I, am Myrus (1)

There will be blood.

I promise.

People need to understand there are consequences. For their actions I mean. You can’t just walk around doing and saying what you want.

I like myself. I’m secure.

I hate faggots or people who act like them. It’s not natural for a man to covet the the ass of another man. I’m not on board with that shit. I don’t trust niggers. They hate us as much as we hate them. We gotta spook for President. What does that tell you?

I’m a good guy. People should like me more. When was the last time you had butterscotch pudding?

I think his name is Paul. He leaves bowls and forks in my sink. He brought a cat home the other day. Black with a white face. It was friendly in a disgusting way. Always licking itself and cowering.

Small and helpless. It smelled like broccoli or maybe cauliflower.

It didn’t like me. It could see me. At first it looked at me and then it looked through me.

It licked my fingers and toes. I held it’s head in the toilet until it stopped squirming. Amazing how strong such a tiny critter can be. I kept my fingers around it’s neck and my thumbs on it’s head. He’s not about to bring home another senseless animal. I felt him screaming inside while I did it. He’s pissed.

He’s entirely welcome to go fuck himself.

I can tell you about other things I’ve done. I hate animals because they’re stupid and helpless.

I like bugs. I like to catch them and have them crawl on me. They are so stupid. I can trap them on my belly and chest for hours. I hate bugs with wings. I kill them right away. Some beetles have wings like an afterthought. Like evolution or some crap gave them the ability to fly fifty years ago. I hate them the most. They fly around bouncing off everything, you can knock them out of the air. Like airborne crunchy turds. They smack on the floor, hobbling on weak legs until I pop them underfoot. My naked big toe. They squeek more than pop.

They are shiny, I think about eating them.

I fucking hate them. Greasy. Shiny. Crunchy. Like a glistening peanut.

Found some pretty good tuna salad in the fridge. Don’t remember making it but I can make good food. I’m having this sandwich on a french roll with a grape soda and I think of that cat. It never did a thing to me. Why did I do that? I can’t believe I did that. Fuck. Who am I? What have I done? My head burns and my brain itches. I would kill another human for the same thing.


I understand I did it to make myself feel something. Like I’m in a cloud unless something big happens. Sometimes I have to do something large.

This time. What I did sucks and it makes me awful.

I will find people to kill until one kills me.

I hate my fellow human.

It felt good and I was powerful. Now I can’t stand myself. I see what I’ve done over and over and it’s ugly. Who am I? I’m panicking. I feel it coming.

I’m dizzy and in despair so sharp I can’t breathe. I think about whiskey and head to the kitchen. I’m on my knees and vomiting with a bottle of Maker’s Mark between my thighs.

The first sips go down painful because of the acid still in my throat. Burns all the way down. Puke and whiskey. The humanity.

I’m sure I should quit this earth. I have Tums.

I have done a very bad thing. I can’t fix it. No one will ever know and it doesn’t matter. I know. I remember.

The only way to repair it is to take down something bigger and more deserving. Something thinking and guilty. Anyone who’s done something bad. Easy. They’re everywhere.

They see me, I’m like five foot eight, one sixty five soaking wet. But I’m mean and strong. I will hit you first and hard. If there’s a bottle handy I will cave the middle of your face in. I will run you over. I will kick your head until it’s a broken ugly shell spilling blood and brains.

I hate you because you’re human.

I can’t stand what I’ve done so I’ll fix it. I’ll take one down. A Mouth breather. I’ll find some big stupid shithead at a truckstop. I’ll get his trust and he won’t be threatened because I’m so small. I’ll tell him I have blow and we should go take a piss. I carry a ball peen hammer in my back pocket.

It will be easy.

My name is Myrus.

2 Responses to “I, am Myrus (1)”

  • Betty:

    shall we lock Myrus away or give him the freedom to survive on his own on top of the mountain? are there enough mountains for all the people like this in the world?

  • Max:

    over the bullhorn**

    Myrus! This is the Police! Put down the pipe and come out with your hands up!

    C’mon Myrus, it doesn’t have to be like this!

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