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I cant sleep again.

Its like this all the time now. My eyelids fell heavy but I cant seem to close them. My mind races faster than the cars at the Indy 500 and it has no breaks. I yawn almost constantly and I’m always cranky. I see cockroaches and all other types of rodents crawling on the walls in the corners of my eyes but when I turn my head for a better look I see nothing. Just a plain white wall.

I don’t like people anymore. Cant talk to them without being on the verge of vomiting. They disgust me. All of them with their phony smiles and fake laughter. Attending stupid wine tasting parties and going to the opera. Spitting out squished grapes that you paid an arm and a leg for just to fit in. Watching the fat lady sing and men in tights dancing around and making fools of themselves. Buying the next greatest sport’s car and killing over the newest video gaming system.

Now when you die, if you want to go to a better place, you have to pay money. You have to go to church on the day after Sabbath Day, which doesn’t make much sense to me. You have to pray every night. All to false idols. All for the wrong reasons. All for ****.

People planning their lives according to television schedules.

This is a mad world.

And it took insomnia to make me realize that.

Of course, if I had it my way I would sleep twenty-four hours a day. Seven days straight. But I don’t and I cant. Don’t get me wrong, though. You’ll die if you don’t sleep. And I’m not dead.

Or am I?

I get maybe forty minutes a day. Ten minutes here and there, you know.

I’ve tried basically everything there is to do to prevent insomnia.

I’ve tried all the sedatives, even though I am allergic to most of them.

I feel a deep burning sensation up my right nostril and I get a sudden rush all through my brain. I feel my eyes watering, but they’re not. I’m really agitated now. I feel a thousand cups of coffee hit me all at once. I feel a nose bleed that really isn’t there.

How can you sleep when you are snorting cocaine?

Sedative: a substance that depresses the central nervous system, resulting in calmness, relaxation, reduction of anxiety, sleepiness, and slowed breathing, as well as slurred speech, staggering gait, poor judgment, and slow, uncertain reflexes.

I feel the stick of a cigarette poking in the corner of my mouth and heat flaming next to my chin and nose. I feel my lips puckering up and my lungs inhaling invisible smoke off of the invisible cigarette. I feel my throat coughing up phlegm as if I’m taking the first drag over and over again.

How can you sleep when you are smoking a cigarette?

I drink the warm milk and take the hot bath, even though I am allergic to the milk.

I see the needle marks mysteriously appear on my arms like stigmata.

How can you sleep when you are shooting up heroin?

I exercise vigorously for two hours in the afternoon of everyday. Sit ups. Push ups. Jogs around the park.

I feel my mouth opening and the top of a cold glass touching my lips and a warm liquid pouring down my burning throat. I make the whiskey face from drinking absolutely nothing at all.

How can you sleep when you are taking a shot of Jack Daniel’s?

I eat the large lunch and the light evening meal. Both of them French fries, the only thing I can eat. I’m allergic to everything else. I have to make them myself, too. Fast food fries are way too salty, and I’m allergic to salt. Back when my mother was alive she taught me how to specially fry these French fries with no salt or oil. I wont go into all the details, though. It’ll just take too long.

How can you sleep when you are driving a car?

I listen to the slow paced music.

How can you sleep when you are having sex?

I meditate.

How can you sleep when you are walking?

I do the Cognitive Behavior Therapy.

How can you sleep when you are dying?

I’ve tried everything. Nothing works.

I lay on my back on my bed, staring with my miserable eyes at the ceiling. On the look out for one of those damn cockroaches I keep seeing.

When I had the exterminator come out last month he said I was nuts. No roaches or anything else in this apartment. He told me I needed to lay off the booze. When I told him I don’t drink the exterminator chuckled and went on his way. That was the day my mysterious little friend drunk Tequila.

I nicknamed him Body Snatcher. I don’t know who this guy is. Although I’m pretty sure it is a guy, because if it was girl I’d think I would feel her period. I can feel when the Body Snatcher is pissing and shitting, after all.

