The Schedule

As I stood there on the corner the man repeated, “Can you please turn that off?!” He stared at my ghetto-blaster as I looked around in wonderment and my tape played an audio drama that consisted mainly of swears and references to “Perfect Strangers.” The lights were so breathtaking! I had no idea how else to react to the spectacle. Finally, the man hit the “Stop” button, snapping me out of my stupor. I immediately got angry with him. “Who do you think you are?! You come in here and start stopping people’s ghetto-blasters while they’re staring at the overwhelming lights of a place you call home?! Get out of here.” I pointed my finger off to the distance. “I said GO!” The man, speechless (as I had stolen his words from his breast pocket), turned slowly and walked away, shaking his head and muttering in a frustrated fashion about how he should have stood up for himself.

I have no idea how I ended up there, but I was smack-dab in the middle of a place called “Northern Empire.” It was like New York City, but one major difference; the police force was a pack of highly-trained sharecroppers. That and it was perpetual night. But the lights, the lights! They reminded me of a time I went to my greengrocer and asked for a sack of potatoes, and he accidentally gave me a big bag of mulch. The entertainment that mulch gave me was immeasurable. Nowadays, I’d say it gave me about 11.23 fun-units worth of fun - that’s a lot of fun! I took about half of it and funneled it into Charles’ gas tank - when he started ‘er up, it squealed in delight and booted Charles out of the seat, driving to the nearest overpass and serving ice cubes to the commuters stuck in traffic due to some jerk spilling footballs all over the road (that was me). Needless to say, Charles never saw the car again. At the time, I guffawed like a cucumber in a clothes dryer. The rest of the mulch was doled out in such a way to yield maximum fun-units.

Anyway, there was a payphone on the corner where I was standing. It began to ring. I looked at it as the bell got exercised. After a couple rings I picked it up.

Me: Hello?

Charles: Where the fuck are you?

Me: Northern Empire.

Charles: Northern Empire! How did you get all the way there?!

Me: Fuck you Charles.

I ignored the fact that he knew right where I was standing and slammed down the phone with such force that the coin bank broke open, letting loose a waterfall of quarters that some bums showered in. I decided to make the most of my predicament and see the sights.

As I meandered down the avenue I passed an all-night diner that was lit up like a beacon to lost foreigners. I bypassed it when I saw a man inside at the counter stooped over a bowl of soup. He was trying so hard to bring the soup to his lips, but his arm was trembling too much. The waitress wiped down the rest of the counter and looked at him with pity. Not wanting to be part of this bullshit tableau, I kept walking. I passed a row of smut-movie theaters, and I ran my hand along the walls as I passed them. I wiped the goo that accumulated onto a passerby’s face. He cringed and shouted in disgust, but he couldn’t see me putter away because he had too much goo in his eyes.

I walked this way and that for about an hour, taking cross-streets and really having no direction. I finally stopped walking when I reached a building that was completely dark and completely huge. I could just make out the giant letters above the great iron doors: “Northern Empire Times”. I thought to myself, This is it! This is the place where all the magic happens! I’m standing in front of a magic temple! I simply must go on a tour! Except, I didn’t think this - I was saying it aloud unbeknownst to me. As I was saying it, a car full of guys turned onto the street and slowly pulled up behind me. “Hey you!” said a voice from the car. I dropped a dime on the ground, placed my right heel on it, and spun to face them. Then I picked up the dime and rolled it in my fingers. “Hey fellas!” I shouted at them. The guy in the passenger seat got out and walked up to me.

Guy: You tryin’ to get in here?

Me: Yeah. I want to go on the tour!

Guy: Don’t you realize it’s closed?!

Me: I’ll be the judge of that!

I handed him the dime and he stared at me like I was the asshole that was driving the piece of shit car he was just in. I told him to drop the dime. He hesitated, then he dropped the dime. It rolled a few yards down the sidewalk. I sidestepped to it, put my right heel on it, and spun to face the building. I picked up the dime and sidestepped in front of the doors. Then I walked to them, grabbed the handles, and threw them open.

