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STRESS FRACTURES

The brick seemed to swim through the air as if it were water, in a slow motion arc of intentional damage. Chipped into an irregular shape and pockmarked by time, it itself was probably once part of a building similarly vandalised by somebody of a different era who also didn’t give a flying fuck. An old shabby wreck, the incarnation of yesterdays hollow promises. Of a gleaming future soiled stinking, it eventually met with the wrecker’s ball.
Leaving this fragment that continued to glide beautiful and doomed towards the sliding glass doors of the hated office hive. Like a miniature asteroid of hostile intent it would reduce the impact zone into meaningless fragments free to be rearranged by the naughty goblins that lived in the shadows.
A ripple spread across the surface of the bland offensiveness and a fine webwork of cracks splintered the pest nest screen into crystal daggers. The sound followed after the fact of the event. The nervous, jagged tinkle of fracture lines racing towards the inevitable thunderclap accompanied by a shower of broken glass.
Before the last shard hit the floor the alarm began to wail ceaselessly. Ear bleedingly loud electronic screams echoed into the night alerting the attention of whoever was paid enough to care.
The perpetrator hurried into the building in a shuffling, almost crablike way, freaking out at his balaclava clad face staring back at him reflected from a thousand window bits on the carpet.
He stood for a moment in the waiting area underneath the deliberately intimidating and seemingly fascist inspired logo of the company, panting like a feral beast and so glad he could be here.
If this was a game show he would say to the host,
“Oh my god, I am just so glad I can be here!
It’s just that, omigod, I just thank the lord that I can be on the show tonight.”
And it felt surreal to actually be here under the cover of night wearing a balaclava and seeing all the usual fake rubber pot plants with their containers full of broken glass that looked like little diamonds.
Wiping the sweat off his brow, the perpetrator swung his bag from his shoulders and pulled out the chainsaw. With a thrill to match his first ever furtive orgasm he revved up the machine and dribbled down his chin as it thrummed against his body, its deadly teeth blurring into a mirage of destruction.
No longer able to distinguish between tears, laughter or anguish he smashed the aggravated power tool into the tasteful furniture, woodchips flying into his eyes and getting stuck into the wool of his balaclava. In his manic enthusiasm he would sometimes cut through the corporate brutalist carpet beneath the chairs and desks and into the floor below, the saw squealing in protest.
Finshed now with the furniture, the perpetrator set about turning the fake rubber pot plants into fake rubber mulch. The ceramic pots proved no match for the combination of steel and toxic flammable gas and soon he had been forced to move on to the printers and computer terminals which didn’t prove anywhere near as satisfying as the wooden things.
Somewhere in the distance, jamming with the din created by the wailing alarm and the hungry chainsaw was the insistent and ominous whine of a police siren.
The perpetrator listened as the sirens grew louder and watched with morbid intent the relentless blade of his saw, picturing himself just raising the thing to his own throat before the pigs could get here. He extended a finger to the roaring teeth of metal and the blood that jettisoned from his digit was as red as the pain that reared up behind his adrenalin curtain.
No, he thought, why cut myself with rusty snip when I can bait the cops and make them all pay. When the shots ring out I shall simply say dance puppets, dance.
The police siren blended into the white hot metal scrape of brakes and the pungent screech of burning tyres. A patrol car hurtled around the corner and smashed into the curb, coming to a broken rest outside the ransacked office, all of which was bound to ensure that the occupants would be of a homicidal frame of mind.
Sure enough the armed robot thugs burst forth from the vehicular carcass like errant sperm and drew their weapons, yelling such popular law enforcement slogans as;
“Freeze punk!”
“Put your hands in the air motherfucker!”
“Don’t move creep or I’ll smoke your ass!”
“Get on the fucking floor scumbag!”
And with that raw meat display of ape aggression fulfilled the perpetrator simply began to strip off his clothes with the frantic haste of the condemned, finally stripping completely nude apart from the essential balaclava.
Grabbing his member in his hand, he began to sing.
“Born free, as free as the wind blows
As free as the grass grows….”
And the shots rang out into the night.



------

It's all fun and games until somebody loses an eye


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The following comments are for "Stress Fractures (NC-17 Naughty words and bad behaviour)"
by Lorax





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