He’s a fan of Jack and Coke. I can taste it. He wears sunglasses all the time. I know this because I’m not blinded by the sun. He has long hair. I know this because I’m constantly pushing hair out of my eyes that’s not even there. He has really bad rotted teeth. I know this because I always have a bad tooth ache. In every tooth. He’s skinny. I know this because I’m starving twenty-four seven. I don’t get how somebody could eat so much fast food and stay skinny. Well, I guess he could be fat. But wouldn’t I fell a larger stomach on me? Maybe he has a large metabolism or something.

He doesn’t bathe. I always feel dirty and itchy. I never feel any water on me.

So, what I’m looking for is a guy about my height and size, has bad teeth, eats a lot of fast food, has long hair, wears sunglasses, drinks Jack and Coke, and does every drug in history as if its candy.

So, basically, every average man in America.

As I lay on my bed, hunting for the cockroaches and whatnot, time zips by. The sun and moon go up and down and up and back down, and before I know it its Monday morning. Monday morning means work. Work means talking to people. Talking to people means headache. Headache means bad day.

I sit up and see a cockroach on the wall to my right. I focus my eyes on it and see that it is still hinged to the wall. Smirking its tiny filthy mouth at me.

I leap off my bed with all the energy I have left and tackle the disgusting vermin. My head smashes through the invisible cockroach and through the white wall.

Looks like the headache starts early today.

I cant take any aspirin or Tylenol because I am allergic to them.

I take a shower.

I have to air dry because I am allergic to all towel material.

I get dressed in my specially made clothes.

I am allergic to most clothe fabrics.

I do fifty sit ups and fry myself up a small batch of my French fries.

I cant have ketchup because I am allergic to it. Same goes with any other condiment. Mustard, mayonnaise, honey mustard, barbecue sauce, relish, onions, cheese.

I grab a bottle of water out of my deserted refrigerator.

I cant have orange juice because I am allergic to it. Same goes with milk, alcohol, soda pop, coffee, energy drinks, tea, sweet tea, lemonade, milk shakes. Just water for me thank you. Cant have it out of the sink either. Cant risk drinking some kind of contaminated sewer water, now can I?

When its done I put the French fries on a glass plate.

I cant put them on a plastic plate because I am allergic to it. Same goes with tuber ware and Styrofoam.

When I’m done I have to put on specially made gloves to wash the dishes because I am allergic to soap and the sink’s metal.

I am allergic to light bulbs.

I am allergic to bleach.

I am allergic to mops.

I am allergic to static.

I am allergic to life.

I go to work.

I don’t like work.

No, let me rephrase that. I hate work.

I don’t know why I even went to school for it. All those years…wasted. I’d rather be in hell, shoveling up ****.

For one thing, I cant sit in those really comfortable leather armchairs that most therapists get because I am allergic to leather. I’m allergic to almost all chair fabrics, so I have to plant my ass in a splintered infested wooden stool. Bummer, huh?

While I’m getting splinters my patient is enjoying himself or herself on the goddamn leather chair. Sometimes I just want to wrap my hands around their measly little necks and strangle them to death.

But then I think what if I’m allergic to their skin, too?

My notebook and Number 2 pencil in hand--I’m allergic to pens and markers--I listen to my first patient of the day, Mrs. Donnelly, ***** about her problems. About how her family hates her guts. About how her teenaged daughter is pregnant…again. About how her teenaged son has unsuccessfully committed suicide…again. About how her dearly devoted husband is cheating on her…again. Yap, yap, yap, yap. *****, whine, *****, whine. God she is annoying.

While she bitches I sketch in my notebook little bottles of ketchup, slices of pizza with pepperoni and anchovies, aspirin, and baseball mitts. All stuff I am allergic to.

Next up is Jason Philips, a twelve year old boy who likes to torture cats.

Yawn.

Its then that I feel the cigarette poking in my mouth.

As the Smoker lights up and takes the first drag I start gagging up a lung. Then he takes the first drag again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Jason asks me if I’m alright. I tell him yeah, I just gotta stop the smoking. It’s a nasty habit to get started on. Goddamn cancer sticks will kill ya.

Jason continues his boring conversation about his worthless life and I try to restrain the coughing.

