The Maker of Mayhem
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“What the HELL is wrong with you!”
That’s what the police say to me. Not, “Hold it” or “Freeze,” but, “What the hell is wrong with you?” I can’t really blame them. I am quite an impressive sight. I stand at six feet with short blond hair and bright blue eyes. However, it is my physique that probably shocks the police the most. I am layered in muscle. Thick slabs of this tissue cover my chest, arms and legs and my stomach is a well defined six pack. Unfortunately, my definition isn’t very visible, despite being naked, because I am completely covered in blood.
Then it hits me. Their statement was in reference to all the blood. Silly me. I thought they had realized they were in the presence of greatness, but I gave them too much credit.
I hold three-foot machetes in either hand and I raise my massive arms to point them towards the ceiling. Then I shout, “I AM INVINCIBLE!” My voice is deep and the confidence is evident in each echo that reverberates around the room.
The police glance at me momentarily then their gaze returns to the room. They are policemen. Haven’t they ever seen dead bodies before? Christ, I guess I should explain. Some bastards I went to high school with were having a little party. It was mostly a beer and chip thing. The type these small-minded pricks like to hold on a weekly basis. Haven’t they any respect for their bodies? I guess not. If they did I’m sure they’d spend more time in the gym with me, and maybe it wouldn’t have been so easy for me to hack these five son-of-a-bitches up. Damn, the two girls were braver then the three guys. The ladies at least put up a fight, not that it helped them any, but the guys just shrunk into corners to cry and beg.
I bring my arms down, so they are parallel with my shoulders, and flex my massive biceps. The cops look at my huge peaks for a moment, and again, their eyes scan the room.
“Fuck! I’m a goddamned GOD! Look at me!” I scream, but they can’t take stop staring at my work. Momentarily, I wonder if Picasso ever felt this way, ya know, overshadowed by his creations. Certainly, mine are impressive. The blond girl lying on the floor to my left with both of her hands chopped off. I heard she liked to suck things, so I cut off her fingers and rammed them into her mouth. She can suck on those for all eternity.
The brown haired guy was a gutless coward, and I sliced him from pelvis to sternum causing his organs to spill onto the floor. That was a nice touch of irony if you ask me.
Then there’s the fat guy. I heard he was really into porn, and not just any kind, but the real hard core stuff. That’s why I stuffed his little, pink callused dick up his own ass and cut out his eyes. Those were two organs he used a little too much, and I’m sure they’re enjoying the rest.
The black-haired chick was extremely proud of her breasts. I can’t blame her though. They were beautiful, but I just couldn’t stand they way she flaunted them, so I chopped’em off and placed them in her hands to ensure she receives the most pleasure from them.
Finally, there was the asshole, brain-iac. This jerk got on my fucking nerves always spouting off his opinions like everyone fucking cares what he thinks. I considered force feeding him his own brain, but that would have been too cliché. Instead, I cut his ass up and stretched his colon to his mouth so he could eat his own bull shit.
I’m glad these friggin’ pigs are enjoying my work, but I think they need to show some respect to the maker of this mayhem.
Am I not right?
“Fuck it!” I scream and start to walk towards them. They raise their little pistols like I am supposed to be afraid. I am armored in muscle. What the hell is a little lead going to do to me? I eat lead. Hell, I’m made of it. Fucking fools. I’m going to enjoy chopping these pussies up.
Then they open fire. The bullets strike me in numerous places but I keep coming.
“I’m a fucking GOD!” I yell, “Bow down and kiss my motherfucking feet.”
However, they do not listen. Instead, they continue to shoot. These stupid pricks will not learn. Sure, the bullets hurt when they hit me, but the sensation lasts only a second. Then an intense cold spreads out from the wound. I assume it is my body healing, though I don’t have time to look. I’m trying to get into cutting distance of these pistol firing cream puffs.
“I lift weights!” I holler. Doesn’t that mean anything to these fools?
Then, a bullet hits me in the right kneecap and it shatters. This wound forces me to a knee. I command my leg to straighten, but it will not obey. Then another bullet slams into my left knee with similar results. Somehow, I find myself falling face first to the floor.
“This cannot be happening to me!” I tried to say, but because my jaw is destroyed it only comes out as a gurgle that is no more intimidating than a babies.
My head bounces off the floor, and finally the cops stop shooting. My right arm fortunately lands beneath me and I am able to touch my left biceps a last time. Oddly, it feels soft and weak.
If you have no questions or fears about your abilities, then you will learn nothing from your mistakes and know nothing about your limitations.