Morbid Solace

© Sept 7, 2016. All Rights Reserved.

Unlike quantitative awakening, the insurmountable underbelly of the carnivorous country has no comparison to the oppressed assailant committing the most gruesome murders. Opposite of an egalitarian society, that’s an extensive, provocative story Ashima is yet to discover. In this bustling town of “South Doubt Town,” it’s not too far from the rebarbative “Doubt Left Slums,” which is a 2 hour drive North. In “Doubt Left Slums,” there is an underground church and mosque. There are gangways to four dehumanizing “Doubt Town Prisons” in the unsanitary slums connected with loony bins; the names of the facilities are “East Doubt Town Prison,” “South Doubt Town Prison,” “West Doubt Town Prison,” and “North Doubt Town Prison.” Captivity is an understatement for anyone tormented in “West Doubt Town Prison,” which is a disguise as a concentration camp on the inside. In “West Doubt Town Prison,” the police will maltreat the inmates with thousands of horrible experiments that feels like perdurable violence.

While the four prisons are in the slums, there’s one humane prison in the city called “Doubt Town Rehabilitation,” where inmates can take private and group classes to learn independent skills, anger management, physical activity, music production, and more. The inmates are trusted with a guarantee of leaving the prison in 3 months after being sentenced. Inmates have the option of staying in their luxurious rooms, to meet with other inmates in their rooms, or to meet with other inmates outside. On Ashima’s side of the street, there are red-brick buildings with extensive, impregnable walls. Various pediments with gargoyles are attached to the buildings for sightseers. The slums is on the parallel side of the street with mud brick houses.

Recently, it was sunny with overlapping clouds in the sky, and now, it is snowing in the windy weather. There are electrical wires underneath each numbered, concrete block, which can paralyse possible lawbreakers through the power of a watch. Corrupted cops wear futuristic watches on their wrists with a monitor on their screens to see which lawbreaker are being paralysed. Also, on the watch, there’s a special, red button in order to activate the wires. There’s a keyboard to select which block can paralyse the next lawbreakers.

The brunette, Ashima has straight, brown hair, ending at the back of her neck. During a flurry of snow, she jostles through an inevitable crowd of pedestrians. The pedestrians pass her from another side of the street, and like a man-made woman, she bypasses fresh, delectable fruits from windfall. Then, she rubbernecks at a 13-year-old, blond girl with chapped lips and gimcrack teeth; the girl is wearing a winter, pink, zipped-up manteau over a violet muumuu with black, floral embroidery. The poor girl decides to sleep in the bitter cold with a wool blanket on a milk-white bench, and her face directed to the east. Like a horrid nightmare, Ashima has a flashback of being 13-years-old in a high school bathroom. In the middle stall, she sits on a toilet seat, which is wrapped in toilet paper. She moans in excruciating pain until a bloody, stillborn baby (with congenital disorder) falls into the toilet. When she rises to look inside the toilet, she cries.

She then hears another females voice, “Girl! If you don’t hurry up, I’m kicking this door down!”

A mortified Ashima yells at the female accustomed to bullying her, “I had a miscarriage!”

The bully laughs and sarcastically says, “I’d lower my tone if I were you! Your mother should’ve had a fuckin’ miscarriage! Think of it this way. You wouldn’t have this wonderful experience if you weren’t here. I don’t want any other stall, but yours right now! Hand me the toilet paper, so I can write your name down, call it the honor roll, and take a number two. Speaking of number two, that’s exactly what you smell like. You sound like you’re having an asthma attack.”

Slowly, Ashima rises from the toilet seat to yank the toilet roll from the silver, steel, toilet paper holder. With the full roll of toilet paper, she wipes between her buttocks. A mixture of brown and red dung is on the toilet paper roll when Ashima takes a disgusting glimpse at it. She stands on top of the toilet seat to see her rude bully laughing. After squinting her eyes, like the paragon of confidence, she drops the roll of toilet paper partially in her bully’s hair and forehead. The bully screams for her life as she rushes to the mirror to glance at her horrible face.

“Thank me later,” Ashima yells.

Ashima frowns from reflecting on her severe, traumatic experience, and her facial expression remains when a barking bulldog lopes her direction. A man holding a leash pulls the dog away from Ashima. She attempts counting to ten to calm herself down. Only when Ashima sees a yellow cab around the corner of the street, she calms down. A bleak gust of wind occurs. As she raises her hand, which is silhouetted against the burgundy night sky. Among planets, there’s a parade of stars, which appears small, but Fomalhaut temporarily catches her attention.

A yellow cab stops by the consummate beauty, Ashima. A charming, swarthy, 22-year-old hackie (with a mini afro and maroon sunglasses) confidently looks her direction. Enamoured of the hackie with a chiseled body, she easily blushes, averting her eyes, and attempts to hide it by covering her face. Tantalising her with his charm, the bloke smiles at the rear-view-mirror. He grabs a red, disposable, plastic cup of hot chocolate from a black cup holder, takes a sip from a bluish-green straw through the lid, and puts the cup back. There’s neoclassical music playing from a local, radio station. She glances at the wing mirror as she opens the side door to the backseat. Ashima lowers her fanny, shuts the door, feeling like she’s in a pedicab.

The puffy-haired dreamboat greets her, “Merry Christmas. Are you in the Christmas spirit?”

Knowing well that she performs puja everyday, she coyly replies, “Merry, Merry Christmas. My day is a blessing in disguise. Drop me off at the nearest gas station.”

After pausing to speak, the bloke says, “Okey-dokey.”

The light signal turns green. Assuming she has a treacherous mind per sê, the hackie immediately drives straight pass an intersection. Ashima glances out of the right side of the window realising she’s in the slums. Misfortunate civilians (all wearing black gas masks due to the air pollution) are gathered around a nearby contaminated lake full of trash. The civilians share a single shadoof. Few dæbbawalâs ride bicycles; on their heads, they balance grey trays full of burdens of lunch boxes. A confused look grows on his face from Ashima’s unpopular choice in her destination. He thinks about the shimmering, Indian wedding dress, and leather, black boots she has on, and how creepy she seem. Also, she has on a silver lehenga embroidered with crystals. Black, velvet houppelandes are attached to her dress. Any old local gas station isn’t on her mind; the gas station she favors has black, gas pump nozzles, which are the shape of life-sized bats. A daddy long leg spider crawls from out of her cleavage, to the front seat. Ashima is reticent.

1 Month Later

Outside, it’s a humdinger of a forest green sky with languor. In the forest, an anonymous, harum-scarum person walks, crushing a sliver of branches with a kitchen knife. He has on all black attire; a black, hooded sweatshirt, vest, gloves, jeans, a breathing snake used as a belt, and shoes. No one sees his face, but hears his footsteps. It could be just an animal with a quixotic fantasy of eating her, (Emily) a small town, Korean girl in a trailer home thinks. She glances out the window to see a deer pussyfooting out of the bushes, then positions her her head down on her fluffy, yellow pillow.

Still, Emily is alone while someone watches her. The time is 5:55 P.M., and it’s pitch-black outside. He eats raw, bitter berries that are on trees while he waits for her to exit the trailer. When the stalker hears the sound of the doorknob twist, he clenches his knife and darts his head. How the stalker wants to be inside to play with her cascading, blond hair. He wants to break an analogue clock, use the hour hand as an arrow, aim it with a bow, and shoot her.

Finally, the dunderhead exits the trailer in a black kurta and bright turquoise, churidar pants, embroidered with purple rose designs. Emily’s perceived to be a docile leader of ignorance. She pats a white-tailed deer with her 12-year-old hands. The deer doesn’t make the slightest movement. The stalker stares at her as if Cupid brainwashed her with cupidity.

Immediately, leeches magically appear around the white-tailed deer and blood is dripping down the helpless deer’s skin. An eerie scream erupts from the deer while standing on his back legs. The insufferable force of the deer causes her to fall backwards into a pile of murky mud. The turquoise fingernails on her left hand scrape against a concrete ground (buried under the thick mud) picking up a clump of mucky mud. Thus, from the hard fall, Emily’s index finger rips off, causing blood to leak. Grime is on the back of her wrists and churidar pants. Deeply, she moans.

It rains as the frightened deer runs wildly into the forest. Making a mewling sound, Emily looks down at her wet pajamas. She thinks about how her parents will kill her when they find out she exited the trailer. Appalled after a tall shadow from behind her presence shields her, Emily is disoriented with a temporary, blurry vision. She darts her head around and makes a shrieking scream, which is simultaneous with the sound of thunder.

Emily struggles to run, but the livid stalker effortlessly clutches her left hand, carrying her like a valuable handbag. To stop her loud screaming, the stalker makes a ferocious assault. Dislocating Emily’s maxilla, he forces his right knee into her precious face, then tightly ties both of her hands behind her back with a double knot. He upends her empty pockets as if she’s a birdbrained hag. Then, he drags her body closer to the trailer as she covers her black eye. The extra length of the rope is used to wrap around the doorknob of the trailer.

She can barely move, but finds the awareness to scream. Her scream doesn’t affect his mind besieged by beastly creatures. The stalker returns from the forest with a gasoline container. Like she repeatedly had a nooner in front of her jealous boyfriend, the stalker pours gasoline on her and around the trailer as she pulls the rope. He then pours the leftover gasoline into her eyes.

Worse, while she’s blinded, the nightmarish stalker taunts her with the knife by rubbing it against her chest. Thoroughly, he cuts downward upon the flesh, approximately 5 inches. An echoing scream escapes her mouth as blood drips to the grassy section of the ground. Gruesomely, he lunges the knife into the same wound, cutting down until he etches zigzag wounds upon her abdomen. The stalker walks away with the bloody knife held to his unseen face. A mile away from the scene, the stalker rubs the blood from the knife on a thick tree trunk, which says, “We’re Even.” Leading to an explosion, the anonymous madman returns to the scene, so he throws a lighter upon the trail of gasoline. It’s a vindictive murder for the police force to attempt to unravel.

2 Months Later

“In the past two weeks, I’ve been trying to raise my blood pressure after visiting Doctor Everhecks. She’s nicer than anyone I know. She told me I have to be careful about what I intake because the wrong ingredients can make me feel very fatigue and cause me to faint. Hands down, if it’s about improving my health, I’m all over it, ” a distraught Dīafair says with gruff voice and a cigarette in his left hand.

As if Dīafair abhors platitudinous advice, he ignores a Sawson’s infallible message on the speakerphone. As he rests his head against the headrest of his convertible car, he lights the cigarette with a red lighter. Wisps of smoke wanders the area and exits the lowered front, left window. He grabs his cell phone (which is on speakerphone) from the passenger’s seat, and exits his car. By overhearing Sawson’s advice, she seems to have a deleterious influence. He tosses his cell phone on the concrete ground, and it breaks into pieces. Heavily, he breathes uncontrollably as if the white T-shirt he’s wearing should be a handkerchief.

In his right pocket, he takes out a pocket knife, and gently moves it in the midst of his buzz cut hairstyle. He climbs on top of the car, and sits on his knees. His fingers shake, then he lunges the knife into his heart. In excruciating pain, he screams. Blood leaks down his shirt to his blue jeans. With his left hand on the top of the car, forward, his body moves. Blood continues to leak and covers the top of the car.

Seconds later, he loses strength in all of his limbs falling forward. The knife drops to the side. His forehead smacks against the steel cover of the top. It now looks as if he intended to hug the car. It takes 5 seconds for him to slowly position his body around while grunting in agony. After removing his plaid, black and white gamucha from around his head, he wipes the blood from his fetid wound. Again, ever so patiently, he grabs the knife, and slits his throat. Finally, his eyes shut and excessive blood leaks onto the windshield of the car.

Shuang’s House

It is Thursday. The time is 8:00 A.M. and Shuang is in the kitchen removing a pot from a steel pot rack hook. 1 of 8 pot rack hooks dangle from the stainless, steel wall-mounted bar as Shuang places the pot on the counter. She opens the top drawer and takes out a keen knife, which shows her reflection. Beside the plate, she firmly seizes a chicken by the neck, pressure’s his body on the counter, then chops his head off. Immediately, she allows the chicken blood to pour in the bowl.

Her looks can oust a goddess from a throne. She’s a desi woman dressed like a gothic Hindu. She wears a ghunghat around her head, a lotus in her dark, wavy, brown hair, a bindi on her forehead, black eyeliner, and three, golden bangles on both wrists. When she raises the knife, she sees her black, immaculate, chiffon anarkali. The top part of her anarkali is made out of fishnet and embroidered with red roses.

