My Honest Opinion: Violence

My Honest Opinion: Violence

So I know it has been a while since I have constantly posted, but I will be following  a much better formula. I have just finished University so I will have much more time to mess around on the internet and numb the minds of good bored internet dwellers everywhere. So here is my planned Wednesday instalment of my blog called “My Honest Opinion”.

 

Now by the time I am writing this there has been a billion posts on the Boston bombing. You can’t escape it is all over the news, it is all over the internet. You load up sites and you are met with the bright eyed 8 year old Boston Bruins fan who died in the blast. You go to YouTube and you see footage presented on the homepage.

 

Now I am not going to jump out and label anyone as the attacker, as there has been no one blamed yet. Whether it be a foreign or domestic attack on America it comes with the talk of WHY? HOW? All these question that in the face of pure evil no one can really find the answer. Evil just happens, it is like rust eating away at the world. It is senseless, and it is useless. Therefore it is senseless and stupid to try and pull a meaning from it.

 

So why am I talking about this. Let’s for a second assume it is a domestic attack. It is not that farfetched, American’s have blown up Americans before. Now I try not to blog about gun laws, and whatever simply because I feel like the internet is already full of people to battle for both ends, and you don’t need to find blogs in order to see the discussion. You got to YouTube and watch a video and you look down and all the sudden the conversation comes up.

 

So just to be clear am I for or against guns? In specific situations you could say that I am both. If I moved to the USA right now one of the very first things I would do it buy a gun. I would buy it to protect myself, simple as that. So do gun laws need to be stricter? I would say yes they do. The idea of outlawing assault rifles is a step forward. I feel as though the mentally ill should not be able to obtain a gun.

 

The issue I see is. . . taking away guns does stop gun violence. It does not stop all violence. I am not saying it is possible to stop all violence, in fact it is not. That is the world we created. There was a story in the US about a man who went on a stabbing rampage. No it did not kill people, but it was violence. It caused people to feel pain needlessly. I think about this lots of times during the week. It hit me hardest when I was coming home from work and my grandfather asked me “Did you hear about Boston?”. So I turned on the news and there is was. People killed, many injured. Then more news broke about people waking up in the hosital and having no legs. There was doctors saying the worst thing is pulling nails and ball bearing from a little girls leg. It breaks my heart the whole situation.

 

It does however show that taking guns away from people who are mentally ill does not stop violence. Therefore I am not an advocate for stronger gun laws, I am not against gun laws. I am against all violence. So what solves this issue?

 

This is my honest opinion. They United States is in dire need of a better and stronger mental health program. Why not? Maybe a free mental health program. It would create millions of jobs for students graduating with a psychology degree. It would eventually lead to a more stable society. I am not a politician by any means, but if you run a country that is coming up out of a recession, and you are willing to spend millions, even billions on bullshit policies. Then you can toss down some big dollars to set up a government funded mental health program that will supply jobs to people in need of jobs, and in turn drive the crime rate down.

 

It just makes sense. Whether someone kills a man with a chrome snub-nosed gun, or with a homemade bomb made out of a pressure cooker the result is the same. It is time people stand up. It is time the US Government honours that structured agreement. We give up our freedom for safety, safety that is currently not being offered.

 

Now this tragedy was horrible, it displayed how evil humanity can be, but it also showed how united humanity is. Marathon runners ran directly to the hospital to donate blood, the members of the armed forces ripped down the barrier like it was paper. People carried to wounded. What I saw was a failed attempt at creating terror. I say the American people be strong, be united in the face of pure evil. I suggest that next year the Boston Marathon be the most attended Marathon in American history. I am Canadian, but I am behind the people of America who are so resilient in the face of this attack. No matter how many evil people there are, there are so many good ones.

 

Keep hope alive. Keep the human in humanity.

 

This is the part where I would add a link to provide donation to the people who fell victim of the blast, but unfortunately specific members of society are so fucked up there are tons of fakes. Well until next time this was my honest opinion.

