Posts Tagged ‘creepy’

The Moth.

March 20, 2011

I know, dramatic title, right? You’re already interested.

Earlier this evening, one of the most traumatising experiences of my life went down in my living room.

I was minding my own business in the kitchen, preparing delicious food that would wind up in my belly in the very near future. Suddenly, I heard Jerome doing that weird chattering sound that cats make when they see prey. I ignored it. Within a few moments, I heard Leona and Bart joining in. I was now sure that ignoring the problem wouldn’t make it go away. So I went to investigate.

Expecting nothing out of the ordinary, I just casually entered my living room, only to find a fucking moth the size of my hand fleeting about the living room. It was angry, it was loud, and I’m pretty sure it was on a quest for blood. So, being the brave girl that I am, I screamed and ran back into the kitchen.

I immediately regretted that decision. You see, I watch NatGeo and Animal Planet and shit. I know quite a lot about animals, including useless random facts that won’t help me in situations like the one I was currently facing. I also know that buggy things in general, are attracted to light. And the living room was darkish. The kitchen, however, was relatively brighter (and smelled delicious). I therefore had only a few moments before the insectosaurus would respond to this difference in the light gradient and come find me, attack me, and kill me for food.

So, realising my mistake, I cowered under the safety of the kitchen table. Surely the demon bird/bat/moth couldn’t get me there. Now I had time to think about my options. First I thought I’d look for some heavy-duty roach-killer spray, and just douse the entire ground floor of my house in it. But then I thought about the cats and the tasty food I was preparing, so I immediately discarded that option. Then I thought I’d just grab a shoe or a rolled-up newspaper or a magazine or something, and swat it. But then I reconsidered the size of the monster, and I didn’t want to hear the splat and clean up a bucket-full of guts. So again, I disregarded that option. Finally, I thought back to my animal programmes and I was all, “WWDAD? What would David Attenborough do?” Surely he wouldn’t kill the beast, rather, he’d find a way to safely remove it from his immediate surroundings.

Very good. Now I had to come up with a plan. I grabbed a pot and fashioned a helmet. I also grabbed a spatula, in case I would be faced with one-on-one combat. I then turned on extra lights in the kitchen to ensure maximum brightness and crawled out into the unknown.

I made it to the hallway.

Lights off.

Continued crawling,

ever alert,

ever vigilant,

ever cautious.

I made it behind enemy lines. The living room. The angry mutant was buzzing around the ceiling, creating sounds louder than a fighter plane. In real life it was probably closer to the sound of an electric pencil sharpener, but my heightened senses may have warped my perception of hearing. Anyway, I was still slowly and silently stalking my prey, and finally managed to sneak by unnoticed, to the other side of the living room. Once there, I nimbly reached up with my spatula, and switched off the lights. The entire ground floor was now dark, with the exception of the kitchen.

In retrospect, I should have turned off all the lights in the kitchen and done it the other way around, but I tend to think irrationally when my adrenaline levels get high, so… yeah. Just ignore that, okay?

I swiftly army-crawled my way back to the kitchen, to prepare for stage two of the ambush.

My plan was brilliant and cunning. I would wait for the massive birdbug in the corner near the dishwasher. Once it approached the bright kitchen and started attacking the lights, I would leap up with my spatula and tease it into a trap-like contraption that I built out of tupperware, tape, and kitchen utensils. Once captured, I would free the demon outside, unharmed, and far away from my house. Such a perfect plan! All I had to do was wait.

So I waited.

And waited.

And… waited.

Slightly annoyed at the possibility of not being able to use my tupperware trap, I stood up to look for it.


What? It just flew into my pot-helmet! It was actually initiating an epic battle, which proceeded right then and there in the kitchen. Mind you, I didn’t want moth-guts in my food though, so I had to be smart. Spatula in one hand, swatting frantically, I eventually managed to (and I kid you not) hit the thing into the trap, causing it to fall shut. It was exactly like a Tom & Jerry cartoon. And I won.

