Saturday, March 31, 2012

Something interesting happened

Beat the living shit out of someone? Fine. Knife one of those mask-wearing crazies in the shoulder? Done that, not a problem. Suppose I have to add homicide to the list.

It's getting to be a pretty long one at this point. So you killed a person. That's done. Bravo. No point in dwelling on it, right? I thought you'd gotten over this already. It's been two days.

I just killed a person. Fuck.

Obviously not, you've reduced a human being to a bloody pulp. That's murder, remember?
Never mind that you don't remember doing it yourself, that's just making it fucking worse, isn't it Robin?

Leave it up to the imagination to fill in the blanks in the most unpleasant way possible.

It was a mask-wearing prick who wasn't all there. You could hear it in his voice. Sick, like a rabid animal.
Was he really even human at that point?

I don't know; you're the one fucking asking.

It was shaped like a human being. It moved like one, but it was wrong. Wrong shape, something just fundamentally wrong about it. Not that that it matters either. He's dead. Done, over with.

Oh fucking hardly, or you wouldn't be fucking monologuing over it, would you? Dumbass.
Are you even sure you're feeling guilty about that? And besides, you stopped going to church years ago. After she died, remember?

No point in stopping now, is there?

Doesn't seem to be. At this point you're fucked either way, so what's the harm in a little more? You'll go crazy and die, or get murdered by some idiot in an out-of-season halloween costume.

You really don't have time to waste, do you?

And to be perfectly fair, it'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy it just a little bit.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

What the fuck I did on my blog-vacation

In which Robin finishes whatever the fuck he was writing about before;

Where the fuck was I with this?

The basement. Cellar. Dungeon. Whateverthefuckyouwanttocallit.
Cold. It was cold.

Of course it was cold it's practically fucking winter outside. Never mind that it's nearly bloody April.

Concrete floors don't help that. There's a little drain, like the kind you find in boiler rooms or old laundry rooms, rusted round little drain with holes in it.

There's a bit of pipe, big metal pipe, running along the wall above me. It's got those little C-shaped brackets holding it in place and then it heads up into whatever is above I suppose. Wall's pretty cracked. Old building from the looks of it. Old or not taken care of. Frost damage, or just wear. Fractures around the brackets.

I'm handcuffed to it. Just the one hand. Honest to god handcuffs.

Guess they couldn't find the zip ties? Pockets are empty. Which is a shame.

I can do handcuffs. Zip ties would have been a bit of a problem.
Long story, I had a friend in police foundations.

The plumbing looks... old. It's not copper. I don't think they make copper piping this big. Not old enough to be lead but it's black under the dust, like one of those old-school frying pans, or the stereotypical wood burning stove. There's a busted, rusty water heater over to one side of me and an old beat up washer and dryer on the other side. Furnace on the other side of the water heater. The whole place can't be much more than 7 x 9, low ceiling. The door's pretty low too. Maybe it's under something else?

Don't have my phone, so I don't know how long I'm waiting there. Time does that... stretching thing. Footsteps. Some fucker in a mask opens the door. Big white mask, no mouth, sort of shield shaped? Really pointy chin. Tall guy, big black coat on the shoulders, pinstripe suit.

He reaches up to brush the snow off with his hand and...

Oh god. His hand. His hand is... it looks like it's just flayed skin but that's not right. That can't be right. It's not really a hand. It's a claw. His hand is a claw. A mangled, broken why is it so red. Red like... raw meat. Makes you want to throw up just looking at it.

There's another one with him. Shorter, lanky. Still taller than me Fucking hockey mask. Like he's Jason Fucking Voorhees. Big, baggy, beat-up sweater hanging off of them... kid? Holes in it. Pinstripe doesn't do any talking. Just stands there, for all the world acting if he were the grim fucking spectre of death itself.

The kid? The kid talks a lot. Talked a lot. Big talker.

Ha. Solved that problem, didn't you? Solved it quite well. Don't look at me like that, the bastard had it coming and you know it. This jog any memories?