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Playing With Words

I know that I have been a little lacklustre lately, but with school and family life just keeps shitting on your time.  Anyway this is a segment I am going to try and do every money. Just write a bit till I hit a point and post it.

 

Did you ever look in the mirror and see someone else. Something you never thought you would be? It is like your 5 year plan was just that, a fucking plan.  A plan never set into action and in your early twenties you stand there looking at your face. Your face is cracked, covered in physical and mental wounds with the aging of a forty year old heroin addict. Bags hang under your eyes and you toss back another bit of the blackness, of the coffee. So you run to class to obtain an education they tell you that you need. You go to their institutions, take part in their social structures and one magnificent magical thought that is out of the box. . . and they call you insane. You see thier doctors, take their pills. Pills, pills, pills. You go to their jobs, you become their socially constructed ideal robot. So as you sit here looking in the mirror at someone you no longer know, ask yourself first

 

1) Is it, NO was it worth it?

and

2) Who the fuck am I?

 

We all come out the same, and each of us are to blame. Individualism is a color, uniqueness simply a texture, freedom is an illusion. Underneath our exterior we are all the same. We are all moulded by the man. We are fed their media, their news, their fiction. The dominate ideology destroys anything unique. Nothing is original. Time is money, and money makes the world go round.  Sick capitalism in a candy coating and we eat the shit up like a box of Twinkies.  We are the working class, the dreamers, we are the 99%.

 

 This is how they plan to kill us. This is how the plan to kill it. . . creativity.

The Frozen

Just a spoken word piece by Corey Taylor of Slipknot and StoneSour fame. Beautifully talented artist.

Desperado

Having trouble writing lately so here is another old first attempt at writing a script I never actually finished. Enjoy!

Introduction

(Fictional) Lexington Louisville USA- The Place Dreams go to Die.

The sun bakes a broken down old gas station that rests in “the middle of no where” gasoline gently trickles down the rusted green gas pump. The wind whistles slightly, but not enough to drown out the sound of droplets of gasoline hitting the ground creating a small puddle that evaporates in the hot sun making a stain on the cement. The drip, drip, drip of the gasoline and the whistle of the wind all seems to stop becoming overshadowed by the sound of a high performance engine. A blue sports car with the bass pumping and tinted windows blazes its own trail across the cracked asphalt. Hitting top speeds, it pulls itself toward the gas station. The gas meter falls below “E” as the driver punches it to the floor the speedometer reaches above 100 mph. A set of black hands grabs the wheel to control it. The gas station is framed through the windshield that is stained with the carcasses of bugs that met their ultimate demise at the hands of the speeding machine. The blue mechanical devil gently glides its way into the gas station the rims are polished silver that casts a reflection so accurate that it reveals every detail of what you put in front of it. The wheels halt at that broken down leaky pump, and the stench of burning rubber fills the air. The bass shakes the frame of the machine as it is shut off abruptly. Inside the store a bald man sits dressed in overhauls a white shirt is placed underneath but small chest hair still poke through the thin fabric. He sits  reading the latest issue of penthouse magazine, a perfect set of breasts greet anyone who enters into the establishment. The gas attendant is startled by the beeping of his computer that rests on a yellow stained (former white) tabletop. The cashier tucks his “educational reading” into a drawer. He pushes the authorization button to allow the pump to start as he looks outside in disgust at the finely tuned sports car, and spits as he eyes up the two African Americans who have stepped out laughing wearing baggy clothes that barely stay on their body. His bald head catches a slight reflection of the sun and he shakes his head keeping a keen eye on the two men who are outside.

The screen reads $30.00 as the men hang up the pump and walk inside the store; they quickly walk to the back of the store to scope out the beverage section.

 

Cashier: How are you boys today?

Guy 1: Good, nearly ran out of gas out there. Glad there is at least one gas station around this hell hole homie.