Pleased at my victory, I went to examine my catch. It was hairy, large, and hideous. But then, an amazing thing happened. It spread its wings, as if to curtsy and acknowledge the excellent fight we just had, and underneath the gruesomeness, the moth was stunningly beautiful! It was only then that I even remembered how closely related butterflies and moths are (one main difference being, of course, that butterflies flap their wings gracefully and quietly, not like a fucking jackhammer). Nevertheless, I felt a pang of guilt for ever being so frightened of this surprisingly peaceful and gorgeous creature.

Careful not to damage anything, I slowly carried the contraption to the terrace, where I released my captive. I was slightly sad by this point to see it go, but I wiped away the single tear that slid down the side of my face and swallowed my cry. “Goodbye, young warrior,” I whispered into the night.

Retreating back into my house, reminiscing on the events that just occured, I realised something.

Never battle a giant moth when you have food on the stove because chances are, it’ll burn.


Different kinds of laughs

January 21, 2011

Inspired by a recent blog topic from Daily Post, I’ve decided to compile a list of the most common types of laughs. Which one are you?

The dolphin. This laugh should be trademarked by my sister. Characteristics of the dolphin laugh include high-pitched, high-frequency squealing, typically induced by tickling. Its sound is similar to a monkey-horse.

The pedophile/killer. Usually reserved for creepy guys, this laugh is more like a strange grunting noise. Also, there is little to no facial expression of happiness.

The sniffer. For this laugh to be uttered, the laugher’s mouth needn’t be open. Laugh-like sounds emerge from the nose, generating an illusion of sniffing. Very Sheldon Cooper-esque.

The frighteningly loud outburst. When something only slightly funny is said or happens, this type of laugh is so shockingly loud and unexpected that you are actually scared for the first few seconds.

The evil scientist. Need I say more?

The sarcastic ha. 97% of the time, this laugh is spoken with a serious and/or angry face. Typically it is a string of two to three ha’s put together to indicate sarcasm, or by socially awkward people who have not learned humour or emotion.

The creepy baby/clown. Babies and demonic clowns share the same laugh pattern of tee-hee’s, with stern, glaring eyes. Adam does this one to scare me sometimes, and I cry.

The silent open-mouth. Sometimes, people forget to breathe, which yields a facial expression that looks like a muted laugh. Shaking shoulders are often associated with this style.


The good, the bad, and the WTF is wrong with me?!

November 12, 2010

For those of you who are loyal readers, you already know that I have severely fucked up, twisted, and vivid dreams. The content of said dreams are typically reserved for the minds of the criminally insane, the drug overdosers, and the brain damaged (due to a cigarette-smoking birth defect). Sadly Fortunately, I don’t fit under any of these aforementioned categories. Yet still I have the weirdest dreams.

Last night’s dream was particularly long and detailed, so I’ll spare you the intricacies and instead just outline a few key points that I think were particularly interesting, both in the bad sense (i.e. “Oh my God, please don’t ever let that happen or exist in real life! Lock up your brain, you sick freak!”) and the totally awesome sense (i.e. “Aww, why can’t that be real? I’m jealous of you that you got to experience that and I never will.”).

Talking fish that can morph into humans. This one’s pretty self explanatory. Basically I had a fridge. And you know those little drawers at the bottom that are meant to keep vegetables fresh? Sorry, side-note: How is that supposed to work? What’s so special about the bottom of the fridge that keeps my fruits and veggies fresher than on a normal shelf? I don’t like banishing them to a drawer, because it makes them sad, which in turn makes me sad. Not cool. Anyway, back to my dream. So in those freshness drawers I had about forty live, swimming little fishies. And they were all pretty, as far as fish go. Like, not just ordinary like goldfish, rather, exotic-looking and flamboyant, with vibrant colours. And they could talk.

At one point I took a little tupperware-full of like, three or four, and when I got to the train station and opened up the little plastic container, they morphed into really good-looking females of the human species. Except one of them had a damaged fin, so her arm turned out to be in a cast, but whatevs.

