don't spoil the rush

hatboy has locked himself in the garage. i feel sorry for him. it’s hard enough for me to keep my sanity, what with the pizza delivery drivers still on strike, as well as the added stress of the theft of our soldier, but hatboy’s always been a softie on the inside.

i made myself some coffee. the coffee had mutated, evolved in the dark place under the sugar. it smelled strong, potent, and filled with nutty flavour. it bubbled. it squirmed in the container, and squealed as i poured the boiling water over it. i tried to ignore the strange evolution of our only coffee supply, and instead concentrated on how to coerce the sugar into taking a bath in the not-quite hot enough water. the sugar has always been picky about the temperature of its bath.

i drank the coffee slowly, careful not to drink too much in one sip.

it burned into my mouth. it slid down my throat, its tiny fingers clawing the edges of my swallowing tubes. it scraped holes down the side, and i screamed as it bit into my stomach to stop being murdered in the acid bath. i heard it hiss as it died, consumed by the skanky acids, faces burning in flame unnatural.

and then, like some train ploughing off its rails, it smashed into my face. my head crunched, and i felt the dizzy kind of back-of-the-throat taste as concussion enveloped my eyes. stars, i swear i saw them, melting on the edge of survival.

tripping over the violet curtain, i tried to crawl into the bathroom to be violently sick, but the coffee rush snaked around my brainstem, squeezing its revenge. i saw the moment of my birth, countless eons ago. i saw the nature of my demise. i saw the seven faces skimming the cold dish, their tongues lapping up dishwater, lips foaming bubbles of washing-liquid froth. their faces twisted and were scratched out of my memory with pins.

and then, just as i thought everything was going to be fine, the black ice froze my insides, boring great holes into my brain until i was hollow.

when i woke, i rushed to tell hatboy not to touch the colombian blend. but it was too late. he was squirming on the floor in front of the television, screaming, “the spiders! why haven’t they stopped crawling around my chest? are they mad? are they looking for something? i left my pencils upstairs!”

i thought i’d help him, so i hit him on the head until he closed his eyes to sleep.

sometimes it’s fun being this heroic.