Of suī generis beauty, her daughter (Ashima) is dressed as a gothic hippie. After a makeover, she has long, silky, curly, black hair. She has on a red and blue, tie-dyed t-shirt with a green, purple, and pink mandala design in the middle. Also, a golden astrolabe is a pendant attached to a golden chain around her neck, and red, fishnet sleeves are underneath the sleeves of her t-shirt. Attached to a silver, studded belt, her black, palazzo pants has red zipper designs surrounding the upper section.

Approximately five revered shanta paintings are on a plaster wall. The right side of the wall (which is closest to Ashima) has a murti of the deity, Durga. Ganesha (the destroyer of pride, vanity, and selfishness) is on the wall (meditating in the state of nirvana) in front of a golden background. In another painting, there are many watercolors with Shiva meditating in a heavenly palace. There’s a painting of Krishna on a lake and a painting of Saraswati with two of four arms holding a Saraswati veena. A silver chandelier is a few inches behind her.

Athaliah, her adorable, black kitten hides behind the television and urinates. The nothingness of entertainment on the screen is appears more important than her kitten. After impulsively squinting her eyes, she proceeds to channel surf in the living room, until the batteries die. When she tosses the remote control on the far right end of the leather, beige chaise longue, her kitten runs into her bedroom. Shuang nods her head sideways and walks into the living room to turn off the television. Sitting with her legs crossed and bent, Ashima shuts her eyes.

Off of the chāise longue, Ashima, the ailurophile rises and walks near the right corner of the plaster wall, where a linen cupboard made out of black oak wood is. She passes a sliding, glass, patio door, which is in front of milk-white marquisette curtains. Athaliah snags the curtains as Ashima glances. The breeze of wind greets Ashima’s curly hair as she lays her eyes on her silver, custom-made laptop, which sits above a rectangular, wooden table. Her laptop can electrocute anyone if the wrong password is entered. Beside the laptop is a silver Asherah pole.

She looks pass the 6 feet deep pool that’s on the side of her balcony. The balcony is guarded by a 5 foot, transparent, glass wall with crystal dollar symbols as sturdy balusters trapped inside. On the far end of the balcony, there’s a silver keyboard attached to the glass wall. Beside the keyboard is an upside-down detachable microphone on a silver, circular, magnet, which is attached to the ceiling. On the bottom of the microphone, there’s a square magnet piece, which attaches to the ceiling magnet. Like a eureka moment, Ashima cherishes the bucolic view, looking off the balcony, then moves the fruit of one of a dozen tamarind trees. The beauty of the opulent neighbourhood puts a perfects her smile.

Ashima looks down 15 feet below at a fishing spider, beside a concrete fire pit. Where hundreds of fish swim, the fishing spider is amazingly walking on the water of a swimming pool. As a blue and black, spotted poison dart frog hops from the water, a ravenous osprey descends from the ocean blue sky, speeding pass three rows of gorse bushes to devour a goldfish and a clownfish. After devouring the ephemeral lives of the fish, the osprey ascends to the firmaments. There’s a swing set in the middle of the pool with metal swing beams, touching the the concrete ground. Ashima levitates to 1 of 5 red, residential belt seats attached to durable chains and sits on the third seat. There’s waterproof headphones wrapped around the right side of each chain. Also, there’s a projector behind her, which shines onto a flat section of her mansion for her to enjoy watching a movie. Below the illuminating light from the projector, there’s a veranda made out of sapphire. Cayenne pepper plants are planted on the sides of the walls. In the center of the plants is a silver, concrete path. Gently, she holds onto the chains, swinging back and forth for a thrill.

As she digs in her right pocket to take out her cell phone, she records the flying ospreys passing the swing set. A turquoise butterfly flies across her right shoulder while a rare butterfly with what appears to be diamond wings lands on her left shoulder. Astounded, she captures the butterfly while turning her cell phone to her smiling, photogenic face. A lovely sight of herself can be seen kissing the butterfly on the cell phone screen. She then ends video and levitates back on the balcony.

Ashima looks at her laptop, slumps down in a milk-white rocking chair, and clicks on a chat app. Her ebullient friend (Shanta, an up and coming guide book writer for Ireland) automagically pops up on the screen, in a cubbyhole. Shanta is dressed like a punk rocker with freckles. Of skin-deep gorgeousness, Shanta has on a backwards, black visor cap, short, green hair, a coquelicot, ruffled blouse, and a green and black tartan skirt. Shanta’s appearance disseminates the knowledge that she is indeed a tomboy.

Eagerly, Ashima sends her recently recorded footage to Shanta’s cell phone number. Shanta has a handgun collection beautifully displayed on a mahogany bookshelf. Shanta notices her cell phone making deep breathing sounds from someone engaging in meditation. As her friend looks at the video, Ashima smiles from her own vanity. Her friend also smiles while walking outside. Ashima is reminded that Shanta’s neighborhood is coequal to hers after seeing mansions made out of ledgestone.

A jovial Shanta amusingly sticks out her mulberry tongue to bite a sugary olykoek, then cordially speaks in an Irish lilt, “Haigh. I didn’t know tamarind trees grow where you live.”

Joining her hands in a prayer position while bowing her head, Ashima greets Shanta, “Nämêstā.”

Shanta greets for the second time, “Nämêstā.”

Humorously, Ashima says, “Can you keep a secret?”

Her vivacious, best friend responds, “What a stupid question. I’ve been keeping your secrets my whole life.”

A vainglorious Ashima says, “I stole some seeds on my trip to Africa. I ran short of money for souvenirs, so I had to take something with me. They’re quite a beauty, aren’t they?”

Shanta’s jaw drops, then she sarcastically says, “I’m so jealous. I decamped all around Ireland, so you can’t prove to me your country is better. I’m going to have to borrow your seeds. What are you going to do if you get caught?”

Calmly, Ashima says, “I never thought about that. The neighborhood loves me around here. I give some people free fruit and we’re all good. If you come to Doubt Town, the sky is a different color every hour. Without a clock, we know the precise time depending on the color and hue of the sky. I’m waiting for the blue sky to change. It’s beginning to look like Ireland.”

A smirking Shanta changes the subject, “There’s this story across the web about an anonymous man who allegedly stabbed himself in the heart with a pocket knife, then slit his own throat in his garage. His body was found in vegetative state on top of his car.”

A reticent Ashima stares at the computer screen while struggling to believe Shanta’s egregious malarkey. Shanta’s face is serious, and Ashima’s eyes grow enormous. Ashima believes the information, then feels gullible. Every week, Shanta jokes about someone dying. Her best friend, Shanta never needed acting lessons to trick her.

Ashima says, “When did this happen?”

“It’s all over television. It all happened yesterday. The police are supposedly making a thorough investigation and aren’t going to release any more details to the story just yet. It sounds fishy,” Shanta says.

With a preconceived idea that Shanta is telling a fib, Ashima says, “Yes. I’ve been channel surfing and didn’t see anything.”

“Mavourneen, that’s because I’m lying. Haha What are you gonna do ”bout it? I can kick you so hard, your children be born with knock knees,” Shanta says.

“Keep it up. You almost had me there.”

Shanta says ‘Don’t bullshit me” in Irish, “Nà bi ag iarraidh cluain an chacamais a chur orm.”

Ashima (an aficionado on idioms) talks and gets interrupted, “You always do that! You know that’s all Greek to me! I’m not bull…”

Shanta removes her baseball cap to put on a black cowgirl hat and smiles, saying, “Howdy!”

“You play too much,” Ashima says.

With the laptop levitating in front of Ashima, she walks pass the living room, making her way into an enormous, dingy bedroom. Protruding from the plinth block beside her bedroom door are three authentic bullets forming a triangle, symmetrical to the plinth block on the parallel side. After she closes the door, she bypasses a black linga. Then, she removes a black, laced bed sheet, which is over her comfortable, window seat. Lifting the cushions of the black, leather couch upward, the couch automatically converts into a mattress. The mattress sits in front of a fish tank with a silver, flat screen, waterproof television inside. As goldfish, clown fish, and starfish swim, a second, flat-screen television above the fish tank plays on the black, plaster wall. Around the wall-mounted, flat screen television, there are 30 monitors currently recording every angle of the mansion, which produces a glowing red color in the dark.

Above a black printer, a caressing wind from a spinning, black, wall-mounted fan in her closet blows onto her as she sits on the mattress. The fan has a realistic tarantula on the inside; the tarantula’s head twists at a 360 degree angle while screaming as if though it’s being bitten. There are 8, metal blades designed as the tarantula’s legs. On the floor, behind the wall-mounted fan is a baseboard heater. Slightly above the fan is a black, programmable thermostat. Ashima snaps her fingers and the burgundy curtains open by itself. The window reveals the sunlight and the view of an ocean with the background of a pink sky. Then, she allows the laptop to magically sit beside her.

There are ugra paintings surrounding all four sides of the walls. Her all-time favorite ugra painting with elephant tusks made out of picture frames is below a hung dreamcatcher. The picture frame is embossed in gold inverted cross designs. On the picture is the Hindu goddess (Kali) in front of a Venetian red background. Kali has four arms; he has a sword in one hand and a slaughtered head of a demon in the other. If it wasn’t gruesome enough, Kali is stepping on a bloody corpse.

Beside her double, closet doors, there’s a mini refrigerator full of organic fruits and fresh water bottles. In the freezer, there’s a handmade dessert for later. The dessert begins with a baked cookie dough shaped into an edible bowl, attached with red food coloring on fondant. Above the bowl, there’s an edible, chocolate lid, which also has red food coloring on fondant. Inside the bowl, there’s marshmallows, chocolate strawberries, caramel, sliced apples, sliced watermelon, almonds, and vanilla ice cream.

On the right side of the mini refrigerator, there’s spicy popcorn in a circular, transparent candy dispenser. On the right side of the candy dispenser, there’s pure water in a water dispenser. Seemingly, her bedroom comes nothing short of paradise, for on the right side of the water dispenser, she has her very own claw machine, which glows in the dark. There are rows of red, bold words, “I Love Me!” surrounding the machine with the digital time in the transparent, bullet-proof glass. Inside the claw machine, there’s 100,000 yen, 20 gothic polymer dolls, and 6 of the latest video game systems. On the right side of the claw machine, there’s a white trash bin.

She presses a remote control and her double, closet doors open, revealing her expensive gothic, hippie outfits hung on mahogany hangers. Below the clothes on the left side, there’s a washing machine and a dryer. On both ends of the closet doors, there’s mahogany shelves full of expensive shoes every woman would die for. On top of the wardrobe are bottles of perfumes, boxes of makeup, and many colourful suitcases. Behind the wardrobe, there’s a spiral stairway leading upwards, attached to a slide on the right. She presses a red button on her television remote control, and her entire wardrobe moves blocking the stairs and slide.

Ashima imagines herself eloping with her date and says, “I have a date later on. My raja is going to kiss me when I’m a beldam.”

“Keep going,” a jaunty Shanta says.

Before Ashima can continue speaking, her doting mother, Shuang, knocks on her bedroom door. Ashima sighs at the skylight, which reveals a pink sky. Ashima makes a gesture by pointing her index finger at the screen, saying, “Excuse me for one moment.” Ashima opens the bedroom door to see her mother with the same face of nirvana. Shuang is holding a plate of food and a flask of pure, iced water. On the right side of the plate, Ashima sees a salad with sunflower seeds, olives, sliced apples, cucumbers, tomatoes, and salad dressing. On the left side of the plate, she sees salted and buttered rice, scampi, cheese steak, and an oatcake. The plate levitates from Shuang’s hands and follows Ashima one step backwards into her bedroom.

“Thank you, “Ashima puts an olive in her mouth and says, “You’ve outdone yourself. Burning the midnight oil as usual. I’ll cook tomorrow. Take a rest.”

4:00 P.M.

Ashima (a blonde with long dreadlocks and exfoliated skin) raises her right hand, and a yellow cab stops in front of her. It’s the same hackie that she saw a month ago. The bloke nervously removes his maroon sunglasses and is amazed by her dreadlocks and dyed hair. Embarrassed, she cracks a smile and opens the side door to the backseat. She hears neoclassical music playing from the radio, enters the cab, and shuts the door. Inexperienced at talking to attractive men, in a timid voice, she greets him.

“Hello,” Ashima says.

The bloke says, “Good afternoon, mam. How was your weekend?”

Ashima responds with a smile, “Absolutely wonderful. All weekend, I kept thinking about a charming man. I’m one word shy from love.”

The bloke then says, “I wonder who that could be. Where are you off to.”

She asks, “Do you know where Bad Marki’s is?”

4:32 P.M.

A suicidal pigeon is in the street as the cab car speeds by. Ashima, an animal lover tells the hackie to stop the car. The hackie refuses to listen as his loud music plays on the radio. Escaping death, the cab runs over part of the pigeon’s tail. The lucky pigeon speeds in the air hovering, flutters it’s wings. Two feathers from the pigeon’s tail wander the windy sky.