"Going to fly away little bird?"
Posturing. He's fucking posturing. The fucking bastard.
"Can't run now!" Laughter.
"Not so tough now!" More laughter. kick in the gut. More laughter, and a few more kicks. ribs ache.
"Scared little birdy. We're going to clip your wings." Laughing again. Like a cut-rate villain. Don't think he was all there.

And then he fucked up.

"You know what happens next?" Laughing. Getting closer. "We find your family. And we cut them all- wait." He pauses. You can hear the grin in the voice. "Yours is dead, isn't it?"

That seems like a mistake to me.

"Poor little bird, all alone."
He made to kick me again. Grabbed his other leg by the ankle with my legs. Don't think he saw that coming. Tripped up fell backwards like he'd had a carpet jerked out from under him. Skull made a nice cracking sound when it hit the floor. Not sure if I was grinning by this point.

Not sure what happened next.

Well no, that's a lie. We can infer some things that happened between A and B. By the time you came to, the unlucky bastard was a bloody wreck on the floor, and there was a bloodstained pipe in your hand.
No, still not over that?

Excuse me while I take the opportunity to attempt to empty my already empty stomach a second time.

You said "wreck" right?

I did. It's more that he's a loosely connected set of chunks that have been smeared across the floor. Connect the dots, it's not hard. I imagine it is pretty hard to laugh when you're spitting your teeth out onto the floor. Harder if you're coughing up blood. And I would suppose it's pretty much impossible to laugh when you're dead.
Some people just have no class.

His buddy with the fucked up... hand-thing, must have fucked off. There's a big hand-shaped smear on the wall near where he was standing. Not sure what it's made of, not going to bother finding out. Still needed to get the handcuffs off, but that's less of a problem now.

Plenty of tools. Didn't take much work to get free.

They had a pretty good set-up here. It's an old shop of some sort. Maybe did auto work, judging by the big doors and the lifts. Maybe a chop-shop. Has that kind of feel to it. Grungy, sketchy. The bits of car might be mine. Found a couple odds and ends that look like they were mine. There's a few things that look like graves out back. Doubt I'm the first to have wound up here.

Murdering fucks. Deserved what they got.

Someone's been living here, judging from the cot, the wi-fi and the shitty netbook. Can't find my laptop. Not like there was anything important on it.

In which I explain where the fuck I've been

It's been... one two three four... FIVE DAYS!


Since I last posted on this blog. Don't know why I'm still bothering, but that's for another time. Excuse me if this is a liittle fucked up. I'm posting from a computer that isn't mine and whatever I've been dosed with doesn't quite seem to have worn off. Also the keyboard on it is a piece of shit.

So where the fuck do we start?

Physical condition perhaps?

Okay good a place as any. Physically you're a bit of a mess. A car accident, even a low speed will do that to you. Getting grabbed out of the wreck of said car will not improve that situation. Neither will dragging your sedated ass to a dingy, old, abandoned  building somewhere in... well there's no point in mentioning, and chaining someone to a bit of the plumbing in the cellar. Over all? Aches, pains, one shoulder is a little fucked up I think, to say nothing about the state of you ribs.

But then, I'm not a doctor. I am vaguely reminded of the second time my nose got broken. That was fun. But getting off-topic.

So what about mental condition?

Don't quite think I'm exactly qualified to assess that.

So, car accident you say?

Why YES! That was ALL FUCKING KINDS OF FUN. Let me tell you about the car accident.

It's a dusty stretch of back roads out in the middle of nowhere. The road comes to a Y-shaped intersection that's a bitch and a half to get around if you want to head down one arm from the opposite. Pretty deep ditch on either side. Fields, tree at the fork. I'm sort of parked in the middle of the road, trying to figure out which side of that fork to go down.

The old farmhouse is down the left-hand fork, so I start towards it.


About half way down the road.

There he is.
There He is.
THERE HE IS. I think I might have lost it.

No question. You lost it.

The... wrongness of it. It. Not quite the right word.

Do we even have a right for that? The right word would probably be a wrong word all of it's own accord you know.

