Tonight, we lay down together. I spread your legs, and cut you open with a pair of scissors, then you do the same to me. We are inside of each other and our exposed ribs fit together like a pair of hands. The positive pregnancy tests proven true. Inside each of us is a fetus made of frowns. 

Underwear Project: teal silk g-string, black leggings, black mini skirt, white/mint push up bra, and dark gray low v-neck t-shirt.

i bought an at home pregnancy test from the drug store down the street from your parents' house, pissed on the strip, and waited 15 minutes.

two blue lines.

negative.

i still haven't had my period.

but we celebrate.

your cock is hard and warm, my tongue massaging the stress out of your sensitive skin.

relief.

i spit parts of our children: miniature limbs, fingers, bald heads, toothless gums, and crying eyes, into the toilet, rinse with mouthwash, brush their tiny bones, and soft sticky skin off the surface of my teeth, and flush.

i love you, but neither of us are ready for that responsibility, and i don't think we will ever be.

that's okay, because at least we realize that unlike so many other dumb fucks that inhabit this world, we don't believe that kids are the solution to all our problems; we believe that answer lies somewhere inside ourselves, if only we could find it.

neither of us have the ability to raise and control another human being, hell we can't even control ourselves, but trust me we're working on it, even though, right now it's not going so well, except for not being pregnant.

we shoot up our final bags, take a couple of xanax, smoke a joint, and then a cig out of our bedroom window, then eat some twizzlers, and birthday cake oreos for dinner, before you turn the lights off and put on a bbc documentary about creatures that live in the deep ocean, and their mating habits.

both of us crawl into bed, and kill the remaining seconds of the day with the words, "good night" and "i love you," until we slip out of consciousness wrapped in each other's arms.

tomorrow, i'll spread my legs, and it will be your turn to get me off, which shouldn't be a problem because your tongue is fully rested.

for an hour tonight, i thought about losing an arm and dying because i thought i had a blood clot in my left arm

this word is a tyrannosaurus rex composed of crumpled up balls of loose-leaf paper, containing scribbles and sketches of embarrassing artwork, notes from college, and failed to-do lists, the childhood toys covered in dust that we used to play with, cellphone parts, legos, double a batteries, arteries, veins, and blood, attacking corporate skyscrapers of steel, glass, black ink, and ashes, located in the epicenter of the borough of the frontal lobe in a city called, "my mind."

burn.

the definition: chaos returns to order, and order is chaos. out of the destruction: growth.

if i win the lottery...

if i win the lottery, the first thing i'm going to do is walk in front of a moving bus, feel the metal caress my rib cage until it breaks, and punctures my heart and lungs. when the driver gets out, i will thank him, by handing him the winning ticket, and ask him to finish me off by running over my broken head with the tire of the bus. telling him to enjoy the rest of his life. telling him to smash my brain like a watermelon. and he will oblige because money is money. money is the only way i can get somebody to do me a favor.

if only i was so lucky.
if only it was that easy to solve all my problems.

it's fun to dream.

Dia De Los Muertos.

photo source 

Walking around a cemetery with my hood up, when the sun turns orange as it gets ready to go to sleep, I sit down and rest my back on a worn out tombstone that says, "mother, sister, and child."

I forget why I'm here, but I'm not afraid.

Just tired.

Sleepy.

I pull a flask of scotch out of the breast pocket of the brown denim jacket, which is frayed at the cuffs, and take a pull.

I don't know when they arrived, but they are here:

Skeletons wearing dust covered suits, and tattered color faded dresses.

Smoking cigarettes.

Playing cards.

Reading yellowed paperbacks as the wind carries the smoke out of their chests.

We are all in a circle.

Just passing time, and curing boredom.

I pass the flask into the stained bony fingers next to me, and someone tosses me a light.

"Thanks."

Staring off into the distance.

Looking at nothing in particular.

Just humming funeral songs in spanish.

Observing two of the younger skeletons making out without any tongues, feeling each others rib cages and pelvic bones.

Pulling blades of burnt sienna grass out of the ground, and scattering it across my sneakers.

Thinking about my true love.

A skeleton sits next to me indian style wearing a lavender floral patterned party dress with a hole on the hip takes a pull from the flask, and passes it back to me.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Na. Well...maybe. I don't know, it's complicated and confusing."