Cashier (joking): I get most of my customers bridging on empty son.

The two black men laugh as they scan the store. The cashier opens the drawer he stahed the magazine in again and he places his hand on a gun, it is a small snub nose piece all black. His white hand gripped around it makes quite the contrast. Meanwhile a red truck pulls up outside at another pump, the cashier pushes the authorization button; he does not even take his eyes off the two men in the store who continue to scan the store for snacks. The two approach the cash and place two bottles of Nestle water on the counter. The second person cocks his eyebrow sensing the hostility as the man stares a hole into their souls.

Cashier: This and thirty dollars of gas?

Guy 1: Yes sir that is everything.

Cashier (suspicious): That is everything?

Guy 1: Yes…

Cashier: Are you sure?

Guy 2 (offended): Yes, we are God damn sure! What are you trying to get at here white boy?

The cashier grips his gun tighter as the young black man gets close to his face. BANG! The cashier falls behind the counter. BANG! Guy 2 goes down his brains falling onto the counter as he tumbles to the ground knocking gum onto the ground with him. Guy 1 turns to see a man with long black hair and a moustache that stretches from his upper lip, down the sides of his face all the way down to his chin. His eyes hide behind black aviator glasses, and a cigarette hangs between his lips gently as he holds his gun upright aimed toward the black man. The man looks there in shock at the gun wielding maniac, there in the reflection in his aviator glasses, you can see the man get shot directly in the chest, and another bullet nails him between the eyes (within the reflection of the glasses). Beautiful clean shooting, blood spouts out of the small black hole left in the mans head. The gunman blows the smoke off his old six-shooter that sparks silver. The gunman walks the store casually he looks through the snack isle finding nothing, then he comes to the mother load, in the beverage section a nice big quart of Jack Daniels stares at him. Good ol’ Jack, his only true friend. The gunman smiles with a set of white teeth as he grips the Jack and takes it toward the counter with him. The gunman hears choking, and coughing, he looks over the counter. BOOM! A bullet flies by the gunman’s head, and shatters the light right behind him. The gunman takes cover behind the counter. The cashier lies on the ground choking on his own blood, holding his hand over a hole in his throat. His eyes continue to fall back into the back of his head as the blood flows through the cracks of his fingers; he holds the gun with the other hand.

Gunman: Look fella you do not want to die like this, it is not as glamorous as they say to die in a hail of bullets. It is not like that little gun you have made by a poor child in east India is going to fire again anyway. You are lucky enough it fired in the first place. How long has it been collecting dirt and dust in that goddamn drawer? Years I would say.

The Gunman stands up and looks over the counter at the cashier who lies in a pool of his own blood. The cashier lifts the gun, and it falls in a sad attempt to fight off the man that is taking his life. The gunman smiles as he casually grabs a bag and pushes a fist full of cash from the till into it, along with his bottle of booze. He shoves a pack of blue cigarettes into his pocket and looks down at the cashier. He gets on his knees, smiling he pushes the cashiers head back and smacks his face lightly.

Gunman: Pay attention now.

He pauses to scratch his head softly with the end of his six-shooter.

Gunman: Now if there was one thing I learned from the killing spree of Mickey and Mallory Knox in the nineties it was “Always leave someone behind to tell the tail of your legacy. You need someone to continue your story.” I was going to let you live, clip you in the shoulder. My aim is a little off it seems though. Anyway, long story short is we have come a long way from then, technology wise anyway. I mean look at that camera up there, it will tell a better tale than you ever will…

The gunman looks up at the camera and smiles, posing arrogantly. He looks back at the cashier and shakes his head.

Gunman: Have you ever been to the United Kingdom? Of course not what am I asking, you are stuck in this little hell hole your whole life. In the UK they did a study, they figured out that the average person is caught on camera 300 times a day. That is crazy isn’t it? Now it’s great that you got this lovely little camera system here, because I could not leave you here bleeding to death that’s terrible. It is a very horrible way to die. I don’t think there is such a thing as pure evil. I like to think that there are degrees. That is why i can’t leave you here bleeding to death like some fuckin’ animal. I consider myself a humanitarian!

