The reason why I spread venom
Nov 13, 2017 11:42:30 GMT -5
𝓓𝓾𝓴𝓮 𝓚𝓸𝓼𝓵𝓸𝓯𝓯, Hyperion, and 2 more like this
Post by Dackle on Nov 13, 2017 11:42:30 GMT -5
The camera seems to be hastily turned on and is out of focus. It looks to be pointed at the floor, while voices can be heard.
You people come into my house almost every week and ask if I wanna say something for the show. And every week I abide. I am about fed up with this bullshit.
There is a pause as a microphone is attached to the subject of the interview.
Hurry the hell up.
Mumbling can be heard elsewhere, in what seems like an apology. The camera pans up and focuses in. Dackle is seen in his chair, donning a silk robe with an ascot tucked into the neck. He has penny loafers on his feet as his legs are crossed. In his right hand, a tumbler full of scotch. The aid to the camera man backs out of the picture.
Are you people ready yet?
A yes can be heard in the distance.
Good. Now I assume you want me to say something deep and profound about my match with whats his face? But I ain’t gonna. Instead, I am going to let you people in on my story. I am going to let you people in on why I am in such pain and why I have made it my mission to spread as much pain and darkness to everyone.
He takes a sip of the drink and sets the glass on the mahogany table next to his chair. He folds his hands in his lap and begins talking.
Ya see, I was not always this way. There was a time when I was just a regular dude. I came from a well to do family. I didn’t hurt for anything. In fact, immediately after graduation, my mother and father bought me a home in Creve Coure, Missouri. It was a beautiful home on a cul-de-sac. You know the kind, a white picket fence, a quarter acre of fresh green lawn, a garage with a remote and a nice brick lined mail box.
I had a girl. Her name was Andrea. I met her in Jr. High. We never spent more than 12 hours apart ever. She was going to go to school in the city. I asked her to live with me. Our first night, we made love in every room of the house. That was also the day I told her I was joining the Marine Corps.
My life was almost perfect. I received orders to a special duty assignment fresh out of SOI. I was going to do security for the Cartography Department in St. Louis. I would get to be home guarding a building that few knew existed. It was perfect.
About six months into my guard job, I was told I was being reassigned to 1/3. They were gearing up to deploy. I would be shipping out to Kaneohe Bay in a week.
I proposed to Andrea that night. We were going to get married when I got back.
I spent 6 months in the back of a Humvee doing patrols in Kandahar. It was boring. There was nothing there by the time we all got there. There was nothing. I couldn’t gt any messages home, but at least I wasn’t being shot at.
That was until our final week. The advanced party of the unit coming to replace us as on deck. We had one more patrol to do before we packed our shit and left. I remember it like it was yesterday.
We turned left down an MSR and almost immediately, the world stopped. Three daisy chained IEDs exploded. Two more RPG shells connected with vehicles. Out of the six vics in the convoy, five were destroyed. My own, the command vic, took most of an RPG blast. The vehicle overturned. My gunner, Corporal Stevenson, was trapped in the turret. Lieutenant Johnson and Sgt Carter died in the explosion. PFC Rodridguez and I were the only ones who survived. By survived I mean were breathing. Rod had a chuck of sheet metal coming out of his neck.
I would hear the round going off, some from the fires cooking off the machine gun ammo, some from the guys who were attacking us. My left leg was broken. My weapon was unserviceable. I was a sitting duck.
I don’t remember much of the next few days. The next thing I remember is being in a metal cage in some dark cave in a land God forgot. For the next three years, six months, two weeks, and three days, I was beaten, electrocuted, and maimed in ways only the sickest and twisted of minds could ever conjure.
But all the pain that I experienced in that cave were nothing. When I was “freed”, I spent six months in a hospital in Rammstein, Germany. Because I was lost for so long, I could not just call up my mom and dad, or Andrea, and tell them I was ok.
The VA did what they could, but since I was no longer in any heath risk, and since pain means nothing to those heartless, money grubbing assholes, I was sent home. I was put on a plane back to St. Louis.