Evil demon Chewbacca/bear/cat. This was almost traumatising enough to wake me up, but not quite. Basically, I was visiting some random dream-person in the hospital, and the evil demon Chewbacca/bear/cat jumped out from under the bed and started growling at me for no reason. None whatsoever! I didn’t taunt it. I didn’t step on its tail. I didn’t insult it. I wasn’t looking for a fight or anything. I was just minding my own business, visiting a sick person, and then I got growled at. But not just a normal growl. It was exactly as I said: a combination of Chewbacca’s weird-ass voice, a mother bear’s deafening roar when she’s defending her cubs, and Tommy’s low cat-growl when he fights other cats in the neighbourhood. It was so very frightening.

And then I must have made a sudden movement, or maybe the demon sensed my fear or something, because it proceeded to attack me and clamp onto my arm and not let go.

It was one of the worst experiences of my dream life, even worse than that time I was delivering pizzas to a creepy alien guy.

Awesome elevators that transport you in all directions at nearly warp speed. We were on our way to this party in a huge warehouse, and when we got to the elevator, I was expecting it to be normal, like every other elevator I’ve ever been on. As in, it only goes in two directions – up and down. But this elevator also went left and right, and it did a loopty-loop at one point! I didn’t really understand the physics behind it, because I didn’t feel the effects of g-force, but it was cool nonetheless. And, it took me to my desired level, which is all that really mattered.

Getting into a fight with a car-wash ghost because he confiscated your car and motorcycle. Different party, same warehouse setting. So I drove into the parking garage. I drive a Ford Edge in real life. It’s a little bulky, and is difficult to handle at slow speeds, but it’s cool. In my dream, I was driving the same car, maneuvering it around all kinds of twists and turns and corners. You know how parking garages can be. Anyway, I was informed that this garage used to be a car wash back in the day, but they tore it down and rebuilt it into thousands of parking spaces instead. I found what appeared to be a completely legal parking space (near the “elevator”) and got out of the car.

Then, a car wash ghost floated over to me and started talking about how I can’t park there because I’d be blocking other customers who want to come and have their cars cleaned. I tried explaining to the ghost that he was dead and this was no longer a car wash, but he was in denial and a physical fight ensued. A few minutes into the most useless fight in the history of violence (because no punch was ever landed, they just kind of passed through us), I decided to be the bigger person and just walk away.

Upon doing so, I noticed that my car was gone! Ghost guy laughed and said that he confiscated it due to the illegality of my parking. This made me very irate. But I was late for the party, so I let it go, and went upstairs.

Fast-forward to a few hours later, when I left the party. I got back down to the garage and asked ghost guy what he did with my car. He said he took it down the road to the Ford service centre, which was about two kilometers away. I definitely did not feel like walking that far. Luckily, I had my spare motorcycle parked one level above. So I went and got it, but I fucked something up and the clutch started smoking and then kind of just exploded off. I was sad.

I went back to ghost guy and asked if he could fix it, but he said he didn’t know how to. So I figured I’d walk the bike to Ford, pick up my car, and leave the bike there, for Ford to maybe fix in the morning. But when I went back to my bike, it too was gone! Why does this keep happening to me?! My blood boiled with anger. In a forced-calm voice I asked the ghost what he did with it and he said he sent it to Saudi Arabia.

Cake that tastes like weird non-cakey things. I was at the hospital again, celebrating the life of someone. There was cake. It didn’t taste like chocolate or vanilla or marble or strawberry or walnut or carrot or cheese. It tasted like chicken. Grilled chicken. There was another cake that tasted like mashed potatoes and peas. And another cake that tasted like barbecued spare ribs. And finally, a spaghetti-flavoured cake. Yes, they were all exact replicas of the original taste. But because of the cake-like consistency, I was slightly grossed out. However, to be polite, I had a small sliver of the ribs-cake.

And yeah, that’s pretty much it. I mean there was a lot more to it, but I’m not going to delve any further into my insanities. Bear in mind though, that all of the situations that I discussed above happened over the course of a single dream. So I don’t know if that means I need a brain transplant, or if it means that I’m actually a genius mastermind.

I’d like to think the latter.

A comical* nightmare

October 26, 2010

*By “comical” I literally mean that there will be comics. In no way am I implying that there was anything funny about this nightmare. In fact, it was freakish and disturbing.