BOOM! One clean shot to the skull, blood splatters all over the counter behind him as the Gunman turns around grabbing his cigarettes, booze and cash. These things are all the necessary tools of life. As he gets outside he places a cigarette between his lips and lights it. He inhales and blows the smoke into the hot sun. He gets inside his pickup and drives away leaving disturbed gravel. He begins thinking to himself as he flies by the hot sandy desert…

 

Gunman (V.O.): Who the fuck am I? I ask myself that question every single day; I bet most normal people find themselves doing the same. The only thing is I am not sitting there behind a desk with my dick in my hand, no I am doing something. I am slowly finding myself as the days go on. One discharged bullet out a time. So what the hell have I found out about myself? I am an unloved being, a waste of talent; I am a survived abortion, the thing that goes bump in the night. I am torture, I am pain, I am rape, and I am the FUCKING AMERICAN DREAM … freedom personified. I am oppression; I am angry, empty… I am a walking Desperado.

Smiling Desperado flicks the cigarette out of the window and it bounds lightly on the asphalt. We follow this cigarettes journey as credits begin to roll to the tune of Folson Prison Blues by Johnny Cash

Desperado

By

Tony Davis

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lWsuVuw5JO4

Cloud

The smoke clouded the small 1 bedroom apartment. That little apartment soon became filled with the glories of an open and free mind hell-bent on creativity, on innovation. . . NO! On reinvention. Through bloodshot eyes he wrote his manifesto.

Smoke in my Lungs

“Hot sand on toes, cold sand in sleeping bags,
I’ve come to know the friends around you
Are all you’ll always have
Smoke in my lungs, or the echoed stone
Careless and young, free as the birds that fly
With weightless souls now.”

Why do you write?

We like the idea of fame. We like the idea of equality. We like the idea that someone will pick up the shit we write on a old napkin at a restaurant when we are hunched over and half in the bag. We imagine that someone will look at it, and they will get that same feeling. You know that feeling, that feeling I got when I first read Fight Club (Or even watched it). That moment when you are like “This is one of the best pieces of literature I have ever laid my eyes on.” The truth is the world isn’t that simple. I see so much talent on here, so much wasted talent no one has picked up on. Why? It is simple for every person out there that write for enjoyment and puts out a marvellous piece of literature that could be the next “great American novel” there is thousands of other people who waste peoples time. People who write simply with the idea of making money. Now I am not saying that we all shouldn’t pursue profit. The fact is like it or not we live in a capitalist society, and in turn we all have to become capitalists.

So what I am trying to say here is the world is set up in the illusion that fame is easy. I mean look at TV you see 6 people living in a house getting hammered drunk and causing drama and they have a net worth higher than most of us and we work our asses off day in and day out at jobs we hate purchasing shit we don’t need that truly ends up defining who we are. We have no sense of equality because we all want to get ahead. We all want our shit published.

I don’t know maybe I am just some major Fight Club buff, maybe I took the book too seriously as a cautionary tale of where our society is heading. Maybe I looked at it too hard in a Marxist lens of literary criticism.

Then again maybe it is true, maybe the world sets us up with this idea that we are all unique and special, that we all can be famous. Maybe that is why we are such a mad generation. Maybe that is why Occupy Wall Street was such a major movement. Hard work these days just seems like it becomes watered down in all the crap you read.

We all dream of immortality, we all dream that when we are turned to dust people will remember our names. That is the fear I have, not of dying but that I won’t be remembered as providing a significant contribution to society.

