Thursday, February 13, 2014

Release - A Short Story.

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Bees...I see bees.
They're buzzing all around me. I feel them alive in my ears and it sends shivers down my spine. I look to the left and look to the right. My vision is blurry, but I see bottleslots of bottles, and the silhouette of a man who grabs me by the collar and flings me out into the night sky.
"We don't need junkies like you in here", says the man with a kick to my butt. "And stay away!"
I covered my face with my coat and licked the snow covered ground sucking in the melt water. I tried to stand and orient myself, but I just ended up falling into the bush by the side of the road. I stayed in that bush till the break of dawn. I was hungry, but to be honest I smelt so bad that not even a soup kitchen would let me use their facilities.
With the sun on my back I walked out of that bush and into a hot steamy bath in my apartment. It was a modest apartment by all counts. You enter the apartment - there's a bed staring you in the face. You look to the left and you have the bathroom. Not the ideal place to get your date home. I used to work as an investment banker until the global recession took my job away and left me helpless in its wake. Of course I had my savings, but a lot of good investments I had made, turned out to be bad decisions, as the markets crashed and left me with too many regrets. I took to drinking heavily with what was left in the bank, but that wasn't the last straw. At one of my bar crawls I made a few friends who introduced me to marijuana. I didn't quite know the implications back then about what I would be getting into but as I spent more time with them, I started trying harder drugs, like cocaine, ecstasy and acid. But like all junkies, I craved for more. I hit rock bottom finally when I got addicted to heroin. I remembered that day just like it was yesterday. It was the day my wife left me. She was done with my addictions. She was done living with a loser. We got divorced and another part of my savings went into the proceedings. By the end of that messy battle, I had nothing. Just enough money to get by, but not enough will to work. I was lost in a sea of opiates and chemicals. It numbed me to the extent that I couldn’t feel pain, merely observe it happening to me from a distance. It detached me from me.
I sat lost in my thoughts looking out through the window as a light drizzle brushed against my face. Below a myriad of cars blew their horns in that uncoordinated pattern that inflicts temporary seizures in most stoners.
I was at the same time preparing my next hit. I wasn't sober back then, because a sober me would have realised that a hit now would put me out of remission for a healthy 8 - 10 hours post which I would want a drink as the effect wore out.
It was on one of these heroin fuelled drunken nights that I met God. Only I didn't believe it was him back then of course. It happened at a bar that I have no recollection of, but I remember being the only customer, injecting myself in the corner. Before I could get on with it, to put it delicately, I was tapped in the back by whom I believed to be the owner. I quietly slid the syringe into my right pocket. The owner was a tall heavyset man with a hoarse voice dressed in a faded Metallica t-shirt that looked like it was bought before the Cold War. He sat across from me, while I avoided eye contact. He was smoking a cigarette and blowing heaps of smoke in no particular direction. He looked me up and down and I could feel his eyes reading my body, telling truth from fable.

He said, "I hope I'm not disturbing you", and blew a thick gust of smoke in my direction.

I looked back at him with the angriest face I could muster and asked him if he needed something.

He looked at me and said, "I think you're the one that needs something".

I was impatient that this man got to the point. I asked him who he was.

"God", he said

I had a look of amusement on my face that somewhat made the man opposite me more self-conscious. "Is it", I said, "I didn't know God smoked menthol" with all the degree of sarcasm I could pump into my tone.

"Not only do I smoke menthol. I smoke every cigarette on the planet. I've tried every drug on the planet, I am the air, I am the sea and most importantly I am you", said God completely unaware of my sarcasm.
Oh, so you can be whoever you want to be huh, I said with derision. I guess you could become Arnold Schwarzenegger and Asta La Vista my ass, I said sarcastically. 
And suddenly in front of me was Arnold. Not the puffed up mayor of California Arnold, but the chiselled, Arnold from Terminator and he held a shotgun to my nose"

Asta La Vista....said Arnold

"Woaah there", I shrieked, "There's no need to get violent. Let's discuss things. I believe you", I blurted out as paranoia and fear gripped me.

"Good", said Arnold or wait we were back to nondescript looking gentleman in the bar. "Now tell me. What is the meaning of life?"