What happened next was amazing. A surge of light hit all of us, and we covered our eyes and cowered. I rose to my feet and walked in. There was a huge soiree going on in what looked like the most elegant ballroom ever created, and the five of us ran in and enjoyed.

For about 30 seconds. We all got thrown out when I ripped the bannister from the beautiful stairway and started throwing people off the balcony. Some fat lady was appalled, so I slapped her in the face.  Hard.

The guys from the car tried to get back in the doors when we got thrown out, pulling with all their might, but they were unsuccessful. I pushed them out of the way and said, “Guys, you gotta do it like this,” and I grabbed the two handles on those huge doors and threw them open. Again the light surged at us.  We ambled in and the soiree stopped. Everyone looked at us in fear. An older gentleman walked up. “So. You’ve discovered our secret. For years we’ve kept this building closed from outsiders. But now the outside has come in. So what is it that you want?”

“I want a fuckin’ shrimp cocktail,” I said. The man snapped his fingers and a waiter appeared with a gorgeous shrimp cocktail in a crystal cup.  I took it off his tray and sniffed it. “This smells like cherrywood,” I said, and I threw it to the marble floor. The cup shattered, and the shrimp squirmed away, cheering like a bottle of detergent on moving day. The older gentleman tried to form words, but only air came out. Probably because he was having a stroke. He was pretty old. “Boys, you should go,” I said to the guys with me. They slowly backed out of the hall, and I heard their car peel out as they drove away.  I almost lost my temper, but I took a breath and steadied myself. But in the end I lost it anyway. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW INSULTED I AM?! CHERRYWOOD IS MY LEAST FAVORITE WOOD! I CAN HANDLE PINE, I CAN TOLERATE CEDAR, BUT CHERRYWOOD?! THAT’S THE LAST STRAW!!!” With that I sprung from my haunches and slapped that fat lady on the other cheek. Hard.

She was on the balcony.

I almost walked right by the damn thing. Almost didn’t spot it and pick it up. Almost didn’t sniff it and feel the texture of its sides. Almost didn’t rip off its sweater and wear it as my own.

Of course I’m talking about the goat that was tied on the corner to the crosswalk sign. He was pissed. He bleated in anger and tried to eat the tin can I had tied to my belt that morning in an effort to make people thing I was a car carrying a newlywed couple. I got a bunch of rice thrown at me, so it must have been a success. Then again, I did go into China Palace and just start screaming in people’s faces. That poor family just wanted to decompress after a long day of backgammon, and I made them get upset. Very upset.

But not all was lost - on the way out of the restaurant, I noticed a peculiar item in the trash. See, China Palace has this habit of having an open garbage can next to the buffet, which one must walk by in order to get a table (a pretty good marketing idea, if I do say so myself - the only flaw is the guy that comes to empty the trash always has dandruff, so when he bends over the grab the can, flakes fall into the vegetables. Plus the can houses a small family of rats, so they can frequently be seen carrying tiny baskets and sampling the wares of the buffet). It was sitting right on top, looking mystical since the steam coming from one of the leaking warmers was floating over it. It was the cup. Oh, sorry, The Cup. Yes, It’s that important. Hypnotized, I observed Its many facets. It was a white paper Cup, approximately 12 ounces in volume. The white exterior was unsoiled save for the brown coffee stain on the rim - the drinker’s bottom lip could be seen clearly in the stain. I could see some coffee still sitting in The sideways Cup. At this point, I was able to break out of my daze, and I slowly reached for It. A hand shot from across the room and knocked mine away! Bewildered, I looked up and saw this gaunt man staring at me with sunken eyes. He told me to leave It alone. I told him to fuck himself. I reached for it again, and the same thing happened! I gave him a look, told him to stop, and reached again. Again he knocked away my hand. This happened several more times until I finally just picked up a chair and threw it at him. While he was busy slapping it away, I grabbed The Cup and ran as fast as my little legs could carry me. After I ran straight through the plate glass door, I ran and ran and ran until I got next door. There was still some coffee left! I drank it and felt empowered. I felt like I could bobsled. I felt like I could make a television out of a bushel of potatoes. I felt like I could sleep until the sun burned out. But all of these thoughts were thrown from my mind when the nasally dry cleaner into whose shop I had run started complaining about my making a mess. I looked down. There was mud everywhere. I lifted up my shoes, but they were clean. I looked at the clerk in confusion. I started to explain my case, but he was not having it. So I shook off the panic and calmly walked out through the plate-glass door.