Now that is fucked up, but that is the world the media has put into us. They set you up for greatness, and BOOM! The truth is the world isn’t full of opportunity. When everyone has access to the world wide web and the same opportunity hard work becomes 50%, the other half is luck. That is why you should chase your dream for your own personal satisfaction, and if someone grasps that wet ink stained napkin then maybe they too will find enlightenment.

Life is a journey, burn your torch to light the path for yourself, and if you guide others along the way. . . let that be your legacy. The money? It’s just fucking paper with ink, it’s just like your napkin. It is only valuable becomes people value it.

My point place your own value in your napkin, and the rest just falls into place.

Tasting Grace

Just a short story I did a few years ago before venturing into the world of post-secondary education.

Tasting Grace

by

Tony Davis

A man enters a dark room, someone struggles and screams. He laughs a bit as he sits down in a chair the legs creek. He lights up a cigarette and he sucks it back hard. He is shirtless just wearing gym pants, his hair wet from a shower. He looks into the darkness that we don’t see. He laughs a bit as he blows the smoke into the air, and he says “I wrote you a story you know … ” He unfolds a piece of paper and begins to tell his story …

I have always been a heavy eater, but I always have managed to stay in shape. I never did eat at Macdonald’s. No, I indulge in high class restaurants. Anything French, German, Swiss … I will jam it down my throat. It has always been like a lust, like a sexual lust. Sorry how rude of me, my name is David. I am a very successful man. I work at an accounting firm. I have no wife, no children, no family I truly care for, no friends, I have no life. Eating, fitness, and work. That is all I do. I stick to the essentials and I believe that is all I need to do. I fall in love with my meals, respect my body, and get a fat pay check at the end of every month. I guess I am not all that social. I never was. I never was very emotional either. That is until I met Grace …

It was a bright Sunday afternoon. I wore a black dress shirt, dark jeans to match. Aviators covered my eyes to shield from the sun, I was told it was “the type of glasses that are in.” I was just driving, going to my favourite restaurant. It is called Ocean and Vine. I could almost taste the slow cooked Berkshire pork chops mixed with a fine red wine. Being memorized by the thought of the delicious meal, I almost ran a red. I slammed on the breaks, I squeaked to a stop and frightened the women about to pass the crosswalk. She passed, and her eyes met mine. She wasn’t something to drool over, yet for some reason I was. She had a plain shape, and face, but those eyes, those beautiful hazel eyes had me grasped. I couldn’t look away. She was so innocent. Something inside me wanted to destroy that. So I parked my car, right there I parked my car on the side of the road and like a deranged lunatic fuelled by desire I ran through the traffic. She walked ahead of me down the street, her shoes hitting the ground, she grasped a yellow purse that clashed with her blue top. I grabbed her by the shoulder, and she spins around startled. I stood there stunned for a moment, looking into those eyes, as she looked back in fear. I loved it. I loved her.

“Hi, I am really sorry to be approaching you like this … ” I blanked for a second, not knowing what to say, I was never good with social interaction, then I somehow made the pause look all too natural as I said. “But you look so beautiful.”

She was shy I could tell, I doubt she got very much attention from anyone. She was as average as could be, but something drove me to her. She replied with her cheeks colored red. “Well thank you very much sir.”

She was polite. I enjoyed that quality in people. I tried my hardest to adapt the quality as well. I don’t think it came through that well. I was a straightforward kind of person. So I reply “Well how would you like to come to dinner with me? I feel awful about freighting you back there. I would appreciate it if you would allow me to make it up to you?” She had no plans I knew that, she was likely going home with a Jodi Picoult novel. So I waited for her to reply, she was trying to think of an excuse. I could tell she was enchanted by the scent of my expensive body spray, white teeth, dark hair, and completion.

Her eyes met mind once again as she bit her lip in confusion, and pondered at the invitation I had extended. “Well I guess I really have nothing better to do. Where are we eating?”

“The Ocean and Vine, it’s very nice. It is very high class.” I paused for a moment to adjust my glasses. “My name is David. What is your name miss?”