"Isn't it always? That wasn't a very good question, but I got a better one: Are you in love?"

"Yes. Yes too all of the above...actually I don't know, maybe I'm just lonely. Or both."

The skeleton wearing a lavender floral party dress with the hole on the hip leans in closer, puts her arms around me, and rests her skull on my shoulder.

"Shhh. Shhh. Shhh. It will be okay. I can't guarantee that, but it'll work out one way or another. You're not going to be alone forever. However, it isn't going to change in a day. So don't think about it right now. Just have some fun, and let it happen."

Her earthworm perfume slows my mind enough to allow me to notice each and every passing second.

"Thank you. Seriously, thank you."

She tries to smile but can't, while two skeletons in black suits pour out a 40 into fast food cups in the waning light.

"You're welcome."

I get up, walk two graves over, and pull the bouquet of pink roses out of the white vase sitting on top of the granite tombstone.

I come back and hand them to her, then finish what's ever left in the flask.

One of the flowers gets stuck in her empty eye socket, and we both laugh.

"I can't smell them, but I remember their smell. Succulent. And sweet. Thank you. They are beautiful. That was really nice. I see flowers around here all the time, but never think about their smells. When you don't have a nose, it's easy to forget that smells still exist. Thank you for jogging my memory. For making me notice. You're really nice. Never forget that. Okay? Never forget that you still exist after you die;you just exist in other people."
 
"You're welcome. And okay. That is something I will always try to remember."

She pushes the bouquet into her face one more time, before laying it on the ground, then takes a cig out of her pack, lights it, and places it in between my lips.

I inhale.

The last ray of light disappears behind the horizon, as the sky starts to change from red to pink to navy blue.

"You ready?"

"Yeah."

The skeleton wearing a lavender floral pattern party dress with a hole on the hip sinks her teeth into my arm, as the rest of the circle puts down their drinks, and encloses in on me.

As the day ends, I remember.

cheetos bag

i looked at an empty cheetos bag in a ashtray coffee can tonight. i wanted to fill the bag back up with cheetos, reseal it, and put it back on the shelf of a mini mart with the rest of the cheetos bags, so it wouldn't feel so lonely. i wanted to hug it and say, "i know. i know how you feel." i wanted to trade places with the cheetos bag because it could use my body better than i can.

fuck.

fuck.

fucked.

Trash Bag Organ Donor

Sitting on the curb, permanently staring down at the damp asphalt, I can see the reflection of the orange streetlight in a puddle.

The corpse of a Christmas tree is resting next to me on its side; the lights, ornaments, star, and tinsel have been put back up the attic in a cardboard box for next year's victim.

My thin black plastic skin is flapping back and forth in the wind. It feels nice.

A raccoon pops out of the shrubs of the house across the street, and makes her way over to where I am sitting. Stomach bulging, she is about to become a mother.

She sniffs my gut, then cautiously paws at it.

It tickles.

I try not to laugh.

The pawing rapidly escalates into clawing, biting, tearing, chewing, obliterating.

My vital organs are strewn across the pavement: cans of tuna fish, pizza crust, moldy swiss cheese, candy bar wrappers, chicken bones with flecks of meat still hanging from them, empty packs of cigarettes, a decapitated action figure, used tissues, and a couple of scratched CD's.

I try not to laugh.

It still tickles.

She sits next to me licking a can of tuna fish with a mostly eaten drumstick in her paw.

The world around me fades to black, like a velvet curtain coming down at the end of a show.

In a couple of hours, two garbage men are going to be pissed.

In a couple of months, her babies are going to be born.

They will all be healthy and strong.

They will always have something to eat, because garbage day is once a week, every week, And the rich people in this development throw away a lot of garbage.

There are three more developments within a mile radius that do the same.

They will all go on to lead prosperous, successful lives, as long as they avoid cars and detection.

Underwear Project Series: Teal Lace Nightgown And Pink Satin Thong With White Lace Trim

It's 4:30am.

I'm in my bed, under the covers, with my teddy bear next to me, trying to fall asleep, and failing.

I'm cold.

The tips of my fingers and toes feel like they've been injected with novacane.

The pile of blankets on top of me isn't working, neither is the radiator, neither is the teal lace nightgown. I should have worn flannel.

I'm shivering so much; it feels like my entire body is experiencing restless leg syndrome.

It looks like I'm having a seizure.

