Why do crazy people feel the need to spread their disease?
October 26th 2007 03:06
"Mumble grrfl garble burgle pretty good theory, ay?" he said to me. He was white-eyed, ratty-dressed, short and something about him said 'concealed weapon'. I got a picture in my head of him being infurated by a noncommittal raised eyebrow in response to his outburst epiphany on this crowded train and spraying indescriminate retribution into all and sundry nearby.
I raised my eyebrows noncommittally and hoped for the best. The woman between us looked like she could make a very handy bullet shield should the need arise. A thousand action films informed me I could dart around her flailing corpse and be at the guy's side, heroically wresting the pistol from his shaky, sweaty grasp in nanoseconds.
Thankfully he went back to the task of looking at the balled paper in his hand and mumbling more quietly to himself and whoever was in his head with him at this present moment.
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Why do crazy people feel the need to spread their disease?
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I was reading a book quietly in the front corner of the train, staring back at the rest of the empty carriage. I like to look at the people I travel with. The expression on people's faces is a story you can read if you look hard enough. A furrowed brow, a bit lip, a secret solo smile, all these things tell of a thousand other things. I was reading a book in lieu of people when the chant began. The only other person on this carriage, a man in a white robe sitting on the other side of the aisle to me was chanting. Slowly, but with rising pitch and intensity the chant built. Clearly of a devoutly religious nature the man chanted to his god. It occurred to me that we have churches and temples for a reason: to allocate a proper place for the indecency of a grown man chanting for no apparent reason, to noone in particular. I looked out the window past him at the scenery and wondered how much of it my remains would cover when the explosives in his bag detonated.
Probably very little, I surmised with more than a touch of melancholy.
Louder the man became now, louder and more disturbingly intense. I shifted a voyeur's glance at him. He was shaking his hands up steadily in beats like he had maracas, up to the heavens. His voice beat in waves up, up, up like his hands. Louder it got and more intense like a doomsday countdown. I wondered where the red wire was, and how I could cut it with milliseconds to go, thus saving myself and this precious government train. It would have been nice to have had a little more to save.
The train stopped and I got off. I went and got a drink, and the train went to where it was going. I didn't think to read the papers the next day to read of spectacular train explosions and mysterious and sinister bloodstained white robes, and bloody-stumped hands like grisly maracas lying in the smouldering refuse.
.
.
.
.
.
Why do they shout their feckless irrationalities to the world at large?
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.
.
"So I told the fuckin' cunt I'd fuckin DO 'IM if he came near me again" the voice said to me, making a stabbing motion with his hand. Presumably, in some dimension of the voice's mind the invisible knife in his hand slid it's terrible way into some poor fool's vitals, seeking only more flesh and bringing back death with it in dark red, satisfying gouts of vindication. It could only be described as a voice as it hid it's crenellated face behind some improbably large sunglasses. I couldn't really tell if the face was male or female, both we equally possible, but the voice, the voice, the voice was something. The voice was a tale in itself that told of dark alleys and darker deeds, moments lost in time and substance abuse. A voice like this could do anything. A voice like this was best to get away from, but sitting on a crowded train is the hardest place to escape voices like this. On the voice spoke into my defenceless, yawning ear. I tried to shut off my brain to it, but who knows what the mind takes in, I couldn't stop it all. I just hoped I didn't have to revist this voice late at night in a cold bed with a full bladder. I don't think I could face my dark stairs. I gave the floor a dark stare and prayed for the voice to end. The voice preyed upon the tender ear meat mercilessly, and the arm continued it's penetrative arm-jerks.
"I'd fuckin' DO 'IM".
I believed it.
.
.
.
.
.
Why do they seek to pour their incoherent poison in our ears?
I raised my eyebrows noncommittally and hoped for the best. The woman between us looked like she could make a very handy bullet shield should the need arise. A thousand action films informed me I could dart around her flailing corpse and be at the guy's side, heroically wresting the pistol from his shaky, sweaty grasp in nanoseconds.
Thankfully he went back to the task of looking at the balled paper in his hand and mumbling more quietly to himself and whoever was in his head with him at this present moment.
.
.
.
.
.
Why do crazy people feel the need to spread their disease?
.
.
.
.
.
I was reading a book quietly in the front corner of the train, staring back at the rest of the empty carriage. I like to look at the people I travel with. The expression on people's faces is a story you can read if you look hard enough. A furrowed brow, a bit lip, a secret solo smile, all these things tell of a thousand other things. I was reading a book in lieu of people when the chant began. The only other person on this carriage, a man in a white robe sitting on the other side of the aisle to me was chanting. Slowly, but with rising pitch and intensity the chant built. Clearly of a devoutly religious nature the man chanted to his god. It occurred to me that we have churches and temples for a reason: to allocate a proper place for the indecency of a grown man chanting for no apparent reason, to noone in particular. I looked out the window past him at the scenery and wondered how much of it my remains would cover when the explosives in his bag detonated.
Probably very little, I surmised with more than a touch of melancholy.
Louder the man became now, louder and more disturbingly intense. I shifted a voyeur's glance at him. He was shaking his hands up steadily in beats like he had maracas, up to the heavens. His voice beat in waves up, up, up like his hands. Louder it got and more intense like a doomsday countdown. I wondered where the red wire was, and how I could cut it with milliseconds to go, thus saving myself and this precious government train. It would have been nice to have had a little more to save.
The train stopped and I got off. I went and got a drink, and the train went to where it was going. I didn't think to read the papers the next day to read of spectacular train explosions and mysterious and sinister bloodstained white robes, and bloody-stumped hands like grisly maracas lying in the smouldering refuse.
.
.
.
.
.
Why do they shout their feckless irrationalities to the world at large?
.
.
.
.
.
"So I told the fuckin' cunt I'd fuckin DO 'IM if he came near me again" the voice said to me, making a stabbing motion with his hand. Presumably, in some dimension of the voice's mind the invisible knife in his hand slid it's terrible way into some poor fool's vitals, seeking only more flesh and bringing back death with it in dark red, satisfying gouts of vindication. It could only be described as a voice as it hid it's crenellated face behind some improbably large sunglasses. I couldn't really tell if the face was male or female, both we equally possible, but the voice, the voice, the voice was something. The voice was a tale in itself that told of dark alleys and darker deeds, moments lost in time and substance abuse. A voice like this could do anything. A voice like this was best to get away from, but sitting on a crowded train is the hardest place to escape voices like this. On the voice spoke into my defenceless, yawning ear. I tried to shut off my brain to it, but who knows what the mind takes in, I couldn't stop it all. I just hoped I didn't have to revist this voice late at night in a cold bed with a full bladder. I don't think I could face my dark stairs. I gave the floor a dark stare and prayed for the voice to end. The voice preyed upon the tender ear meat mercilessly, and the arm continued it's penetrative arm-jerks.
"I'd fuckin' DO 'IM".
I believed it.
.
.
.
.
.
Why do they seek to pour their incoherent poison in our ears?
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