I was full of energy. I felt like I could press license plates with my teeth. I felt like I could boil a spiderweb. I felt like I could push a ferris wheel along with a young sycamore bow that I found next to the gully. So I bolted over to the park and did some cartwheels. I squished about 10 bugs. Their families cried in sorrow. I shouted “EEEEEE” like a lemon in a cheap hotel. Many of the people at the park didn’t really care - they were elated at my ebullience.

I was awake for the next twelve days, completely happy. I hugged Charles until he developed rashes. I made amends with the asshole dog. Well, for about 25 minutes. Then I happily chased him down and shaved his tail, laughing all along. He whimpered. I laughed in response. After this, I even sold my collection of water bottles to the grocery store! I got 25 cents!!! Not the highlight of the experience, but definitely up there. I guess the highlight was when I went into the first-grade classroom at the local elementary school and wrote “doody” on the chalkboard, causing the young whippersnappers to laugh and the teacher to turn a bright crimson. Not because she was embarrassed by the word, but because she is allergic to the letter “d”. Plus she has AIDS.

So last week I took a cart from the supermarket. I was going there to buy t-shirts. Charles told me they don’t sell them there, but I ignored him and poured a bucket of water on him. There was this guy smoking a pipe with no shirt on, talking politics to no one. As I approached him he turned to me, squawked, and ordered me to have the cart. I agreed without question. I didn’t even go into the store. The man started screaming and threw himself through one of the front windows. I whistled like an asshole all the way home.

Of course when I got home, Charles berated me for having more shit to clutter the house. I scoffed at him, telling him, “Charles, we need this. Have you no vision?!” He stared at me skeptically for a moment, then asked flatly, “Why.”

“Remember that blue sweater you had a couple years ago?”

“Yeah, you spilled blue paint all over it.”

“THERE WAS A STAIN ON THE BACK.”

“Mhm. What about it?”

“I have something that can get your sweater back to normal.”

“Really. How?”

“You’re just going to have to trust me.”

“No. Tell me now.”

“You’re such a crunch patty.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?! Tell me now!” he commanded as he grabbed me by the collar.

“Well, now I can finally get the paint thinner from the store.”

Charles loosened his grip a bit. “What are you talking about?”

“We require two cans of paint thinner to get that stain out. But I can only carry one thing at a time. This cart will let me carry many things!”

“You can only carry one thing at a time.”

“That’s what I said, Crunch Patty.”

“Shut the fuck up. Just get the paint thinner.”

Without another word, I turned the cart around and went to the local hardware store, Craig’s. I went in with the cart and asked for Craig, but they told me he was dead. Had been for 12 years. When I tried to ask about how he could be dead when the store still exists, the jerk at the counter told me that the store has been there since 1947. I went “Pff,” and walked away, pushing the cart in a regal manner.

When I got down the paint aisle, I saw what I came in for: two one-gallon cans of paint thinner. As I reached for them, I stopped. Taking a closer look at the can, I turned it to the side. There it said: “Max Hat presents Paint Thinner!” Immediately I was confused. There was a picture of Max Hat under this title - apparently he’s popular for giving the thumbs up, because that’s what he was doing in the picture. Well if that didn’t take the horses saddle, I didn’t know what would. I picked up the cans, threw them to the ground, breaking them everywhere, and left in a huff to track down Max Hat, kicking the horse in the thigh on the way out.

One thing I didn’t mention before: the address of the factory was listed under the photo. So I memorized it and hopped on the bus heading in that direction (it was in the neighboring city). While on the bus I took out my harmonica and tried to comb my hair with it. I’ve never been able to master it, even after 9 years of practice. People looked at me like I was a retard. I just yelled at them, “What are you, the pizza guy? Stop looking at me!” That did the trick every time.