It's limbs are jointed the wrong way and where did the extra sets of arms come from? The car is moving and then
The last thing I remember thinking before the crash is 'he looks just like a tree'


Tree. There's a tree there's a tree and then... white. Noise. A sort of ringing? That fades into a persistent honking noise that sounds like it's coming from all directions.


We seem to have crashed.

Idon't remember accelerating, or turning.

Or running into a fucking tree.

Am I in the ditch?
and then the door opens. I start to fall, the seatbelt catches me a little. Then.. hands, the seat belt is gone and pain in my neck. Things get hard to see and then black.

I wake up in a fucking cellar, chained to the plumbing. Like someone's idea of a bad horror film. Now, where did the...

pardon me, i think i'm going to have to be sick.

Saturday, March 24, 2012

God that hurt.
Instantly regretting it.
I think I'm... out of whatever that was.
At least, this looks like the highway again.

I think I could do with a doctor. Cauterizing your own finger with a car cigarette lighter probably isn't exacatly what you'd call medicine. Do they even make cars with cigarette lighters anymore?

Christ, what the fuck was that?

Thursday, March 22, 2012

I feel sick.
That can't be real but it looked it felt
This is five. 
so very real
Ignore the sirens.
it looked just like her

Even if you leave this room, you can never leave this room. 
It's not

shes dead but it looked she's fucking dead alright
This is eight. 
i feel sick
We have killed your friends. 
where am i

Every friend is now dead.
i feel sick
it hurts why does it hurt
My brother was actually eaten by wolves one winter on the Connecticut Turnpike 
it hurts
Mom it hurts.
This can't be fucking happening.
This is not real.
This place got half burned down years ago.
You remember things like that

It never really got fixed, because the bastard could only keep money in his wallet long enough to spend it on booze.
That's why you got moved. Toronto, remember?

I wonder if there's anything...
There's got to be something inside right?
No man. This cannot be
what the hell is going on
That is the same fucking hitchhiker. From two hours ago.
Unless he's got a fucking doppelganger, that is the exact same goddamned hitchhiker that I went by two hours ago. And that is not fucking possible. I have been driving in a straight line. The road hasn't so much as BENT the whole goddamned way.
What the hell is with the goddamned fog?
Turning the fucking car around, going the other way.
A fucking hitchhiker. I don't believe it.
Okay, where the fuck am I?
This map has to be fucking useless. There isn't a stretch of road that even FUCKING REMOTELY resembles this anywhere. There isn't. It's just straight fucking road going on to infinity that isn't on the fucking map.

No. No. FUCK THAT. Fuck that shit.
god damn it this is not fucking happening it is not

Road to Nowhere

Still inside the fucking cloud. Five fucking hours. I don't believe it.
At this point, I'm betting the highway is some sort of mobius strip. Wouldn't be too fucking surprised at this point. I swear to god, it all looks the fucking same.
The bit of fence I'm next to? Well it looks like any split rail fence but I'd swear I've been by it a least twice already. Hard to tell in the fog.
Sure as hell not getting out of the car.
Is that a fucking hitchhiker?
I woke up this morning, fog everywhere.
And I mean fucking everywhere. It's gone noon, the sun should have disposed of this by 9 AM, but instead I'm driving around inside a big poofy cloud of fucking water vapour. It's got to be fucking huge.
It shouldn't be this


Monday, March 19, 2012

Mad World

Not going back there. Not that I had much choice after my run in with who I assume was good Dr. Serra, who I assume is now going out of her way to violate what passes for a Hippocratic oath these days.

So I dragged myself to the ER. Mentioned that the other day, I think.
That went superbly. Told them I'd been mugged (90% true) but didn't see who did it. (Entirely false)
They seem to have done a pretty good job patching me up. Brace for the ankle, even went so far as to stitch the cut on my arm.

And then things started happening. So I got the hell out of there as soon as I could.
People should not be able to grin like that. They shouldn't. It's just not fucking natural. Hell of a lot of blood.
I haven't been comfortable staying in one place for too long. At least it's justified now.