By the time Jason’s appointment is over it feels like I am moving at an incredible pace. I’m on the run with a six gun. My right foot slams into an invisible puddle and I get all wet.

But I’m really dry. I’m just imagining it.

Next up is Malick Grunge, a magician who had a nervous breakdown after brutally killing his wife, who was also his assistant at the time.

He used to be one of the most well known magicians in the country. Travel around, doing all kinds of shows.

He performed many different kinds of tricks and illusions. The Sub Trunk. The Guillotine. The Gut Buster. The Zig Zag Girl. The Table of Death.

He was perhaps best known for the Dagger Head Box trick.

The trick that killed his wife.

The trick, itself, goes like this;

The assistant’s head is places in a metal box with a hole in the front. The hole is then closed by two doors at the side of the box. The rest of the assistant’s body may be clearly seen. A large sword is plunged through the centre of the box. Then, more daggers are plunged through the box from all sides. When the magician has finished, he opens the doors and the assistant’s head disappears.

The problem that happened with Malick was that his wife’s head wasn’t disappeared.

It was still in the box. Squashed like a pumpkin on Halloween night. Daggers driven all through the head Blood leaking on to the platform. The audience sitting there applauding, still thinking its part of the show. Part of the act. Malick collapsing to his knees, bawling his eyes out.

I don’t know what really happened. Doubt anybody really does, except for Malick himself. Whether he murdered her on purpose or there was some kind of malfunction with the metallic box. It’s a mystery.

As Malick talks to me I feel a sharp stab on my left forearm. I look down to see the stigmatic needle mark.

Now I’m a strung out heroin junkie again. I’m sweating profusely and nodding off here and there. But no sleep for me. God forbid if that were to happen.

I see Malick standing up and shouting at me, but I cant do anything. I’m in a junkie trance.

I see the dagger he slides out of his sleeve.

I see Malick plunging the dagger through his own face.

I get a week vacation.

They say witnessing a death is very devastating. Hard to handle. They say I can have a week off to cope with Malick Grunge’s tragic suicide.

I could have told them I was wasted on invisible china white at the time and couldn’t remember a thing about the magician’s death. But I thought I could use some time off.

Maybe now I can find this scumbag who is using my body like a puppet.

I doubt I’ll find him, though. I mean, he could be just about anywhere in the world. He could be roasting children in Africa for I know. Well, maybe not Africa. I don’t think they have Wendy’s there. I don’t know. Maybe they do.

The first places I go are all the local bars and whatnot. I give the bartenders and some customers the description of my Body Snatcher and they all tell me to get ******.

Don’t ask how, but I find some drug dealers and give them the description. The drug dealers say the same thing as the bartenders.

Same goes with the prostitutes.

The fast food employees just give me strange looks.

I have the exterminator come out again on Friday.

He says I’m seeing things. He says to get some professional help. Tells me to try a therapist or something. And lay off all that goddamn booze. It stinks.

I start cracking up as he leaves. I hear him mutter the words ‘ ****** psycho’.

I lay on my hard cumbersome bed, hunting for the cockroaches with my weary eyes.

Then I feel a tiny slip pf paper slide into my mouth. It has no taste at all. Kind of like the color white. Like my walls. Like my house. Like my job. Like my life. Just plain.

I feel the tasteless slip of paper dissolving on my tongue. Well, this is new. I try picking at it with my fingers but cant find anything.

This must be another drug or something.

I wait ten never ending minutes and nothing has happened. I wait ten more minutes. Still nothing. I decide to take a quick shower. When I get out I go on the internet, but as soon as I log on I wonder why I did. What was the point? There isn’t nothing for me to look up. I’ve already read everything there is to read about insomnia. About mental illnesses. About cockroaches. About allergies. About plain white walls. Maybe I should start one of those pointless MySpaces or something. Ha, what a joke. I start booting down my Gateway laptop when I see another cockroach.

Its on my laptop. On the screen.

Or should I say, in the laptop. In the screen.