I tried to comprehend the full weight of this question, but I had this nagging feeling that I was missing something. My hands instinctively reached out into my trousers and located the syringe. In a flash it was out in my hands and I played with it, feeling its surface on my skin. Rolling it in my palms, my sweaty heroin deprived palms. I was getting angry, but I controlled myself.

"Any Ideas", God was mocking me. Asking me the meaning of life when he knew I had no answer. Heck I supposedly lived every day, minute and moment, without knowing what it all meant. What was I supposed to do? There should be a manual to this, but I was determined not to lose this argument with a fake self-styled God or an insane hallucination, whichever of the two this was.

Life is suffering, I said with a look of amusement.

Good, said God. You're a lot smarter than I thought. So if life is suffering, have you suffered enough?

It was a good question - so many ways to define enough. I was pretty sure I was amongst the population that had suffered enough. I was getting angry with this old fool and his insinuations. My head was a pot of boiling red rage as I thought about my life and what I’d lost.

“Have I suffered enough”, I screamed with agonizing rage.”First of all you give me this face, this ugly disjointed face. When I was growing up I saw my friends getting girlfriends, dating while I was trying to figure out how to get a girl to notice me. The irony of it all was that after I'd achieved a degree of success in my career you give me a girl, a shot at happiness and love. And just as easily as it came, you took everything and more away, I lost my job to the recession, couldn't get a break, my wife left me and I started doing drugs. So why you don’t just let me take a hit”, I screamed at him, through my blood stained teeth and crooked jaw.

I hadn't realised it then, but I had already injected myself somewhere during my heated diatribe. I sat down as the calmness of the drug engulfed me.

God asked me, “Do you have another hit? “

I was a paragon of confusion in that one moment where space and time just stop and you float above your body getting flashes of reality from time to time.

But my reality was God...

And he was saying something...

I pulled myself back and tried to pay attention

Another hit.., said God

I reached into my pockets and found another syringe. I reached out with my right hand, syringe held in my palm and God stretched out his right hand and we held hands. I could feel his sweaty palm grabbing the syringe from my hand.  

To my surprise, there was God, patting his arm in that particular ways junkies do. He was tightening the tourniquet and carefully evaluating which vein to exploit. It was fascinating to watch even though I'd done it like a million times.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      We were smashed. There was no doubting it. Gods’ eyes were bleeding. His mouth had dried up to a pucker, all signs of a good trip as for me, I had no idea how I looked.  I didn't remember the last time I'd looked in the mirror actually.

He looked at me with his sunken eyes and said

“Do you know what comes after suffering?”

“More suffering”, I said

“Well, yes partly but what happens when suffering comes to an end”, asked God.

“I don't know genius, mine hasn't come to an end”, I said

“Release”, said God. “It's what comes after suffering. Freedom - a new life. Isn't that what you want?”, asked God.

“So release me God”, I said with my arms spread open like that mushy scene from Titanic.

God held out his hand and said, “Come with me”.

I took his hand and followed him to a door at the far end of the bar. It was a nondescript door whichever way you looked at it, painted a dull brown and faded at the seams.

He opened it and led me inside to a much larger room. The room in fact, was so large that I couldn't see where it ended. It was like walking into air, but this air was filled with the stench of death. From one end of the room to infinity stretched rows and rows of beds. Each of them was occupied by people at different stages of death. They were all miserable, but the ones who were just about to die, any second, any moment, they looked the most peaceful. The prospect of a new life, release God had said.

"This is what I have to be to change my life", I enquired.

In essence, yes, said God.

“But remember, that you're tired of this life, and I'm giving you an alternative”.

I looked at the sea of sickness and death and was astonished at how much I didn't want to die. I looked back at God, but he was gone.

Where are you God? I said

Where are you?

There was no response, only death claiming one human being after another. There was no room. There was no door.

I was frothing from the mouth, gagging on my own bile. My face was expressionless. I was standing in a room of death and I was slipping. Slowly I lost control and fell towards the ground.  My mouth was a river of blood. My eyes were sinking ships as I looked across at a fading God and he smiled.
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Thursday, September 26, 2013

Short Story Cover Art

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Graphic Design is one of my passions aside from writing and after completing every short story, I usually design the cover art for it. Here you will find a few of my experiments with cover art. The story link is below each piece of art. Enjoy!!