Been saying it a while, but there's a great fucking granddad of a storm waiting out there. Best get out of it's way while I can.
If I can.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Can't Decide

Man goes to the doctor. Complains of problem with ankle
Doctor proceeds to beat the patient within an inch of his life.
Everyone laughs. Except the patient because he has fucking bruised ribs.

Typing this waiting in the ER. Hopefully they don't give a fuck.
That last little dust-up didn't go so well for me, you might have guessed. I'm not exactly a medical expert, but I severely doubt that my ankle should feel like this. Or my shoulder.
Now, I have two options:
  1. Go to a hospital and say I got fucking mugged (which has the potential bring up the whole nine yards about murder, arson, and jaywalking)
  2. Seek the help of a certain unlicensed professional.

Not really much of a choice is it?
So I called up a certain "Doctor". Maybe you're familiar? She didn't get back to me, so I wrote it off and kept driving.

I pulled in to a rest stop last night to catch a bit of rest, needed to stretch. Fucking cold night. And my jacket is still filled with holes. Need to replace it.

So this... woman shows up. White coat, scarf, what looked like chocolate but I'm assuming was blood on both.
Creepy fucking mask. Points for that, the thing was made out of bits of bone.
Not sure what it was painted with, don't want to know. Horn sort of thing, on the one side. Deer maybe?
What happened next? Ow. Really fucking ow.

She came at me with a fucking bone. Like a fucking shinbone.

Get on the ground. Pain, really bad idea. Face is still in one piece but she got your shoulder, more than a little raw. That's alright, you can shake it off. 

Roll over, you need to get up. Nope, foot planted in my ribs. Just about knocked the breath out of me.
Swing, try to hit something dumbass. The wrench in my pocket gets her in the leg.

Bad idea. She goes for my head. Try to pull my arm up. Wait, wrong fucking arm.
Pain. Everything goes white for a second, and then red. Blood in my eyes. More pain, boot in the ribs again.
Drives the breath out of me.
That's alright, you've been here before, plenty of times. Try to roll with it. If she wanted to kill you she'd have done it by now, right?

Lost track a little, more hits with that fucking bone. . I remember trying to pull my legs up, cover the squishy bits, that didn't sit too well with the crazy lady.
Not sure when she left or how long the beating lasted. I'm a fucking mess now. Bruises all over my arms legs back. Plenty of them on my ribs, nasty cut on the side of my head.
When I could move again, I had a bit of paper tucked in my pocket, and a fucking lollipop. Believe it. A fucking lollipop

It's a prescription, little hard to read, physicians apparently can't write worth shit, but this was worse.
"Anger management zalafl?" Trying to prescribe food maybe?
And then:  "Hello Robin, we haven't met before in person but I hope you feel better soon please take this gift as a sign of everyone's fucking appreciation for you."

That's just fucking cheery isn't it? I'm guessing the good Doctor caught up with me after all.
Fuck you too Doc. Fuck you too.

Slept too long

Six fucking hours.
Fuck. That's too long. Anything could have happened.
Must've really done a number on me.
Where the fuck is a hospital when you need it?

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Note to self

Learn to land properly. My ankle is fucking killing me.

Stopped last night for a few minutes to grab something to eat. Someone was waiting by the car when I came out. So I avoided the car. Went for a bit of a walkabout. This feels... flat. It's not quite what I'm used to. Lot more buildings in Toronto, even downtown Ottawa had build-up. Highrises, that sort of thing. 
The walk didn't end well.

Whoever was watching my car had friends. Never really got a good look at 'em.

Running, you can hear their feet hitting the pavement behind you, but that's alright. Two? No, maybe three. Hard to tell.

They aren't far now. You don't have to be faster, not the whole time, just fast enough. Have to be smarter.

There's a fence, jump over it, swing the legs up. Like running away from that dog that lived nearby. You had to walk past it after school. Remember when it broke it's lead and came after you? Just like that. Over the fence.

Keep running, they're still on you, did you think it was going to be easy? Hard left, down the street. Cars coming from both directions, hard right, through the street. Mind the traffic now boys.