Just sitting in there, chilling. I touch the screen and my hand goes through to the cockroach side. I quickly draw my hand back but it is too late. The damage is already done. My right hand is a soft crunchy brown shell. I tap it with my left hand and my right hand shatters like glass.

I shriek and fall back in my wooden chair.

Cockroaches start crawling out of every single crack in my plain white walls. They’re piling up on top of me. I feel their tiny legs puncturing into my skin. I imagine my body would look like a cockroach cocoon to somebody watching this. I scream and the roaches cave in my mouth. I feel them on my teeth and tongue. I feel them bump into my uvula as they make their way down my throat. I feel them all. I cant yell or cry anymore. I’m suffocating.

They’re in my ears and in my eyes. In my nose and in my *******. They are in my heart.

But then, just as quick as a finger snap, the cockroaches are gone. They’re out of my body. Out of my mouth and throat. Out of everywhere. They’ve vanished. It was all a hallucination.

I reckon my little friend had taken a hit of some LSD.

That was really scary. I definitely do not want to go through something like that ever again.

I think what I just had people call a Bad Trip.

I cant take much more of this **** or I’m gonna kill myself. I’ll put a gun to my head and shoot myself dead.

I gotta find this guy. Somehow, someway, bed him to stop. To just stop this madness. Convince him to just eat the special French fries with no ketchup and drink the bottled water and stop all the drugs and alcohol.

How can you sleep when you are tripping on LSD?

Get on my knees, crying my eyes out, and beg, beg, beg for him to stop.

My stomach is itchy, so I scratch it. My fingers tear my skin away and I discover a whole damn colony of those cockroaches living behind my flesh.

But will I ever find this Body Snatcher?

Before I know it, its time to go back to work.

Since Malick the dead magician is no longer with us I get a new patient. Oh yippee!

His name is Wendell Brimstone.

He walks in and sinks into the leather chair across from me. He’s wearing black and white Chuck Taylor’s. Blue jeans with rips and tears everywhere. On the front of his black tee-shirt is the word in red, RANCID. He’s wearing a black jacket.

He is wearing black sunglasses.

He has black decaying teeth.

His face is dirty.

He has long black hair.

“You…” is all I manage to choke out.

“Yes?” Wendell says.

“You,” I say again. “I found you.”

“Umm…okay.”

Wendell is in therapy for robbing a drug store with a six gun. A revolver. I don’t know why he got sent to therapy instead of prison, though. I cant think straight.

“You okay, doc?” Wendell asks.

“This is going to sound pretty crazy,” I say, “but just stick with me…”

I tell him everything. I tell him how I feel what he feels. I feel when he is walking, eating, *******, drinking, drugging up. I tell him how I cant sleep and now I’m going mad because of it.

“You’re right,” Wendell says when I’m done.

“I am?”

“Yeah, it does sound ******* crazy. You’re psycho, man,” Wendell says. “Maybe you should be the one seeing a shrink.”

“No, I’m serious!”

“Yeah, right. ****** loony.”

Wendell gets up and accidentally bangs his knee on the coffee table.

I yelp out in pain and grab my knee cap. Wendell looks at me weirdly and then punches himself in the jaw.

My jaw.

That strange look is still on his face.

He turns around so I cant see what he is doing. The next think I know is that my left pinkie finger is in excruciating pain. I scream again.

“What did I do?” Wendell asks.

“You bent your finger back!”

“Yeah, obviously. But which one?”

“Your left pinkie.”

I scream out again.

“Now which one?”

“Your left wedding ring finger and left middle finger!” I cry.

Wendell turns back around and says he believes me. He asks me how come this is happening.

“I don’t know,” I say, “its something supernatural.”

“How come I don’t feel what you feel?” Wendell asks me.

“I don’t know how it works. It is how it is.” I ask him if he’ll stop this madness.

He says no. No freaking way.

I start crying like a baby and beg, “Please! Please! Please!”

“Stop it, you pathetic piece of trash,” Wendell says.

“Please! I’m in so much pain!”

