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FYI, normally I like to pretend my stories are perfect, but this one is really fething weird. It's free writing. The beginning was inspired by me seeing the end of an "I didn't know I was pregnant" episode while channel skimming. So yeah, this is really weird, and creepy. I dunno why I wrote it, I'll probably delete it like most of my freewriting. And this comment up here is probably discouraging away any possible readers.

I am a toilet baby.

I was conceived on the planet XIS9 by a manufactorum worker and her sleazy, welfare cheating coworker. When my mother became pregnant, she initially assumed she was just gaining weight. As a male, I can only guess at how being pregnant feels, but I imagine that I'd be somewhat difficult to not realize it. Yet she managed to. Eventually her water broke and she somehow decided that she had just wet herself. She went into labor and, assuming that it was just a stomach ache, she sat down on the toilet and read Imperial Parchments to pass the time. I came into the world with a bloody triumphant splash into a rusty toilet bowl.

"What do you think happened to Paul?" says Dave, three lho sticks crammed into his throat port. He was a chain smoker before contracting a deadly variety of throat cancer. Now he can only smoke through a small, scarred hole in his throat. His question snaps me back into reality.

I'm standing next to him, try to light up my own lho stick with my ink stained hands and broken lighter. I'm almost exactly a minute into my smoke break, so I'm lounging against the manufactorum walls with the other workers. "He's probably dead," I say.

Nik gives me a nasty glance and says, "What the feth are you talking about?" He's a frail man at a height of about five foot six that takes offense to everything. Despite being only twenty six, he looks quite old; a fire damaged his face quite badly. It was caused when the janitor accidentally pulled the fire alarm. The janitor panicked; you can be fired for an offense like that. So, being the quick thinking man that he was, he started an actual fire to give himself an excuse. Unfortunately for him, he was caught by poor quality surveillance tapes. I have no clue how they identified him; his head was maybe six or seven blurry pixels. Maybe he didn't even start it and they just needed a scapegoat. "That isn't funny you know."

"I wasn't trying to be funny. I was only saying it because three days ago I saw him on the way home from work, so I picked up a rock and I hit him over the head. I dragged him home, cut him into several small pieces, and ate him to hide the evidence. In fact, I'm actually wearing the clothes he died in today."

"What the feth is wrong with you?" Nik says.

"Obviously I washed them before putting them on. And I bleached all the blood out too. That's why there are all the faded spots around the back of the uniform; he was bleeding from the back of his head."

"I know you're trying to be funny, but that's just weird," Dave says, shoving a fourth lho stick into his throat. He has a hard time talking now. "Will you just shut up?"

"Why would it be funny that I killed Paul?"

"It isn't funny!" shouts Nik. "Now shut up. Alright, changing the subject, I scored with the hottest babes this weekend. One of them had a rack you would not believe. Both were easily 10's." I throw open the manufactorum door and step back inside, tossing my unlit lho stick into a nearby rubbish bin. It's dim, smoky interior contrasts sharply with the outside world. The whirring of conveyor belts, clanking of machinery and grunting of workers makes it impossible to think. I go over to my own conveyor belt and yank on a lever to start it up. With a horrible, mechanical roar that gives the impression that its about to explode, the belt starts pumping out boxes.

I pull out my 'Aquilia' stamper and stamp as hard as I can on the first box to pass me by. And I stamp on the second box. Then the third box. I will continue stamping on boxes until my next smoke break. Each box contains a vox-corder, which is a small piece of machinery that connects the antenna to the main vox unit. In order to be shipped out, it needs to have the 'Aquilia' on it. I once asked my boss why. He told me this:

"Now listen up... er, what's your name? Yes, I know your name is Jax. Don't interrupt me, Jax. Are you going to listen to me? Good. Alright, so here's why. If it doesn't have an 'Aquilia' on it, it can't be shipped. I thought you said you only had one question. Alright, it can't be shipped without the 'Aquilia' because if it doesn't have it, it means that it wasn't stamped. And it needs to stamped because otherwise it can't be shipped. What are you talking about now? Listen, you said you wouldn't interrupt me. Listen. Look, if we didn't stamp the boxes then you wouldn't have a job, okay? Alright, now get back to work. Your belt needs to be in operation for at least seven and a half hours per day, Gax. Yes, I know your name is Jax. That's what I said."

