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feel the poison
THE NEWLY ADDICTED
ENTER REHAB TODAY!
against my will
WHERE THE HELL AM I?
lovely montauk, new york.
august 2009, current time.
LOOKING FOR AN ESCAPE
we're perfectly fine
minkle ~ administrator
cameron rhys ously
harrison brinley cordell
linley aberle kirkwood
oliver nathaniel frank
steph ~ administrator
jonah bartleby cohen
lennox campbell sheehy
martin ignacio cruz
mina ilithyia drakos
parker lee milford
bee ~ co-administrator
ashley eugene van der camp
patrick timothy sheehy
paulie tobias beauregard
madison kyle rosenberg
what'll come of me ?
if i was more like ...
best of the best
let the curtain drop
poison was created by minkle and steph. steal anything, and we will personally hunt you down and skin you alive. site content © minkle and steph. graphics were made by minkle, and any character content is © to their creators, not us. stealing anything will result in automatic ban.
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 I MUST BE MISSING THE POINT, open
| ramone jorge de la hoya |
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veteran
Group: staff !
Posts: 111
Member No.: 34
Joined: 30-January 09
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The axe hits him in midsentence, straight in the face, its thick blade chopping sideways into his open mouth, shutting him up. Paul's eyes look up at me, then involuntarily roll back –
“Excuse me…”
– into his head –
“Excuse me!”
The lady standing on the other side of the desk is dressed in some sort of hideous floral tablecloth trying to pass as a fashionable woman’s garment… or something. She’s wearing a tacky wig that is probably made from the stolen hair of some poor Vietnamese children, which wobbles unsteadily as she shifts her entire body to slam her disgusting, meaty hand down on the little silver bell that sits on the counter in front of me. Fucking hell… can no one in this godforsaken town read, or what? Well, no, probably not. The lady has obviously missed the sign on the counter, the one right next to the bell, the one which reads ‘Back in Ten!’, the one that very clearly indicates that I am on my break, and therefore not at all inclined to give a fuck about whatever it is that she wants. The lady rings the bell again and again, and on the tenth ring I lower my book (Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho, which I have mostly been skimming through; past all the boring yuppie crap to get to the brutal smut and gore) an inch, glaring at her across the counter. Stupid bitch, learn to read.
“You’re excused. Now, kindly fuck off – I’m on my break,” I tell her, sparing the pleasantries and pointing at the sign. If she hadn’t abused the bell so goddamn fucking much, I might be in a slightly better mood, but it’s my break, and she’s fat and ugly and yelling at me. She’s probably a fucking racist, too, I conclude, then return to my book in which Paul Owen is being hacked to bits by Patrick Bateman’s axe. Thinks she can treat Hispanics like a piece of shit… maybe she’ll tell me to go back to working at Taco Bell, or, better yet, My Own Country.
After her initial shock wears off – obviously she’s never been sworn at by a receptionist before – she reaches out for another round of bell-ringing, maybe hoping to attract another member of staff in the process and dob me in for not helping her sorry ass. Just before she can slap the fucking thing again, I lean forward and snatch it off the desk, then tuck the book under my arm. It’s become pretty goddamn obvious that I won’t be able to get any peace at reception, so I decide to vacate in favour of… the lunchroom. Yeah, sure, fuck it – that’ll do. Anywhere that the stupid wig lady isn’t is just fine and fucking dandy with me, and so, with the lunchroom in mind, I leave the reception – and the lady, who looks totally fucking dumbstruck (not for the first time in her life, I can imagine) – behind. I figure I’ve got about five dollars in change in my pockets, so I tap the elevator call button and scoot on in just as I hear a great fucking meandering behind me, like a walrus or an elephant or some shit, I don’t even know. Maybe I might just get a fucking iced coffee, I think to myself, and then I stab the illuminated silver button marked Doors Close, and the elevator doors shut in front of wig lady’s dumb face.
It’s a small victory. I return to my book, now that I've got some goddamn fucking peace, and Patrick Bateman is getting rid of Paul Owen’s body when the elevator stops one floor up.
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