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Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Animal

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Saturday night; Saturday night was usually beer and cartoons. Buck liked them and so did I. For the last month or so we'd meet at his place, pop open some beers, grill some steak and watch episodes of Courage the Cowardly Dog. That was his favorite show. I kind of thought it was cute. I met Buck at a local bar in town where I was a waitress. He used to always sit alone with his thoughts in one corner of the bar. After observing him for over two weeks I finally picked up the courage to go and talk to him.  He was handsome and rugged.  Steely eyes, blond hair and facial features chiseled from a rock. The first night we spoke was awkward at best but then we got to talking about our pets. You see, I was a hardcore pet lover. I had two cats, a dog and a parrot as flat mates. We bonded over our common love for dogs. He used to have an adorable dog named Alex. Ever since she died he had lost the motivation to live. He also mentioned that it was the first night since Alex's death that he felt truly alive.
A few weeks of dating and we had taken the relationship a step ahead.  He called me over and we spent the night together. It was the first night of many. That's how our little ritual of beer and cartoons began.
One night while watching reruns of Courage the Cowardly Dog I went in to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and saw Buck pouring dog food into a bowl.
"Hey buck what're you doing there?", I asked
"I'm just pouring out some food for Alex. ", Buck replied not making eye contact.
"Buck, Alex is dead. I know you're still grieving but you've got to let it go." I held his head in my arms and tousled his hair. Somehow that gesture always made him feel better. But then he looked at me and said,
"Do you think I don't know Alex is dead. I do this every night. I leave food in the bowl and when I wake up in the morning it's gone. I don't know who has it but it helps me feel that Alex is back. "
"What do you mean the food is gone?", I enquired.
"I mean I leave the food here and in the morning the tray is empty.", Buck said matter of factly.
I thought Buck was nuts but that's where our conversation ended. So that night, I decided to get up first thing in the morning and prove to Buck that he was delusional. That there was no way his dog tray would be empty.
The next morning I woke up at 5. Buck was sleeping beside me snoring soundly. I put on my dress and tip toed to the kitchen. There at the center of the room was the bowl of dog food and it was empty.  "How could that be?", I wondered. I was convinced that something was sneaking up in here at night and cleaning up the dog tray.
So the next night I stayed up past 2 and waited by the kitchen to catch whoever was responsible. I had made up my mind to prove to Buck that he was wrong. I put on the TV and began my watch. The news was on and as usual reports of some murder here and there flooded the telly, but my attention was on that solitary bowl of dog food. That was when I heard a sound. I wasn't sure what it was but it sounded like a door had swung open. I rushed into the kitchen and switched on the light, nothing, no one. I tiptoed to the door and looked in through the peep hole. Just darkness and utter silence. I stood there near the door paralyzed and that's when I heard another sound. It was unlike the first.
It was the sound of nails on wood. Something was scratching the door from the outside and the sound was increasing in intensity. I was shocked, too shocked to understand what to do. I froze and waited, waited for something to happen. That's when I heard it bark. I was convinced there was a dog behind the door, an angry dog. I mustered up the courage to turn the door knob. Even as my heart was in my mouth with thoughts of a ghost dog behind the door my mind was not ready to accept it. Beyond the door however was nothing, just darkness and silence. I shut the door and bolted it, deciding that retiring for the night was the best option.
The next morning when I woke up I saw that Buck had left. He worked as an auto car salesman in the car rentals place a few blocks from the bar.  I freshened up and also headed to work.  As I was leaving the apartment a car stopped right at our patio. From it three men alighted. Two of them were wearing a suit and the third man was shouting instructions at them.
As I opened our gate, one of the men looked at me and said,
"Ma'am what were you doing in that apartment."
"Ohh, I live here with my boyfriend.", I said.
The man looked at me in disbelief, "You live here? Ohh ma'am that can't be right. This property has been abandoned for a few months.", he said.
"Abandoned? Whatever do you mean. I've been living here the last two weeks.", I said slightly embarrassed at the revelation.
"Ma'am I'm not sure you're quite aware of what happened here, but the last owners of this flat have put the land up for sale", he said.
"What happened here?", I asked him, slightly irritated.
"Never mind that ma'am, you have a nice day. And don't be coming back here", he said.
I walked silently towards the bar, a myriad of thoughts flowing through my head. Buck lied to me. He was nothing but a homeless jerk. He was staying in someone else's house for the last two months. I had dated jerks in the past so this was not a new occurrence, but even still I didn't expect Buck to be a homeless guy.
That night I decided to head back home as I didn't want to see anybody, especially Buck. As I opened my apartment door I could smell something cooking. I made my way to the kitchen when I ran right into him.
"Buck what are you doing here?", I asked.
"Baby, you do so much for me. I thought I'd make you a nice dinner. You must be starving", Buck said.
"Listen, Buck. I don't have time for any more lies. You don't have a place to stay and you certainly can't stay here, so if that's what you're here for, then I'm sorry, but you lied to me", I said.
"Lied to you?", Buck looked at me questioningly.
"Guess what I met some realtors on your front lawn. Turns out that property where we have been camping, has been abandoned. It's not yours. You sure went to great trouble of pasting the place with your pictures, but I'm no fool", I shouted.
"Ohh, so you know", Buck said.
"Of course, I do. And I have no interest in spending time with people who lie to me", I said.
"If it's any consolation, I didn't lie", Buck said. "That house was mine. I lived there for 30 years till..."
"If you have some truth to tell me, do it now", I thundered.
"Until my dog died", Buck said.
"That's a load of horseshit", I said.
"Listen baby, I will leave, but not without you tasting the dinner I've made. I put a lot of effort into it. Would you please taste it?", Buck asked.
"Okay", I said grudgingly. I was more hungry than angry anyways.
He smiled and placed a huge steaming plate of meat in front of me. "Eat", he said.
I looked at him and picked up a spoon. I forked a piece of meat and tasted it. It was delicious and juicy. I looked at Buck and said, "It's really nice. What meat is this?".
"Oh...I'm glad you liked it. It's my secret recipe.", Buck smiled.
Back at the house the three men were having a beer in the hallway.
"So, Ted, what really happened here", said one of the men in the suit.
"Don't bother yourself with it Clayton", said Ted.
"No Ted, I won't to know man. Why would the owners want to demolish this place and sell the land", asked Clayton.
Ted looked up at the fan and said, "Because, a few months ago a man who lived here killed his 3 dogs, seasoned and ate their meat and hung himself from that ceiling fan"