So I obediently stamp the boxes like a good little boy. Whenever my stamper runs low on ink I stamp it on the ink pad. Whenever the ink pad runs out of ink I toss it into the nearby rubbish bin and pull out a new one from my drawer. Then, an hour after the smoke break ended, the rubbish bin is overflowing with empty ink pads. I pull the lever to stop the belt, so that I can empty the bin.

The belt is wound around a row of mechanical rollers attached to the wall. When the rollers turn, they push the belt forward. Its a simple mechanism. Each roller is covered in tiny studs so that when it stops the belt is held still. When I pull the level, every roller stops except a patch of middle ones. They keep pulling forward, stretching out the belt and creating a massive hump. I push the lever back to the 'move belt' setting and then yank it back to the 'stop belt' setting again. Those few rollers are still moving.

I walk over to those rollers and try to grab one with my hand. Stupid idea. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Flesh tears and bone snaps. My hand is sent flying away by the roller, trailing blood. I clutch the gory stump at the end of my wrist, screaming like a mad man. Stumbling back, I slip on a puddle of blood. My head hits the floor and I black out but not before hearing the dreadful flushing of an old, rusted toilet. I scream.

Yo, this is an instance of bizarre free writing that I'll probably continue at some point. The title will be explained eventually. FYI, this is not my usual writing style. For an instance of my usual style, see The Foxhole.

Well.. That was odd, Still read and enjoyed it though. Seems i'm not the only one who has posted a non-actioney piece today.

I got conflicted feeling over this. On one part I liked it, on the other something just didn't sit right with me dunno...either way if you continue on the piece I will read it.

"really fething weird" doesn't even begin to describe this piece. Yet somehow, I want to keep reading it. Maybe it's because it's so peculiar, and somewhat disturbing? Anywho, I would love it if you do in fact continue.

I've become one with the Emperor and ascended to the Golden Throne, where I might live in happiness for all eternity.

The Golden Throne reminds me of a subpar amusement park with garbage littered floors, bustling crowds of angry people and extremely bright lights that pain the eye. One of the Throne's many tech priest maintainers approaches me; he's lacking in cybernetic implants and he's actually quite handsome with his short cropped black hair, bright blue eyes and sharp jawline. The tech priest is dressed in a white lab coat stained with blood and vomit, detracting somewhat from his appearance.

"Do you know where you are?" he asks. His voice is the beautiful choir of a thousand Holy Angels.

"I'm with the Emperor," I say. "He forgave me." I'm tearing up now. "He forgave me. Even though I forgot to pray a lot and I killed Paul and those two other guys, he forgave me!"

"Uhhh..." His seraphic baritone voice is haunting. I start singing along with him. "Uhhhhhh!" He stops singing and just stares at me. "You aren't dead and you haven't become one with the Emperor. This is XIS9 General Hospital Three Emergency Care Unit Two. You cut your hand off or something and one of your friends I guess dumped you off here."

"The Emperor didn't forgive me?" Imagine your psych is a fragile vase. Now imagine it's been soaked in water and placed in a freezer for twelve hours. Then, its removed from the freezer and dropped from a twelve story building and shot repeatedly with a lascannon on the way down. The blackened shards are melted down into bolts and these bolts are shot into a volcano. Immediately afterwards the volcano is obliterated by an Exterminatus Order. There will be literally no trace of your psych left. For all intents and purposes, its as if it was never there. "No." That's all I have the strength to say.

"Now, onto your payments. You had twelve credits in your account at the time of your accident. You're being billed sixteen thousand credits for the emergency blood transfusions, stitching, bandaging, emergency corrective bandage surgery and a one day stay here. And your hand is gone," he says. "Since you came in here twenty four hours ago, it's probably gone bad by now. So, umm, you might want to talk to the bank about your overdrawn account. And you might want to get a new hand."