I was just minding my own business, taking a casual moonlit stroll around the lake. Out of the corner of my eye, I see some light coming from the surrounding forest, like a campfire. “I love camps!” I exclaimed aloud, and decided to go towards it.

The fire grew closer, and soon I was on the site itself. But this was no ordinary campsite. There were no marshmallows. No tents. No illegal fireworks. Just this one old dude who looked like a tribal leader of some sort.

“Ah, we have been waiting for you, my child,” spoke the old man. “You are just in time!” I was wondering who this we was that he was referring to, because there was no one else there. I later found out the skull on his totem pole stick thing had like, a soul or something. It was weird.

“Uh okay, well, what exactly am I in time for?” I asked.

“The ceremoooony….” he replied ominously.

Now, I’ve seen enough horror movies in my past to know that “ceremony” usually means “freaky-ass rituals in which several people and animals die as a sacrifice.” So in no way did I want anything to do with said ceremony.

“Oh okay cool, well I think I’ll just, you know, pass. It’s getting late and I’m not really feeling the whole ceremony thing tonight. Thanks for the offer though, gramps! Bye!” And I started backing away.

“Oh no, you have misunderstood. It’s not an offer. It’s an order. You have twelve hours to chop off your hair and turn it into a wig for Mr. Snuffles. If you fail to do so, all of mankind will instantaneously cease to exist!” It seemed the skull’s name was Mr. Snuffles. And I had to chop off all my hair to save humanity?!

Well at least I had twelve hours to decide. I wandered around the forest. I did a full circle around the lake. Not a single barber. I guess I was going to have to do this myself. But with what? I had no scissors! Then I remembered this show I once saw on Discovery Channel, where the guy needed a knife, so he cracked a rock and it splintered into sharp knife-like tools. So I found a promising stone, threw it against another stone, and using my new caveman blade, proceeded to cut off my hair.

Looking like a total douchebag, I then started weaving my own hair into a fucking wig for a goddamn skull called Mr. Snuffles. I was furious. Why was I the chosen one?!

Just as I put on the last finishing touches (I decided the skull would look better with bangs, to hide the massive forehead), this random girl pops out of the bushes and starts making fun of me for having been so gullible. She explained that the tribal guy was actually just an old dude who escaped from a mental institute and had a fetish for hair. He discovered that by disguising himself as a creepy tribal chief, his ploy tended to work on the majority of his victims. But Blondie over here was ironically smart and told him “humanity shmanity, I like my hair and you can’t have it!” and twelve hours later, there was still no apocalypse, and she still had a full head of luscious shiny hair.

I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to cry. Not only did I look ugly, but I was being made fun of, and I got duped by an insane person! How much worse could my life get? Suddenly, I had a brilliant idea.

If grandpa couldn’t trick this girl, maybe I could! I would tell her that it wasn’t humanity that would be destroyed, rather, all the cute bunnies in the world would die violent deaths if she didn’t give me her hair to take to the Chief! Then, I could make another wig, wear it on my head, the creepy guy still gets his hair, nobody dies, and karma would grace its presence by allowing me to make fun of her! It was brilliant! BRILLIANT, I SAY!!

She didn’t buy it.

So, in an act of sheer desperation, I did the only thing I knew how. I slit her throat with my rock-knife, skinned her head, created my new wig, as planned, and headed off towards the campfire. Little did I know that now I was the deranged lunatic, because while I thought I looked like this…

I actually looked like this…

So I scampered off into the woods, with a twitch in my eye and maniacal laughter in the back of my throat. When I arrived at the campsite, however, the old guy wasn’t there. Grunting like a werewolf who just morphed into the beastly state, I looked around, confused, angry, and still exhilarated from my kill just a short while prior.


All of my friends and family jumped out from behind the trees. A Happy Birthday banner swung down. A small child was carrying a big cake, lit with candles for me. I was confused. And then it all made sense. I thought I recognised the tribal chief!

Turns out, he was my marketing professor, and this whole thing was carefully planned as a surprise party. He dressed up as a chief to send me away for twelve hours, so everyone would have time to arrange the event. The blonde girl was sent as reassurance that I needn’t actually cut my hair. And the plan was, that she and I would become friends and gallivant through the forest for a couple hours, until finally she led me back to where the party was. Oops.