I stood in the South Terminal of Lambert International Airport. I stood under the replica of the Spirit of St. Louis and looked around. Busweiser did not throw me a welcome home parade. No one was there holding a banner welcoming me home. No one even knew who I was.
Instead, I was met with an anti-war protest. Standing in my dress blues, adorned with ribbons and medals, I was spit on. I was called everything but a patriot. I was told I was a murderer.
I pushed my way past the terrible smelling protestors and shoved me and my seabag into a cab. A 65 dollar cab ride later and I was standing in front of my house.
I walked up the sidewalk. I dropped my sea-bag on the front porch. With my index finger, a finger that still didn’t have a nail on it, I rang the door bell.
For the entire time I was being brutally tortured, I kept one vision in my mind. It was the one vision that kept me going. I would do this exact thing. I would ring the doorbell and Andrea would open the door. We would lock eyes and she would fall into my arms. We would go inside and make love on the stairs like we did the first night in the house. It was the only thing that kept me from giving up.
I could hear the doorbell inside. When the door opened, it was nothing of what I imagined to be. A 60ish year old Hispanic answered the door. There was a nice long pause. I asked him who the fuck he was. He responded with the same question. I asked in Andrea was there.
He hollered for Honey. My heart sank. Down the stairs she came with a Hispanic child on her hip. She paused when she saw me. Before words could be said, I picked up my sea-bag and began walking.
I do not know how long I walked. I ditched the seabag after a while. I could feel the stiff patton leather dig into the scars on my ankles. I didn’t care. I kept walking.
The whole time I was in that cave, while my legs were repeatedly broke, while my finger nails were ripped off again and again, while I was whipped, shocked, and put through so much pain I could no longer see color, all I had was the memories of Andrea, and the hope to make more.
Now that that was gone, Corporal Steve Dackle was gone. I came back to myself, I collected my faculties in a padded room in some mental hospital. I was in a padded room, a beautiful, brilliant white room strapped into a straight jacket. It was so tight my shoulder was almost out of socket.
I sat in that corner and I thought. As I thought I committed murder. I committed the murder those pot smoking accused me of committing in the airport. I killed Corporal Steve Dackle. In his place came what you see now. I am no longer the guy who lettered in three different sports at Central. I am no longer the recruit who set the record for pull ups at MCRD San Diego.
Now, I have no idea who I am. All I know, is that there is nothing and no one who I care about. I no longer have the compacity for love, remorse, caring, or compassion. I have one mission. I have one ongoing thing that drives my will to live.
That thing is, I am going to try and spread as much pain, as much…darkness as I can. It runs through my veins like a venom. This venom will eventually do me in. But this venom, this venom I can spread to others.
Now, as far as whoever has the unfortunate draw of facing me this week, I kind of envy you. I envy you because after our “match”, you will not ever feel any pain. I am going to make it to where you have to be so medicated that you will not be a shell of your former self, but you will struggle to be a barnacle o a shell of your former self.
Ya know who I do pity though? I pity your loved ones. Because once I am done with you, you will be a burden on them. They are going to have to wait on your invalidic ass hand and foot. They are going to have to quit their job and help you do even the most mundane things like eating or wiping your ass.
I pity them because late at night, after they change your diaper and dope you up with enough morphine to send Courtney Love into oblivion, they will turn on their computer and poke around the internet. They will just be bullshitting around and type in assisted suicide into google. An ad will come up, and for a few long, agonizing seconds, they will consider calling the number and end everyone’s misery. But the stench of your ass will snap them out of it. They will spend the rest of your life in utter misery.
So whoever you are, I want you to think long and hard about the match between you and I. I want you to think about not just the pain I am going to put you through, I want you to think about how it will effect your family, your friends, and the pathetic excuses you have for fans.
Think about them before the bell rings. If you want to continue, I will be there. But know this, I will not be merciful. I will not show any shred of compassion towards you. I am going to ruin your sad, miserable life.
And that, like my dead uncle’s inheritance that bought me this place, you can take to the bank, BITCH.
He picks up the glass and the cubes chink together. He taks an elongated sip from the glass before he sets it back on the table.