"I should've kept Paul's hand."

"Yeah, okay. Alright, I need to see another patient. Goodbye, Mister.... huh, all we have is your first name. Goodbye Mister Jax, I guess."





The diseased clouds make it look like someone puked all over the sky. Sixteen hundred years of rampant industrialization and deforestation can do that to a place. Thankfully it's not raining today. When it rains we're drenched in burning acid and liquid feces that the clouds have somehow managed to collect. Slowly but surely the infrastructure of the city is melting away. The roofs of buildings look like water warped tilewood. Stainless steel weather umbrellas are the latest trend for the upper class.

The outside of the hospital is just as crowded, mainly by lots of bleeding and puking people screaming at doctors. One grasps at my (Paul's old) work uniform and gurgles something incomprehensible. It's probably hard for him to speak with a mouth full of bleeding gums and missing teeth. I push him back proceed to the parking lot. A hover limo is waiting for me. It costs 499.99 credits, but I don't care. I'm already sixteen thousand something overdrawn; it can't get any worse.

I throw open its back door with my remaining hand and slip inside. "Yo," I say to the driver. "Take me to 1839 North South West Albany Terrace. And make it speedy."

"Absolutely boss," he says. The limo screeches off the ground and suddenly I'm soaring a quarter mile above the city. I open the dark tinted, one way mirror window at my side and start vomiting through it. "You okay?"

"I confessed to murdering a man and no one cares. I cut off my hand and no one cares. I tried to gas everyone in my house to death and no one cares," I answer. "So no, I'm not okay. I'm not even sure if I exist anymore."

"I know the feel, bro. Yesterday I stepped in dogshit on my way to work."

"What do you think would happen if I just reached over there and slit your throat?"

"I'd kick your stupid ass."

I burst out laughing. My laughter degenerates into the cackling of a madman. I try to stop because I look crazy, but I can't. I'm still fething laughing. Humor has been classified by Magos Biologists as a 'form of pleasant surprise generating an abnormal result in the upper cranium'. This isn't pleasant or surprising, but its still hilarious. Now my throat hurts. I can't breath. And I'm still laughing. I'm going to die from laughter. Then the limo swerves. Humor is replaced by nausea. I'm vomiting again. Thank the Emperor.

"You can't kick my ass if its not there," I say, wiping flecks of vomit from my mouth. "You know, I have no intention of paying you."

A situation somewhat similar to this resulted in my first murder. A friend (Paul) told me to wear a rubber band on my wrist that I can snap it whenever I'm going to murder someone. I lost the rubber band along with my right hand yesterday. I reached over and put the driver in a head lock with my handless arm against his head rest. He grabs at my bicep, trying to pry my arm back. I reach forward with my other hand and gouge his left eye with my thumb. It crushes in, squeezing out a thick jam of gore. He screams in pure agony and the limo swerves.

My work is done. Rearing towards the back of the limo, I swing open the door and fling myself out the side. It occurs to me that I'm hundreds of feet in the air and I'm most likely going to hit hard concrete, so I go into a roll to lessen the impact. I immediately hit the roof of an old, abandoned office complex. Acid damaged concrete caves in and I'm in free fall again. I hit the ground hard and a piece of falling concrete hits my back even harder. A distant explosion resonates; the limo is gone now.

I stand up, shaking the dust off and straightening out my uniform. The odds of me surviving that so unscathed were at least a hundred to one, probably more. Either that didn't happen or the Emperor is looking after me. Either way, I guess I'm walking home now.

Good god man, this was special. I must admidt found myself laugfhing while I read this. Anyhow great work man

Thank you for the comments, they are much appreciated.

I live in the most luxurious mansion you could imagine. To put this in perspective, it has eight bathrooms, seven bedrooms, three kitchens, three garages, three living rooms, a grand dining hall, a normal dining hall and a labyrinth series of hallways that you couldn't believe. You may ask how a crippled, indebted manufactorum worker could afford such a place. The answer is very simple; I can't.