Anyway, the cake was delicious, I was slightly less delusional, and everything turned out okay.


“Hey guys, has anyone seen Sally?”

I don’t like this game.

July 10, 2010

Okay so I’ve been waiting for that Plinky sonofabitch to give me a prompt that I feel like responding to, but alas. Plinky has failed me by asking boring things like “What’s the most confusing part of life?” “What book could you read over and over?” “How much wood can a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” Just kidding about that last one. (Everyone knows the answer is three cords.)

Anywho, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands by telling you a wonderfully gruesome tale, combining the criminal genius of the Saw saga with the war-like emotion of District 9 and the unnecessary amount of killing of any Holocaust movie. This is a true story. That took place in my brain. While I was sleeping.

Once upon a time, in an abandoned warehouse in the slums of a metropolitan city, there were five people fighting for life. Two of them were bound to each other, sitting back-to-back in uncomfortable school chairs. Their names are forgotten unimportant. One of them was in the loft, with a bag over her head and explosives around her feet. Another one was strapped to a gurney, immobile, in a tank that was slowly filling up with water. And the last one, the heroine of the story (if such a character exists), just woke up in a pit full of worms.

Our heroine let out a blood-curdling scream as she struggled to get out of that pit. But she couldn’t find any edges to pull herself out. And come to think of it, the walls of the pit stretched endlessly upward. She was literally in a bottomless pit. With worms. She sank down into the gooey mess, clutching her forehead in agony, the tears streaming down her face. How the fuck was she going to get out of here? That’s when she noticed it: a tiny message written on the wall opposite her in what appeared to be blood, but was probably just a red pen. You can’t always move up in life. Sometimes you have to bring yourself down to their level. Oh, the beautiful metaphoric imagery that only a psycho serial killer can think up. She looked around. The worms had stopped moving. She started pacing. The worms started moving again. She stopped pacing. The worms stopped moving. Wait, what? She knelt down in the wormy goo, and took up a handful of the limp creatures. She picked one out, sniffed it a few times, and popped it in her mouth. “Gummy worms!” she exclaimed. Our heroine loves gummy worms. Then she remembered the message on the wall and figured that she had to eat her way to the bottom of the pit in order to escape. Which is exactly what she did.

The two guys were sitting in what appeared to be a history classroom. Blindfolded, gagged, with their hands behind their backs and their ankles tied to the legs of the chairs, they were in a pretty helpless situation. What they didn’t know was that the heroine of our tale was about to kick the door down to rescue them, but in-so-doing, she would also ignite the petrol that was poured all over the floor of the room. Oops.

Quickly, she darted through the flames and to the screaming bodies. She desperately tried to untie them, but the guy who made the knots must’ve been a sailing enthusiast or something, because they were elaborate and strong. So instead, she grabbed the chairs, and started dragging them to the door. She stopped suddenly, because she saw another message on the wall. One is a serial rapist, the other a pediatric surgeon. But the rapist has a family who loves him and the surgeon is all alone in this world. You can only save one, so who’s it going to be? Unsure of how to proceed, she then noticed that each of the guys had a “Hello my name is…” sticker on their shirts. “Hello my name is… rapist.” and “Hello my name is… surgeon.” She decided that the killer probably reversed the two, because killers are typically sneaky like that, and decided to save the rapist, leaving the surgeon to burn alive. Once safely in the hallway, she untied the victim, who immediately took her into his arms and started crying. “Oh my God, thank you so much. I have a wife and child who love me. I have a hospital of children who need me. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you saved that other guy instead.” She smiled inwardly, proud of herself for having watched enough scary movies to know when to switch shit up. “Don’t worry doctor,” she said in a cheesy, scene-transitioning voice, “I’m sure he got what he deserved.”

Somewhere in the loft of the warehouse, the girl with the bag over her head was kicking and screaming. So hard, in fact, that she tripped some sort of wire and heard that unmistakeable sound of a pin being released from a chamber and thus starting a ticker to count down from 05:00. She didn’t know how much time she had (because that bag was really dark), but she assumed that once the ticking stopped, the bombs would detonate, and she would be blown into a million pieces.