After getting kicked off three stops early for sneezing on people repeatedly, I found my way to the address. But there was no factory - there was just a shitty ranch-style house. I shrugged and banged on the door. After what felt like 25 seconds (it was really 7) a man answered the door. It was Max Hat. He looked like a dickhead. “Hi, can I help you?” he offered.

“You sure can, Dickhead.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, take it easy man, my name’s Max.”

“Yeah whatever Cockcranium.”

“Seriously, what do you want?”

“I’m coming about your paint thinner, Wangdome. You can’t ‘present’ it - it’s fucking paint thinner.”

He paused for a long time. “I never thought anyone would mention that… I thought it would always go unnoticed. I’m ruined!!!” He spun around and ran screaming around his house. I stood on the doorstep and heard things shattering and babies crying. The crying stopped after a couple abrupt THUDs. I didn’t think too much of it.

As I still stood there two hours later, his ugly wife came home and threw her groceries all over the lawn. She ran into the house and started arguing with him. Satisfied with the situation, I picked up a box of Diet Bagel Bites that lay at my feet and ate them raw on the long walk home. When I got there Charles had his sweater all laid out and looked really excited. He saw no paint thinner, so he sulked for the rest of the evening. I ate his bedsheets when he wasn’t looking.

There I was, standing with a hot dog in his hand, the sweat dripping off my brow and into the mustard that topped the meat. “I don’t have any more money – I just spent it on this hot dog,” I told the man with the gun.

“Bullshit! I know you have to have more.”

“If I had more money, why would I get a hot dog?” The gunman couldn’t argue with that. He decided to shrug and walk away. Meanwhile, the hot dog had gotten bored of the shenanigans and snuck off to a local pizza place to make fun of the foreigners. He had nothing to do for awhile. So he ate a pickle and called it a day. Then all of a sudden he got really sleepy and fell asleep inside of the coffee grinder. He couldn’t really do much, because the beans were added and then ground. The customers complained that the coffee tasted funny. The owner had no idea what had happened, but the customers ended up beating the shit out of him. “Teach you to fuck with my beverages!” one man said. He only had one drink. A fucking cunt of a woman came up and tried to steal it from him. As he pulled it from her grasp, the top popped off and it spilled all over her. She screamed as the hot contents spilled all over her hands and malformed breasts.

Meanwhile, I lamented the loss of my hot dog. A tear welled up in my left eye and mixed with the sweat on my face.  I shoved the bun in my mouth and chewed it slowly, thoughtfully.  Nothing could change my mind now. I set off to my house to look at my paintings.

When I arrived at the door of my house, I froze.  Out of the corner of my eye I could see the neighbor’s asshole dog watching fearfully from behind the fence.  I made a sharp motion in its direction, and it flinched and fell backwards.  I pointed and laughed, the dog blushed and moped away in defeat.  I walked in, greet Charles with a “Cheerio” and went into the basement.  I pulled the string next to the sole bare light bulb and illuminated my paintings in a haunting, truthful light.  The faces stared back.  I spit on all of them except for Mr. Wilkins.  Oh Mr. Wilkins.  He never gets spit on.  He doesn’t deserve it.  No sir.  I peed on him instead.  His grin turned to sadness as he realized that he wasn’t getting watered - he was getting peed on.  Why a painting would be happy about getting watered to begin with, I’ll never know.  Sir Francis Mikula watched in chagrin through his one good eye, and Dorothy Matthias sipped her tea as the spit soaked through her garments.  She did not even seem to notice that I had hocked the mightiest of loogies on her.  It was quite a doozy.  The other assholes looked upset, but said and did nothing, for fear of being slashed.  They’re lucky I don’t toss some paint thinner on their asses and call it a night.  But I guess I’m not really that sadistic.

In the end, I felt better.  Not because the paintings made me feel that way, but because Charles made hot dogs for dinner and I managed to steal one of them and make Charles puke the other one up by jamming a wooden spoon down his throat.

I walk into work yesterday morning and in the middle of the office is a board. Just a big piece of plywood. Nothing on it, just plain plywood. Interesting. I look around, and seeing no one there (I usually arrive at work an hour early so I can make the office coffee and pee in it, and so I can pull various other schemes that vary with the time of year), I pull a permanent black marker from my desk and run over to it. I then give that board the best handlebar mustache it has ever received. “Thank you,” it seemed to say. No wait, it actually did say that. Or so I thought at the time.