Its owned by Lord Commander Sir Charles Luxberg-Numerheigen the 2nd. He was an Imperial Guardsmen who worked his way up to the top, becoming a highly successful Lord Commander. With his prestigious position came great political power, which he used to ensure that he could peacefully retire on XIS9. Two years into his retirement, an anarchist attempted to assassinate him. Though Lord Commander Sir Charles Luxberg-Numerheigen the 2nd survived, he was technically brain dead for seventeen minutes and didn't come out unscathed. He's quite senile now, easily manipulated.

He always leaves one of the many back doors unlocked, because he's not sure its there. I always sneak in through it after work and hide from him, occasionally raiding a pantry or two for snacks. Whenever he sees me, I pretend to be a ghost. The good Sir Charles usually starts sobbing and screaming that, "THIS WASN'T PART OF THE DEAL" and runs away. Then I can continue whatever I'm doing in peace.

But not anymore.

As I step in through the door, I see myself sitting at the head of a mahogany dining table. He's dressed in regal finery, completely with judicial robes and a peaked hat adorned with the aquilia of the Imperium (I believe that sort of hat is known as a 'commissar cap'). His eyes are hidden behind a pair of reflective aviator sun glasses. "I'm here to deliver a message," he says. This is peculiar. "You're court date is in a week, at this exact location. Your moral compass is charging you with crimes against humanity."

"Am I under arrest?" I ask.

"No, because you're putting yourself on trial. If we arrested you we'd have to arrest the prosecutor, defense attorney, jury, judge, bailiff and all the key witnesses as well. That's too much work. Besides, its not like you could run away from yourself to avoid the trial."

He disappears in a blinding flash of incandescent light. I collapse into a nearby chair and fall limp. Tears are streaming down my face, but I don't feel like I'm crying. I run a hand through my hair, sighing, and think. I need to find a way out of this, but there isn't one. I can't escape the trial, because I'm putting myself on trial. No matter where I go, they'll find me because they are me. To escape from them I'd have to escape from myself.





"Hey Dave, Nik. How you guys doing?" I have a new found sociopathic confidence. It comes with my resolve towards the drastic decision I'm about to make.

"Pretty good," says Dave. Nik is too busy trying to light up a lho stick to speak to me. "You?"

"Same. Besides losing my hand..." I gesture at him with my oozing, poorly stitched stump. He gags in disgust. "...I'm pretty good. I take it everything ran smoothly while I was gone."

"Yep. Carlson had to cover for you. He practically had a heart attack, trying to man two belts."

"I'll have to thank him later." This conversation is meaningless. My window of opportunity is closing by a minute every minute. "Dave, didn't you say your brother runs a business selling explosives?"

"Who told you that?" Every muscle in his body tenses up. Sweat begins to accumulate around his brow. He's staring at me with wide, shifty eyes. Reminds me of Paul. A little known fact is that people usually never use more than one third of their full strength. They can only unlock all three thirds when their 'fight or flight' instinct activates. There's a famous story about a man who lifted a one ton boulder off himself. That's how he did it. Right now Dave looks like he's on the verge of unlocking his full strength. Good for him.

"You did, at the company party. You were completely plastered and when Henderson told you that, you threatened to have your brother blow him up. And then you started rambling about how in one day he sells enough explosives to take out the entire planet."

"Holy gak." I think he might've just gakked himself.

"Relax Dave. I'm just looking to buy some. Enough to..." I glance behind me to make sure no one's listening. Nik's staring at us, but I don't really care. "....blow up a large mansion. I can pay up to twenty thousand credits."

"Uhh... okay..."

"Maybe you could give me his phonar number, so that I could call him."





On the bus a man walks straight into me. I stumble to the side and he brushes straight past me, without even acknowledging my existence. He looks almost exactly like me; beady eyes, greasy hair, tiny nose, dirty workman's uniform. He reeks of unfulfilled promises and ended lives. The hunt is on.