After reluctantly paying the hackie, Ashima opens the side door, and exits the cab. She’s fearless as a peacock spider speeds pass her on the sidewalk. Down a darksome alley, few apparitions of deinotheriums are visible wandering banyan trees on a bayou. Some apparitions wander through the banyan trees and the outside wall of “Bad Marki’s” chophouse. Several prostitutes around the corner of the street stare at a disturbing event. Ashima forms a perfidious smile, rubbernecking at an elderly man wailing with a lacerated forehead.

Approximately 10, loquacious, pro-choice protesters indulge in stoning the defenceless, drowsy man. Half of the disgraceful windbags panic; they run away when they witness the apparitions of deinotheriums wandering their direction. The elderly pro-life protester is trapped between a black dumpster and a restaurant wall. As blood from the elderly man’s face continues to leak to the pavement, one truculent, pro abortion protester wallops the elderly man in the forehead with a rock, two measly times. After a militant police officer presses a red button on his watch, 9 pro abortion protesters are shocked on concrete blocks they run on. The pro abortion protesters fall on the ground, paralysed. Ashima glances behind her at a speeding limousine which glows in the dark to the color green. Seven, golden, spiky buttresses have intersecting arches, and under each arch is a humongous door. With the aroma of fresh frangipanis, she crosses a bridge made of igneous rock and covered with bougainvillea. The bridge arches over 8 inches of cold water. She enters the “Bad Marki’s” frou-frou chophouse. The elderly man is dragged down the alley of banyan trees, where it would be a mystery to discover his body.

4:35 P.M.

A brunette waitress has a diamond-encrusted tiara and a Roman Goddess ponytail with braids encircling her noggin. Setting an intimidating presence, the waitress has an immaculate, white, toga dress. She ushers Ashima to her rosewood table. Ashima looks at the waitresses face and foresees the waitress dead. In Ashima’s vision, the waitress is in a supine position with a bloody toga dress in a dumbwaiter. Oddly, there’s blood splattered on a smoke detector across from her, down the hall.

Awkwardly, in great sadness, Ashima stares at the waitress, walking away. In the middle of the table, there’s a transparent, burgundy jar of pignuts. The pignuts surround 6, red roses, which are tied in a red, grosgrain ribbon. Around the ribbon, there are three, white, beaded necklaces wrapped around. Seven, rambunctious children run pass. A solo artist is singing while playing the cello extemporaneously; children are gambolling the area, cheering for the female performer. The performer is wearing a sequinned, red, wrap dress and black, ankle boots. Suddenly, the chophouse isn’t the best in town.

Looking familiar to Ashima, an anonymous vagrant in her mid-twenties glances at few happy customer’s demoralising smiles, in front of Ashima from a table. Just from the hobo’s revolting odor, the hobo abates her bliss. The hobo has (tousled, blond hair, a diamond-encrusted chakana pendant, a discolored, black, button-down shirt, and blue jeans) no meal on her table, and gets glared at when she’s caught glancing at Ashima. While Ashima looks at the Bad Marki’s menu, the hobo puts on wireless earphones. Ignoring the rambunctious children, the hobo watches a movie on a golden, glow in the dark television above the table. The television has a screen on both sides.

A obsequious waiter speaks with a sonorous voice, “Hello. My name is Trey and I will be your server tonight. Are you ready to order?”

Before responding, Ashima has a disturbing vision of a squealing Trey with a gash across his forehead and being crushed in the scrotum with a socket wrench by a dark figure, “I’ll have a glass of water with ice and a sliced lemon on top. Give me a minute to think about my meal. Someone else should be coming along.”

Two plates of hors d’oeuvres and iced water with a lemon on the top magically rises through the table on each side. Ashima checks the time on her cell phone, and the time changes to 4:36 P.M. When she looks at the television screen from the hobo’s area, there’s breaking news that interrupts the movie. The waiter walks away from the table as the solo artist gets done singing. Ashima sees two people get on the stage. They mention their names, but doesn’t hear a sound coming from their mouth. One woman sings playing the violin while a man plays the drums.

An anchorwoman (looking as old as Methuselah) in a black business suit speaks as subtitles appear on the screen, saying, “Good morning. Welcome to ‘Bad Marki’s Breaking News.’ I’m Pam Honer and today’s story is unbelievable. Two months ago, a Chicagoan by the name of Dīafair attempted suicide by stabbing himself in the heart and slitting his throat. His body was found on top of his car in a vegetative state in his garage, which is where over one thousand pounds of uranium ore minerals were found. While investigators think that the crime scene may have evidence of an attempted murder, they weren’t able verify this. There was no DNA proof from anyone else at the crime scene. Dīafair’s mother has seen her son’s failed suicide attempts many times in the past. On one morning, when she noticed that her son was showing signs of getting impulsive over the phone, ending the phone call after trying to tell him that she loves him, she went into mother mode. Dīafair’s mother instinctively called the hospital, and he miraculously survived the attempted suicide. After Dīafair’s body was rushed to the hospital two hours after slitting.”

Ashima puts on wireless earphones and hears the old hag sounding like a humble worshipper of a higher power, “Dīafair is a survivor with a loving mother. He is diagnosed with sleeping corpse syndrome after repeatedly mentioning his brain isn’t functioning. He’s mentioned that he feels no heart beat and has immortality. Dīafair is here live to share his thoughts.”

The camera cuts to a Chicago park. With forlorn eyes, Dīafair stares directly at the camera. Dīafair has on a black hooded sweatshirt made out of jean material. Attached to the bottom of his drawstrings are silver, inverted crosses on both sides. Also, he has a black, leather, studded belt, black jeans, and black, cowboy boots.

Then, the interviewer, Pam listens to a harelipped Dīafair as if though he has a sound mind, “I’m dead. I’ve died seven times. My first death experience was when I died by an aneurism at age seven. There’s no heaven. There’s no hell. I thought I was a priggish God, but now look at me. Foresee the havoc after defleshing my heart.”

Dīafair sticks out his transparent tongue (with steel spiderweb designs inside) as Pam makes an inquiry, “What advice would you give everyone hearing your story?”

A tetchy Dīafair responds as many viewers attempt to live vicariously through his stress, “Nobody is hearing my story. I feel flames and hear haunting voices. I am a lyrical profiteer. My voice sounds undeniably and utterly reprehensible. I can’t ever be seen again. My dreams are gone. My doubtless mind should’ve doubted long ago, and it would’ve saved me from the embarrassment of performing at concerts. The crowd booed and threw objects, but stupid me told the band to keep performing. I don’t know why they kept booking us.”

What Shanta said wasn’t a furphy, but a fact. Ashima removes her earphones reflecting on the joke Shanta made earlier. Her appetite is spoiled, but the stomach of the hobo growls. The lugubrious music leaves her frowning. Gleeful children frown when they glance at her facial expression. She calls Shanta on her cell phone and the call goes to voicemail.

She speaks, “Hello. This is Ashima. That cruel joke you made earlier about a guy slitting his throat in his garage was real. Call me back.”

45 Minutes Later

Introspecting about why her date ditched her, a saddened Ashima is at her table alone with a belly full of nosh. Looking down at the bread crumbs, salad dressing, and leftover rice pilaf, in deathlike silence, she has a tummy ache. On the parallel side of the table is a mouthwatering meal on a plate. The plate on the parallel side has three chicken wings, three steaks, two egg rolls, two roasted potatoes with hollandāise sauce, mulligatawny soup, a haggis, a habanero pepper, a quesadilla, and an organic, mirabelle plum. A tear trickles down her left cheek.

From another table, the hobo looks at her at eye-level. Just when it couldn’t get worse, the hobo removes her earphones to walk toward her. Although Prisha’s mouth is closed, Ashima can smell Prisha’s breath. A more distinctly repugnant smell surrounds the restaurant when she stretches her arms up. Children look her direction in deep disgust.

With a husky voice, a famished, low-spirited hobo supplicates Ashima for food, “Hello. It looks like you need a little help eating that meal. I have no change and am starving. If nobody is going to eat that meal, may I please eat it?”

After recognising the hobo as her high school bully, Ashima has a flashback the hobo’s voice, “I’d lower my tone if I were you!”

Ashima exits her traumatic flashback. She now has a timid look as she faces her high school bully. Ashima then shakes in rage as the hobo looks confused. Then, Ashima calms her nerves and remains silent. She lowers her head as the saddened hobo watches.

The hobo says, “Did I say something wrong?”

“Not today. I’m waiting on a date,” Ashima replies, inadvertently shredding tears from her eyes.

The hobo says, “You’ve been ditched. You aren’t going to eat that food, are you?”

With a tinge of anger, Ashima responds, “Bon appétit.”

“Thank you,” the hobo says.

Like a ravenous Bedouin, the shocked hobo sits down to consume the exquisite meal on the plate, but gets questioned, “What’s your name?”

Peculiarly talking herself into hyperventilation, Prisha responds with trauma, “Prisha. I wouldn’t mind hearing yours either.”

She responds, “Call me Ashima and we’re fine.”

Prisha nods her head vertically, “I saw you look shocked at the television screen. It’s really sad how life goes. I used to know Dīafair as a teenager. I was 16. He was the quiet kid hiding peacocks in a large black bag as a loud radio played. No one could hear the peacocks’ call for help. He butchered the peacocks with an axe on a farm. He caught me peeking at him behind a thick tree trunk. I’m sure he butchered more.”

Making a perfidious smile, a plainspoken Ashima gulps down spit from hearing how Dīafair butchered peacocks. As an animal lover and vegetarian, Ashima is disgusted with Dīafair. Ashima wonders if Dīafair ever spoken to her. She has vibes that Prisha is a mealy-mouthed person.

Ashima sneers at Prisha, “This Dīafair guy sounds like a loose cannon. Cut to the chase already. Has he ever spoken to you. Did he put a gas mask to next to all of his victims in the crime scenes? How did you…”

Still talking rapidly, Prisha interrupts, “Become poor? My mother was a drug lord in Guatemala worth over a billion dollars. I remember looking out the window to see helicopters and hundreds of police cars. Next thing I know, they ransacked the place and arrested my mom. They took me on a helicopter ride here. And no. He didn’t prefer masks. That’s all I know about him. Dīafair never spoke to me. He stared at me. I noticed him staring at all the women. He would say few words to men in a soft voice.”

A skeptical Ashima picks marijuana from inside her hair to smoke it and sarcastically says, “Nothing like Doubt Town. You seem to have a huge chip on your shoulder. My mother is a infamous con artist.”

Perspiration forms on Prisha’s forehead, she slightly shakes, and her speech speeds up, “No, really. There was a time I could afford anything I want as a teenager. I always saved my mazuma.”

Ashima questions Prisha, “Mazuma?”

Prisha responds with an unforgettable stare that can be an urge to steal Ashima’s money, “You know. Spondulics. Moolah. Cash. I always saved my cash, but my mother got arrested. I made a bad investment on mazuma with drugs. I never knew my mother.”

Ashamed of Prisha, Ashima lowers her head, saying, “That’s a really bad investment. I have no pity for you.”

Prisha talks slower and makes a spiteful remark toward the dirtbag, “I’m obviously aware of that now…”

Rising from her seat, Ashima takes a chicken wing from Prisha’s plate and says, “Lend me your ear. You’re beating a dead horse. Enjoy your night.”

Irritated from Prisha, Ashima walks far back, pass a natatorium, making her way to the women’s washroom. While Prisha glances at the obstreperous children, two stout men in their mid-thirties approach her. Prisha is nervous and speechless. Nobu, one masculine man (with black braids and a black business suit) moves a chair beside her on the left side. Nobu then sits down in a position opposite of what the chair is use for. The other man (José) has a silk, black top hat, a toothpick between his lips, and a black business suit. He stands behind Prisha with both of his arms on her stiff shoulders.

“Cough up the money,” a horrid Nobu calmly says.

An irksome José angrily says, “All of it. Hypothetically speaking, you’re a bitch.”

Before noticing a loud groan as Nobu twists Emily’s arm backwards, Ashima walks out of the women’s bathroom while talking on her cell phone, “I know you were joking about earlier, but what I’m saying. … I’ll call you back.”

“Leave her alone,” Ashima yells as if Nobu and José burnt Prisha’s raiment.

After levitating a wine glass, Ashima uses her power to whack the glass against the table. The table lurches forward; luscious glass of effervescent wine breaks and crimson liquid spills on a black, shaggy carpet. Ashima’s face is as brave as if she has two obedient black bears beside her on a leash. The terrified violinist and drummer stop performing as everyone stare in awe. Ashima’s foul threat causes Nobu and José to run away from the scene. Children stare in shock. Glass is all over the table and milk-white, shaggy carpet.

