The Crocotta, part two

It was almost a year ago, eight months to be exact, when Maria Ashland went missing sometime between the hours of eight and midnight on February nineteenth. Her and her family were camping in the woods behind their house as a celebration for their little girls 7th birthday, her parents said she loved the outdoors. Her parents told her she could spend the night in the tent alone if she really wanted, what harm could it do to spend one night alone. They when they went to check on their daughter at midnight, they found her tent empty, absolutely empty. None of her food, her clothes, not even her sleeping bag was there. Days later, the police found the contents of the tent shredded and scattered three miles into the forest, no trace of little Maria was found. It was all over the news and after three months the family moved away. The story had only recently fizzled out of local media, the authorities just said that there was no use searching for what wasn't there. I don't know how I could have forgotten about that, it wasn't that long ago, so theres no way it could be that little girl down the street. Yet, sure as I'm standing there, I hear the voice one more time.
"Help me..."
I know thats a childs voice, out there somewhere in the forest. There aren't too many children in this area, just those stupid god damned teens and their drugs, shooting up at all hours of the night, screaming and laughing deep in the forest. When you see them on the streets they look just like anyone else, just like any normal teenager who goes to a normal high school. They're such nice kids during the day, they mow their parents lawns, do their homework, shoot hoops or play street hockey in the cul-de-sac. But late at night, when everyone is trying to sleep, they sneak out of bed and into the woods, deep in the woods where they do their drugs and crack dirty jokes, they spend the night laughing away and screaming in tongues, probably hallucinating. That must be whats going on, why else is there so much screaming, so much laughing so late at night. Thats gotta be the explanation, thats what I tell myself.
"Help me..."
I should stop wasting time, stop reminiscing about whatever, I've got a little girl to find, she's probably cold and scared out there.

To Be Continued

The Crocotta, part one

I could have been dreaming, I could have been crazy, hell I could have even still been drunk from the night before, but whatever I was, it doesn't change the fact that I heard it. I heard it clear as day, clear enough to have been right in front of me when it woke me up that chilly September night. Those two words still ring in my ear, those two words from the voice of a child.
"Help me..."
I awoke with a start from no dream in particular, whatever it was it ended with that voice. At first, I couldn't tell if I had even really heard it at all, let alone where it came from. For a moment that felt like hours I stared up at the white ceiling of my bedroom, you never notice what color your ceiling is until you wake up in the middle of the night and don't want to know what time it is. I wondered for a moment if that cry for help was the end of my dream, the only part of my dreams I can ever really remember, but that theory was shattered quickly when the sound came again, clearer than before, but not nearly as close.
"Help me..."
I sat up with a start, looking at the clock right across on my bureau; 12:23, I hadn't even gotten half a nights sleep yet, hadn't even been home for two hours, but I knew automatically what 12:23 meant. 12:23 meant I had been jobless for the last five hours and twenty three minutes. 12:23 meant I had been single for the last four hours and sixteen minutes. 12:23 meant I wasn't going to be getting any more sleep tonight, on top of a really shitty day yesterday I was going to be a zombie all day today. I guess when it rains it pours. The sound brought me sharply back into focus, why I was awake in the first place.
"Help me..."
Thats three times now, and I really hear it this time. Its a little girls voice, couldn't be more than five or six, probably that kid from down the street. The carpet is soft under my feet. She probably snuck out of bed to chase fireflies and got lost in that woods that surrounds the neighborhood, I always thought that place was dangerous, with those damn teenagers sneaking into there every night to shoot up drugs. The kitchen floor is cold and hard, a stark contrast. That sweet little girl probably got her foot stuck on a root, the poor kid. I ought to get out there and-
"Help me..."
I fumble around a drawer for a flashlight while pulling on that old football jersey, too cold to go outside without one. Found it, damn thing always rolls to the back when i'm not using it. I walk to the door and all I can think of is that poor little girl, cold and alone, stuck in the woods. Then I think, didn't that family move away? They couldn't have, I'm hearing their kid right now, I can hear her voice as clear as day.
"Help me..."
Then I remember; didn't they move away after their poor, sweet little girl went missing?

To Be Continued

Ain't Got Much But Nothin; a song

Ain’t got me no viable skill
I got me a mouth and a brain fulla pills
Ain’t got work ethic no way
I only got ethic to get up and play, nothin
Ain’t got much but nothin
Ain’t got much but nothin, and that just suits me fine

Ain’t got me no fancy clothes
Least I ain’t shabby like the ol’ hobos
Ain’t got me no pocket fulla twenties
But what I got, I got it plenty, nothin
Ain’t got much but nothin
Ain’t got much but nothin, So ain’t got nothin on the line

Ain’t got rythym, ain’t got rhyme
But s’long as I’m up here and you got the time
Ain’t got work and ain’t got no play
And you say you ain’t got the time of day for me
Ain’t got nothin for me
Ain’t got much but nothin, and ya got no nothin for me