Now quickly, up over the fence between those houses. Make them work for it.

Oh shit. Dog. Move fast, keep going. Maybe he'll slow them down, another fence. Up and over it one more time. Almost in the clear now.

Fuck, ditch. Stick the landing, roll.

Pain, shake it off. Your ankle doesn't hurt that much. Sounds like the dog is dealing with one of them. Just get back up. Fuck.

Lost your footing there. Bottom of the ditch now. More pain. Shoulder this time. Not going to be easy. Alright, running isn't exactly a fucking option at this point. Hide. There's a culvert over there. Climbing out will take too long.

Looks like they're gone. Lucky bastard. Now, just need to get back to the car. Have some people to talk to.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Always with the running

He's following me.

Six times. Six times I've seen him today. Not going to stop tonight. Can't stop.

It just stands there by the side of the road. Suit and no face.
And there's a sound. That's not right because it's not really a sound. You know how really low bass, you don't so much hear as feel through your feet and your lungs? Or a really high pitched note you can feel in your teeth and behind your eyes more than you can hear it. And it doesn't have direction. Like a low-flying jet. It's coming from everywhere at once.

I just read that again. I'm not making anything even remotely fucking resembling sense.

He's there, outside. Watching. It's funny isn't it? He's watching. I know he's watching but he DOESN'T HAVE ANY FUCKING EYES. How can he be watching without eyes? I don't know. Drives me right up the bloody wall it does.
No one else can see him. It. It's just standing there out on the other side of the street.

How many do you think are in mental institutions? Because they can see it but no one else does?
This is what it feels like to question your own sanity, isn't it? And there it fucking is again and again that sound that isn't a sound. It's high and low and everywhere all at once why can no one else hear it? There are a dozen people in this shop, and they can't see him. I've got to be fucking mad right? They can't hear it.

Fuck it. Need to keep moving.

Friday, March 9, 2012

Air Raid Sirens

Bit of a bad season. Lots of dead people. Didn't know any of them, but I try to keep up with the obits. I have to keep score somehow, right? We've actually got confirmation that Zeke Strahm, face-punching, gun-toting, ex-cop wunderkind is dead. Not pretty at all, had to happen eventually.

This isn't the time or place for heroes. It's time to start looking for cover.
Air raid sirens and thunderclouds. Hope I can run fast enough. You're dead if you stay still, and standing on the high ground is just asking to be struck by lightning.
Anyone who says otherwise is fucking mental. Delusional, to a man. Some of them had fucking messiah complexes.
Heroes get killed. No question. It's just a matter of how many people are unlucky go with them.

Time to get back on the road. A knife wound and broken fingers obviously weren't disincentive enough for some people.

Thursday, March 8, 2012

Now I need a new coat

I can pick up the signal from the service centre on the other side of the highway from the parking lot over here. Barely.

They haven't really started over here. They've just shut down the service centre. I expect they'll tear it down soon enough. With any luck no one will notice.

I pulled into the service centre just about sunset. It's farm country here, one of the places around here is big on tomatoes. They're quite good actually. I didn't see how they got in. Two of them. Boy and a girl.

They couldn't have been much more than teenagers. 15-16, best guess. It was the giggling that set me on edge. I couldn't figure out which of them was doing it. Masks were a permanent sort of grin. Like a clown's facepaint. It's disturbing.

I didn't see her pull the knife on me. That cost me. Pulled my arm up to protect myself and she sliced me across it. Bandaged now, but it bled pretty nice. I'll have to stop and clean it properly I expect. Don't know if I'll need stitches. wouldn't be the first time, won't be the last

Her buddy grabbed me from behind. He was taller than me. Bad luck for him. I've always been of a mind that the longer someone's legs are the better. It just means the soft, squishy bits are a little easier for me to get at.
In this case it meant pushing him back into a wall, slamming my shoulder into his gut and my elbow into his crotch and trying to get his chin with my head. Headbutting people generally isn't a good idea, but you work with what you've got.