The waiter returns to calmly say, “I’m not paying for this.”

Ashima looks directly at Prisha and says, “We got off on the wrong foot. You can stay at my place.”

Still, everyone else in the chophouse are watching Ashima and Prisha. Prisha looks as if though it’s a superfluous offer. She wonders why Ashima would want to have Prisha living with her. The overwhelming news causes Prisha irregular breaths. Prisha is elated.

Ashima says, “Chop-chop. I’m changing my mind in five… four… three…”

An astounded Prisha smiles, rises up, and hugs her new friend, stammering, “I’m truly grateful.”

“First impressions matter,” Ashima says while pulling out and opening up a small box of breath mints.

Ashima glances across from the violinist and drummer. There’s a mangled infant confined in a vending machine and anonymous adults don’t notice. She recently scared off two goons, so she can’t possibly be hallucinating. The utter sight of the vending machine makes her sick. She covers her mouth and vomits in a trash can.

Shuang’s House

It’s 7:03 P.M.. Prisha cherishes the cool temperature from the air conditioner as if though she was going to be a victim of hyperthermia. Prisha then darts her head around the picturesque living room. She sees Athaliah and fearfully hesitates to move. The utter sight of the kitten makes her move backwards.

Ashima asks, “Cat got your tongue? You were talking earlier.”

Prisha focuses on Athaliah and says, “I’m allergic to cats.”

As Prisha has a hangdog expression, Ashima speaks, “If you don’t like Athaliah, I don’t like you. I’m not getting rid of my kitten for you. You’re barking up the wrong tree if you plan on staying here. I’m not dealing with any hissy fits.”

“I love cats,” Prisha politely responds.

“Now, that’s what I love to hear. I’m just pulling your leg. Take it with a grain of salt.”

Prisha follows Ashima into the kitchen and she’s overwhelmed, especially after seeing Shuang. Prisha has a flashback of when she was 17-years-old stealing garlic bread from a bakery display rack with 6 shelves. A male cashier in his mid-twenties chases her in the rain as a crowd of laugh. The cashier follows her across a street and grabs her right hand. She nearly falls and the male holds her with tears running down her cheeks. The cashier forces her into a nearby eyesore of an apartment building in the hallway, where he legally chops off her right hand for stealing.

Over twenty, sadistic people watch Prisha squeal from the intense pain as blood squirts from her wrist, onto her blue, sublime maxi dress. On the right side of the bottom of the dress, there’s the design of the face of a woman peering into a mirror in a dark room. The woman has black, wet, long, curly hair, and black eyeshadow seeing a distorted face in the mirror. Out of all of the people watching, Shuang (in a black, silk, tunic dress embellished with red rose petals and pink crystals and black flip-flops made of alligator skin) walks toward Prisha. Everyone turns silent. Shuang firmly holds Prisha’s arm as Prisha glances at a tied white ribbon on both of Shuang’s wrists.

Prisha frowns at Shuang’s face, but Shuang closes her eyes. Shuang places Prisha’s bloody hand back to her chopped off hand. Immediately, Prisha’s hand attaches to her arm and heals. In great disbelief, Prisha moves her right hand as everyone watches in awe. Shuang smiles as Prisha runs out of the house.

Prisha’s awkward flashback ends as Ashima smirks in her face. The aroma of baked, chocolate cookies wafts from the kitchen. The anxiety of Ashima being a possible serial killer haunts her. It’s predictable for a stranger to lure Prisha into a home and kill her, but it’s a worthwhile chance she’s willing to take. Unbelievably, Ashima is giving her a place to stay. It could just be a cruel prank.

“It’s a small world,” Ashima says, glancing at Athaliah, then at her mother.

Under a dull, kitchen light, Ashima says, “Mom. Prisha is my friend. She has no parents…”

“We’ve met. Fine,” a pie-eyed Shuang interrupts her daughter, and crosses her arms, saying, “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

An embarrassed Ashima says, “Gosh, mom! How much did you drink?”

“Watch your mouth! You and your girlfriend can do whatever. Just let me sleep,” her mother says and flicks off the light switch.

Prisha is stoked, forming a believable smile as if Christmas comes every day. The first thing she thinks about is what room she’ll sleep in. The second thing she thinks about is how long she’ll live with Ashima. Ashima has the same look that she did when she first saw Prisha. They’re surprised Shuang doesn’t think the kitten is incapacitated.

A startled Shuang jumps up when she sees her black kitten, then says, “Athaliah scared the crud out of me. What’s wrong with this world?”

Prisha says, “It beats me.”

“You have to use your loaf,” Ashima says to Prisha, then points her finger at her mother, saying, “Exhibit A.”

“Pipe down! Exhibit B. My levelheaded daughter,” Shuang says, pointing at her daughter, who metaphorically shrinks into rebirth.

Prisha notices that Ashima’s mother has baggy eyes. Shuang enters her bedroom as her farouche kitten heads into Ashima’s room. Shuang shuts her bedroom door. Prisha walks to the beige chaise longue in the living room and sits down. Ashima sits on the white, marble countertop and the dull light turns bright. As the air conditioner behind Prisha relaxes her, Ashima stares.

“Why did you do this for me,” a frantic Prisha asks.

Ashima says, “I’d lower my tone if I were you!”

Shuang yells, “Lower it fucking down!”

Finally remembering Ashima at 13-years-old, Prisha listens to Ashima speak, “I felt bad. I’m making up for all the bad things I’ve done. What happened to your father?”

With a sad reaction on her face, Prisha hyperventilates from talking too fast, saying, “I’m sorry. I’ve done bad things. You’re not a bad person at all. This chakana pendant is the last thing my father gave to me before he allegedly shot himself in the head. I was 10 when he died.”

Relating to what her new friend says, immediately, Ashima says, “Same.”

7:26 P.M.

Outside in a dark alley, Dīafair is (wearing a black cloak, black jeans, and black boots) resting in a prone position. He is in front of a wheelchair on the disgusting, roach-infested ground. As if a hacksaw is lodged into his right tibia, he screams for help several times. Eventually, a curious greybeard (wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt with black drawstrings and wrinkled, blue jeans) walks with a silver, knobbly walking stick nearby. Peering through the darkness, the greybeard sees Dīafair on the ground, writhing in intense pain.

The corpulent greybeard refuses to walk in the alley and says, “I’m calling the hospital.”

Dīafair engages in a preliminary talk to eventually murder, “I was robbed! I can’t feel my leg!”

The vigilant greybeard dials the number to the hospital as he talks to Dīafair, “I can’t risk anything in this neighborhood. I’m staying right here.”

Dīafair struggles to crawl as the greybeard talks on the phone, “Hello. I would like to report a robbery…”

The petrified greybeard pauses his speech while keeping meticulous attention on Dīafair. A fearsome Dīafair looms through the darkness (with his hands in rubber, white gloves) aiming a handy gun at the moronic greybeard’s chest. The gun is the color of beautiful oxblood. He shoots the decrepit greybeard in the pelvis before forcefully dragging him into the darkness. A trail of blood leads to the revolting sight, which physically feels like an hour-long, torturous event.

Dīafair is in a jovial mood as he glances at a black cat on a windowsill. Dīafair shoots the greybeard in the left patella. Dīafair positions his gun into his right, back pocket with a lust for sadism. As the greybeard suffers involuntary body movements, Dīafair enjoyably thrashes him with a knout. Approximately 12 indelible welts are on his selected victim’s face; his victim moans profusely from the irrational punishment. Proceeding with the nefarious act of this gratuitous murder, Dīafair gives his defenceless victim 45 welts on the back.

4 Days Later

Prisha says, “I can’t see myself getting mad enough to punch someone in the face. It might hurt the person.”

Surprised at Prisha’s comment, Ashima says, “That’s the point. Did your soft side come from your mother? Pretend this punching bag is the bill collector and punch him in the face.”

From the computer screen, Shanta makes a waggish remark in a dark background, “The bill collector is my boyfriend!”

Continuously, a callow Prisha punches the silver, impregnable punching bag with all her might. Prisha screams and Shanta smiles. Striking the punching bag assuages her depression. Prisha stops punching when she hears the basement door open. Footsteps run down the mud brick stairs before the laptop eerily judders. It’s the excursionist. It’s an upbeat Shanta standing on the bottom step. After making a confused look, the moment entices Ashima to hug her online friend.

“How did you find my house? I thought you lost your passport,” a stoked Ashima says.

After making a laughable face as if Ireland wishes to extradite herself, Shanta chuckles, saying, “Presto! We finally meet. I used your IP address.”

A puzzled Ashima’s jaw drops, then she asks, “What a surprise! What did you do to my mother?”

An orgulous Shanta giggles, saying, “I thought you’d be happy to see me. Your mother was more than friendly. I helped her bake cookies earlier. She’s outside checking the mail. Shuang knows how close we are.”

“Prisha nervously glance at the exit, stammering, “I don’t think I should be here anymore.”

Ashima turns her head to Prisha, saying, “You’re staying with us.”

Shanta forms a malicious smile and gives a baleful stare at Prisha. She then gingerly draws out a handgun, and aims it to Prisha’s face. Cringing away from Shanta, a discombobulated Prisha screams as if she has a baby with shoulder dystocia. Her frightened face looks as if she witnessed someone excavate her mother’s grave sight. While convulsively sobbing, she struggles not to blink. Prisha suffers lightheadedness.

Prisha begs for her life, “Please, don’t kill me!”

Ashima walks behind Prisha and slaps her on the buttocks, saying, “I always loved your big ass. You want to trade? If you trade me your ass, I won’t let my girlfriend kill you.”

In vexation, Prisha stammers from the ghastly event, “You all are freaks!”

Ashima and Shanta laughs. Frolicking around like snot-nosed kids, Shanta bites the edible gun and rolls on a pool table, mocking Prisha. Ashima’s legs become weak from the hilarity, and she balances herself by holding onto the pool table. Prisha stares at the mockery with an unforgiving grin. As if she could put a restraining order against the Gods, Prisha walks upstairs to the exit.

“I beg your pardon! Be careful who you know! You can stay over,” yells Ashima.

A stylish Shanta has a backwards, black baseball cap with a black squatchee and, black, leather, visor brim. There’s interconnected triangular-shaped panels. The panels are black leather followed by authentic diamonds inside rubber material, which is covered with black fishnet. The snap buckle is a magnet. Between the layers of triangular-shaped panels and the polyester material on the inside of the baseball cap, there’s cotton.

Shanta has short, straight, orange hair with pink earphones attached to her ears. She has a peach spaghetti strap, turquoise bell-bottom jeans with skull designs, and pink tennis shoes. Then, she sits on a wooden stool. From her baby pink, wool purse, she takes out a charger and charging her cell phone without plugging it into an outlet. The charger has 98 percent battery life and her cell phone has 36 percent battery life. She then plugs her charger into a nearby outlet and the charger’s battery life turns to 99 percent. On Shanta’s cell phone, it says it’s 2:30 P.M..

She glances at a live, broadcasted documentary show with many bleep sounds in it. The show is about the four “Doubt Town Prisons.” In the “West Doubt Town Prison,” starving inmates are nearly suffocated repeatedly in a pool four 24 hours a day. Resulting in many dead inmates, victims have their hands and legs tied together while security officers force them into the water for approximately 5 minutes. Once the inmates get air, they have 45 seconds to rest.

Shanta exits the app screen as Ashima asks, “What’s that you’re looking at on your phone? More IP addresses?”

Shanta immediately stops laughing, saying, “Cut the crap! We scared her good. I did my damnedest pulling off that act.”

“It was my idea,” Ashima replies as Shanta twirls with her black chignon.

A velocipede is in the dark corner of the wall where the face of an eidolon (named Pam) trudges, rubbing on the right handle. Pam is wearing a butterfly hennin. With nocturnal vision, Ashima can see a crying baby behind Pam, trapped inside of a brown crate. Shanta stares in awe as Pam’s face disappears, however, her bare feet are visible. Her feet walks to the pool table, which is when the eidolon fully disappears. The eidolon reappears sitting on the pool table with a mi-parti dress. The sumptuous mi-parti dress is alabaster on the left side with baby pink and alabaster stripes on the right side.

It’s 2:33 P.M.. Athaliah is sitting a foot away from a litter box. Prisha walks upstairs into the kitchen, and notices Athaliah walking away from the familiar smell of feces. When Prisha looks down, she realizes there’s a chopped, bloody index finger from a right hand in the litter box. She makes a shrieking scream.

A concerned Shuang rushes into the kitchen asking, “Can you keep it down?!”