I miss the warmth coming off of another body. The warmth of companionship before bed. Curled up next to you, or in your arms. It's like a little furnace, or campfire on top of your body, keeping you warm throughout the night without burning you. Red/orange coals still smoldering on your chest and back in the morning.

But, tonight, I'm cold and lonely.

I turn the radio on, lower the volume, and tune it to a soft rock station in an attempt to fall asleep. The music coming through the speakers sounds like coordinated whispers singing a secret song for people who can hear really well. Good listeners.

I close my eyes.

Tonight, I'm cold and lonely.

My two cats got locked in my mom's room for the night.

A Piece of Literature About Love

Someone told me, "Yo, Mv. We gettin' you some pussy tonight. There's these hot bitches comin' ova tonight to da crib. We hookin you up. WE GETTIN' YOU LAID! WE GETTIN' YOU SOME HOT ASS PUSSY! Y'all need it bro. You pick the bitch tonight. We'll make it happen. We got your back bro. We tight nigga."

Then came in and gave me a handshake, which turned into a hug, (but that someone would like me to clarify that it was "no homo, just a sign of respect.")

I wanted to say, "Thank you for the offer. I really appreciate you trying to get me some pussy, but I'm not really looking for that right now...no homo."

But instead nodded my head and said, "Yeah, totally. It's all about the pussy." then came in gave that someone a handshake and a hug (no homo.)

I stayed at da crib for another twenty minutes before I made up an excuse about my aunt needing help at the house with the laundry and dishes because she broke her foot the other week.

"Yeah man, shit sucks. Sorry maybe another night."

Someone says, "I feel you bro. HaHA, just means more PUSSY FO' US. AND HENNY! HAHA!" and smiled.

"You enjoy that. Peace dude"

"Later bro. I'll hit you up tomorrow."

We came in and gave each other a handshake, which turned into a shoulder bump, and then a hug, (for the last time, no homo.)    

Then I got into my car, drove home, and spent the night in my bedroom at my aunt's house alone, but not alone because I spent the rest of the night talking to someone else on the phone about all my failed sexual encounters, which was every sexual encounter. .

Walk A Day In My Underwear: Yellow, Blue, Mint Green Polka-Dot Cotton Disco Boyshorts (Underwear Series Project #1)

I want to run a marathon.

I want to dance on the top of my bed listening to Donna Summer alone in my room on Youtube. Or maybe with the boy I have a crush on. Ruining the folds on the bed with rhythmic steps, and chaotic choreography, while I swig glasses of white wine sprinkled with molly, and pull all the black heads out of the pores on my nose with nasal cleansing strips.

I want to jump off a cliff. Not because I'm suicidal, but because I want to learn how to fly. I mean, doesn't everyone? Not all of us have the time or the money to learn how to fly a plane at this point in our lives; most of us are just trying to get from point a to point b, and have fun while we are doing it (at least I know I am.)

This morning, after I got out of the shower, I looked at my ass in the mirror. The green elastic bands lifted it up and made it look plump in a good way, which brought a smile to my face because it made me feel attractive.

Now, at work, in the office, sitting in an gray swivel chair, I feel my butt deflating. I feel the pattern of the threads being etched into the skin on my cheeks.

One of the truck drivers pulls out a full pill bottle of Xanax and asks me if I want any.

"How much?"

He looks around then back down at me and whispers,

"A blowjob."

A smirk stretches across his face exposing yellowish green teeth, this morning's cigarette, and last night's beer.

He leans in, and the smells of what he has recently consumed become more prominent.

"Sorry don't take money."

I want to become a boxer, and learn how to make someone eat out of a straw for three months with a wicked left hook.

I look down and pick up a piece of paper on my desk that said, "138 Ridgewell Avenue" and hand it to him.

"No thank you. Here's the address for your next delivery."

His smirk transforms back into a straight line, as he shrugs his shoulders, pockets the pill bottle, takes the paper, and walks out the glass front door of the office.

At the end of the day, my boss, who's thirty years older than me, with dyed black hair puts his wedding ring on my shoulder and asks me if I want to go out to dinner, a movie, a drink, and then the hotel room this Friday night.

"No thank you, I got plans to bake some chocolate chip cookies with my mother, but here's that business memo from corporate that you wanted before I left."

"Oh....ummm, thank you."