At this point of the story, I woke up. I went downstairs to get some water, stopped by the toilet for a quick pee, and went back to sleep.

Suddenly everyone was running. All the nurses, the Egyptian tailor, those two guys (the rapist and the surgeon), everyone. They made it to the end of the hall and found an emergency exit door, which I quickly slammed open. Outside, we found ourselves in a grassy area with benches and trees and sort of resembled a park or the outside of a university dorm complex. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, a little boy was playing frisbee with his dog, a butterfly landed on a dandelion – everything was oddly perfect.

“Hey has anyone seen my sister?” I asked. I was doing a head count and noticed that everyone was there except Ten. Weird. I could’ve sworn I saved her from the explosive-ridden loft several hours ago. But as I looked around, everything became quick and flash-backy, like the end of a Quentin Tarantino film, when everything comes together and makes sense. The warehouse, the two guys, the chick with lung cancer, the loft, the bomb, the chairs, the scene where I was in the worm pit, the history classroom, the gurney, everything was beginning to make sense. The killer wanted me to save them. He wanted me to bring everyone out into the open. He wanted me to believe I saved Ten when in fact I hadn’t. Or had I? Was this a trap? Or is this right and the trap is back in the building behind the door? Was she alive? Was she dead? Was she in on it? Am I the killer? Am I dead?!

The camera then slowly panned across my face, showing the confusion from all angles. Flashback scenes were intermittently thrown in and the theme music that ties everything together leapt into a crescendo. And then I woke up.

Disclaimer: 1.) You must keep in mind that due to the burst of reality mid-way through the dream, I couldn’t pick up exactly from where I left off. Hence, discrepancies amongst the cast and scenes. 2.) I myself don’t understand the ending, so don’t ask me what it means or what happened. 3.) The first part of the dream took place in third-person, and I didn’t realise I was the heroine until the second part of the dream, which was in first-person. 4.) I wish I was in a pit of gummy worms in real life. 5.) I fully understand that Saw is not a Tarantino film, but I felt that clip was appropriate.

We are the world

March 29, 2010

This past Saturday at eight thirty in the evening, I was sitting on position by the pool, counting down the last half hour of my shift, when suddenly and unexpectedly I was engulfed by darkness. Jumeirah Beach Hotel, Burj Al Arab, my fucking pool, all the lights that light the paths, everything. Completely absolutely 100% pitch black. I thought we were having some sort of power outage, possibly due to a mishap involving the Large Hadron Collider, and I had to get people out of the water because I couldn’t see shit. Like, it wasn’t blind-dark (I could still see my hand in front of my face), but it was pretty fucking dark. Unpleasantly dark. Uncomfortably dark. Borderline paranoid Blair Witch Project dark.

Anyway, nine o’clock rolls around, meaning my shift is finally over, so I make my way back to base to get all the shit out of my locker. Mind you, the lights inside are on. So I was really confused. But whatever. I get my stuff, go past the security check point, and up the ramp to the street where my car is parked, and then I almost suffered a heart attack. Why? BECAUSE I WAS IN THE THRILLER MUSIC VIDEO! I’m not even kidding. It was fucking creepy: all the lights were off, the street was closed to vehicular traffic, and there were creepy-ass people walking around with torches, shuffling and mumbling/chanting like zombies.

So I called the only person I knew who could fill me in on what the fuck was going on, and  I hoped that she was still alive and not sucked into some black hole. That person was, of course, Ten.

“Dude. I don’t know what the fuck is happening, but like, all the lights are off, I can’t see shit, the roads are closed, and there’s zombies walking around my car. I’m scared. Can you please Google the situation? Are we having a nation-wide power outage? Are we being attacked by aliens? Is 2012 happening sooner than expected?” I was freaking out. “No, Ona. You idiot. It’s Earth Hour dude, duh. From eight thirty to nine thirty, everyone’s supposed to be turning off their lights for some energy conservation thing. Just hurry up and come home, I made cookies.”