A nervously shaking Prisha points at the bloody finger with watery eyes. Shuang’s eyes widen, for a couple of seconds, then she darts her head to the sight of the balcony. Representing an ominous presence, a crow is sitting on the rectangular, wooden table, staring at Shuang. Prisha exits the kitchen to look at the balcony. The crow flies to the firmaments.

Shuang says, “We’re being watched.”

With adrenaline pumping, Ashima races Shanta up the stairs to the living room. The doorbell rings. Ashima and Shanta are confused. Shuang speaks to Ashima, “Wait here.” With a motherly instinct, Shuang walks to the front door and looks in the peephole. She sees cumulonimbus clouds producing hail. On the door steps, there are 4 rows of 8, lit votive candles being blown out by a gust of wind. When she opens the door, there’s a putrid smell. Magically, there’s the right leg of a headless, eviscerated victim tied to a black handrail. The left side of his torso is burnt. She screams and slams the door shut.

Ashima rushes to look down the hall and her mother walks back. “I told you to stay where you are!” “Is everything okay,” Ashima asks. She receives no response, seeing from her peripheral vision. Pam is in a black robe standing in front of a hearth where an infant whines. A maddened Pam holds a stake in the air with both hands, and forcefully lunges it downward. The vision fades away and Ashima sees the television where the hearth originally was. Prisha then glares at Shanta as if the index finger in the litter box is a prank. Prisha’s shocked face doesn’t change.

At 3:33 P.M., the same crow lands on the edge of a rooftop. As disembodied voices importune Dīafair to kill the crow, he patiently watches his prey. He stomps on her as if though she can be reduced to powdered gelatin. Blood squirts from her body, and he gloats over her. After touching the blood, he smears it on his face. An omnivorous Dīafair picks up the mawkish crow, and swallows it without biting. After a recent dinner of eating chicken, the crow tastes like a slimy, maggoty amphibian.

Dīafair has a flashback of a fortuitous event. At the age of 6, he had an unattractive unibrow and an authentic, black, handwoven, hooded djellaba. He was at the once ungoverned land of “Doubt Left Slums.” In “Doubt Left Slums Park,” an indefatigable Dīafair chases Aniya with a black screwdriver. Aniya’s a scrawny, 7-year-old girl on a bluish green bike with a silver, leather knapsack strapped to her back. The numskull is pedalling extremely fast, so Dīafair runs across a hill as a shortcut. He then kicks the bike over, which causes her a hard landing in the grass.

Before whining, a dazed Aniya sees blood oozing down her right knee and wrist. From writhing in agony, blood smears on her white crew neck t-shirt onto her blue jeans. Treating her like a dedicated slob, Dīafair silences her with indelible stab wounds from a crimson bradawl. After making one felicitous attempt, he lunges the screwdriver into her face 29 times. Aniya’s cheekbones are removed from her mangled face with 3 inch wide cut marks intersecting at the jugular. With his hands, he aggressively gouges out her gorgeous, copper eyes. By countlessly stabbing her left hand, it detaches palmer aponeurosis. He aggressively does the same thing to the right hand, staring at her blood like it’s red henna.

Deliberately, Dīafair gloats over her deceased body. As if though there’s the slightest sign of her life, he squats down to stare at her closed eyelids. It’s like a horrible experiment. Dīafair stabs Aniya’s right shoulder blade with the bradawl. Until the shoulder blade isn’t a part of her, he passionately stabs it.

The thrilling flashback ends. From his right pocket, he takes out a crumbled guide book to Ireland called “Ireland World” by Shanta Spells. Even when he skims through the voluminous writings, it appeals to him. Quickly, he notices that Shanta isn’t fluent in tautology. Dīafair sees the pages burn. The guide book feels like steaming hot brew at 185 degrees for 3 minutes. He groans from the pain. Then, he removes his engagement ring, steps on the edge of the roof, and drops it.

4:01 P.M.

Ashima is sitting in the back of a pickup truck, which has the designs of textured mahogany. She gropes pass hundreds of authentic crystals in Shanta’s baby pink purse. Out of the purse, she takes a doll (with long, curly, black hair) staring at her with enormous ocean blue eyes. The doll has a black shawl wrapped around a black tank top, with a purple miniskirt, and black heels. As Ashima smiles, Prisha looks through the back window as if Ashima’s holding a frivolous doll. To Prisha, the doll appears to be impervious to logic. Ashima then glances at Shanta (the driver) with a smirk. Shanta looks back, but Prisha advises her to focus on the road.

“Leave my doll alone,” Shanta takes a cigarette from her mouth, sarcastically screaming.

Wisps of smoke from Shanta’s cigarette rushes to the back of the pickup truck as Ashima asks Shanta, “What’s your doll’s name?”

Shanta says, “Petunia! She used to have a boyfriend named Ashmaam. That skinflint braggart was an independent, male witch, (working at two jobs). He was the assistant manager at a tanning salon and hypnotherapist, but I lost him a year ago.”

“Oh, no! Men can be pigs. Petunia is a beautiful name,” Ashima says to Shanta, then speaks to Petunia, “Hello, Petunia.”

While speaking in an ethereal voice, Petunia’s mouth moves and eyes blink like a human, “Hello.”

A wide awake Prisha turns around overhearing the conversation between Ashima and Petunia. It all makes sense now. Ashima is a daayan. Prisha gets freakishly nervous and wants to jump out of the car. She realises that the car is going approximately 55 miles per hour on a narrow road. The car is on the side of a mountain.

“Well done. What’s on your mind,” Ashima sarcastically asks.

Petunia speaks, “Dīafair is watching you.”

Ashima mumbles, “Smart aleck.”

With widened eyes, Ashima suffers from unfeigned nervousness, dropping the doll. When Ashima darts her head behind her with an eerie glance, Prisha is a frightened believer of the supernatural. Ashima looks to the left side of the road, seeing gorgeous women in sumptuous, Minoan dresses. Two teenage boys are catcalling her as she holds a white sign with red letters that reads, “Right Turn to West Doubt Town Beach.” Above the harassed woman, there’s a marquee that reads, “West Doubt Town Beach.” As Prisha drives into the “West Doubt Town Beach” parking lot and finds a parking spot, Ashima puts Petunia back in Shanta’s purse.

Prisha admits, “I’ve never been on Mount Fable before.” I heard many stories about it.”

Shanta says, “We’ll contact you after you get off the ride.”

Prisha thinks about how naive she was to live with Ashima and says, “I don’t have a cell phone. I’ll just meet up with you two here, in the same spot.”

Creepily, Shanta smiles and softly says, “That’s not how things work around here.”

Startling Shanta, an excited Prisha screams, opening the side door. After giving an uncomfortable look to Ashima, Prisha rushes to the beach to dive in the ocean wearing a blue bra and blue swimming trunks. Hundreds of black pyramids are in the background of the ocean, which is symmetrical to golden pyramids on the far, right side and milk-white pyramids on the far, left side. Shanta smiles at Ashima. Ashima hops off the back of the pickup truck. Publicly displaying an antiquated love, as if Shanta finished enumerating her every accomplishment, Ashima holds the back of Shanta’s neck, passionately kissing her.

At a far distance, an abandoned white cat wanders the beach. Ashima and Shanta stare at a panting Prisha running out of the cold ocean, half-naked. Ashima’s attention is stolen when the cat runs to her. She gently pats the cat on the head and back.

Ashima speaks to the abandoned cat, “Aaaawww! You’re adorable. I want to keep you.”

Her girlfriend says, “You have a cat already.”

With watery eyes, Ashima argues, “But Rubie doesn’t want to be alone.”

Rubie jumps into Ashima’s arms, purring in her right ear, and licking her right cheek. Ashima can’t resist Rubie’s affection. She notices Rubie’s eyes turn black and hair raise up at a 90 degree angle. Like a vampire, Rubie bites Ashima on the left side of the neck. Ashima screams and throws Rubie into the air 6 feet away. After Ashima rubs on her wound, Rubie shows her fangs and runs away from the scene.

Prisha runs toward the “Mount Fable” rollercoaster, 5 miles east of the “West Doubt Doubt Town Beach.”

As if Shanta is standing right beside her, Prisha hears hears her voice, “Don’t run.”

Walking the rest of the way to “Mount Fable,” Prisha turns miserable. Once she sees a line of thrill seekers in the car barn, her face grows in fear. “Mount Fable” has a car barn with holograms of several creepy spirits in Minoan clothing, vanishing around the area. One hologram is (Ophelia) an elderly lady with a grotesque face, burnt, short hair, and a burnt left arm. Another hologram is (Kanishia) a cute, brown puppy, often running, jumping, and barking. The final hologram (Jester) loiters the area. Jester is a milquetoast, teenage boy hiding a sword behind his back.

Each spirit scares Prisha, but she awaits to experience the front of the rollercoaster. She rushes to sit in the tarantula, buckling her seatbelt, and lowering her black shoulder harness. Already, she has a death grip on the shoulder harness. The seat beside her is empty. At 490 feet in the air, the rollercoaster starts at a rapid, forward speed. Before heading underground, the ride prepares the thrill seekers for a 510 foot free fall to the left side at a 45 degree angle. Horizontally, the ride speeds clockwise 6 times while under an underground cave, then speeds pass 13 interlocking loops. Just when Prisha thinks the ride is over, there is a lift hill at 620 feet on where she regrets looking down at the ground to see nearly one-fourth of “West Doubt Town Beach.”

Prisha is exhausted. A dizzy Prisha feels like an autistic skateboarder being shocked by a stun gun, then 200 pounds of deadweight falls on her. Somehow, she keeps her equilibrium. Ashima and Shanta are nowhere in sight. Based off of her worried face, Prisha regrets knowing them.

Like unrequited love, Prisha hears Shanta’s voice as she darts her head behind herself, “Keep walking straight.”

Darting her head around her surroundings, a frightened Prisha gets scared, hearing Ashima’s angelic voice, “Don’t be scared. We’re here to help you.”

Behind Ashima, there’s five strangers on both sides of a volleyball net playing volleyball. Prisha walks straight ahead until she sees Ashima building a sand castle with her bare hands. After the tiring walk, Prisha faints on her time-consuming creation. A frustrated Ashima screams with grin, then power walks to the nearest porta-potty. When she finds the blue porta-potty, she shut the door behind her, screaming 60 seconds later.

Ashima rushes out the porta-potty and Prisha, (who is resting beside a pansy on the hot sand) asks, “Did you wash your hands?”

“Sarcastically, Ashima says, “I wonder why you were screaming Ashima! That’s right. I had another miscarriage! Would you like me to dump my dirty hands in the ocean?”

“Great. My friend had a dead baby by the man who ditched her at Bad Marki’s. Go ahead. That’s the Holiest water on the planet. You’re so not touching me after this.” Shanta says.

As Ashima runs into the ocean, Shanta listens to Prisha stammer, “I used to have a cat just like your best friend does. Her name was Wavy. I was ten with the house to myself. I remember sneaking in the refrigerator to get drunk. I returned to the living room to watch T.V., only to see disgusting evidence on a black nightstand. I then saw a bloody Christmas card with Wavy’s teeth beside it.”

Shanta tries to relax Prisha with words, “Chill. I fancy you have too many horrible stories to enjoy a great moment. I know Mount Fable shook you up a bit. It shook me up when I first rode it.”

Prisha gives her a look of agreement and stammers, “Just one question. If you’re dating Ashima, how did she get a dead fetus?”

Prisha is absolutely shocked as Shanta explains Ashima’s condition, “It’s a hugger-mugger. Ashima has a rare condition where she gives birth to children without sexual intercourse. Like every six months, she produces a new fetus. The next one could be a crying baby. She’s had this condition since she was seven-years-old. I’ve agreed to support her.”

Prisha’s mind is full of questions as she stammers to say, “I have so many questions now.”

Shanta says, “My answers are exactitude. I have time.”

A worried Prisha rapidly speaks, “How are you sure if that’s really a condition? How are you still with her after all of this time? Did you know that Ashima can speak to dolls?”

Shanta laughs and sarcastically says, “Slow down. You don’t need the whole megillah. I have stick-to-itiveness. Ashima and I have a gruelling relationship. What was once a pipe dream turned to reality when I met her. Ashima is with me because I’ve learned to accept her integrity. With great honour, I say that I avoid hullabaloos about our relationship at all costs. We can both speak to dolls. I have the power to revive the dead.”

“You won’t avoid this hullabaloo. Tell me the fuckin’ truth already,” Prisha says.

The scintillating sun disappears and Shanta’s powers invite a sullen sky as she angrily admits, “Someone made sexual advances on Ashima and had sex with her against her will.”

