscape because my muzzle flash was suppressed by my little hidey hole. My entire life has lead up to these moments for survival but now as I lye here sighting in once again I question. Why? Why have I let all my love, creation, sadness and pain be weaponized and exploited by others. Like a woman raised to be a whore who gives pleasure I was raised like a savage to end it. Not just pleasure but all things to include myself when I no longer feel purpose. I retake aim and begin to fire at the monster until my weapon runs dry and the monster stammers once again. I raise myself up and sprint across the wasteland maneuvering the terrain with the grace of a predator zeroing in on my prey. I fall short of the monsters lair, pull the pins my grenades and cast them right down her throat. Upon hearing and feeling the blast I draw my bayonet like a sword and go forth to cut the maiden free from inside the belly of the beast. As I charge forward I feel bullets rip through my back fired by the men who sent me forth to slay the monster. When the valkyries descend to pull me up to Valhalla I see the beast has recovered and whenever a warrior fly’s to close to the fire it isn’t the heat of the enemy that melts his wax but the owners trimmers that prune his wings to keep the battle going on eternally.