Monday, 23 February 2009


I need to bury my mop.

Turns out, Nietzsche was wrong: God was not dead. Turns out I was wrong: God existed. Turns out my magic mirror wasn't a normal mirror either. Being a skeptic, an atheist, a simple collector of strange items, I had to hide the body, because I really didn't want my family ending up being the Jews of the 21st century.
You see, this second coming dude walks into my shop, I show him some stuff, then show him the mirror because it's meant to reflect your soul or something. He stares into it and there's nothing there. The dude's like "eh?" and even I freak out a bit because I'm not used to real things being so unreal. Then there's a noise like a fart and the fella falls down dead, and now, there's this fella standing in the mirror. He's all like, "help", "I'm the christ and I need to get back into that body, put me back in", but the whole ordeal's got me confused and I trip over my own stock and end up on my back. I look up to see the mirror beginning to fall, probably from the bump of me landing, it's like super slow motion or something, I can see his terrified expression, then as it lands, there's like a crash for a split second, then a thump and there's blood everywhere. Little diced up bits of sequel jesus meat.

So, that's why I need to bury my mop. Cos it's soaked in the blood of sequel christ.

Wednesday, 11 February 2009


He lost his arm in the machine. I do feel the guilt. I wish I could have done something. Others say that I could. That I could have punched the emergency stop. I could reach it; could have hit it. Even he thinks I'm a dick, but I can't help it, I really couldn't then either. I've tried to tell them that I couldn't have done it if it had been my own arm being ripped off. They don't beleive me. I have to suffer that too. The mistrust. There was a spider on the button. I'm sorry.

Self addressed

The last time was years ago. I mean, literally years. I haven't killed anyone at all since. Funny thing was, I think it was a suicide. I mean, your guess is as good as mine. Here, see, what happened was, out of the blue, I get this note saying 'I know that you clean up messes.' kinda cryptic, kinda simple. But then a couple of days later, I get another one saying 'I need you to clean up Joe Bloggs. If you don't, I'll tell everyone about your activities.' I mean, that's like blackmail right? Well, so, I do this job, then, I find out later on about the paper. The paper I've been receiving these messages on is just like that of the dude I removed. I mean, who does that? I guess him. I mean, it's not letterheaded or anything, but it's like the stuff he has in his printer and it's not cheap ass stuff like most pet shops have.

Not so different.

The aliens came, but it turned out they didn't have any more technology than us. In fact, we taught them. Okay, so they showed us that we'd kind of missed the boat with fusion reactors, but apart from that, they weren't light years ahead. It was quite sad. We were all expecting thousands of cool new technologies, but instead we just learnt some new tricks for gearing, and found out that carbon fibre wasn't actually as strong as some organic compounds.

We did get something big though. As the aliens used sound and sight just like us, we got a whole new bunch of cool bands to listen to. I think I'm biased, but I think I still prefer terra-metal to xeno-metal. Some of their fine art was cool too. The landscapes in particular struck a chord with us, but most of the religiously inspired stuff just seemed wierd.