Later on, when everyone walked in all at once, I was sitting at my desk, typing a business proposal by making my right arm limp, extending my right index finger, and lifting the dead arm up with my left, dropping it on the key I wanted to press. Naturally, this method did not yield a very solid proposal, though I did accidentally type the word “buns” a few times, so not all was lost. Anyway, everyone walks in simultaneously, and I hear a collective gasp. I think someone fainted, because I felt something go THUD on the floor. Either that or it was some fat dude walking. I turned to them to see what was so shocking. They were all staring at the board - the women in horror, the men in jealousy. I donned my paper-plate mask with the eyeholes cut out and started a new business proposal. I hit the caps lock key by accident, so I ended up screaming throughout the business proposal.

Finally, the CEO came in about 15 or 20 minutes later. He demanded to know who drew the mustache. His face was as red as an angry tomato. Everyone looked around, myself included. I also shrugged. The CEO produced cleaner and paper towels from his coat. “I want that gone by tomorrow morning - I don’t care who did it, but I want it gone.” He put the products down on the table in front of the board. Obviously, I wasn’t cleaning that shit. I had better things to do, like write business proposals. So I went on my coffee break. The coffee I brewed was terrific.

Later that day, around 4, I decided it was time to get the hell out. So submitted my business proposals and left. I figured, 8 hours is 8 hours. I went home, and on the way I ran over a squirrel. Skidded to a halt, picked it up, made hot dogs out of it later that night for dinner. Charles and I both thought they were delicious. Phenomenal!

So I go into work this morning, and the mustache is still there. “Obviously,” I say aloud. I do the usual stuff. Five minutes before everyone is scheduled to walk in, my mind wanders. I think about what is going to happen when the CEO walks in and sees that mustache still there. I can see him trying to pull it off the board and stick it on his face, and when that fails, I can see him turning that shade of red again, that red that’s normally reserved for firetrucks and period blood. My morning smile sags. Then I think about his turning to me when he hears me laughing at a funny video of a pizza online. The rage fills his body, and suddenly I am reminded of the situation with the postman. I yelp in fright, realizing I have to get rid of that damn mustache before I get sent back to the hospital. I scramble from my chair and spray some cleaner on it. No dice. It won’t come off! In a panic I throw open my desk drawers in an effort to find something to clean off the ’stache. White-Out! PERFECT! I paint over the beautiful upper-lip ornament, but that just succeeds in making it white. Great.

I hear a couple doors close outside. It’s almost too late, everyone is outside!!! I grab the first thing I can find from my drawer - a pack of playing cards. “This’ll have to do,” I say to myself. I grab my stapler and rip open the box, spilling red-backed cards everywhere. I start getting very nervous. I am sweating. I grab cards at random and staple them over the mustache. The whole thing looks like shit. Cards are turned this way and that, front and back, no regard to order. I staple up the last card just as the door is opening. I collapse, panting and sweating.

Everyone walked in and went to their work, seemingly unaware that on the day prior, someone had desecrated the board. The CEO followed closely behind to see if the job had been done. He examined the board for a minute, first from a distance, then up close, then said, “Well done. Whoever cleaned this board gets my pocket change.” He rifled through his right pocket and extracted his hand, full of coins. He dropped them in front of him, and they bounced and rolled all over the place, including all over me. The feeling of the coins on my back was like an invigorating rain, and I soon regained my vigor and slithered to the market where I hid in a wicker basket until some stupid customer reached in, when I bit the hand, sending poison surging through his body.