1 Hour Later

In a stranger’s kitchen, a petite, 34-year-old woman named Blessica has burgundy earphones on. Dīafair (wearing a black, wool frock coat) makes an astonishing effort to methodically walk in the living room undetected. He watches the busty nincompoop cook french fries in a silver, metal pan. As if though Blessica is a houri, Dīafair ogles at her body. Dīafair stares at Blessica’s burgundy, laced panty under her black pantyhose. He looks upward to Blessica’s burgundy, laced bra under a long-sleeved fishnet shirt. Right on the area of Blessica’s actual heart, she has a tattoo of a heart organ. On the left side, the tattoo shows a female angel pulling on her superior vena cava and on the right side, the tattoo shows a gothic pinup girl pulling on her pulmonary artery. A horrified Blessica hears someone breathing behind her, so she darts her head. A shrieking scream erupts from her mouth at the sight of Dīafair flicking the light switch off. Although it’s dark, still, she grabs the handle of a pan to throw where she last saw Dīafair. French fries and hot vegetable oil flies across the area as the pan cracks part of the floorboard.

Simultaneous to a girly scream erupting from 7-year-old Jollibee’s bedroom, the light coming from underneath a bathroom door turn off. Blessica’s qualms magnify with the assumption that her daughter is in danger, and she panics. As if someone poured itching powder into Blessica’s shoes, she unwittingly runs to the front door. The front door is where an unseen Dīafair patiently stands with a knife. Blessica gets stabbed in the gut twice as she moans from the intense pain. Blessica then realises that her scream frightened her daughter, Jollibee.

Blessica falls to the wooden floor with a crying scream, “Run!”

With no remorse, Dīafair passionately kicks Blessica in the stomach 14 times as she attempts to crawl. Her fingers linger as Dīafair drags her into the living room with rubber gloves underneath newly bought, black leather gloves. A trail of blood follows Blessica, and he tosses her defenceless body over a separate kitchen countertop (made of seleno silestone) where an ocean blue ceramic bowl sits. Giving her a concussion, Blessica’s half-dead face smacks against a red lacquer box with black polkadots, before touching the white, tiled floor. Her bloody, lower, left, central tooth falls out.

A horrified, 7-year-old Jollibee walks out of her bedroom wearing white, grey, and black camouflage, skinny jeans. On her thighs, there’s the designs of tiger claws under tiger scratches. Appalled, the wannabe neurologist sees a 7-foot-tall stranger glaring at her. As Dīafair glares at Jollibee, she glances at a trail of blood from the front door, leading to the kitchen and screams until she loses air in her lungs. The distinct smell is awful, especially knowing that it’s her beloved mother’s blood. Thinking that her mother is dead, she rushes back into her bedroom, slamming the door shut.

Dīafair unbuckles his leather belt, and lashes the belt at Blessica’s buttocks 23 times. He notices welts forming from her precious area that only men dreamed of going near. Out of satisfaction, he strangles Blessica around her neck with the belt until he can feel her lifeless body. Effortlessly, he moves the refrigerator forward. Dīafair opens the refrigerator door, places half of her body into the refrigerator, to where he displays her buttocks in the kitchen.

Lovella, a wishy-washy 9-year-old (with short, straight, green hair) is in the bathroom tub weeping behind transparent, peach-colored curtains. She’s sitting in the warm tub with her legs slightly bent. Water drips from her wet hair and face into the tub, so she attempts to stop the sound by catching the water from falling. She even silences the sound of her breaths.

Dīafair opens the bathroom door, flicks on the light switch, and sees nobody through the curtains. He heads into Jollibee’s bedroom, then catches a lamp that’s thrown at him. As she runs, Dīafair throws the lamp back at her, causing it to break against the back of her neck. Jollibee falls to her mattress, crying. Yucky blood runs down her neck, ruining her yellow coverlet, which seeps down into the mattress. Her sister, Lovella, grabs a white, wash towel, rushes out of the bathroom, then runs to the front door.

Lovella predeceases her sister, Jollibee. Once Lovella opens the door, she gets shot in the cranium as if though she is a blind caregiver. Lovella’s killer is disguised in all black attire, blending in with the darkness of the night sky. Simultaneous to Lovella falling to the floor with blood squirting from her cranium, Dīafair strangles Jollibee against the milk-white, horizontal blinds, behind the clean window. As Dīafair proceeds to strangle Jollibee like she could be a future, promiscuous babushka, he thoroughly cuts 5 gills on both sides of her cheeks with a bloody knife. Her gills are 6 inches long. Jollibee simply cannot breathe, and dies after hearing the gunshot that killed her trifling, best friend. Who could Dīafair be conspiring with.

45 Minutes Later

Dīafair is in a white van following a police car down a road. On the left side of the street, there’s Ukrainian woman named Marianna riding behind a man on a black motorcycle. Dīafair takes his hands off of the steering wheel to stare at the police officer ahead. As he stares, his steering wheel turns to the left by itself, crashing into the romantic couple. His left headlight shatters as the couple falls on the road with the motorcycle. Marianna bursts into tears with a death grip on her broken, right ankle. Her husband screams. Immediately, the police officer stops his car and exits.

Officer Fullox draws out a handgun and accosts Dīafair, “What the fuck are you doing? Step away from the motorcycle! Put your hands behind your back! You’re under arrest!”

Calmly, Dīafair has his attention on Marianna with a zipped-up, black, leather jacket wrapped over a red girdle. Her partner stops breathing. Dīafair gazes into her frightened, forlorn eyes, then glances at her violet lips. Officer Fullox approaches him. Dīafair glares at the officer.

Dīafair mumbles, “It was an accident.”

Officer Fullox says, “Lay on the ground!”

Dīafair lowers his head to his chest, raises his right hand up, and extends his index finger forward. By itself, the police car slowly moves down the road. The frightened officer turns around after hearing his car moving, then hesitates to chase after it. Dīafair draws out a handgun and shoot the officer twice in the middle of the spinal cord. His attention turns to the crying, defenceless widow.

Marianna moves backwards slightly by pushing both of her hands against the ground, but again, she holds onto her right ankle. Marianna screams to the heavens in severe pain. With Dīafair’s right foot, he stomps on her chest several times before standing on the palm of her right hand. Louder, Marianna moans, but her deceased husband is unable to protect her. Patiently, he stands in this position for ten seconds as she desperately begs him to stop. Then, with his left foot, he stomps on the ligament between her right wrist and bicep four times. Her dislocated right elbow shivers as as she holds onto it with her left hand.

Making matters entirely worse, cruelly, Dīafair jumps in the air with his right knee extended, and lands on Marianna’s ligament between the right wrist and bicep. An exhausted Marianna squeals in excruciating pain as her right wrist slightly bends the opposite way it was meant to be used. Dīafair stares at Marianna’s husband like an insignificant vagabond. Several times with both black boots, he stomps on the face of her husband to make sure he’s dead. Marianna screams as Dīafair stands over her delightful body. She watches her husband with tears running down her cheeks.

The Following Day

From a dark room, Dīafair (wearing a white dust mask) watches Marianna (a hafiz) sitting in the dark closet with her arms tightly tied behind a brown, wooden chair. Favoriting the pain from her broken, right ankle, (which feels like a piercing saw is lodged inside) she moans with the incapability of touching it. He turns on the kitchen light, and returns into the living room with a ceramic bowl of sliced pineapples. With a silver fork, he sends the pineapples to her mouth, but Marianna is reluctant to cooperate. Tightly, he squeezes her sore throat, and she opens her mouth in just enough time for him to place three slices of pineapple in her mouth. In an effort to prevent her from spitting, he covers her mouth. She willingly swallows the pineapple slices without knowledge if they’re poisoned. Dīafair removes his hand from her mouth.

After picking up a black G-clamp from the floor, he positions it around her head. Gradually, he twists the handle of the G-clamp, which allows the screw to move closer to the right side of her temple. The movable jaw touches her temple and she squeals as blood eventually pours from both sides of her temples. Allowing her to live through the pain, he twists the handle of the G-clamp the opposite way. Then, he throws the object against the plaster wall, which makes a dent.

Marianna speaks, “As-salamu-alaykum.”

Dīafair smirks, reaches in his right pocket to take out a syringe full of heparin. Swiftly, on Marianna’s right wrist, he injects her with the drug. After holding the syringe in her wrist for 30 seconds, Dīafair drops it. He grabs her by the hair, and effortlessly drags her out of the closet. Marianna kicks over a black soldering station that’s sitting on a grey hassock. The back legs to the wooden chair break as Dīafair drags a screaming Marianna toward the hall. He lets go of the chair and she falls backwards, smacking the back of her head on a silver pull-down ladder. The awful landing causes trauma, but worse, her face falls from the impact of the pull-down stepladder. Her right eye nearly lands on a wire nail, which is standing upward in a stabbing position. By the hair, Dīafair drags her behind the couch.

The way her back slams, it nearly snaps her spinal cord. He throws the bowl of sliced pineapples on her body causing it to break. Then, he suffers an urge to cause her more pain. Dīafair burns her upper lip with a black soldering iron until blood drips. She has a blurry vision as Dīafair stands over her defenceless body.

Dīafair patiently watches his victim catch her breath. Before placing Marianna’s body on the hassock, Dīafair then heads into the closet to yank a thick, white rope from the shelf, and ties it tightly around her annoying mouth. She bites the rope, but is unsuccessful at freeing herself. Then, she suffers from muscle spasms in her left shoulder. The sight of her suffering makes Dīafair smile.

North Doubt Town Highway

It’s 7:00 A.M. Shanta recently dyed her hair red and made it into a ponytail. She is driving a pickup truck while wearing a yellow tanktop, pink, pelagic, swimming trunks with Vishnu on the front, right side, black, fishnet stockings, and yellow sandals. Ashima sits above the trunk seizing a 9 foot long, wooden, ocean blue surfboard. Ashima has on a laced, black tank top, a sleeveless, burgundy, cardigan sweater, blue, polyester shorts, and black tennis shoes purfled with blue. The sirens to a police car turns on with red and blue oscillating lights. Shanta slows the car down and stops on the right side of the highway. 28-year-old Officer Acherhecks parks in front of Shanta’s pickup truck and exits the vehicle. Officer Acherhecks shoots Shanta’s front, left car tire. Shanta yells in rage as Ashima screams. Prisha steps out of the car onto witch grass, wearing a sleeveless, black, silk button-down blouse, tight, blue jeans, and black tennis shoes. Prisha has an unforgiving grin on her face.

“We didn’t do shit Acherhecks,” Prisha yells.

Officer Acherhecks speaks to her friends, “License and motherfuckin’ registration! Step out your goddamn vehicle! Face the vehicle and put your hands on the hood. I’m searching everything!”

Shanta says, “I know my rights and that’s illegal. I’m reporting you.”

Officer Acherhecks chuckles and speaks as if perfidy is written on Shanta’s face, “Try me.”

Shanta responds, “You’re a bullheaded, lunatical, abject wiseacre.

Ashima steps off of the trunk and Shanta exits the driver’s seat. Everyone faces the car and put their hands on the hood. Officer Acherhecks forcefully handcuffs Prisha’s hands behind her back, then lowers her head onto the hood. He handcuffs Ashima’s hands behind her back, then Shanta’s. The contemptible libertine returns to Prisha and positions his crotch against her bunghole with great élan.

While Officer Acherhecks speaks, he reaches for his car keys in his right pocket to scrape it on the car hood, “Why, if it isn’t Ashima, the daughter of my old comrade. It was just a friendly fire. My bad. I run this town. You all are going to North Doubt Town Prison. One minute in this prison could be your last. I suggest you follow my orders now if you want to get out early. On this day, this frivolous vehicle is officially impounded.

A furious Ashima weeps as Officer Acherhecks ransacks the passengers seat of the truck. He takes away Prisha’s brown, suede purse. Officer Acherhecks then head in the back of the pickup truck and raises the trunk. He sees a deceased Marianna with a decapitated head. Countless stab wounds are on her face with few deep cut marks, allowing part of her encephalon to hang out. Officer Acherhecks jumps in in horror screaming.

“It looks like I’m the new town hero.”

North Doubt Town Prison

It’s 7:36 A.M.. Infuriated inmates are constantly yelling with profanity, striking the walls, and shaking the bars. Other than the fact Ashima is in cell block (3519) with Shanta and Prisha, she’s in abject pain knowing other inmates are. Like every inmate, she wears a baby pink uniform. The entire prison peculiarly smells like burnt urine in a reeking pigpen of cadavers. Ashima sits on the top of a bunk bed with her girlfriend, Shanta. On the bottom bunk bed, Prisha slumps down with her back against the concrete wall. One bald-headed inmate named Gene stands motionlessly facing the vile sight of a bloody corner of the walls. Gene’s hands are behind his back and, he’s as silent as a ghost town. 4 of 5 other men are participating in stomping on a burning, white t-shirt. 1 man watches the burning of the t-shirt while making an offensive rap.