This is a precautionary measure. If I don't exist (as this man's ignorance of my presence implied), then I won't be able to blow myself up and if I can't blow myself up then I can't avoid the trial. The only surefire way to prove that I'm real is to destroy something else that's real.

I sit down next to him. The seat is grimy, like the rest of the bus. It creaks under my weight (and I don't even weigh that much). Avoiding eye contact with the man, I remove a lho stick from the pack inside my jacket and a lighter from my pocket. The lighter still isn't working. I toss the stick to the side and put the lighter back in my pocket. The bus doesn't have an air conditioning unit. Air has begun to waft with heat distortion. I'm sweating profusely.

We reach my stop, but I'm not going to get off until he does. This bus is spiraling into my own private hell. Everyone else is sweating now and it reeks. Paul's soaking uniform stick to my skin. My new found nemesis retrieves an egg salad sandwich from a paper bag and starts gorging himself. Someone rings the bell and the bus jolts to a stop. I slam against the seat in front of me. Blood is gushing from my crumpled nose.

Existence doesn't matter anymore.

"I need to get off the bus!"

I leap from my seat and make a run for the door. With the push of a button, the bus driver closes it. Why? I punch through the front wind shield with my hand. Cheap glass shatters easily. Imperial Public transit funding has literally entered negative numbers now, forcing bus drivers to make all sorts of cut backs. Before anyone can react, I clamber through the empty wind shield and fall in front of the bus. The tires are coming at me, like the rollers

I scramble onto the side walk. I guess I'm walking home now.

This is incredibly weird I like it!!

Man, this gets better and better by the minute. Lictor, I'd say you have managed to describe the grim-darkness of even the mundane life of a manufactorum worker, where no matter what you do, no one, not even the Chaos Gods, seem to care what you do.

I find myself wandering through the desolate slums of XIS9. Here I find an excellent view of the rusted, sagging sky line that should've crumbled away long ago. Disheveled homeless litter the streets like discarded candy wrappers; they're the garbage of the society, a byproduct of its rampant industrialization. For there to be rich, there need to be poor. Predators need prey.

Stepping over a puddle of stinking vomit, I glance into an alleyway. An Arbite is lying face down in the dirty, the joints of his carapace armor shattered. He looks like a beetle that someone's stomped on. A ganger towers over him, beating him savagely with a crow bar. The ganger has a hunched posture and a slanted, canine face. He might as well be frothing at the mouth. The Arbite is begging for mercy.

I casually approach, whistling a merry tune from my childhood. Reaching down, I snatch up a rock and weigh it in my hands. It seems heavy enough. My footsteps are echoing throughout the alley, but the ganger doesn't seem to notice. This ganger seems real enough. Though I couldn't kill my nemesis on the bus, I might be able to kill this guy.

I toss the rock with all my strength. It beans him in the back of the head with a satisfying thwack. Blood seeps from sundered flesh. He swivels towards me and swings at my head, putting his momentum into the blow. Raising my arm, I catch the crowbar mid-swing. Before he can react I knee him in the crotch and elbow his slanted face. The ganger stumbles back and I use that opportunity to snatch the crowbar from him.

He sees what's coming and crosses his arms in front of his face. Stupid of him. I hit him right in the gut. The pain shocks him, like being doused in cold water. His guard drops and I nail him right in the face. Blood is squeezed out as his nose crumples like a tin can. He spits out a broken tooth and swings at my gut. I intercept the swing with the crowbar, snapping his wrist. Its impressive that he's still fighting. I hit his face again, this time going for the upper jaw. Bloody spit is trickling from his half opened mouth. A quick jab to the throat leaves him gasping for air.

A second knee to the crotch forces him back against the wall. He's cornered at the end of the alley. By now he should have unlocked his full strength. That won't make a difference though. He's too injured to win. Besides, I have the Emperor on my side. I strike his shin and he slumps to his hands and knee.