He pauses and scratches the grey stubble on his chin. He realizes he forgot to shave this morning, but it doesn't matter.

"Well, hey, my friend's got this yacht and next weekend he's throwing a party, you know. Open bar. Great seafood. Wonderful people. The crème de la crème of the rock quarry industry will be there."

"Maybe. I'll have to see. But just to let you know, I'm a vegetarian."

"Well a 'maybe' is always better than a 'no.' I'm sure they'll have salad. Come on it'll be a good time."

I don't move or say anything. He scratches the stubble on his chin again. Maybe it's a nervous tick?

"Just keep me posted. Alright?"

"I'll let you know, but I gotta go to the restroom before I leave, excuse me."

He pinches my deflated ass as I walk by with his right thumb and index finger.

I look back at him over my shoulder, and see him staring at me with a shit-eating grin.

"Just let me know. You have my number. You know where to find me."

In the bathroom, I turn the faucet on cold and splash some water on my face, then wipe it off with a paper towel, and throw it in the trash can.

I look at myself in the mirror. I see myself in a hotel room, wrapping a hundred dollar bill and his wedding ring around a strap-on dildo, and depositing the valuables in my boss's colon without any lubrication, then having the truck driver suck my boss's ass juice off the tip of the dildo. Ass to mouth.

Looking in the mirror, I see that I have the potential to become a dick too; I choose not to.

When I got home, I take my dress off and prance around the house in my underwear listening to, "Brick House" by The Commodores, as I cook Kiwi tacos for dinner. He will never get to me. These men will never get to me. Because they are the toys, and I'm the human being. Because this is only temporary. In a couple of years, they will be alone on their death beds trying to pleasure themselves with wrinkled hands, but it's not working because they can't get it up without the assistance of pills and money. I'll be the one still dancing, but not alone. I'll be the one dancing with the boy who's sensuous fingertips massage the knots out of the notches in my spine, just because, just because, just because.

We both believe in true love.

"She's mighty mighty lettin it all hang out,"

Tonight, I am sexier, stronger, and more confident then I ever have been before.

Two weeks later, I handed in my resignation from the rock quarry.

Two years later, everything I just described to you came true.

All My Role Models Are Cartoon Characters

I think the side effects of being alive and interacting with people got to me.

Like, my hands have never snapped another person’s neck, or bent their fingers backwards, but they contemplate what the vibrations must feel like from mutilated limbs.

Normally I just drink soda, but tonight, I am going to knock back shot after shot of battery acid, saki, and warm, fresh blood spurting out of a gunshot wound. And it tastes exactly like tomorrow. And tomorrow tastes exactly like horse piss.

Drink up!


(image source: http://technabob.com/blog/2012/08/19/walking-dead-disney-princesses/)

Positive Thinking At 6:03am

Imagine an eighty something couple deciding to dance at their granddaughter's wedding, risking it all to creek slowly from side-to-side.

As you get older, routine choices become life or death decisions.

If one of the drunk groomsman, stumbles over his feet, or trips on dangling metal leg of a punk ass dining room chair, and falls forward into them, it's over.

Broken hips. Ruptured organs. Possible stroke. Possible heart attack. Broken arms. Bruising. Swelling. Broken necks. Internal bleeding. Tragedy.

And I wish I was an eighty something who died because of someone accidentally falling into me while dancing, especially at a wedding.

Fuckin hate weddings.

This is positive thinking at 6:03 am.

Pussy

A loose eyelash embedded in milky bodily fluids.
Red spiderwebbed and irritated around the pupil, which is permanently pinned.
Or blue and unwell,
teardrops have started to erode the skin on my face,
forming smooth lines, which your fingertips study:
Some call it the path of least resistance.
Others call it being lazy.
Some call it perspective.
Others call it sensitivity.
Someone called me a pussy.
And, yeah, they're right,
Because I am a pussy
Going nowhere.

Smoking cigarettes on Carrie's porch after work at 11pm on a Monday night, we see a guy on the corner of South Welles and Northampton. He took his white t-shirt off, and started to twirl it above his head, like a sports fan in the stands with a towel, as he screamed at the passing headlights: "I GOT NOTHIN. AWWW MAN. NO FRIENDS. NO GIRL. NO JOB. I'M COMPLETELY FUCKIN BROKE. I GOT NOTHIN. AWWW MAN. NO CAR. NO BEER. NO FOOD. CAN'T EVEN AFFORD A FUCKIN BIG MAC. N-O-T-H-I-N. I EVEN SPELLED IT OUT FOR ALL Y'ALL IN THE CARS. NOTHIN."