You got your video there jackass. Get the fuck out of my house before I introduce you to the very pain the jackass I am facing gets.
Dackle grabs the mic and throws it towards the camera man. The camera abruptly shuts off.
You people come into my house almost every week and ask if I wanna say something for the show. And every week I abide. I am about fed up with this bullshit.
There is a pause as a microphone is attached to the subject of the interview.
Hurry the hell up.
Mumbling can be heard elsewhere, in what seems like an apology. The camera pans up and focuses in. Dackle is seen in his chair, donning a silk robe with an ascot tucked into the neck. He has penny loafers on his feet as his legs are crossed. In his right hand, a tumbler full of scotch. The aid to the camera man backs out of the picture.
Are you people ready yet?
A yes can be heard in the distance.
Good. Now I assume you want me to say something deep and profound about my match with whats his face? But I ain’t gonna. Instead, I am going to let you people in on my story. I am going to let you people in on why I am in such pain and why I have made it my mission to spread as much pain and darkness to everyone.
He takes a sip of the drink and sets the glass on the mahogany table next to his chair. He folds his hands in his lap and begins talking.
Ya see, I was not always this way. There was a time when I was just a regular dude. I came from a well to do family. I didn’t hurt for anything. In fact, immediately after graduation, my mother and father bought me a home in Creve Coure, Missouri. It was a beautiful home on a cul-de-sac. You know the kind, a white picket fence, a quarter acre of fresh green lawn, a garage with a remote and a nice brick lined mail box.
I had a girl. Her name was Andrea. I met her in Jr. High. We never spent more than 12 hours apart ever. She was going to go to school in the city. I asked her to live with me. Our first night, we made love in every room of the house. That was also the day I told her I was joining the Marine Corps.
My life was almost perfect. I received orders to a special duty assignment fresh out of SOI. I was going to do security for the Cartography Department in St. Louis. I would get to be home guarding a building that few knew existed. It was perfect.
About six months into my guard job, I was told I was being reassigned to 1/3. They were gearing up to deploy. I would be shipping out to Kaneohe Bay in a week.
I proposed to Andrea that night. We were going to get married when I got back.
I spent 6 months in the back of a Humvee doing patrols in Kandahar. It was boring. There was nothing there by the time we all got there. There was nothing. I couldn’t gt any messages home, but at least I wasn’t being shot at.
That was until our final week. The advanced party of the unit coming to replace us as on deck. We had one more patrol to do before we packed our shit and left. I remember it like it was yesterday.
We turned left down an MSR and almost immediately, the world stopped. Three daisy chained IEDs exploded. Two more RPG shells connected with vehicles. Out of the six vics in the convoy, five were destroyed. My own, the command vic, took most of an RPG blast. The vehicle overturned. My gunner, Corporal Stevenson, was trapped in the turret. Lieutenant Johnson and Sgt Carter died in the explosion. PFC Rodridguez and I were the only ones who survived. By survived I mean were breathing. Rod had a chuck of sheet metal coming out of his neck.
I would hear the round going off, some from the fires cooking off the machine gun ammo, some from the guys who were attacking us. My left leg was broken. My weapon was unserviceable. I was a sitting duck.
I don’t remember much of the next few days. The next thing I remember is being in a metal cage in some dark cave in a land God forgot. For the next three years, six months, two weeks, and three days, I was beaten, electrocuted, and maimed in ways only the sickest and twisted of minds could ever conjure.
But all the pain that I experienced in that cave were nothing. When I was “freed”, I spent six months in a hospital in Rammstein, Germany. Because I was lost for so long, I could not just call up my mom and dad, or Andrea, and tell them I was ok.
The VA did what they could, but since I was no longer in any heath risk, and since pain means nothing to those heartless, money grubbing assholes, I was sent home. I was put on a plane back to St. Louis.
I stood in the South Terminal of Lambert International Airport. I stood under the replica of the Spirit of St. Louis and looked around. Busweiser did not throw me a welcome home parade. No one was there holding a banner welcoming me home. No one even knew who I was.