"Why were you beating this kind Arbite here?" I roll him over with my foot. Instead of answering he laughs, blood still streaming from his mouth. I raise the crowbar threateningly. "Why?"

"Because... people.... they're lives are meaningless. We spend all our time following a script of our imagination. It takes something.... unexpected to help them break free...."

Gesturing out of the alley, I say, "Get lost you piece of gangershit."

Still laughing, he forces himself up and shambles away. I've given him a beating he'll never fully recover from. If his stupid arse theory is true, then I've helped to free him from his own script. He should thank me. Turning towards the Arbite, I ask, "Are you okay?"

A long, boring conversation followed where he thanked me for saving his life and I told me if I ever applied for a job as an Arbite he'd give me a recommendation. He said that they needed people like me on the job. I just nodded and smiled like I was on a date or something. The only reason I 'saved' that stupid arse Arbite (Considering he was equipped with carapace armor and a power maul, he should've been able to handle himself) was because I was in an especially venomous mood and decided to kill someone. Yeah, yeah yeah, I get it, I'm a goddamned hero, now will you shut up?






"Yo, this is Jax, I'm a friend of Dave Coppermouth, your brother. I'm looking to purchase some explosives."

"Wha?"

"Don't play dumb. I want bombs and no, I'm not part of the Inquisition. You're a fething small fish in a big pond to an organization like this. Now, what are you selling?"

"Wha?"

"This is 188-191-9573 right?"

"No, this 188-199-9573."

"Apologies. I'll hang up now."

That was embarrassing.

"Yo this is Jax, I'm a friend of Dave Coppermouth, your brother. I'm looking to purchase some explosions, I mean explosives."

"It doesn't work that way."

"Yeah, it does. Alright, I want enough explosive stuff to blow up a large mansion. My address is 1839 North South West Albany Terrace."

"I'm going to ship you over a container containing a cocktail of promethium, nitroglycerin, napalm and gunpowder. I'll contain enough to blow up a city block. Later I'll contact you for payment."

"Coolio. So, you'll send it right?"

"Yeah, but be careful with it. Listen, if you so much as shake it, the damn thing will go off."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah."

"You'll be careful?"

"Absolutely."

"I don't want you to go and blow yourself up, because then you won't pay."

"You're patronizing me."

"Okay, I'm sending it. Ga-bye."

"I confessed to murdering a man and no one cares. I cut off my hand and no one cares. I tried to gas everyone in my house to death and no one cares," I answer. "So no, I'm not okay. I'm not even sure if I exist anymore."

"I know the feel, bro. Yesterday I stepped in dogshit on my way to work."

Lictor I just choked on a microwave burrito when I read this. This is seriously one of the most hilarious lines I've read. Then I read again and realized it also doubles as a sardonic comment on a sad situation, how the driver doesn't even listen to him. No one really does when they ask how you're doing.

This story is bizarre, as others have said, but that's why I like it. It's black and oddly funny. Keep it up.

Yo, final entry. I'm well aware this story is fethed up and I've probably alienated all of my readers with the latest part, but to help bulk up my post count and in case there's a single reader left, I'm posting this last entry. Its kinda really, really, really violent I guess. So if you're below the age of (let's say) six, don't read this.

I applied for the job because seeing my old conveyor belt was starting to inspire vivid flashbacks to when my hand was torn off. The only reason I even need a job is to occupy my time; the more freetime I have, the worse stuff I do. I start killing people and talking to myself and starting fires and beating gangers and ordering bombs. Its not healthy.

Being the Arbites, they chose to put me through the most rigorous screening process possible. First an Interrogator had me sit down on an undersized chair inside a poor lit cell, where he asked a variety of questions. I figured out very quickly the correct answer to every question is, "I am not a heretic." Afterwards a psyker was brought in to violate me mind thoroughly. Five minutes into my psychic screen he grew bored and told me that I probably wasn't a heretic. I shouted at him that he doesn't even know me and he laughed. The final screening process was a medical one; a doctor shoved a tube up my arse and took a look around inside. After seeing no signs of me being heretical in there, he approved me.