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Monday, September 16, 2013

The Conundrum

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Every breath hurt 
His heart wanted to retire 
It had spent years in a futile search 
Better to give up and concede 
It had lost out in an overpopulated society 
It relayed its final communication to the brain 
Goodbye best friend as of this moment I cease to exist and through me so will you.

The brain did what it does best, it thought 
For years it was occupied with the most routine tasks ever 
Akin to using a fully tricked out Alien ware machine only to surf the Internet 
It hated it's job 
Screw this the brain thought, I'll get a better job 
It relayed its final communication
An extensive system of nerves carried the messages to all parts of the body 

When the penis received it's signal, it was in a conundrum 
On one hand it's master was  jerking it off 
The latest episode of Naughty America was clearly audible 
On the other hand the brain, which rarely communicated with it had demanded it to shut off. 
In all its years of service never had it shut off before time

So as the body began to go into shock 
The penis continued to fight on
In this battle he was alone but in the war it always won 
This would be no different, it thought 
And then it came... 
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Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Dick

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She loved giving head. Right from the time she was 14 when she was forced to take it in. Inch by inch it was stuffed down her young throat.  She remembered how she would almost die only to be revived again, spit dripping from her lip. That was the first time.
The second and third weren't very different. After it ended she felt a strange sensation as if she could control a human being. She could make them whine in pleasure or cry in pain. As time passed it got easier and she learned some spiffy new tricks.  How to creatively roll your tongue around the head, cup the balls, lick the underside of the shaft. She made men go wild with excitement and anticipation. In her day job she was a clerk at Walmart assisting people with their purchases. But at night she would be on the hunt for fresh cock.  She had an addiction. One that she couldn't pull away from.  Beautiful, blonde with lips that could bring a dead man to life, that was Veronica and right now she was giving head to a handsome tourist from Belize.  She didn't even know where that was. She met him in a local club where he began talking in his foreign accent about how much he loves to travel and meet people, the blah stuff.  All she was interested in was his stuff.  As it was usually in situations like this her pulse was racing, the anticipation of the hunt. Waiting to anoint her mouth with a fresh piece of meat. Soon enough they were both at her place and as if in character her lips were on his cock. Slowly stroking the shaft, watching it grow. She felt the head slightly tilting to the left waiting to be sucked off. She heard the moans of the boy from Belize. "Are you ready", she asked. "Oh god please" replied the kid. She promptly cupped her lips over his shaft slowly running the length of it with her mouth. She sucked his pre cum and cupped his balls while increasing the speed of her movements. She felt something inside her throat. The boy had cum, already. She looked up at him mouth full of cum and said, "Didn't know you folks from Belize came so fast". The boy looked satisfied and was snoring soundly. She got up and swallowed the cum. She hated not being able to perform her full ritual on dick. This boy had cum so fast she could swear just her touch made him ejaculate. She opened the drawer on her bedside table and removed a pair of handcuffs. She ran her fingers on the cold steel and it sent shivers down her spine. It was time for the final part of the ritual. Unfortunately it had come too soon. She looked at the sleeping boy lost in his dreams. The boy who had come to America to explore the world. One day she decided that she would explore the world too. She handcuffed him to the bed and then bent over and stroked his penis, no response. She looked under her bed and drew out her set of tools.