“Pain?” Wendell laughs. “You don’t know what pain is, son. You know, in South America, in some rivers, there are tiny fish that swim up your dick hole? These fish have barbed spines that flare out and back so once they’re inside, well, they set up housekeeping and get ready to lay their eggs. And you know the only way to get the fish out is to hit your dick with a big ole sledgehammer?”

I wince and mouth the word ‘ow’.

“You ever have tiny fish crawl up your dick hole?” he asks.

“No,” I say.

“You ever been burnt alive?”

“No.”

“Eaten alive?”

“No.”

“Then shut the hell up with this ‘pain’ ****.”

“Please stop,” I beg him.

Wendell looks at me for a good whole minute and says, “If you want me to stop, then follow me.”

He abruptly leaves my office. I follow.

We go to a parking lot and get into a red rusted up pick up truck. We start driving. I ask him all kinds of questions, but he just ignores me.

We get to a bike trail and Wendell stops the truck. He gets out and unloads a blue ATV out of the back of the pick up truck.

“What are we doing?” I ask.

“You are gonna feel some pain. You are gonna see how fun pain can actually be.”

“What?”

Wendell points down the dirt bike trail. At a dirt ramp. He says, “You are gonna crash this ATV into that tree.”

“What?”

“Ride off of the ramp and into the tree. C’mon, I don’t have all day here.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to break a bone. Break a bone and I’ll stop the drugs and booze and start eating your stupid French fries. Now c’mon!”

“How do you even know I’ll break a bone?”

“Trust me, you will,” he says.

“Well, which one?”

“It’ll surprise you.”

“No, you’re crazy,” I say.

“Says the one who sees invisible cockroaches. C’mon already!”

“How do you know--”

Wendell lights up a cigarette and I start coughing.

“Stop, man,” I say.

All of a sudden Wendell takes the cigarette and puts it down his pants with a smile on his face.

And my testicles are on fire.

I scream really loud and shout for him to stop. Just please stop and I’ll do anything. It hurts so bad!

He says good and flicks the cigarette out in the grass.

“Didn’t that hurt you?” I ask. My balls are still burning.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a pimp, and pimps do not act like little bitches. Now hop up on that four wheeler. There are two hundred and six bones in the human body. One less will not hurt anything,” Wendell tells me.

I get on the ATV.

ATV: All Terrain Vehicle.

For some reason I already know how to operate all the mechanics in the ATV. The throttle. The front brake. The back brake. The emergency brake. I know when you drive up a hill you lean forward, and when you drive down a hill you lean backwards. I know the exact moment when you have to change gears. I know everything.

But I’ve never set foot on one of these things before.

I say I’m not gonna pay for this if I break it.

“Don’t worry,” Wendell says, “its stolen anyways.”

I start up the ATV and Wendell taps me on the shoulder and says, “Break a leg.”

I pull the throttle back and head toward the dirt ramp.

God, this is so ******* stupid.

I get a comminuted fracture in my clavicle.

Basically, I break my collarbone.

When I go to the hospital they put my arm in a sling and give me pain medicine, but I’m allergic to the analgesic so I just leave with the sling. I’ll have to deal with the pain like a man.

But I don’t mind, though. Wendell does whatever I tell him now. He eats the French fries. He drinks the bottled water.

He stopped the drugs. The alcohol. The fast food. The sex.

He showers frequently now. He wears his hair in a bony tail. I don’t mind the sunglasses, though. I’m actually quite fond of them.

And you know what else?

I can sleep again!

The first night I sleep three days straight. I skip work and sleep some more. I get pissed off telephone calls from some pissed off patients. I don’t care. I sleep even more.

I’m in heaven.

But three months later my clavicle is healed and the nightmare starts all over again.

The drugs are back. The booze is back. The sex is back. The fast food is back. The non-bathing is back.

My next appointment with Wendell Brimstone I ask him what the hell does he think he’s pulling.

“Your bone is healed,” Wendell says.

“Yeah, so?”

“So break another bone.”

“What? No, **** that. You’re crazy,” I say.

“Shall I bring out the cigarette again?”

I jump in front of a car and get a compound fracture in my right leg.

Bone healing is a proliferate physiological process, in which the body facilitates repair of bone fractures.