I was given a variety of papers to sign, forms to fill and requests to accept or decline. The great bureaucracy of the Imperium is unimaginably vast, to the point where planets are sometimes forgotten about or destroyed by accident. Halfway through I started signing forms with names like 'Marneus Calgar' or 'Ezekyle Abaddon'. They take hundreds of years to be filed; by the time they'll reach Terra, I'll be dead. Why should I care what they say? Maybe in a hundred years some Inquisitor will be investigating why Abaddon the Despoiler is applying for a Class Action B139 Paper which will allow him to petition for his name to be installed in Data Base Sector 4 Particle 4 so that he might be able to purchase a standard Mark M7 or M8 Shoulder Guard Trim Design. I imagine a classy guy like Abaddon would go for the M8.

Next I was taken to a shooting range to test my accuracy. If you don't have an accuracy of at least 71.98 (I don't know what the numbers mean because no one does) then you get a desk job. I put the gun against the Range Instructor's forehead and made him fill out a form saying I had the required accuracy; I passed the shooting range without firing a single shot. Life is easy if you're assertive enough.

But that's not all. There were more hoops to clear. I need to demonstrate 'proper melee aptitude' in the melee training cages. They gave me and an instructor deactivated power mauls and had us fight. If I only lost against the Instructor by a little bit they'd let me in. I killed the instructor. They pretended he wasn't dead because that would require a ludicrous amount of paperwork and a thorough investigation. That's how I became an Arbite. I still don't believe it. A heretical, one handed serial killer with a bad attitude and a reeking body order bluffed his way past a professional Interrogator, a psyker, hundreds of bureaucrats and investigators and doctors and became a full fledged Arbite.





I came in through the back door and was promptly hit on the back of the head very hard. I felt the impact ripple through my skull. My eyes were almost dislodged from their sockets. I'm certain I lost a few teeth. Probably cracked my skull open too. Then someone, in my voice, said, "Today's the day of the trial." gak. I was so busy obsessing over it that I had forgotten about it. "Unfortunately, the judge suffered a most grievous stroke upon inhaling the sickly scent of an egg salad sandwhich. He was technically brain dead for seventeen years. As a result, he may be a tad fritzy."

I awoke in a courtroom built from mirrors. The entire thing was impossible; the angles were wrong and the geometry didn't make sense. There were right angles that weren't ninety degrees and seven sided rectangular podiums. The walls didn't meet up properly at the ceiling and the ceiling itself was a pentagon built from entirely acute angles. Even worse, mirrors reflected mirrors, making corridors seem to stretch on forever and ensuring that navigation throughout it was impossible.

The jury box contained six of my childhood icons. I saw the Emperor, standing majestically with his brilliant golden armor and flaming sword. His face was so beautiful that it hurt to look upon. At his side was the teenage delinquent Jeffery, whom I'd looked up to as a God when I was ten. Bobo the Bear, an old raggedy stuffed bear occupied the seat next to Jeffery. Above the Emperor was Avalanche Max, the fast driving kick fighting dare devil with his signature leather jacket and slicked back hair. The last two jurors were Nevil the talking Cartoon Giraffe and Reboute Gulliman in his ultramarine blue armor.

At the forefront of the insane courtroom was a giant podium, towering thousands of feet above myself. A shadowy figure with reflective sunglasses and a flowing trenchcoat approached. "Order, order!" he bellowed. His voice was a symphony of sobbing voices and shrieking souls. "We stand here for the trial of one Jax, accused by the good prosecutor, Sir Moral Compass, or disobeying his morale compass. All rise for the inaudible anthem." The anthem was hardly inaudible. By its end my ears were bleeding. I collapsed back into my seat, which hadn't been there earlier. "Now, Sir Moral Compass, make your case."

The Moral Compass was a mass of writhing worms, snakes, slugs, centipedes and ferrets tethered together. Where he walked he left a trail of slime, spit and rotting meat. "Yes, of course. I have here, with myself, three witnesses. Witness Number One, please approach the podium."