The next morning she awoke when the first rays of the sun hit her face.  The boy was still asleep at her side. She got up and made her way down to the kitchen. Her fridge was shining in the sunlight all white and pristine. She opened it and looked at her treasures. They were all there neatly displayed in glass cases. The boy from Belize was there, his manhood fresher than the rest. Her uncle was also there. The same uncle who unknowingly fed her lust for cock. He was placed in a makeshift altar. His dick floating in a liquid which kept it looking alive. She picked it up and remembered the day she was sexual abused by her own family member. That prize in her hand was special because unlike the rest she had grabbed it with the strength of all her teeth. She sighed and took out a pack of ready to eat sausages. It was time to go to work.
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Thursday, September 5, 2013

The Dream - A Short Story

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It was a silent night. As silent as a dead dog’s breath. The streets were empty. Empty, except for one soul. She walked the streets; face down, breath held tight. Her ears perked up at every sound. The clock chimed 2. An odd hour to be walking down the streets. Then suddenly she hears a sound. Voices from afar. Her hands rush into her purse, all senses active. She grabs the pepper spray and looks in every direction. Suddenly, silence. She tries harder to listen. Crickets buzzing, the soft patter of rain, and something she couldn't quite distinguish. That something increases in pitch. Someone’s screaming. The sound of rape. It grows louder, more intense. She can hear it all around her. She’s blocking her ears. And then, as if all of a sudden, nothing. No sounds. It gets quiet, very quiet. Until she can hear footsteps. Clap, clap, clap. The sound of a death knell. Someone was approaching, getting closer and closer. Her hands clench the pepper spray tighter. Nails scraping against its metal surface. The footsteps grow louder. Her fingers seem frozen on the spray, she can’t move them. From the darkness comes a hand. It touches her like a small gust of wind. Then there’s another hand, this one grabs her ass cheek. Then another grabs her left tit. And she’s frozen, unable to defend herself. Then the hand gets bolder. Soon she’s naked, bruised and battered lying on the street. Utter silence. Crickets buzzing, the patter of rain and a broken & bruised girl lying naked on the streets. She wakes up. Looks around. She’s home. It was a bad dream. She’s sweating. The clock chimes 2.30. Knock Knock. Someone just knocked the door. Who could it be at this ungodly hour? She looks through her peep hole. It’s Dave, the boyfriend. He has a bouquet of roses in his hands. She opens the door. She beckons him in. She embraces him. He kisses her on her neck. She’s in heaven. He clasps her head in his hands. It is beautiful. He slaps her face gently. She looks at him puzzled. He slaps her harder. She buckles and falls. He jumps on top of her.  He hits her on the nose.  She’s bleeding and crying. Then he tears off her clothes.  She’s naked and bleeding. He holds her body. He looks hungry. Like he hasn't eaten in a while. He digs in to her body. Licks the juices of his fingers.  Grinds the meat between his teeth.  His fly is open. She sticks her hands in his pants. She sucks him off.  She licks his balls.  She fingers his ass. And then she wakes up.  A dream within a dream. The TV is on. Sound of gunshots. Bam, Bam. She switches the TV off. It’s cold outside. She puts on her  jacket. She leaves. The street is empty. Silence. She admires the emptiness. Bang a sound. Birds fly. Gunshot. A dark alley. A man walks out bathed in blood.  She screams. He screams. She searches her pockets. There’s a gun. She points and shoots. Bam, Bam. Dead. The man drops to the floor. Sound of laughter from the darkness. She moves inside. It grows louder. Manic laughter.  She enters the darkness. Now she’s laughing. The darkness is inside her. Groping her. Violating her. Her hand moves to her chest. The gun pressing taut against her breast. Bam. She’s dead. She wakes up. It was just a dream. Dave is sleeping beside her. She brushes his hair. She gets up. She goes to the bathroom. She takes a shit. She washes her face. She looks into the mirror. A black eye stares back at her. A swollen lip stares back at her. The hole in her cheek stares back at her. Shit just got real. THE END.
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Monday, August 26, 2013