The shirtless guy on the corner of South Welles and Northampton crossed the street, almost being hit by two cars in the process, then disappeared behind two houses, presumably into The Terrace.

Someone on the porch says, "Shit, that dude is going to probably get shot. Too bad I couldn't understand what he was sayin, I don't speak nigger. Hahahaha."

I remain silent; others laugh.

For the remainder of the cigarette, I imagined shirtless guy who was on the corner of South Welles and Northampton coming back and strangling all of our privileged, middle class throats, one by one, with his t-shirt.

"NOTHIN. I EVEN SPELLED IT OUT FOR Y'ALL."

It's what we deserve for never doing anything important for anyone else. It's what we deserve for never helping out. It's what we deserve for never speaking up against someone, especially when that someone is a fucking racist asshole. It's what we get for always trying to keep the status quo, instead of fighting for what feels inherently good.

The path of least resistance.

"Pussy."

I Stopped Taking Showers On A Regular Basis

I don’t know why, one day it just happened.

Feeling Sorry For Yourself And Other People Is Stupid (How I Spent My Saturday Night: 5/25/13)

I soldered my lips together and cut my hands off with a rusty machete that had black electrical tape wrapped around the handle. Then I picked up some drugs, spat a used needle out the window on my drive home, and listened to it skip off the pavement. It was Memorial Day weekend, and I made it home without getting arrested; phantom hands and fingers gripped the steering wheel.

A replay of the Champions League Final was on my aunt's flat screen tv, and my ass sank into the couch.

At the same time, Ryan, someone who was on the same swim team as me in high school, and now hangs out with/does drugs/gets pissed at me from time to time for various reason (some known, some not), is cooking a steak for himself and a girl that works at Logan's Steak House with Shannon, this girl I know. He left the army (honorably), and moved back into his parents' house, which is a couple miles down the road from my aunt's.

We were over his house last night with Carrie and Shannon because his parents were out of town. He pounded two rib eyes with a meat mallet, put them in a Pyrex dish, marinated them, covered the dish in plastic wrap, and put it in fridge, while Shannon argued on the phone with her off and on girlfriend. Shannon got off the phone, and we went into his living room and Carrie put on a movie.

Shannon and Carrie were telling Ryan how excited they were for his date and dug for the details of what he had planned, and Ryan explained. Shannon and Carrie thought it was cute, a homecooked dinner for two, before the three of them went over the ways in which Ryan could fuck it up and how to avoid it. I nodded off on the couch. Carrie woke me up when it was time to leave. Ryan gave Carrie and Shannon a fist bump and a hug; I got a wave and a cold look—I figured he got pissed because I was nodding off, which made it seem like I didn't care.

Sitting on the couch, I thought about the word, “cute,” and why I don’t care about other people’s happiness.

Sitting on the couch, I wondered why I cared about people who live hundreds of miles away from me that I've never met in person.

And those people are scratching my limbic system with fingernails made out dull razorblades, then kissing the wound to make me feel better.

Cracked lips puckered up, I scraped together an answer that I really can’t explain.

I turned the tv off by hitting the power button on the remote with my big toe.

Spacing out to the electric lullabies of household appliances.

Not hanging out with anyone.

Thinking about a specific individual that I've never met in person who genuinely cares about me.

Smiling the entire time, as I bled out.

The Next Few Months

A dignified man with oil slick black/gray hair in sunglasses and a business suit is going to abduct me in a gas station parking lot when my car is on empty, pump in slot.

He will throw me in the trunk of his black german luxury sedan after bounding my ankles and wrists with bungee cords, then the blindfold will go on and it will all go black.

The only objects I will be able to discern in the dark are those weird flashes and spots of light I see every time I close my eyes.

I will hear potholes, and feel the pain; a golf bag my only friend.

Except on left turns.

Every left turn, the golf bag will beat the shit out of me with a pitching wedge to the chin, and a driver to the eyebrow.

Fucker.

But it will feel deserved.

It will feel good: teeth cracking in half on grass stained tungsten, blood forming a puddle on the dark gray fabric lining the trunk.