Bubbles Mcgiggle was harder. She was all over the place. Wouldn't stop moving. Few more shallow cuts. Going to need a new coat, she put enough holes in this one. Couldn't keep her hand still though. She was shaking the whole time. Like she was freezing cold, or having a walking seizure. And the damn laughing. I'm sure I missed part of it that only dogs would hear.

I'm sure I got lucky. She tripped over a bit of uneven floor. Almost got me in the neck when she flailed the damn knife around. More broken fingers after that. Boots are good. She didn't stop laughing when I stepped on the hand with the knife in it. It got worse. Lanky was a little less inclined to come at me when I took the knife off of her. Not entirely disinclined. I'm no good with knives. It's a whole bag of snakes that I'm not willing to open up. Lanky got it in the shoulder and I booked it.

Lesson learned? Not in the fucking slightest. I'm not dead yet, right?

What's that saying?

That which doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger?
And there was that bit in the Dark Knight that substituted "stranger". 
Bullshit. If it doesn't kill you it tends to hurt like a bitch.

I'm not dead yet right? Or if I am this is a hell of a weird hereafter.
I seem to still have all my bits attached.
Bringing me to the point of this post.
There may be some angry people following me.
Well I say people. I assume you know the sort of "people" I'm talking about. One or two bastards in cheap halloween masks. It seems that not everyone approves of my treatment of a certain would be antagonist.
I did leave him alive. I'm not a murderer.

Whether or not our mutual acquaintance in the suit did... well that's another question altogether isn't it?

They've been doing a pretty good job keeping up with me. That's a good trick. Think I'll have to ask them about it. They've been replacing the service centres along the highway here. Shouldn't be too much effort to find somewhere a little less public.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Don't stop me now

Should have known better. Did you really think I would just ignore something like that? Did you think you'd get away with it? Honestly, did you?
Miranda is dead. Frankly, I'm doing just fucking fine with that.
The problem is that someone trying to mess with me by using her email account is quite far from fine. That's just rude. More precisely, it's people fucking with me, which is something I really can't stand.

Now, the dumbass responsible? He's getting his just desserts at the moment.
He tried to run. But you don't get points for trying. He didn't run fast enough. Steel toes are good for kicking the shit out of someone. Might have been taller than me, but he's a scrawny little bastard. And that plastic mask of his wasn't worth shit.

What does this would-be antagonist have to show for his trouble?
Two hands worth of broken fingers, more bruises than I'd care to count, maybe a rib or two broken, and some missing teeth. Don't think done yet. He's still got thumbs. And the ability to walk. Those are a little harder and I figured I'd take a break before getting back to work.
Can't say I haven't been enjoying myself.
That'd be lying.

A brief interlude of violence

Of course.
Of course someone is fucking with me.
Of course someone has decided that THIS! This must be the correct moment to fuck with me.
Which means that the logical thing to do is to keep going in the direction I was going and let them keep on at their little games.

But you know what? You've caught me in a bit of a bad mood. Not feeling the logical vibe today. What I am feeling is a terrible desire to find the party responsible and break a few of their fingers. For starters. I'm given to understand that fingers are necessary for operating a keyboard and I'd rather permit the person or persons responsible to do so for the foreseeable future.

So I'll tell you what asshole. This is your notice. I'm turning my car around. If you would like to avoid pain, seriously bodily harm and assorted very unpleasant words that I would like to have with you, you should step away from that account you just broke into, and start running at the sound of the tone.

I don't take kindly to people fucking with me by using dead people.


Post Script: Sorry if this gets to you two or three days late. There's not much in the way of free internet between where I am at the moment and my destination. I'll probably have arrived by the time it gets there. But you've got to see to the formalities when you're dealing with mad people.

Pardon me, there's a spot of violence I need to be doing. I'll let you know how that goes, shall I?

Saturday, March 3, 2012

It's been a while.
I haven't bothered opening this laptop in... what. Two weeks?

Nothing's changed.

Which means she's probably dead.
Or doesn't give a fuck.

No point stopping now, is there?