Alive - A Short Story

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You have a bad day. Who doesn't? We all have bad days from time to time. Only thing is your bad day is different. Your bad day ends up with you dead.  You wake up in the morning, brush, shave, shit and shower.  You dress up in your finery. You smile at random strangers on the bus.  You get bird poop all over your white shirt. Your boss tells you that if you don't finish the assignment he just handed you yesterday, you're ass is in big trouble.  You get shit from your girlfriend on how you don't have time for her. Then you chain smoke a pack and tell your coworkers how much you're life sucks and you leave work hopeful to not wake up the next day and bam...you're wish is finally answered. One moment you're crossing the street and the next moment, you're dead.  Someone just ran over you.  Someone you didn't know.  All you are now is dead meat. Some dudes road kill. Your brains are scattered all over the sidewalk.  You're so disfigured even you're family won't be able to recognise you. There'll be DNA tests to determine your identity and all that.  And that dick... that dick who smacked into you and got away, what about him?
Mr. Arthur wiped the sweat of his brow.  He dug into his pockets and fished out a pack of Marlboro's. He pulled out one and lit it.  A deep breath and release. The smoke came slowly at intervals and melded together to form a thick plume of unwanted vapor. Mr. Arthur had spent 30 years serving students and spreading the beacon of knowledge.  A professor of ancient history at the University of Cambridge.  A man of morals, ethics and all that.  A man who just ran over another. A man whose windshield had the blood spatter of an innocent. As Mr.  Arthur sat in his Camaro, contemplating what had happened, miles away a street crew were hard at work cleaning the street.  Scooping parts of brain, and tissue of the tarmac. They were equipped with large black bags into which the discarded material went.  Their gloved hands were expert and removing traces of road kill from the street.  An eye here, a hand there with a limb for company, everything was meticulously traced and collected in that black bag. 
Earlier today when Mr.  Arthur was delivering his lesson on the Ancient Mayan civilization, a part of his brain was working out the best way to die.  It was weighing in the pros and cons of each method.  Slitting wrists, too messy. Gunshot to the head, required guts.  Death by Hanging could be mistaken for death by erotic asphyxiation. The best way would have to be if he drove his car off a cliff. He made peace with his destiny during that lecture, today he would die. Instead he was sitting in his instrument of death feeling more alive than he had felt in the last 30 years.
30 years of routine. 30 years of being old professor Arthur at the University. 30 years of loneliness. He could feel the blood rushing to different parts of his body supplying them with the motivation to exist. He did not understand it but he knew this moment was special. He was not ready to die yet. 


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