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Snippet #931

located in Life, a part of Almost an Allegory, one of the many universes on RPG.


The container of experiences that a living creature goes through, whether asleep or awake.


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Thin beams of light bleed through the shutters, a particular one, revealing the torrent of dust that floated in the air, illuminates my yellow-stained teeth as my face contorts in the facial spasm of a yawn; or so I imagined the sight. My eyelids felt leaden, gilt in the exhaustion accrued during last night's escapades, and were nearly crusted shut. A single spring in the mattress protruded most uncomfortably, jabbing my back with near viciousness. I wanted to raise my left hand to rub my eyes as I roll out of bed, smacking the snooze button to silence the Waa-Waa of the Ambulance alarm, the only sufficiently strident sound that could break my slumber, and stumble into the bathroom so I can prepare for work. I wanted to, but...

Tiger Milk

My adolescent love of Milk, which, like many of my habits, I never quite outgrew, alloyed with my contemptible urge to forget myself in a bottle of liquor had resulted in the curious concoction of milk and vodka aptly named “Tiger Milk”.

I try to pronounce the word, muttering my thoughts as I often do, but the result thoroughly frustrates me. My tongue seems to loll, my lips are too slack, and my jaw is hanging unhinged. My eyelids part, with greater effort than Moses used to part the Red Sea, and I was blinded. Was this some twisted caricature of heaven? Everything seemed to glow as if blanketed in a ubiquitous white effusion. It wasn’t that I really thought so, but my mind often wandered and jumbled and garbled my thoughts. It was somewhat reassuring to know that this stupor, though it made me clumsy and irritable, had not altered my mind. No... Suddenly I begin thinking of the strangest objects, and feel the urge to speak in rhyme.
“What…?” I slur, confused by the contradictions and oddities of my own thoughts, my mouth still utterly refusing to cooperate.

My vision clears, slowly becoming more and more acute, until I finally recognize the squalor and filth that was my room. A limp hand smacks me in the face, and I blink, trying to maneuver my finger just under my eye. What focus is required just to rub my damn eye. A fleeting thought crosses my mind, scampering quickly away from me as the rabbit being pursued by the hound. Everything was so sluggish, as if submerged in gelatin, but finally I make the connection. Vodka = Alcohol = Inebriate

An equation greater than Einstein’s, I scoff. With a drunken sneer plastered on my face, my throat issues some grotesque burble. I think I am trying to laugh, but it is so distorted that it seems more like the mewling of a dying animal. Fuck.

How much had I drunk?

Driven by some forgotten purpose, I am out of the bed and standing half dressed in my kitchen, battling with the spinning room to bring a coffee mug to my lips. It is bitter, straight black, but I feel a tingle run down my limbs. Reminds me of the first time I kissed a girl; what was her name? With shake of my head, I resolve to disregard such inconsequential thoughts. If this coffee doesn’t work, I might have to break out the peppermint oil, I think, reeling myself back from that tangent.

“Peppermint oil burns like hell, but it sure as hell wakes me up…” the thought of it was exciting and dreadful simultaneously, an interesting contrast.


Gazing at the white marble, I can feel something more than my reflection looking back at me. Could a reflection be something more, like a ghostly intimation of some alter-ego in a parallel universe? The fanciful thought is momentarily amusing, until somebody bumps into me. His words pass by me, swallowed in the incessant din of the city, but I understand his intent. I stir, walking out of the middle of the hall, as if waking from a daze.

Life has seemed more like a dream than reality lately, making me wonder if this world was a waking dream. Could this be a dream, my real life what I perceive to be a dream in this universe?
My psychiatrist seems to be determined to rid me of these so called “avoidance tendencies”. The official psycho-babble is that I’m unhappy with my life and that these “delusions” are my escape.

The elevator chimes and slows, floor seventeen. I stride quietly out of the parting door, my slacks rubbing together at the thighs; a sound that has always bothered me.

Sometimes I wonder if the psychiatrist is the crazy one. In a world of mad men, the mad man is the only sane one… isn’t that some famous quote?

“Good morning, Mr. Warren.” I nod my head slightly.

“Well, do you have those internal audit reports from finance yet, guy?” he replies aggressively, and my perfect façade threatens to crack and shatter into a sneer; I hate when he calls people whose names he cannot remember, “guy”. Images with lurid detail flash across my vision, superimposed over the endless sea of white cubicles and that somehow condescendingly polite smile of Mr. Warren. A few unpleasant thoughts cross my mind, one BDSM in nature; less because I would take sexual pleasure from it, but more because of my thirst to bask in this self-righteous imbecile’s shame and agony.

“Of course, Mr. Warren. I called them yesterday after lunch; it will be on your desk by closing.” It sickened me that I had to act and pretend every moment of the day, all in the hopes for a dollar or two raise and promotion. This perfunctory existence was maddening, and my rage threatened to explode into a crime of passion any day now. I wanted to commit a crime just to break the monotony of work, drink, sleep, work, drink, sleep.

He grunted and continued his daily patrol, harassing employees with a reserved zeal. Like a fucking cannibal slavering over the half-dead, insatiable in his quest to taste our flesh. Most of the people here looked half-dead anyway, pale and thin and weak. A man being berated by Jones had become nearly livid with embarrassment, and began typing furiously on his keyboard as if to show his sincerity.

I sigh and plop into my chair, enclosed in my cubicle. The sheer vastness of the workday ahead presses down on me, oppressive with every breath, leeching my strength. A day like any other, I suppose.


Crimson swirls around the drain, dyeing the water from the faucet. I wash my hands with such purpose, serenity, it is nearly unbelievable. I smile contently, as if my greatest desire has been fulfilled. It disturbs me too, my conscience poking at me indignantly, but I can not deny my actions, or deny the pleasure.

In my younger days, before I had been tied down by marriage and aged by divorce, I was a lively person and traveled often. I had been proud of my body and had been quite interested in martial arts. It didn’t seem like that long ago, seven years; I still have a little definition, the vestiges of my once toned body. Martial arts had been a hobby, a pleasure, but I had warped and twisted its purpose, yet I didn’t care, which scared me the most.

As I stare into the mirror, into the depths of my eyes, the so called window into the soul, I remember the details vividly. Mr. Warren demanded those internal audit reports, even though I received them late, and I was forced to stay after-hours, without overtime, to finish it. Down the elevator, a mumbled greeting to the security guard, out the door, and into the dark maw of the parking garage. I felt uneasy even then, walking between the isles of luxury cars. There was a pretty run-down apartment building just across the highway.

As I near my car, fumbling with my keys and pressing the unlock button, a dark silhouette jumps out. He is crudely dressed, compared to my crisp suit, but what is most disturbing is his wild look. He lunges at me with an open knife, his movements appearing slow and drawn out, adrenaline pumping through my veins. At first, I am too shocked to move, but suddenly, subconsciously, I drop my briefcase and grab his wrist between my forefinger and thumb, breaking his wrist with a sharp twist. My hand shoots out, hitting him in the throat with the webbing between the thumb and fingers, collapsing his trachea and silencing him before he can yelp in pain; the whole experience is surreal, as if I am watching someone else control my body, as if I am just a spectator. He crumbles onto the ground, eyes wide with fear, pain. But I don’t stop; I keep beating him, his blood staining my fists.

With shake of my head I dispel the images, trying to focus on the towel, on drying my hands. I was excited, yet the consequences hung dreadfully over me, and this time the contrast was not so pleasant. Numbness spreads over me, and I cannot think. I simply fall into bed, mindlessly pulling the covers over myself, letting the sweet embrace of darkness envelope me, caress me until this world left and another came.