So I was in this lynch mob, right. We killed this guy cos his toenails were
longer than ours. We'd all be like "So Billy, what size feet are you?" and
he'd be all like "Eight" and we'd be all like "No they aren't, they're
seven, but you wear size eights because you don't cut your toenails" and
we'd all just stamp on his feet, just right at the end, and crush his
toenails, but not his toes because right at the end was just really long
toenails and he'd have been ok if he cut his toenails and wore size sevens
apart from a few broken toes where we stamped on his feet, but he'd not be
dead and a few broken toes are preferable to death unless your some
sportsperson who really needs their toes to compete and your life wouldn't
be complete if you couldn't compete, and the doctor said that the breaks
wouldn't heal, or they would heal but not very well, but he had long
toenails and wore shoes that should have been too big for him, so we stamped
on his feet and his toenails got crushed, and some of them sorta inverted
and pointed up which is odd because when you stamp down on something you
think they'd point down instead of up, but his toenails didn't as we saw
when we ripped his shoes off to see his freaky feet with his long crushed
toenails that were so different from our neatly trimmed toenails, and then
we killed him.
I wrote that years ago. Fucking lawyer used it as my defence. If I'd known
the words unethical and dogfister I'd have screamed them when I was
sentenced. When I said we, I meant them; how was I to know grammary things
when I was so young? I am completely guiltless in this instance. Just
because my nickname is 'Culpability' (it makes more sense if you know my
surname is Brown and have a basic knowledge of the history of landscape
gardening) doesn't mean I did anything. I was just watching. I didn't go
near his fucking toenails and I didn't scream (when you're young you do a
lot of screaming, but I didn't) "Kill the fucking fucker; knot your clothes
together and tie them around his neck, then attach a small bit of string
around a rock and tie that to the end of your clothes, then toss the rock
over that bit high up on the pylon - don't worry, it's not on - and then
you'll be able to pull the string over and your clothes, and he'll go up and
he won't be able to breathe and it'll crush his windpipe and he'll die.
Anyone donating clothes who wants them back afterwards better keep them away
from the business end because he'll probably spit quite a bit of blood and I
don't know if he's been tested for any diseases. Can't be too careful in
this day and age." It doesn't even sound like anything I'd say: too fucking
clinical.
It's all a fucking sham, I'm a fucking scapegoat. I was just there as a
trainee photojournalist. Why else would I have a camera in my bag? So what
if it was a disposable camera? It was my fucking cover story, idiot; who
joins a fucking lynch mob with a fucking proper camera in their bag? So what
if I'd used up all the film taking photos of the zoo earlier? It was my
other fucking cover story, idiot: you try explaining to a lynch mob why you
have a camera and they'll fucking string you up too, but if they see it's just
a disposable camera and all the film is used up they don't do anything. You
don't get to explain anything to lynch mobs until you're too high up and
they can't hear you because it's windy, but some poor fuck three towns down
hear your gargled protestations and is racked with guilt because they don't
really know what they heard, and don't know if anyone's really being killed
mistakenly (although in this case the lynch mob would have been right
because I was very much there as a trainee photojournalist because I had a
camera in my bag but it was too dangerous to take out and use to take
photos. I don't suppose I would have passed the assignment) and there's
nothing they can do because they can't pinpoint where the sound is coming
from - and even if they could, I'm three towns down and dead before they get
in the car - or if they're hearing voices, going mad, hearing death. When
you hear a death when there isn't one, it fucks you up pretty big, believe
you me them. Them.
So they didn't catch anyone but me, and only because I was tying up my
shoelaces when the police arrived. Bit of a bummer, but if you're not used
to life fucking you over by the time you're four you don't really deserve
the honour of being allowed to take a photojournalism course and learning
all the associated big words that you later use in a statement that comes
back to bite you unpleasantly on the butt - like a dog might - just because
you don't really understand proper grammar, being only four and thinking
what you're going to do for your photojournalism course now that you didn't
get the pictures you were banking on. They made an exception of me, which
was nice: they brought back the death penalty to be held in trust until I
was seventeen, and just too young to organise an appeal of my own volition.
It was the media really, they kinda wanted me dead. I don't take it
personally because the media is a faceless entity and it'd be pretty stupid
to hate a faceless entity. Beneath the broad umbrella that is the media, I
take some bits personally, and the people I'd like to kill for getting me
killed soon - although I don't really want to kill them if there's a
possibility that it might harm any last minute attempt at an appeal or
swaying of public opinion - are [names removed at the request of Dan Kamen's
lawyers and Penny Balzac's ornithologist who watched an awful lot of LA Law
when it was still on TV] and that cunt Paul Steed who writes in the snarly
newspaper and whose lawyers forgot to stamp the letter.
I get melted next week. I was supposed to be killed a few weeks back but I
forced my head through the bars and then got my bitch to bend the bars quite
tightly behind my head with a car jack that I'd had smuggled in. Fucker
raped me twice before letting anyone know what was going on. Still, I
suppose fair's fair. No-one'd be able to get me out of there without a car
jack of their own, and how many prison warders do you know who carry car
jacks? They wouldn't be able to take me to the freshly constructed electric
chair. No melting for me. Perfect plan. No-one told me modern warders had
the smarts. After a couple of hours of humming and hawing the warders told
all the other prisoners to stand well back from the bars because they
weren't covered in the event of death unless the prisoner wasn't white (and
when I say all, I mean whatever wonderfully equitable ratio of white
prisoners there happen to be in prison that isn't at all racist because of
the genetic predisposition to crime that's held in skin pigment), then
rigged up a little extension cable and took it to the nearest bars to the
chair. The electricity would arc from bar to bar and I'd be melted in my
cell, kinda like a home birth. I was willing to stand my ground but my bitch
didn't really want to see me die in front of him so he gave up the car jack.
Bitch. Still, I'd past the time of death and I was kinda hoping that there
was some rule like tribes have in jokes that if you managed to escape
execution they forgive you and let you go. It seems there is such a rule,
but they only let you off for a month then they kill you even better. Bit of
a fucker really; not really sporting, but I'm not really a complainer. I
guess I just wait now.