“Grace.” She said it with a smile, her lips a little bigger than normal. I wanted to kiss them, I wanted to hold her, make her mine. Why? Why so soon, why already? I never had a relationship that really lasted, everyone who got to close realized I was … crazy.

We ride together as the sun goes down, approaching our destination rapidly. The blue lights outside the restaurant that read Ocean and Vine manage to cast a blue glow over the sidewalk and parking lot below even when the sun hasn’t fallen beneath the horizon for the day. On the way we talking of the useless things you always talk about, movies. All arrays of entertainment, you know the things you make conversation with, but don’t really matter. I park the car far. It was part of my master plan. I grabbed her hand as we walked toward the restaurant. She giggled as she held onto my hand. I was what every girl dreamed for. I was a fairy tale. Someone who came along and swept her off her feet. I say please and thank you. I tell her she’s beautiful, I seem to be honest, wealthy, all that stuff the ladies eat up. I was the perfect lie.

The waiter doesn’t even greet me anymore. I found my way to my table. I pulled the chair out for Grace, and I sat down across from her. Her smile lit the whole room. She wasn’t used to this. She was used to Wendy’s, to Pizza Pizza, all that garbage that destroys the body. The waiter placed the menus in front of us. He smiled at me …

“What will you be having to drink this evening sir?” He asked as he pulled a pen out of his pocket and a small notepad.

“Grace is there anything you would prefer?” I asked politely. She shook her head still holding that smile, still blushing from earlier. I continued looking up at the waiter “We will have wine. Let us try the bouchaine pinot noir, cherries, plums, and orange blossoms sound delectable in a wine.” The waiter smiled as he went off to fetch the wine. I looked back at the innocent little Grace, the plain, but beautiful Grace. “So Grace what do you do for a living?”

“Well I am an author. I mean I haven’t really published anything, but I have been working on it. I write short stories in my spare time.” She pauses for a moment as the waiter with the big smile fills her glass with a dark wine, then fills David’s. The waiter gave us time to converse before he asked for our order. “I have been interested in journalism and stuff like that as well.”

I smiled at her and nodded my head as I sipped on the wine. “Really, that’s very interesting.” It really wasn’t all that interesting really, I didn’t know at the time what drew me to this girl. “I work as an accountant. I make quite the penny, but it’s not really as interesting as the profession you’re choosing.” I laughed to lighten the mood. Then I go on to ask. “Do you have any family? Whom are you living with here? A boyfriend?”

“No, I ran away from home at a young age. I live in an apartment that I have paid for with a few dead end jobs to be honest. My family life was not all that great. So I decided to run away a while ago, and never look back really.” She replied as she took a sip of wine, I could see sadness in her eyes. No, one knew who she was. Nobody cared who she was, not until me, not until today. Not until I became her dream, her fantasy, her twisted lie, her god damn delusion.

“That sounds terrible.” I said as I put my hand over hers, the waiter stepped in to interrupt.

“So do you know what you will be having tonight?”

“Slow cooked Berkshire pork chops would be amazing tonight.” I smiled at Grace reassuring her she could choose anything off the menu it was on me.

“I will have the tiger shrimp.” She smiled at the waiter who scribbled her order down and stepped away to fetch it.

I started more conversation “So your childhood sounds rough? I can’t believe you have no one who loves you, or cares. It must really be terrible.”

“Well I’m not one to complain. I try to make the best of it. I get most of my emotions onto paper. It calms me down. I mean I honestly don’t even know if I have a social insurance number, I was probably born in a barn.” She laughed at the figure of expression she used, and I did too. She was perfect.

“Well hopefully I am providing you with a fun night so far.” I said as I sipped my wine and she followed suit. “You know you can have a couple drinks. I will drop you off where you need to go. I have to drive so I think I will only have a glass or two.” I smiled as she took a long sip and laughed a bit. The waiter put our meals down in front of us, and I smiled. The conversation was over. I never talk during a meal. I want to savour every second of it, every minute. Devour it slowly. It was always like a ritual for me. So we feasted.