I marched right up to the piece of trash and said, “Put your money where your mouth is.” He stuffed a bunch of coins in his mouth and laughed. I shook my head. “You don’t do that! That’s not your call!” I looked around for the police. Nowhere to be found. I still couldn’t believe he just did that. Obviously I meant it literally, but the unmitigated gall of that man…

Around a mouth full of copper, nickel, and zinc, he said, “Put that in your pipe and smoke it!” I took the idea of his chewing on coins in my hand, poured it into my corn cob pipe, tamped it down with my thumb, raised the pipe to my lips, and lit it while inhaling. The jerk’s jaw dropped, causing half-chewed coins to clink to the ground and scatter. The idea had a full, rich flavor with a hint of cedar and a musk of ferret. I laughed around my pipe. “How do you like THEM apples?” I replied. The prick took another bite from one of the apples he had in his hands and made a sour face. “These taste like rotten shrimp breaded in sawdust.” He continued eating them, tears welling in his eyes. “But I can’t stop eating!” His cheeks bulged suddenly and he ran to a trashcan. With his back to me, I could only hear the sounds of his retching. I giggled like a field mouse wearing a cape.

To this day people ask me all about the origins of that incident, and I tell them I have to take a shit.

So I’ve been doing a whole lot of walking and taking full advantage of my body ever since I got out last week. Man, it feels good to stretch out my legs and kick children under the table at restaurants so their parents can’t see. The kids usually start crying or accuse me, but I’m always on my best behavior, so what parent in their right mind would trust their own shithead child over me, the “cream of the crop”? Especially when she’s a single mom and I lead her on so I can get free dinner and a chance to kick her kid. The other night I went out with this fairly young mother, and I convinced her that I had just given all the money I had to a hobo that was shivering on the street. She thought it was incredibly sweet, and obviously she had no problem paying for my meal. In reality, I really just spent all the cash I had in my wallet on hiring a bear to shred Charles’ bedsheets to pieces. You should have seen his face when he saw the state of his bed when he came home early. Priceless! The bear and I exchanged high fives, and the three of us found single moms to go on dates with that night via the Internet since I spent the grocery money on that awesome prank. They make it so easy these days to get free dinner.

That was completely off-topic. Anyway, yesterday I was walking along, taking HUGE strides to show off my legs. I guess I was also walking a lot faster because of this, because I ended up clear in the next county in front of a vacuum factory. I’m not big on fate, but I was there and I was hungry, and I knew that vacuums sometimes sucked up little pieces of food, and I knew that they tested the vacuums they produced before they were sold, so I concluded that I could probably find something to eat in a used vacuum bag. I pulled open the front door, walked inside and asked at the front desk for the testing department. The secretary gave me directions to the department, and he asked who I was. Without a word I opened my titanium business card case and slid one across the desk to him.

Let me tell you a little something about my business cards. I have a lot of them. By a lot I mean a lot of different kinds. None of them are real. I got the idea to fabricate them from watching a slice of cheese melt on a frying pan. I always carry a different kind with me every day just for the hell of it. Sometimes it comes in handy, sometimes not. Sometimes I don’t even use them. At another time, I tried to convince the manager of a fast food place to give me a free shake with my food. I pulled out the business card case and slid him a card that said I was a cigarette salesman. It didn’t work, not because it was unrelated, but because he deliberately killed his wife with second-hand smoke and made it look like an accident, and he thought I was a cop.

I glance at the card as the secretary picks it up. It says I’m from the Better Business Bureau. I’m in business. I thank him for his help and make my way back to the delicious food that awaits me.

I got pretty lost on my way to the department. I guess I took a left when I shouldn’t have, and I ended up outside at the loading dock. I asked one of the smelly guys how to get back to the testing department, and he spit on my shoe from six feet away. “Big mistake,” I uttered. From that distance I managed to stretch my leg far enough to kick him in the junk, wiping off my shoe on his crotch in the process. The guy moaned in pain and fell to the ground. He had a bagged lunch nearby, so I took it and ate it while I walked home. He sure had a lot of laxatives. They were the best part.

Finally discharged from the hospital.  Feels good.  Now I can piss myself and not worry about someone cleaning it up.  Sometimes I just need to stew in my own urine, y’know?

So I typed out this story before, but my browser crashed and I lost it all.  Basically, I pissed myself in Charles’ car on the way home.  All over his new upholstery. He kicked me out of the car, but then I was picked up by a monster truck.  We went over all of the traffic, and I beat Charles home.  I laughed in his face when he came in.  He socked me in the junk.  Then I watched the Hot Dog Channel pretty much for the rest of the day.