It was Paul.

With a single leaping bound I reach him. The first punch floors him. The next takes out the Moral Compass. He fragments into thousands of creatures all fleeing in separate directions. I stomp on Paul's face, again and again. I'm rendering it back into the raw nutrients it was formed from in his mother's womb. This trial can't be allowed to happen, not with Paul here. I could accept any other witness, even my own mother testifying against me, but not Paul.

The jury was escaped the box and is charging towards me. I can take 'em. I dispatch the Emperor by hurling a chair at him. His corpse trips Nevil and Avalanche Max, killing them both. Reboute is the first to reach me. He throws a solid punch at me, but I catch his power fist and use it to throw him into one of the podiums. It shatters, along with his sacred power armor and superhuman bones. Four down, two to go. But these ones are the strongest. Jeffery kicks me in the crotch. I stumble and he's immediately on top of me. I'm knocked to the mirror floor, where I have an excellent view of my bruised face. Its like an old banana. How long have I looked like that. The punk puts me in a headlock and starts cutting off my airway. Meanwhile, Bobo the Bear grabs a shard of broken mirror and slowly approaches, evidently savoring my fear. His artificial face twists into a predatory grin.

And I snatch the shard from him. Suddenly Jeffery finds himself stabbed in the eye. He's sprawling back, sobbing blood and screaming like a madman. Meanwhile, I'm reaching forward and strangling Bobo. One jerk of my arm sends his head flying off, trailing cotton. I swing around just in time to meet an attack from Jeffery, still fighting. Snatching his wrist in my hand, I twist his arm behind his back and dislocate his shoulder. Someone punches me in the face. Paul shadows over me, blood and pus weeping from his shattered face. When he died he felt one raging emotion: fear. Now this is my fear. He removes the rock that killed him from a satchel and weighs it in his hand.

"I beat you once before, I can do it again."

"You can't do anything. You're pathetic, you sniveling piece of gak. All you do is go around obsessing about how horrible everyone and everything is when in fact you live a life people would kill for."

I say nothing. All I can do is think about my best fething friend turning against me the way I turned against him. And he's still talking.

"The Abyss gazes also. Remember that?"

In this time I've been feeling for another shard of mirror. I find one. As Paul bursts into laughter, I toss it like a ninja star. It embeds in his throat. He's too busy gagging on his own blood to insult me anymore. I knock him to the ground and wrench the rock from his cold grip. He dies like he did in real life; gagging.

"This trial," I say to the judge. "Is a farce."

He grins until his grin becomes larger than his face, tearing skin. Blood is dribbling down his podium. After this massacre, the entire courtroom is covered in blood. "Guilty." The entire courtroom shatters and I'm in free fall, raining down into darkness along with thousands of shards. Voices are chanting. "Toilet Baby." I reach for anything to grab onto. "Slave." Just barely I catch a glimpse of Paul's corpse. "Murderer." I try to reach him, but I can't. "Guilty." The words sting. "Toilet baby."

"COME ON!" I shout. "FIGHT ME LIKE A MAN!" I'm frothing at the mouth, searching for the judge in the rain. "COME ON! COME ON! YOU BASTARD! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME! I'M GODDAMN FETHING JAX! "

"Real men don't fight."

"COME ON!"

Trippy. Reeeeeal trippy.

I...um...the...um...

Nevermind.

Trippy. Reeeeeal trippy.

This sums it up nicely.

Okay, umm... I want to say there was something symbolic there, but... yeah. Weeeeeirrrrrd.

I LOLed while reading these comments. Yeah, it's just fething weird. The entire story was unpleasant and surreal, so I decided it should end with something incredibly bizarre and insane; Jax putting himself on trial.

Just become a poet and people will start calling you the re-incarnation of Edgar Allen Poe!!!LOL !!!

I swear, you ARE God, why havent you been publised yet? The world needs to read your orgamisc works