It's turning black, at least that's what I imagine.

How it will feel like against the tips of my arm hairs, the blood.

Black.

The dignified man with oil slick black/gray hair in sunglasses and a business suit will open the trunk, pick me up, and cradle my body with his soft hands, closing in on our destination.

He will drop me.

I will hear a elevator door shut.

I will hear it defy gravity with weights and pulleys.

I will hear a bell ring and a door open.

He will pick me up, walk, put me down, unlock a door, open it, pick me up again, put me down again, slide a glass door open, and drag me outside onto concrete, which feels like sandpaper.

The wind will blow my hair from left to right and it will feel nice.

My face will stop bleeding.

The dignified man with oil slick black/gray hair in sunglasses and a business suit will tie a heavy metal chain around my neck, and then around an aluminum railing before removing the bungee cords and blindfold.

I will be on a high rise balcony overlooking the city, and the only thought that is running through my mind is how small and insignificant the people look navigating the maze of alleys, parking lots, and sidewalks.


The dignified man with oil slick black/gray hair in sunglasses and a business suit will say, "It's your choice...what you want to do with your life." before he tosses me a chocolate bar and walks out the hotel door.

The chocolate bar will melt in my hand as I eat it, and all I will think about is how big of a magnifying glass it would take to fry the people walking below me, and the identity of the person who defines words for dictionaries, and how much that person gets paid.

My Mom Told Me To See A Therapist

Lately, I've been imaging a random stranger walking up behind me in a bathroom, smashing my skull open with a steel pipe, and finding a padlocked wooden treasure chest lodged in my brain.

The stranger picks the lock with a bent paper clip and bobby pin until it clicks open, revealing a naked, sweaty, clean cut man with ample body hair in all the right places. ALL the right places. Get me?

Okay.

So the naked, sweaty, clean cut man with ample body hair steps out of the box, fully grown, grabs a teal blue towel off the rack on the wall, and buries his face in the fibers as he carefully tiptoes over my decapitated body.

He drops the towel, runs his left hand through a brown clump of hair before saying to the stranger:

"Hey buddy, thanks for freeing me from that box. Really appreciated! Been in there for almost twenty five years now. In the fetal position. Living off the digested fast food nutrition," he points at my body with a pruned index finger,"this asshole ingested. Surprised I even look this good! Haha."

The stranger stares blankly into the bathroom tile, watching the streams of blood fill the crevices outlining the tiles.

"Thanks man! Like really. Now I can finally start my life, college, career, wife, kids, two story house, with an inground swimming pool and garden in the backyard, the works! The kind of happiness that happens on those family sitcoms people watch in their homes with their children on Thursday nights. You know, like The Office?"

The blood from my body has filled every crevice and has started to overflow onto the tile.

The naked, sweaty, clean cut man with ample body hair picks the towel off the ground, puts it over his head and starts moving it back and forth, while the stranger sighs, grips the pipe, and takes a couple of practice swings.

He's got time.

radio contest idea

i am going to saran wrap my dick to your face with a christmas tree air freshner (or vice versa), and we will stay that way until you either rip my dick off and run away, or until you or my dick asphyxiates, or until we both die of dehydration.

i hope we stay like this forever with both of our skeletons locked together.
i hope they build a museum around our skeletons, and tastefully put a twister board underneath us, matching our body positions.
i want elderly people to whisper to their grandkids outside the exhibit, "now, shut up, pay attention, and don't touch anything, and maybe you could learn something."

this is my only future aspiration, besides scoring some heroin, wearing a lacy bra, and making Stephen Chapasko uncomfortable by flashing him as many times as possible before he joins the navy.

Two Facts About The Deli I Work At.

My one co-worker eats expired pies out of the garbage while I wait on customers and/or clean the fryer and/or rotisserie and/or dishes.

He gets paid more than me.

"What are you doing next Saturday?"

I will probably ruffie my own drink and/or blow some scopolamine into my own face so a random stranger(s) will touch my body in inappropriate places, before he/she/they empty(s) my bank account, and clear(s) my upstair's bedroom of every personal belonging I have ever owned. Once he/she/they are done,he/she/they will leave, and I will pace the streets of the Heights for the rest of the night, and ask anyone I see if they know where the nearest death squad is currently located.

Because I'm the worst multiplied by a billion squared.

.