Instead, I was met with an anti-war protest. Standing in my dress blues, adorned with ribbons and medals, I was spit on. I was called everything but a patriot. I was told I was a murderer.
I pushed my way past the terrible smelling protestors and shoved me and my seabag into a cab. A 65 dollar cab ride later and I was standing in front of my house.
I walked up the sidewalk. I dropped my sea-bag on the front porch. With my index finger, a finger that still didn’t have a nail on it, I rang the door bell.
For the entire time I was being brutally tortured, I kept one vision in my mind. It was the one vision that kept me going. I would do this exact thing. I would ring the doorbell and Andrea would open the door. We would lock eyes and she would fall into my arms. We would go inside and make love on the stairs like we did the first night in the house. It was the only thing that kept me from giving up.
I could hear the doorbell inside. When the door opened, it was nothing of what I imagined to be. A 60ish year old Hispanic answered the door. There was a nice long pause. I asked him who the fuck he was. He responded with the same question. I asked in Andrea was there.
He hollered for Honey. My heart sank. Down the stairs she came with a Hispanic child on her hip. She paused when she saw me. Before words could be said, I picked up my sea-bag and began walking.
I do not know how long I walked. I ditched the seabag after a while. I could feel the stiff patton leather dig into the scars on my ankles. I didn’t care. I kept walking.
The whole time I was in that cave, while my legs were repeatedly broke, while my finger nails were ripped off again and again, while I was whipped, shocked, and put through so much pain I could no longer see color, all I had was the memories of Andrea, and the hope to make more.
Now that that was gone, Corporal Steve Dackle was gone. I came back to myself, I collected my faculties in a padded room in some mental hospital. I was in a padded room, a beautiful, brilliant white room strapped into a straight jacket. It was so tight my shoulder was almost out of socket.
I sat in that corner and I thought. As I thought I committed murder. I committed the murder those pot smoking accused me of committing in the airport. I killed Corporal Steve Dackle. In his place came what you see now. I am no longer the guy who lettered in three different sports at Central. I am no longer the recruit who set the record for pull ups at MCRD San Diego.
Now, I have no idea who I am. All I know, is that there is nothing and no one who I care about. I no longer have the compacity for love, remorse, caring, or compassion. I have one mission. I have one ongoing thing that drives my will to live.
That thing is, I am going to try and spread as much pain, as much…darkness as I can. It runs through my veins like a venom. This venom will eventually do me in. But this venom, this venom I can spread to others.
Now, as far as whoever has the unfortunate draw of facing me this week, I kind of envy you. I envy you because after our “match”, you will not ever feel any pain. I am going to make it to where you have to be so medicated that you will not be a shell of your former self, but you will struggle to be a barnacle o a shell of your former self.
Ya know who I do pity though? I pity your loved ones. Because once I am done with you, you will be a burden on them. They are going to have to wait on your invalidic ass hand and foot. They are going to have to quit their job and help you do even the most mundane things like eating or wiping your ass.
I pity them because late at night, after they change your diaper and dope you up with enough morphine to send Courtney Love into oblivion, they will turn on their computer and poke around the internet. They will just be bullshitting around and type in assisted suicide into google. An ad will come up, and for a few long, agonizing seconds, they will consider calling the number and end everyone’s misery. But the stench of your ass will snap them out of it. They will spend the rest of your life in utter misery.
So whoever you are, I want you to think long and hard about the match between you and I. I want you to think about not just the pain I am going to put you through, I want you to think about how it will effect your family, your friends, and the pathetic excuses you have for fans.
Think about them before the bell rings. If you want to continue, I will be there. But know this, I will not be merciful. I will not show any shred of compassion towards you. I am going to ruin your sad, miserable life.
And that, like my dead uncle’s inheritance that bought me this place, you can take to the bank, BITCH.
He picks up the glass and the cubes chink together. He taks an elongated sip from the glass before he sets it back on the table.
You got your video there jackass. Get the fuck out of my house before I introduce you to the very pain the jackass I am facing gets.
Dackle grabs the mic and throws it towards the camera man. The camera abruptly shuts off.