There are two hundred and six bones in the adult human body, and about three hundred and fifty in the infant body.

Bones are very important in the human body. Common sense. They have eight main functions. They protect the internal organs. You know, like the skull protecting the brain and the ribs protecting the heart and lungs.

Bones provide a frame to keep the body supported. They determine the shape of a human body.

Bones play a large role with blood production. The bone marrow (or a more scientific term would be the medulla ossea), which is located within the medullary cavity (the central cavity of bone shafts where yellow marrow--adipose tissue--is stored) of long bones and the interstices of cancellous bone, produces blood cells in a process called haematopoiesis.

Bones can act as reserves of minerals important for your body. Like calcium and phosphorus and so on.

Bones, skeletal muscles, tendons, ligaments, and joints function together to generate and transfer forces so that individual body parts or the whole goddamn body can be manipulated in three-dimensional space. The interaction between bone and muscle is studied in something boring called biomechanics, which is the application of mechanical principals.

Bones can also buffer the blood against excessive pH changes by absorbing or releasing alkaline salts.

Bones play a big part in hearing also.

And you cant forget detoxification. Bone tissues can also store heavy metals and other foreign elements, removing them from the blood and reducing their effects on other tissues. These can later be gradually released for excretion. Piss them out or **** them out.

The reason why I know all of this boring medical crap is because I once wasted even more years of my life studying to be a surgeon. But then I decided to quit that and become a crackpot therapist. Still don’t know why. Maybe it was because I was allergic to the gloves and the masks the surgeons have to put over their mouth.

There are five types of bones in the human body; long, short, flat, irregular, and sesamoid.

In orthopedic medicine, fractures (or bone breaks) are classified as closed or open (compound) and simple or multi-fragmentary (formerly comminuted).

Closed fractures are when the skin is intact, but open fractures involve wounds that communicate with the fracture and may expose bone to contamination. Open injuries carry an elevated risk of infection. They require antibiotic treatment and usually urgent surgical treatment, (that’s where I would have came in if I remained a surgeon). This involves removal of all dirt, contamination, and dead tissue.

Simple fractures are fractures that only occur along one line, splitting the bone into two pieces, while multi-fragmentary fractures involve the bone splitting into multiple pieces. A simple, closed fracture is a lot ******* easier to treat and has a much better prognosis than an open, contaminated fracture.

There are many other bone breaks or fractures you could get. There is the compressive fracture. That’s when the front portion of a vertebra in the spine collapses due to osteoporosis, a medical condition which causes bones to become brittle and susceptible to fracture.

There’s the complete fracture (bone fragments separate completely), the incomplete fracture (the bone fragments are still partially joined), the linear fracture (a fracture that is parallel to the bone’s long axis), the transverse fracture (a fracture that is at a right angle to the bone’s long axis), the oblique fracture (a fracture that is diagonal to a bone’s long axis), the compression fracture (a fracture that usually occurs in the vertebrae), the spiral fracture (where at least one part of the bone has been twisted), the comminuted fracture (a fracture which results in several fragments), the compacted fracture (a fracture caused when bone fragments are driven into each other), and an open fracture (a fracture when the bone is in contact with air either by piercing the skin or by severe tissue injury).

Over the next years I have had all of these fractures done to me. All for a good nights sleep.

There were two hundred and six bones in my body. Now I have two hundred and six cracked, broken, sore, stiff, painful bones in my body.

There are two hundred and six bones in the human body.

Two hundred and six less will hurt something.

I wake up from my sweet dreams and my neck is stiff. My whole body is sore. I get up and realize my wrist is all better. I’ll have to break another bone again. Same old routine.

No, not today.

I’m done with this ****. I’m still his puppet. Doing whatever he wants me to do. I mean, for ****’s sake, I get in tears just getting dressed! I do get dressed, however, and a half-hour later I get in my car and start driving. I have my special gloves on, so I can touch anything. I drive right past my therapy office and head for down town.

I get to a pawnshop and I walk up to the guy behind the counter. I make sure no one else is around when I say I need a gun.

“Gotta permit?” the fat slob asks me.