Before I knew it we were on the road, she was pulling my hair. It’s amazing what liquor does to females. She kissed my neck and she whispered in my ear. “Let’s go back to your place.” She giggled as she pulled away and rested her hand on my lap rubbing my thigh as she licked her lips.

I parked the car into the garage of my home. It is big it doesn’t echo, it’s perfect. I could bring anyone home, do what I want and no one will ever hear. She kissed me as I unlocked the door, and I managed to make my way up stairs to my bed room. There is no furniture in there a small TV on a black stand, a bed with black bed sheets. I kissed her and I laid her down on the bed pushing my lips to hers. She kissed my neck nibbled my ear, and my desire was growing. That animal instinct I always try to hide was growing. We kissed harder, pushed me harder. I slid my hands up her shirt feeling the soft skin on her stomach. I kissed her and made my way to her neck, I kissed it, sucked on it. I couldn’t hold it any longer. My pupils enlarged, it takes over, my mind. My twisted little mind, I sank my teeth deep into her neck. The crunching sound was satisfactory and the blood rolled down my chin and I chewed on the raw chunk of flesh that was now missing from her tiny little neck. She tried to scream, but her blood choked her. All I could think was thank god these sheets aren’t white.

“I wrote that for you. I sat up all night typing this lovely story out for you. You said you wanted to be an author.” David smiles as he flicks the light on. Across from him Grace sits in a chair, her blonde hair stained with blood. Her neck is taped, and covered in cotton to stop the bleeding. The life, the fire that was in her hazel eyes has been sucked out. She looks at him as tears’ roll down her cheeks. “Aw, c’mon baby crying isn’t going to help now is it. Look where you are? Clearly if I cared about your feelings you wouldn’t be in this position now would you?” David smiles, he doesn’t take the rope out of her mouth so she can speak. He was never much of a conversationalist while he ate …

“Yes, I will tell you why! That is what they always ask in those horror flicks before the man cuts them into little bits isn’t it?” David pauses to take a cigarette out of his pocket. He lights it with a steal lighter. Smoking was his only imperfection in his eyes. Everything else was absolutely perfect. He never made mistakes, that’s why he was such a good accountant. “You possibly wouldn’t be in this position if you hadn’t told me no one knows you exist, no one cares for you. See that is what sealed the deal here. Really it is your own fault that you are in this position. I don’t make mistakes, I am an accountant I can’t really afford to can I? No, no I cannot. See if you had of told me that you have a family who loves you . . . then I probably wouldn’t be here considering cannibalism.” Grace screams, but it is muffled by the rope in her mouth. David calmly takes a drag off his cigarette. He smiles and shakes his head at Grace who struggles and tried to escape. She isn’t going anywhere. “Look at how pathetic you are! Hell Grace you even urinated on yourself while you were passed out. Look here is the thing Grace, maybe you can’t tell, but I am rather insecure I would say. What I am going to do to you is eat you, no not sexually silly girl.” He flicks ashes over the top of her blond hair and they leave specks on the top of her head. “No, I am going to cook you, and eat you. I am going to then take your bones over several states and bury you somewhere. Arizona sounds lovely. It’s hard to trace that back to me you know. Especially if no one even knows or cares you are alive. See Grace I don’t make a mistake I am a very calculated person. I am going to get away with murder.” David laughs as he blows the smoke of his cigarette into Grace’s beautifully damaged face. He pulls a knife from his pocket “Don’t worry, It will be quick. I never play with my food.”

That night Grace was killed. David baked her in a nice chilly, made her into very delicious dishes and devoured her over time. Then he went to Arizona buried her body in the desert and drove home. David got away with murder, he killed an innocent woman. David went to work, he ate, he exercised. He continued his routine. It’s amazing how far people will go, just to get their … taste of grace.