Ain’t got respect but I’m positive
That I can’t get what I don’t give
Ain’t born with no silver spoon
Ain’t even got me a word that rhymes, I got nothing
Ain’t got much but nothing
Ain’t got much but nothing,  and nothin don’t come free

The Whole Town is Made of Death; a poem

Its four in the morning, and the whole town is made of death
Nobody rides the street in cars
Except for cops working the graveyard shift
Just looking out for that one dead ringer
I ride the street on my vehicle of choice
My shiny new Razor Scooter
Such a smooth ride, a smooth glide
Smoother than satin falling through the air
Both move too much like a ghost, gliding gently
Never really touching
More like existing
And I glide over the ground, the ghost in this town
Its four in the morning, and this whole town  is made of death
Shops and houses shut up and uninviting
Empty windows might aswell be black brick walls
The streetlights cast an inch of makeup on the houses, those corpses
Just like the corpses in pine boxes, no matter how well done up you are
You can see it in the eyes, you can see the lights ain’t on
Nobodys home and nobody’s coming out, not while you’re around
I’m here to pay my respects to this funeral home, I’m not here to shop
Not at four in the morning, when the whole town is made of death.
These roads are rickety, bumpy as all hell
But that’s ok, according to my salesman
My salesman explained that my Razor Scooter is brand new
Wheels so big, they’ll have me saying ‘What Bumps?’
Big wheels like novicane, I’ll never feel a thing
Trouble with novicane, you still hear it all
Every bump takes on a place in some ungodly rythym
Badup. Badup. Badup. Badup.
Like a dentist with a sledgehammer, with all that novicane
I never feel a thing
Untill my pants get caught in the fancy new spring loaded breaks
The back wheel jams and I go flying, catapulted by the one moving wheel in front
The novicane wears off when I land palms first, knees next
Land right on those rickety bumps, how humiliating
Good thing its four in the morning, and the whole town is made of death
Everyone is dead now, or might aswell be
Everybody has slipped into a coma
Some are haucinating pretty hard
Good thing the doctor says that an 8 hour coma is normal
I wish I could slip off like that, into my coma
I wish I wasn’t sprawled on the ground in the middle of a bridge
So close to the edge of town
To the last building alive and so close to feeding my insomnia
No coma for me please, I have my Red Bull fix
But without my coma, without my halucinations, what have I got?
I’ve got nothing, nothing but a fistfull of words and a head full of paper
Nothing but the cops who drew the short straw and wound up watching
Nothing but  untouchable smoothness, tantazlizing like a condom for a Ken Doll
Nothing but the comas patients in the corpse skulls
Nothing but four in the morning, when the whole town is made of death.

Corporal's opinion.

"Cloud Gaming", such as services like OnLive are the future, and in this future 60% of our country shall be inhabited by server farms. That being said, it's worth it. OnLive is fucking amazing, give it a try, sign up to try and win a free year, it's worth it. I got one for signing on within hours of the project being announced, maybe you can get lucky and get one too.

That is all.

Seriously, fuckin' with the Corporal?

Well, today shaped up to be interesting. As my father and I were coming back from dropping my girlfriend off at home, we took Pine St. back, which happens to be the street on which my employer is located (as my only regular reader knows). As we drove by the front entrance of where I work, a seemingly homeless, or at least just really stupid man decides to just stand there in the middle of the street. We quite obviously stopped, and then he walks besides the car and yells at us that there is such a thing as a crosswalk. I was actually surprised he knew this since he was ten feet away from standing on it as he crossed the street. We were not ones to let this fly so we yell back at him the usual obscenities and thought that would be that. 

This man though, was not content to let his idiocy stop there. Our unnamed incarnation of douchebaggery decided to walk back up to the car and continue is ranting and raving. My dad decided to get out of the car and I did as well as a precautionary measure. The guy constantly yells in my dad's face, and my dad laughs him off and insults him, never one to not have fun I joined in and made fun of the man. His response is to try and get in my face, mind you I have maybe 150 pounds on this guy and am about a good foot taller too. Our friend here didn't think that was anything of consequence though, and repeatedly used the only insults he had (I'm fat, I have a Hawaiian shirt on so I must be Don Ho, and apparently I am smaller than him). I can only take a person yelling in my face for so long, and he cleverly points out that I am starting to shake. My retort to this mind-expanding information is "Yes, I am shaking, because I am trying to resist killing you where you stand." It was then his turn to try and laugh, well until I move even closer, look him in the eye and say, "I'm not fucking around, you won't leave here". At this, my dad tells me to get in the car and I do, leaving the man there to know that he left with his life this time.

Now, you may be asking, why didn't I lay him out there and then? Well, I work in a public building, and he looks like the type who may frequent it often, so why not wait until another day where I can kick his sorry ass for 7.52 an hour? That, and the odd conversation that would follow tomorrow...

"Hi, what did you do this weekend?"

"Well you see the blood stains out on the curb outside?"

"Yes?"

"There you go."

Also, and not very surprisingly, most of my coworkers would not be surprised by this.

I Lied, Today is a True Story

Today, after work, I went to see "Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time"

Finish story tomorrow ASAP,