“I got money,” I say. “Tons of it.”

“Good ‘nuff,” he says.

He kicks out all the other customers and locks the front door. He brings me in the backroom and shows me a wall full of guns. Rifles, handguns, shotguns, machine guns. You name it, he had it.

“What do ya want?” he asks, and spit’s a glob of snuff on the concrete floor. What a stupid hick, I think to myself.

“That small one. Right there.” I point to a small six shooter. I think its called a snub nose.

He tells me it’ll be seven hundred and I tell him that’s fine. I don’t care.

I give him the money. My arm cracks as I reach for the gun. Since I have gloves on I don’t know, but I’d imagine the handle would feel really cold.

“Ammo?” I ask.

“Two hundred fifty.”

“What? ****** scam, man.”

“That’s how much it is with no permit. Take it or leave it.” He spits out more chewing tobacco on the floor.

“Fine, whatever. I’ll take it.”

I give him the money.

I tell him there’s another hundred bucks in it if he shows me how to use it. He happily agrees and shows me. Its pretty easy actually.

“And then what, I just pull the trigger?” I ask.

“Yep,” he says and spits out more snuff.

“You mean, like this?”

I pull the trigger and blood gushes out of the guy’s abdomen. The sound of the gunshot alone made me jump two feet. I’m surprise no glass broke or anything.

“Hey…what the hell are you doen?”

“Practicing,” I say.

And pull the trigger again.

When I get back to my office my secretary tells me that a Wendell Brimstone called in and canceled his appointment. Out of rage I shoot my secretary in the head and go back to my car.

I go to a bar and waits until the bartender goes in the bathroom. I follow him and smack the handle of the six gun into his head. When he turns around I point the gun at him.

“Where is Wendell Brimstone?” I ask politely.

“Uh…what?”

“Where the **** is Wendell?”

“What the hell is wrong with you, man?” the bartender asks.

“Tell me where he is!”

“Did you escape from a mental house or something?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Every week you come in here asking if I’ve seen a guy named Wendell Brimstone. You give me a description. Your description. Every week you come in here looking for yourself. Dude, sorry to be the one to tell you, but you are Wendell Brimstone.”

“You ******* liar,” I say, and kill him.

I storm out of the bar and into my car. I drive back to my apartment.

When I open the front door I discover my floor is smothered with cockroaches. I run on my bed and call the exterminator. I say it’s a goddamn emergency. Rush right over!

An hour later the same exterminator is here and knocking on the door. I yell for him to come in. The door’s unlocked.

He walks in and looks around.

“Okay, where are the cockroaches.”

“Don’t you see them? They’re everywhere!” I shout.

He looks around again and doesn’t seem to see them.

“Sorry, Mr. Brimstone. Maybe you should lay off the booze for awhile--”

“What did you call me?”

“Umm…Mr. Brimstone?”

“Why did you call me that?”

“Isn’t it your name?”

“No, you stupid ******* cockroach. Its not! You’re vermin, you know that? Goddamn disgusting!”

I shoot him in the head.

My whole body is shaking now. I’m not Wendell Brimstone. I’m not Wendell Brimstone. I’m not Wendell Brimstone.

Or am I?

I cant sleep again.

Its like this all the time now. My eyelids feel heavy but I cant seem to close them. My mind races faster than the cars at the Indy 500 and it has no brakes. I yawn almost constantly and I’m always cranky. I see cockroaches and all other kinds of rodents in my apartment. There is a exterminator with his brains blown out laying on my carpet floor, being eaten by other vermin like him. In my right hand is a six shooter with one bullet left in the cylinder. I’m a schizophrenic psycho. I’m a schizophrenic psycho. I’m a schizophrenic psycho.

I hear the toilet flush and Wendell Brimstone walk out of our bathroom.

“So,” he says, “You finally admit it. I admitted it a long time ago. I don’t mind being a schizoid. I just thought it would be fun to **** with you. Friends again?”

“Leave me alone. Just get out of my body.”

“Your body? How do you know that this isn’t my body and you’re just my split personality? Huh?”