Ohhh, Earrrrth Hourrr. Okay okay, now it made sense. But I don’t understand how everyone in the world knew it was Earth Hour except for me. Why didn’t I get that memo?

When I got home, I of course immediately Googled “Earth Hour” and found some pretty interesting facts and images. Next year, I’ll make sure I’m prepared.

Decapitating Elmo

March 16, 2010

I was at a water park slash playboy mansion and didn’t really know anyone there. Somehow though, I made friends with this one guy, and over the course of the dream I came to trust him. He had a friendly face and a soothing voice and was just an average guy. Or so I thought.

At one point, he took me aside and explained to me that he was actually the lead killer of a cult that kills Sesame Street characters, and Elmo was the last on their list. I dunno, apparently Elmo was the baddest mofo of the bunch. Who’d’ve thought? Anyway, Elmo was at the party somewhere, and it was our mission to find and destroy him.

My nameless friend then persuaded me to nearly sever my head off my shoulders, as an initiation ritual to prove that I was true to the cult. I don’t know why I trusted this guy and fell for his evil ploy, but I did. So I actually sat there and allowed him to slice the back of my neck about two centimeters deep, from ear to ear. It wasn’t as pleasant as it sounds.

So I’m lying there, nearly decapitated, while he goes over the plan: I go look for Elmo, buy him a drink (which I will obviously poison with the date rape drug), and bring his unconscious body back to my friend. Together, we will tie him up, wait for him to wake up, and then torture him into giving us information and eventually decapitate him. Decapitation is the signature killing style of my new cult, in case you didn’t get that yet.

Off I went, in search of Elmo. On my way, I encountered many drunken naked people, and I went on a few water slides as well. But my time was running out, because with each step I took, I got weaker and weaker. I was losing so much blood from my neck that it filled the entire hood of my hoodie. Gross. But I had to continue.

After a ride that somewhat resembled Jumeirah Sceira, I rounded a corner and found Elmo, with a heroin needle still in his arm. He was on the verge of unconsciousness. But when he saw me and my neck, he flipped the fuck out. “What has he done to you? Don’t listen to anything he says, it’s all a trick! Get away from me! Run while you still can! Goooo!” Elmo’s voice already creeps me out, but when he’s tripping balls on heroin, it’s even creepier. So I ignored him, and gave him some laced water, which immediately made him pass out. I then schlepped his body all the way back to the base where my friend was waiting.

“Well done, I’m proud of you,” he said to me with an evil half-grin and a killer look in his eye, “Now help me carry him upstairs.” I could no longer stand on my own two feet though. So my friend ended up carrying me on one shoulder and Elmo on the other.

Just as we were about to enter the backdoor of the house, this old red Jeep Grand Cherokee pulls up in the driveway at the front of the house, and the driver does a double take and then immediately slams on the brakes and jumps out of the car, running in our direction. “Fuck, they found us!” my friend said, and quickened his pace up the patio stairs, through the door, and into a closet, which he then locked and bolted.

The dude from the Jeep caught up to us not long after, and started pounding on the door. “Open up, I know you’re in there!” No shit dude, who else would be in a locked closet? Anyway, I asked my friend why this random douschebag was after us, and he informed me that the guy was the dad of one of the little girls he killed a few weeks ago. Apparently, my friend sent a huge bag of poisoned German candy to a fourth grade class, killing everyone who ate a piece (which was, in fact, everyone). And now the dad is rightfully pissed.

“Ron Ron! Open up the door, it’s me, your beautiful princess Ten Ten!” my sister was saying from the other side of the door. “Come on, just unlock it and come out, you won’t get in trouble. Neither will Elmo. Only the bad guy who’s in there with you. Trust me!”

“Don’t trust her, you fool. That’s not really your sister!” my friend was telling me from inside the closet. “It’s a trap! Don’t open the door!” But I felt so bad, and I didn’t want Ten to think I didn’t trust her, so I opened the door. And it was a trap. My sister wasn’t there, it was the douschebag Jeep-driving dad of the dead girl, toting a huge ass rifle. “It’s payback, bitch.” he said in his normal tough-guy voice. And then he cocked the gun and I woke up.

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