Son of Sam

The question of human existence had always been prominent. Why do we exist and to what purpose? Is our destiny only to slave at a nine to five job and regurgitate the perpetuated lies of our elders and instructors? These questions have always been on his mind. The world seemed a dark and desolate place for as long as he could remember. No one had ever treated him with the respect he deserved, no matter how hard he attempted to earn it. He questioned why this was important to him. For a man to believe he needed nothing from no man, why he craved respect was baffling to him. Days were a repetitive consistency that he wished to avoid. The man constantly avoided association with others, as he could. Living in a world away from the world had always been easier than being involved with the despot that is human existence.

A darkness swelled over his mind as the sound of thunder rang in the background. The storm was increasing at a quick pace. The town had already experienced an F-3 tornado that had ripped through downtown. Three stores were completely destroyed as well as six homes. Four were no longer inhabitable and two were just on their way to be the same.

More questions sprang into his mind. How could a loving god destroy so many lives without any consideration? Are we no more than playthings to an inconsiderate deity? The questions begged a need to be asked and answered regardless of the fact that no one else was concerned with them.

The thunder struck again, relieving his mind of his thoughts momentarily. He decided it was time to leave. The bar had recently seemed to be a second home to him. It was crowded with advertisements and political propaganda. Real soldiers drink Rick Williams whiskey. Young people going oceans away to fight for lies concealed as patriotism made no sense. The age of accessible knowledge should have made these people realise that their wars were only in the need of political gains. He closed his eyes and took a drink to momentarily numb his mind. He flagged down the bartender to get one last drink. She was a very attractive young woman, though too young for his personal liking. It did not seem to phase the other patrons. One, a man of about fifty-three, had seemed to lack quarrels with assaulting a twenty-three year old woman fresh out of college. As he saw the man grab the bartender’s ass, two thoughts came to mind. The first was jealousy, which he realised was just his preconceived emotions toward his supposed superiority as a creature with a penis. His second thought was to intervene, though this as well passed through his mind because he did not want to have to fight an entire bar. Nevertheless, the bartender did not seem to mind. It was common place for older men to assault younger women so she did not see it as it truly was. She did not have the greatest of childhoods. Her mother was an alcoholic and unattentive, which seemed to be why she had no quarrels with being around other alcoholics. She only ever seeked attention from her mother that had never gave her the time of day.

The man had finally gotten her attention only to see her forcibly choking back the tears. He apologized, which she either did not hear or chose to ignore, and ordered a Rick Williams and coke. He had led himself to believe that falling for propaganda was not as bad when one recognized it for what it was. Plus, it had a wonderful taste. It was smooth but had just enough burn so that you could feel it. It seemed to make you forget about your other problems after two or three drinks. Even with the inert power to help you forget, it only ever made him forget his current problems and return the buried problems of his youth. The man grabbed his drink, walked to the door, and stepped into the storm.

The rain was cascading from the dark and violent clouds. It fell around him as if they were the falling meteors that obliterated an entire time period of surface dwelling creatures. His envy off those creatures dug at him. With every drop, a life lost. With every life, a drip of serenity. He did not like death, yet he relished in it. Rebirth was beautiful to him. The cycle of death represented as the four seasons. Humanity had become a plague, and the order of the planet needed to be reset.

The clock atop the courthouse struck twelve. The ring of the bell was drowned out by the drumming of the rain against the steel roof of the bar. Lightning struck, temporarily lighting up the darkened sky. There were seven hundred people in the town, most had lived there for generations. It was founded in the mid-eighteen hundreds by a railway owner named Dan Cuthert. Cuthert had made his fortune by the tip of his foremans whips. Cuthert’s descendents followed his example by forcing unfair working hours and unsafe working conditions. As slavery became illegal, Dan Cuthert’s business practices evolved into conning others into willing slaves. All of humanity were slaves whether it be to a nine to five job or the ever beckoning calls of our own addictions. Some prefered alcohol, others cocaine, and to a few methamphetamine. These seemed to be the masses most rejected of addictions, regardless of the fact that there was nothing that humans could not turn into an addiction. There had once been a man that masterbated so long that his penis began to blister and bleed, yet he continued. A woman once killed and dismembered her only child, then hid the remains in a small boat shed because she claimed it was the antichrist.

Humanity has always been one of Earth’s most perplexing creatures. Their tendencies toward violence and hatred are what escalated them to the forefront of life on Earth, but were also the reason that their utopia was crumbling. The third age of dissent had begun. First was the fall of Egypt, then the destruction of the Roman Empire, and now the decimation of the Americana. Death and decay have become the only constants in civilization.

His rage boiled. With all the stories of loving and benevolent gods, why would they created a world in which there is so much ugliness and pain that humans could do nothing about? The simplest answer being that these deities cared not for the humans they claim to have created. Had humanity not been granted the gift of free will by others on the lord’s pantheon we would continue to be no more than slaves. The man realized how ignorant a claim that humanity has free will became when the thought crossed his mind. After time humans had cast off the chains of slavery from their gods only to hold their hand to be shackled by men. Later they passed those chains onto an incomprehensible system of labour.

The thunder cackled again through the night air. He was soaked to the bone as he passed the Third Street Market. The storm continued to brew, yet the rain had let up. The forest ahead called to him. He paced his way inside noting the types of trees that made up the conglomerate mass that was the Cuthert Woods. He passed elms, maples, and oaks with a far scattered range of pines between them. Dead leaves and broken branches cracked beneath the weight of his heavy boots. The man’s head was swirling from the liquor, so much so that he had forgotten how deep he had walked into the Cuthert Woods. He came to a small debilitated shack deep in the heart of the forest.