Oh, the River.  That’s this place that I always imagine I’m swimming with the fish and the umbrellas, which usually leads me to pissing myself.

I never thought he could do it. I never thought he would do it. But he did it.

I have been in a hospital bed for almost a month now. The only comfort I’ve felt was when the fat nurse brushed her swollen chest against the outside of my thigh a week ago when she changed my catheter bag. They took me off the painkillers after the first day because I kept insisting I was the Messiah and successfully converted two of the heathen janitors, who left my room stomping and clapping in elation to some syncopated rhythm.

Charles brought me my laptop last Tuesday, but today is the first day that I’ve had the dexterity to use it and give an update. I’ve been too weak even to eat the pizzas I’ve been prank-calling to the desk outside the ICU. Too weak to eat, too weak to drink. Too immobile to run a marathon and stand at the finish line smoking a cigarette, waiting for the Kenyans to catch up.

I guess I should probably tell you what happened now.

It started off as a standard Saturday. I had just placed the pudding on that asshole’s front steps, and I decided that I may as well treat myself to an ice cream cone for once. Charles was busy watching some robot play soccer and fall down stairs, so I went to Ice Cream Shack alone. I continue to kick myself for this decision. I order a small chocolate soft-serve in a wafer cone because I like to crunch obnoxiously in other patrons’ ears. The ice cream was so delicious - reminded me of the pudding, but colder and less vengeful.

Then all of a sudden it hit me. The front end of the mail truck. It came crashing through the wall at a high rate of speed and knocked me back into the counter. A child screamed - I’ll never forget that. I forced myself to my feet through the haze that had formed in my head and shook it off. The door to the truck was kicked open, and out jumped the Postman. He threw his hat to the ground and stormed at me, grabbing the collar of my shirt and wailing on my face. Sputtering blood, I tried to form a proper sentence. As soon as I got the words in my mouth, he broke my jaw three places, effectively silencing me, sans the screams of pain. “You didn’t think I’d find you, huh, you piece of shit? Well here I am, in the flesh!” With that last word, he dug his fist into my xiphoid process, splintering the end off and puncturing my right lung. The blow knocked the wind out of me, and I gasped for air. I was bewildered, panicked, and just plain afraid for my life. He turned on his heel and stormed back to the truck. What did I do to deserve this? I thought, heart racing.

Then I remembered. I had been stealing his mail for close to a year now. First it was just from his mailbox at home. I figured it was ironic in some way. He caught on, so he got a P.O. box, thinking himself the victor. However, I have an in at the post office, so I was able to get a copy of his key and take his mail there. I always returned it a week later, but sometimes he missed bills and stuff, so I could see why he’d be mad about it. One time he got the J.C. Penney catalog. I kept it. Finally I got caught in the act: I was leafing through the mail before I even closed the box, and he jumped out from around the corner. “AHA!” he screamed in my face. Frightened like a teenage girl during a jumpy scene in a scary movie, I tossed the mail in the air and ran all the way home.

He reached into his truck and pulled out a metal baseball bat - a light one for Little League, but it was still a metal fucking bat. He kicked the door to his truck closed as dust and grime still floated in the air from the demolished wall. The rays of sunlight shining through the floating debris lit up my badly bruised and bloodied face. I put my right hand up to say “stop,” but with excellent form he swung through my hand, shattering my wrist and hand bones. I screamed again. The Postman said, “I never forgot your face. It was burned in my mind. You wanna know why? It was you that made me miss my credit card payments - I’m in the hole fifty grand because of you! On top of that, my electricity and water got shut off, and I couldn’t shower for days! I was lucky they let me keep my job! But I smelled so bad that all the women I had prospects of dating won’t have anything to do with me anymore. I’m getting too old to start over now! For weeks I tried tracking you down, and finally I found out your name and address. But no, I wasn’t about to come to your house! Oh no, I would wait until the perfect moment to strike. And now I am giving you what you truly deserve!”

He hit me in the shins over ten times, and I could feel them lose their shape as the pieces of bone got smaller and more disintegrated. I was moaning in the fetal position, trying anything to guard myself. He thrust his boot into my throat, telling me to “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” He crushed my trachea, and shut up I did. He kicked me in the gut again for good measure. I felt something tear, and I later found out it was the lining of my stomach, causing the acid to ooze throughout my system. “And now,” he said, “this is it.” He raised the bat over his head, and I tightened all the muscles that functioned as I prepared for death.