A male inmate with dreadlocks is walking in the hallway as many inmates in cell blocks spit and taunt at him. Shocking everyone, the inmate stabs Officer Cramp with a handmade, contaminated poniard. While the Officer Cramp gnashes his teeth together, he bends over to shield his left hipbone, but the damage has already been done. Then, the inmate stabs the police officer again. This time, the inmate stabs him twice in the jugular. Blood oozes from the surprised police officer as he searches for air. Officer Cramp falls to the concrete floor in a puddle of blood.

A 36-year-old Sheila with short, grey hair accosts Prisha, “What are you here for?”

Prisha responds, “Corrupted ass police!”

Shanta says, “I was driving my girlfriend and buddy to the beach until Officer Acherhecks stopped my truck. The next thing I knew, there’s a dead body in the trunk. I don’t know how it got there.”

Ashima says, “He killed my father ten years ago.”

A suspicious Sheila talks with a shocked face, “I killed officer Acherhecks was two years ago. He harassed me ever since I was seven. It wasn’t until I turned sixteen, I got a gun with the purpose of taking his life away. He was with his 26-year-old wife and 9-year-old son as I stood behind them. I shot him onto a railroad track and a train ran him over.”

Wholeheartedly disagreeing, Ashima responds, “You’re lying. I saw Officer Acherhecks. My girlfriend and best friend was there.”

Sarcastically, Sheila says to Prisha, “I can’t prove you wrong. You have two eyewitnesses, so I think that’ll turn out great in court.”

Parallel to Ashima’s cell block, Mâtar (muscular with a grey beard) is the only inmate in cell block (3520). With a bunk bed and a silver, flat-screen television in the background, a standing Mâtar sits down to meditate on the roach-infested floor. He has his eyes shut and legs crossed. Gruellęssa, a spirit of a 7-year-old girl (with curly, black hair and a black cloak) appears behind him. He has a flashback of crushing a brick on the kitchen counter with a sledgehammer, only to dump it in a bottle of milk. Forcefully, he makes Gruellęssa drink the chemicals in the bottle and the she stops breathing. 10 seconds later, she starts breathing. Mâtar has another hapless flashback, but from a point of view angle. From Mâtar’s flashback, he sneaks behind Gruellęssa in a hospital bathroom to strangle her with barbed wire. Deliberately, he beheads her with a keen knife, hides the head in a silver suitcase, then stuffs it in a beehive. She falls to the white, tiled floor with blood pouring down her sore neck.

Every soul in the prison turns silent in fear. Mâtar disappears from the cell block, but it’s how he disappears, which is a mystery. Everyone staring at Mâtar blink at different times, but once they blink to once again see, Mâtar is gone. Hundreds of rumors build about the 999-year-old, legendary “Godhead” Mâtar.

From cell block (3519), Sheila (with gangrene on her filthy feet) speaks, “I’d stay away from Godhead Mâtar if I were you. Anyone to ever speak to Mâtar died within one day. He has mystical powers, but nobody knows why he stays here this long. He’s been in prison for over 800 years.”

Prisha says, “I heard about him. He killed his wife and daughter. Is it true that he returns after twenty-three mere hours each day? He returns because he feels guilty.”

Sheila responds, “And you are?”

Prisha says, “The name is Prisha.”

Sheila challenges her with an argument, “In here, your name is Prey!”

Gene whispers, “Please, don’t fight.”

Sheila, the hellcat strikes Prisha in the face. Everyone except Gene, Ashima, and Shanta cheers on the violence. A shocked Ashima watches Prisha swiftly kick Sheila on the left side of the marrow bone. Prisha jumps onto her enemy, which causes Sheila to fall backwards, landing hard on her back. Prisha and Sheila are scuffling on the floor, pulling on one another’s hair. Prisha positions her entire weight on top of Sheila, and thunderously strike her in the face nine times. Shanta feels relieved while watching Sheila getting ineffably pummeled. Bruises show on Sheila’s face, then blood leaks from her lower lip. Ashima jumps from the top of the bunk bed onto the floor.

Whispering again, Gene shivers while saying, “Stop fighting.”

Five of the male inmates in Ashima’s cell block pummel a hapless Gene until he is unconscious. Gene’s right palm gets stomped on so hard onto the concrete floor that it bleeds. His bloody handprint is on floor resting near his battered and bruised face.
Shanta notices Officer Dixon (23-years-old, blond hair, and skinny) with a numb face walk by. Officer Dixon stares at the recent death of Officer Cramp, then stares at Gene.

Officer Dixon announces, “You three girls are free to go!”

8:40 A.M.

Dīafair is in the backyard of a cottage desperate to get inside. He seizes a keen knife. With an effort to remove sections of paint between the window and frame, he wriggles the knife deliberately on all four sides. Then, Dīafair inserts a putty between the window and frame. From a large, black, pulley bag in the grass, he grabs a thick, wood block and sledge hammer. The wood block is used to put against the edge of the wooden portion of the window. He whacks against the wood block with the sledge hammer and the seal created by paint breaks. A black and tan Rottweiler named Toxy runs to the window Dīafair looks through. After grabbing a black pry bar from his black, suede haversack, which is strapped to his shoulder, he places the wood block under the window frame. Then, he gingerly lifts the pry bar up on the bottom edge of both sides of the window.

Peering through the window makes Dīafair feel like he compromised with his next victim after beating him senseless. Dīafair stares at his victim (a shirtless, 8-year-old Ben), as if though he’s studied his sleeping pattern for centuries. It’s his fateful choice to eradicate Ben sleeping in a celadon green sleeping bag. While Toxy silently sits motionless, Dīafair lifts up the window, and sneaks into the living room. He looks at a black, flat-screen television hung on the plaster wall that reaches his height. There’s a silver stepladder on the right side of the wall.

As Dīafair stands above his prey dilly-dallying about how he’ll murder Ben, automatically, the sprinklers from outside turn on. Dīafair imagines rubbing on Ben’s black afro. Ben’s afro is as soft as sheep’s wool. Dīafair then thinks about holding Ben hostage. Aroused by Dīafair’s breaths, Ben’s eyes widen to see a smug look over him. Once Ben witnesses his destined killer standing over him, he shudders with horror, making a shrieking scream.

Ben sees Dīafair wearing face paint. Dīafair has thick eyebrows shaped like arrows and countless, black, broken hearts on the left side of his cheek. More odd, there’s black paint entirely on the right side of his face. By pretending that Ben is a prosecutor prodigy and a hangman living a double life, it’s a pleasure for Dīafair to plunge the knife through his victim’s right retina. Ben makes a desperate, loud cry as blood squirts from his unrecoverable eye to Dīafair’s thrilled face. When Dīafair proudly lifts the knife up, he notices Ben cover his eye with both of his hands. Dīafair plunges the knife at Ben’s left wrist to hear him scream. Unfortunately, Ben runs out of breath and gets stabbed on the left side of his temple. Inflicting more pain to Ben, Dīafair manages to stab him in the face 16 times and in the stomach twice.

Dīafair sees Miranda (a 6-year-old, brunette with straight hair and too much makeup), peeking around the corner of the kitchen. Her torso is hidden, and her eyes widen in horror from witnessing her older brother’s dead body. She bellows as loud as possible and runs revealing her unzipped, milk-white, leather trench coat, covering her brown, sequinned, spaghetti strap. Dīafair can clearly see her brown pencil skirt and black, high heels. Dīafair reluctantly chases Miranda and picks up a blue bicycle pump to throw at the back of her head. Miranda reaches for the back of her head, screaming in agony. Simultaneously, he hears a girly scream behind him while Miranda slams and locks the door.

Dīafair darts his head around and sees a screaming Marisa running to the front door. Marisa is another 6-year-old brunette, but with short, curly hair. She is wearing a shift dress with black and white polka dots and black, leather riding boots. While Marisa makes several failed attempts to open the front door, Dīafair’s attention leads to the bathroom door. The bathroom door opens. Adrien, a concerned, 25-year-old, brunette mother (with a bluish green bikini and blue, boot cut jeans) exits barefooted.

When she looks in the living room, uncontrollably, she cries while walking at the sight of her son’s dead body. Adrien sees Marisa standing on the balcony and climbing on a black rail. As Toxy calmly stares, Dīafair walks from behind Adrien and plunges a knife on the toe of her left foot. Blood spreads from her toe. While screaming in excruciating pain, Adrien swiftly falls, to the point where few of her tears have a steep fall. Adrien cannot fathom why anyone would seek to murder her. Eagerly, she holds where the stab wound is located. A startled Marisa turns around to witness her mother being murdered. Loudly, Marisa screams as Dīafair takes out a sledge hammer from the left side of his back pocket. Marisa feels farrago of rage and horror; Marisa stares at Dīafair mercilessly whacking her beloved mother in the forehead approximately five times. Like another coon in the forest, Dīafair has no pity for Adrien.

Marisa bends her knees in a jumping position, but a bullet flies into her forehead at a rapid speed. As her body falls backwards onto a circular, glass table, blood squirts from her face onto a sliding, glass, patio door. The glass table shatters as Dīafair physically turns Adrien’s deceased body in a prone position. With great pleasure, Dīafair then uses the sledgehammer to whack her in the haunches three times and position the weapon back in his back, left pocket. He walks into the bedroom Miranda ran into. He kicks open the door and sees an empty bed with white bedsheets. Pass the violet, sequinned curtains, there’s an opened window beside the bed he looks out.

Dīafair makes a right turn to another bedroom, hearing breaths coming from a closed closet. He walks to the closet as Jesse fearfully peeks through. She stops breathing out of hope that he won’t think to open the closet doors. Causing Jesse to scream, Dīafair stands in front of the closet and kicks down all four doors. The blond-haired Jesse runs out of the closet wearing a black wrap dress and black slippers.

With a sledge hammer, Dīafair whacks Jessie on the right side of the rib cage. A moaning Jessie falls near the bedroom door writhing in agony while holding on the right side of her rib cage. Dīafair then positions the sledge hammer in his left, back pocket. He bends her right pinky backwards until it dislocates. Then, he seizes a 50 pound dumbbell from the ground and walks to a desperate Jesse’s crawling body. Approximately 12 times, Dīafair whacks Jesse in the spinal cord with the dumbbell, which results her puking blood from her mouth. Once, he whacks her in the occipital lobe with the dumbbell.

There’s the sound of screaming and cowgirl boots clacking against concrete steps. An anonymous figure effortlessly carries her victim by tightly clutching Miranda’s scrawny arms behind her back. Miranda has a lacerated forehead. The front door opens and Dīafair hears Miranda’s crying scream. The figure with brown, cowgirl boots walks beside a deceased Jesse. Instantly, the figure drops Miranda onto the floor beside her deceased sister. Miranda grieves for her sister.

While standing behind Miranda, Dīafair tickles her. Forced laughter bursts out of Miranda to the point where she cries, writhing in pain. The blood of her sister is on her clothes. With one hand, he squeezes Miranda’s neck, then slams the back of her head against the plaster wall. A dent is in the wall. Miranda is dizzy. The dark figure which Miranda has yet to see the face of applies black tape around her mouth.

Miranda passes out from the lack of oxygen, but that doesn’t stop Dīafair from experimenting with her body. He picks her up with his grip remaining on her sore neck, then walks into the kitchen. Swiftly, he turns on the faucet and places a white, rubber sink stopper above the drain. Before the cold water brims over the sink, he turns the faucet off. He forces a defenseless Miranda’s face into the water for 35 seconds. She struggles to breathe with a failed attempt to remove his hands. Suddenly, all movement stops in her body.

2 Hours Later

Making her entrance into the park, Ashima is texting on her cell phone. Temporarily calming Ashima, her girlfriend has her left arm wrapped around the back of her neck. An irate Prisha follows the couple and kicks the silver, poultry, netting gate. The netting gate glows red once the sky turns black with the view of constellations. Ashima screams as if though her toes are amputated while she walks on burning coal. Immediately, she stops screaming, pauses her movement, and aims her eyes at the firmaments. She shivers as her worried girlfriend removes her arm from her neck.

Shanta asks, “What’s wrong?”

Ashima envisions a moaning man named Chester in his mid-forties in a dark room. Chester is wearing white underwear, tied on an ironing board with two, thick, black ropes. Dīafair is standing beside the ironing board wearing all black attire; he is wearing a ski mask, a sweater under a winter coat, leather gloves, jeans, and boots. He holds a hot iron over Chester, lowering it on his victim’s chest. Louder, Chester screams.

