Rocked the boat

Someone tried to kill me today.

That feels new, oddly enough. It's not that it's never been a possibility, but this time it was different.
You can kill people lots of ways, we're fragile, breakable little things.  Before it was always a chance that you'd live through being stabbed or bludgeoned. This one had a gun.

Stupid. Was he trying to get himself killed?

Maybe. That's the point of a gun. You can, presumably not kill someone with it, but at the end of the day, it's what it was made for. Killing. Using it another way goes against what it was made for. Against it's... purpose, so to speak.

He's not exactly doing so well.
Bullet wounds will do that.

Gun's mine now. Not doing so well though. But I'm still alive.

The important bit, right?

Right.

Back on the fucking road then.

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.

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.


Beep.


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?

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?

I am a bastard. I think I've made that abundantly clear. I make no apologies for it. I like it. It works.
Until I'm given reason to feel otherwise, I don't like you. I'm not a fucking fan of people, in case we've missed that little fact.  I look out for myself, it's worked out.


I don't even known why I'm still writing this. I don't need to fucking justify myself.