I heard a barrage of bangs and some loud screaming. I blacked out.

I dreamt that I was in the park holding hands with that asshole dog from next door. We were dancing in a circle and having a bliss-filled time doing it. I sang, the dog barked. I gave it a fresh bone that I got from the butcher, and the dog laughed. And I laughed. And laughed.

I woke up with a tube down my throat, my jaw wired shut, and my eyes barely able to open. I was able to open them enough to see a doctor standing there, telling me to keep my eyes closed to get the swelling down. He explained that if the S.W.A.T. team hadn’t shown up at that very moment, I would have been in one of those neat roll-out freezers in the morgue. I kind of wished I were there. Both because being dead would be better than the pain I was enduring, and because I always wanted to play in one of those.

Being pretty much immobilized, I had a lot of time to think. How did Mr. Postman find me? He said he knew my name, my address… What else did he know? He hadn’t been following me, I would have noticed. But he knew exactly where I was…

And then it hit me. It hit me like that fucking mail truck. The Schedule. He had been reading The Schedule. He knew where I was at all times, who I was with, what I was doing. Even better, he knew what I was going to do in advance. HE KNEW BECAUSE I FUCKING TOLD HIM. I TOLD HIM WHERE TO FIND ME AT ANY POINT IN TIME, AND HE FOUND ME. I screamed in anger at myself, at my pain, at anything in that room that would listen. The fuckin’ fatass nurse heard me, but she kept eating her two Hungry Man dinners. I saw her glance over, then look back at the food and stuff her fat fucking face.

So from this point on, there will be no “schedule,” persay. Sure, I will still do things as soon as I heal, but I will not schedule them. At least, I won’t let the whole world see what my plans are - you will hear about things as soon as they happen, don’t worry. It may not be every day, maybe not even every other day, but updates will be fairly regular. Please, everyone, learn from my follies: if you’re going to steal someone’s mail, DON’T GET CAUGHT.

Anyway, Charles’ burns healed up real nicely (see last post) - he took the dead skin that had peeled off and made a stock out of it.

I got a box of pins in the mail today. I don’t even know who they were from or why I got them. They said all sorts of things. “GO FOR IT” or “I like my meat rare.” or “Vote YES on 4!” or “Celebrity of the Week”. Lots of stupid sayings and slogans that are supposed to make you seem awesome. Pins went out with the Pet Rock. Fuck pins. And fuck the people that plaster them everywhere. I saw this chick the other night, and her purse was covered with pins. COVERED. Later, when I chewed her out about it, she told me that her purse was in fact made of pins. I stared at her for a second. Then I calmly reached into my pocket for a new white cotton glove. I worked it onto my right hand until it fit snugly around my digits. Then I reached into my left front pocket and pulled out my travel jar of baby powder. I opened it and sprinkled it liberally onto my open, gloved palm. Then I slapped that ignoramus of a woman across her left cheek. She gasped in surprise, and I smirked in victory. I turned around and walked straight out the swinging doors of the saloon and stepped off the stoop into the street, my boots crunching in the sandy dirt.

Charles came home from work today and was ambushed by me, stabbing him in the chest with a particularly dull pin. I wondered right then why my life revolved around so much violence. I contemplated that perhaps my violence was the unconscious desire of someone connected to me in some way. I dumped the pot of boiling water I had prepared on Charles’ hands and arms. He screamed in pain and bit me in the crotch, severing my vas deferens. It hurt a lot. Of course at the time I had no idea that was what he had done, but man it hurt. When I went to the doctor after our altercation I had to have emergency surgery. And guess what. They gave me a fucking pin. “I Survived Dick Surgery”. Yeah, that’s a good fucking pin. A better pin would be one with a Rasta smiley-face on it saying, “No Problem Mon!” I had always thought my doctor was real scum, and I guess this just seals the deal.

Charles doesn’t know why I did what I did. I don’t know either. I think pins enrage me.