Ashima escapes the vision and complains, “I’m perfectly fine. Dīafair is everywhere. There’s no way Acherhecks is dead.”

Prisha slumps down on a guitar-shaped bench the color of peach, which is above wood chips. Then, Ashima’s girlfriend sits down at the bottom of a yellow, glowing playground slide with a banana milkshake in her right hand. Shanta sips from her red straw and receives a brain freeze. Immediately, Shanta rises up and runs around the pink, glowing monkey bars, panting. Prisha laughs at Shanta.

Ashima walks back and forth in the sandbox, then levitates 6 inches above the ground, pouting, “Petunia said Dīafair is watching me. Acherheck’s murdered my father and there’s nothing I can do! I tell you, I was framed! I have a future! I want my name out of…”

Prisha says, “We’re all in this together.”

Shanta stops running and lowers her head as her girlfriend yells, “There’s no we. We got my father killed in the military. We got us arrested. We got my mind into thinking I could tame you.”

Prisha says, “I’m not a good friend.”

With a wry face, Ashima speaks, “You can say that again.”

Shanta says, “My girlfriend should’ve left your empty-headed arse out on the street for how you treated her. You don’t pay the bills.”

Furiously, Prisha yells and draws out a pocket knife, “Why are you two always picking on me? Is there a problem?”

Sarcastically, Ashima pretends to have an earache while covering her ears, replying, “Gosh! You must’ve loved being in prison to want to return! When I met you, I swear I could’ve mistaken you for a gambler in an orphanage home with your mother’s expired food stamps!”

Prisha says, “I’m not the same person I was years ago, but you won’t push me around. You never had to live my life.”

Ashima has haunting flashbacks as she angrily speaks, “When I was three months old, my father took full custody of me. He bonded with me on a black canoe at midnight. It was the beginning of Valentine’s Day, and he told me, ‘Grow up.’ He then swam away while I cried for three days straight until a helicopter could find me.”

An intimidating glare grows on Ashima’s face, but quickly changes. At distance behind Prisha, Dīafair’s face appears in the bushes. Ashima screams loud. Prisha fearfully drops her knife like a klutz, and darts her head around. Seeming like an awful joke, Prisha sees nothing behind her, but willow trees behind bushes. Judging from Shanta’s confused face, Ashima could very well be hallucinating.

“Bitch! Stop that shit,” Prisha yells in vehement rage.

Ashima makes a serious face, saying, “I saw Dīafair behind you.”

Ashima, laughs and says, “You’ll see your dead father next too. I admit it. I don’t know how you do it. Tremendous work in the work ethic you put into pulling off your little magic tricks. I’ve been trying to fall for your jokes all day.”

Shanta ignites in anger and yells, “You’re really smart!”

As Ashima speaks, her own, unforgivable eyes could grind Prisha’s teeth into dust, “I’ll see you later. Shanta, let’s get out of here.”

Ashima’s House

The time is precisely 11:11 A.M.. In Ashima’s bedroom, Shanta’s mouth is full of spiciness, after eating popcorn from a candy dispenser. Ashima’s eyes are fixated on Shanta’s goofiness. The taste is too much to handle for Shanta as she rushes to drink from the water dispenser; her mouth is under the faucet as she forces pressure on the lever. Ashima turns her head and rests on the couch, watching the daily “Bad Marki’s News” on television. Once Ashima sees Pam, the reporter on the screen, Shanta grabs the remote control to turn the television off of mute. She grabs Prisha’s chakana necklace from her white dresser, snaps her fingers with her right hand, and the lid to the white trash bin opens by itself. Ashima throws the necklace into the trash bin next to a transparent container full of hard-shelled capsules. Her girlfriend stares at the container of medicine like a bomb is inside and laughs while taking out the necklace.

In a silver business suit, a saddened Pam speaks into a black microphone, “It’s a frightening day for Doubt Town. At approximately 7:00 A.M. this morning, a taxi driver was found dead in the driver’s seat at the ‘Runner’s Edge Gas Station’ 5 miles from ‘Loco Street’ in East Doubt Town. Sixty-nine stab wounds from a screwdriver were found in his mouth at the crime scene. The name of the victim is Demetrius Breaks, who could only be identified by his driver’s license…”

Shanta yells, “Sweet Goddesses. That’s the taxi driver you had a crush on.”

Ashima nods her head, whispering, “I’ll live.”

Shanta smiles and says, “To hell you will! You have me. Demetrius died not too far from the haunted “Grey Demon Archipelago.” I have to take you there. I traveled there alone when I was seventeen and stood there for three days. I couldn’t sleep due to constant screaming sounds of trespassers being tortured. The voices weren’t as terrible as nits being in my face. The nits were everywhere. Grey Demon Archipelago contains nine, abandoned islands with dead trees. In the evening, the trees will turn invisible and there’s an old folklore that if you ever run on any of the islands, (Ghoullazān) the dragon will consume you. Ghoullazān the giant dragon has a rat’s head, a snake’s mouth, a tarantula legs that are strength of five tigers, black bat wings, and a scorpion’s tail. Always carry your own water on the island. There are known to be invisible leeches in the water that will consume your insides after you digest them.”

Ashima nearly barfs from hearing the story, “No thank you. I’m staying away from that place.”

Grey Demon Archipelago

It’s 11:50 A.M.. A polygamous family is crying in a small room, handcuffed to a wooden table. Nadia, a 38-year-old, mother is a brunette with short, curly hair. Through the blood which is smeared against her face, there are wrinkles. Her watery eyes blends in with the snot from her nostrils as she gets whacked with a black tire iron by Dīafair. As Mark, her 22-year-old son beside her cries, Nadia falls to the brown carpet unconscious. Dīafair glances at her tie dye, red and pink bikini and red trousers.

Causing it to dislocate, Dīafair then whacks Mark in the right shoulder blade four times with the tire iron. Mark screams writhing on the floor in excruciating pain while his two conscious mother’s watch. Linda, a 37-year-old (with brown, long, frizzy hair, a pink t-shirt, jeans with zebra stripes, and black tennis shoes) recoils back from Dīafair’s presence. After rushing on blue brass knuckles from a nearby, wooden table, Dīafair punches Linda in the face with his right hand. Uriah, a 39-year-old (with a black ponytail, a yellow, high waisted dress, and black heels) strains her right wrist by pulling from the handcuffs. He forms a malicious smirk. The sound of 12 gunshots are heard while Ashima exits her vision.

1:05 P.M.

In a local supermarket, Ashima mindlessly sits in the front of a red shopping cart with her arms cheerfully raised. With force, Shanta pushes the shopping cart, causing it to speed down aisle 3. Intentionally, Ashima knocks over several rolls of toilet paper while screaming. She smacks dozens of boxes of tissue off the shelf, then catches her equilibrium while rising to her feet. As the shopping cart speeds, Ashima kicks over several boxes of cereal, and turns around to see her girlfriend performing a somersault.

Shanta has on a black, hooded jacket with the furry, white design of a gigantic cat on the back. On the hood, the mean-spirited cat’s head is visible with green eyes. Two of the cat’s gigantic, front legs are used as drawstrings. Customers gawk at her as she ignores her surroundings. Happily, she skips toward the speeding shopping cart.

1:25 P.M.

The closet light flicker on and off repeatedly, then the light remains off. An agile Ashima runs into her bedroom screaming and dives on top of her bed. A screaming Shanta dives on top of Ashima, causing her monitors to jitter. Shanta sexually wraps her legs around Ashima’s chiseled abs. Passionately, like Shanta shares an inseparable bond with Ashima, she kisses her on the lips, while fondling with her hair. Then, she locks her eyes on Ashima. Shanta blinks. Startling the couple, the sound of Shuang’s scream comes from behind Ashima’s closet. There’s loud, thumping sounds.

Ashima grabs her television remote beside her. Shanta crawls off the bed as the double, closet doors open. Automatically, Ashima’s wardrobe moves to the right side of the wall, revealing a large, darksome room. The couple witness Shuang motionlessly on the shaggy, brown carpet as a dark figure at the top of the spiral stairs vanish. Panicking, Ashima runs toward her beloved mother.

Ashima speaks to her mother, “Who did this?”

Before Shuang loses her pulse, as if though she read a fantasy version of Shanta’s oeuvres, she exhaustedly utters, “Prisha.”

In bereavement, Ashima darts her head at Shanta, turning livid, saying, “We need to find Prisha. A.S.A.P..”

With a sly glare, Shanta draws out a handgun and aims it at Ashima’s chest, yelling, “You need to call the cops!”

Ashima yells, “What the…”

Before a heartbroken Ashima can finish her sentence, Shanta Spells pulls the trigger. With a swift groan, Ashima falls backwards to the floor, beside her mother. Shanta squats down with a concerned face as if though she’ll perform cardiopulmonary resuscitation on her. Ashima is left to struggle for necessary breaths alone as her deceitful ex girlfriend giggles in utter exhilaration.

A sentimental flashback manages to give Ashima a peculiar look. Sitting on a white canoe with her mother, she patiently holds a silver fishing rod, giving a tired glance to her smiling mother. Weight attaches to the fishing rod, which causes Ashima to nearly fall off the canoe. The canoe slowly sinks. Shuang’s smile turns into concern as Ashima attempts to reel in the heaviness. Once Shuang wraps her arms around Ashima’s body while struggling to levitate, dangling out of the ocean on the hook, is an ancient guillotine. They look at the guillotine in awe.

Ashima exits the flashback just to get shot in the left clavicle. Returning to another flashback, she sees a black man’s bloody ankles nailed on the trunk of a tree. Beside the tree trunk is Athaliah running on the train tracks. As soon as Ashima opens her blurry eyes, in a supine position on Shuang’s bed, she sees a deceased Prisha with a lacerated forehead. Prisha is facing her. Ashima attempts to groan, but her voice is suppressed by the thick, black tape wrapped around her mouth. Maddened, she watches Shanta’s swift shadow exit the room. The room temperature is below zero due to the window being left open, and Ashima’s body is completely numb.

Ashima attempts to move from the bed, but realises that her wrists are tied behind her back with a thick rope. Startling Ashima, Shanta appears on the side of Ashima with a screwdriver. After tying separate ropes to the knot behind her back and positioning them around a white headboard, she sits on top of Ashima’s body with both of her legs wrapped around. Shanta gently positions the tool under Ashima’s jaw, and pressures it against her flesh, harder by every second. Ashima attempts to squeal as if though Prisha can wake up from death. She kicks against the bed with her feet, and attempts physically forcing her ex off of her with her body. Blood leaks from Ashima’s jaw down to the red bed sheets.

On the floor, Shanta grabs Shuang’s red, right, high heel, and says, “Voilà.” She lunges the tip of the heel into Ashima’s right shoulder, then chucks the heel against the plaster wall. Joyfully, Shanta skips out of the room in a mocking manner, and slams the door shut behind her. Ashima’s vision then becomes clear, but she cannot cease her tears. Her body feels weak; she attempts to break the rope free from the headboard, but her effort is to no avail.

2 minutes later, Shanta returns into Shuang’s room with an extension cord and lashes onto Ashima’s body and face for 3 minutes straight. While Ashima gnashes her teeth in excruciating pain, a string of spit oozes down onto a yellow pillow case. Ashima’s voice turns frail behind the thick tape, partly sticking around her mouth. Welts surround her body and face, but that doesn’t stop Shanta from approaching her soft lips.

It’s dawn. An appalled, 7-year-old boy trudges through the woods, (wearing a black hooded cloak) clutching a twig in his right hand. He sees a traumatized Ashima sluggishly shielding her bosoms. Bruises cover her entire face and body with bloody wounds around every area. She fears the young boy. Although both of her ankles are sprained, she uses both of her legs, and her fractured, left arm to push her sore body backwards. Her right arm is dislocated. She screams as a large shadow behind the boy appears.

Heavily breathing, the dark figure shivers, patting the little boy on the head. Next, the dark figure extends his index finger to direct the boy away from the scene. The boy runs as Ashima makes a failed attempt to crawl away. Her path is blocked by the tall man with a blurry face, a black cloak, and black, leather gloves. She faints from the sight of his face.

Maybe I’m Hindu

© Sept. 12, 2014. All Rights Reserved.

Who would’ve ever thought?
Holidays are evil.
Pagan holidays caught,
But I accept Pagans.
And I accept Wiccans.
I accept what they don’t.
I accept the Bible,
But all of it, I won’t.

Call me Hindu–I’m not.
And I don’t preach voodoo.
Words of Satan, they got,
But love’s what’s important.
Life’s hard–I need no hint.
Judge by not judging me.
Don’t act like this is new.
Maybe I’m Hindu, see.