I look at him and say because I’m the one who feels all the pain.

“Oh yeah,” he says, and takes a swig of beer.

“Stop that,” I say to him.

“You stop it. It’s your body, guineas. Oh man, do you hear the sirens? I do. Looks like somebody heard the gunshot. Not so smart, are ya? You see, I, personally, would have stuffed a potato on the muzzle. You know, a silencer? Well, that’s just me talking. You in trouble, boy. You’re going to prison. And guess what, I’m gonna be your cell mate. We’re gonna have so much fun!”

I point the six gun at him and say not if I have something to say about it.

“I wish somebody was seeing this right now,” Wendell says. “You look ridiculous! You’re pointing the gun at you own head!”

“Your head, too,” I say.

And pull the trigger.

Sweet dreams.

Keyword: Pain

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Comments (9)

Posted by Dirkin 2008-05-02 18:47:15 .... That was intense! I saw the inspiration behind this story, having read palahniuk myself, and I have to say the results are awesome. I'd say this is an excellent homage. You have put your character in a state of mind that is convincingly insane. I like the whole concept of pain as relief, the in depth knowledge of medical matters (is it your own, or did you research) and the scary idea that this guy was a therapist for other nutjobs! Well done + Report this comment
Posted by Something Indecent 2008-05-06 13:08:46 .... Yeah I totally thought of Fight Club when you pulled out the twist. I loved it that this crazy bastard is a shrink. Nice little rampage at the end. Makes me never want to talk to a human being again. + Report this comment
Posted by Behind_the_Mask 2008-06-27 13:12:54 ... Hmmm, I didn’t seem to comment on any of the stories I read before, well getting back to it, I loved how this story was wrote and well the entire story itself, I think the main character is a bit like everyone, mundane job, mundane life, just wanting to do whatever he wanted to do without consequences. Yeah “Fight Club” reference but still original. Keep up the great work. + Report this comment
Posted by brandon_scott 2008-06-28 07:38:54 .... This story was incredibly well written, and the details used to describe his life, what he sees, and what he experiences are amazing. That story was a true work of art, despite the obvious similarities to "Fight Club". Keep up the good work! + Report this comment
Posted by Zombie Punk 2008-06-28 10:24:51 .... Wow, thank you all for reading and the reviews. + Report this comment
Posted by JJtyler 2008-06-28 13:40:48 Style I liked the style you wrote this in, with the short sentences and his thoughts breaking in to explain things at times. I also dug the foreshadowing of the six shooter. Good work man. + Report this comment
Posted by elenalda 2008-07-01 14:55:40 .... I don't really see this as an homage--your "twist" is Palahniuk's twist. Your style is Palahniuk's style--the long sections of technical explanation followed by a pithy summary ("These can later be gradually released for excretion. Piss them out or shit them out."). I don't see much that's original in here, and it detracts from the story. I picked up on the Palahniuk right away, so I knew exactly what the twist was. Palahniuk wrote a set of writing tips a while ago, and the one I remember was "Surprise yourself"--that it's not enough to surprise your audience with a twist, that you should be surprised as well. Keep that in mind should you choose to edit this--ask if you're surprised when a Palahniuk homage ends the same way that "Fight Club" ends. I think you could do better. (Oh, and thanks for trying to read my story. I don't know why ads are eating it, but it shows up fine for me. I'll see what I can do.) + Report this comment
Posted by Dirkin 2008-07-02 20:13:32 .... I'm reading this again after seeing elnadas comment. I'm not sure I agree with the idea that homage has to be different from the original. And I see this as a homage to fight club, not palahniuk neccessarily. You might say that the most striking elements of fight club are the twists and the style. It wouldn't be a homage to an excellent tale without them. But enough splitting hairs, well done zombie, enjoyable read + Report this comment
Posted by Zombie Punk 2008-07-02 20:25:41 .... Thank you, Dirkin. Everybody can see this story a different way. I just see it has a guy who feels someone's elses pain but with a 'slight' twist. Like the story I just wrote about Oprah, most people found that funny, but not I. That was a true story and it scared the shit out of me... + Report this comment

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