Contributor: Antoine Bargel
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“I like my character,” said the blind man to a can of beans, “after seventy-two years I still don’t own a pair of pants.”
“I’m over here,” I said with just a bit of scorn in my tone. I wasn’t going to take any of the usual bullshit. That old refrain about being a free spirit, when one owes to society more than their miserable existence is ever capable of producing, brings a taste of ashes to my mouth.
“Why don’t you save us the trouble and take your own life? I have needles or pills, as you’d prefer, in my briefcase.”
The blind man still hadn’t measured the severity of his situation. Rather than heed the absolute intent of my speech, he elected to attempt a comical exit:
“Robert, don’t speak like this to your old man. You know it makes me feel queasy. Make me a banana milkshake.”
Such ridiculous tricks are often attempted by human beings who understand that they are about to die. They try to personalize the situation, however they can, hoping to draw humanity from the unknown depths of their killer-en-devenir’s soul. I am no more human than if I were made of steel and electronic components, but I am entirely cellular, organic even. My genes have been free-range farmed, not floated in the infectious beansacks of this banana lover.
“YOU KNOW WHERE YOU CAN STICK YOUR FUCKING BANANAS!”, yelled I to reorient the situation.
“I’m going to kill you if you don’t do it yourself”, I added in a raspy voice.
“Come on, Bobby, you know I’m going to die soon. Can’t you wait just a bit longer? Do you really have to marry this girl now?”
Of course. The whining stage. I hate to admit it but almost all of them go through it. I wish there were something I could do to improve this part of my job, which I find a bit unpleasant. There is really only one way to move on to the next phase, so I stick my fingers in his eye sockets and pull his head back.
“In the name of God, Robert, behave yourself!”
He still sounds like he thinks he’s my fucking father, so I slip my elbow under his head and snap his neck.
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Antoine Bargel's fiction has been described as "bizarre and grotesque", "outrageously naive", and "downright obscene" by the critics that he makes up in his mind.
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“I like my character,” said the blind man to a can of beans, “after seventy-two years I still don’t own a pair of pants.”
“I’m over here,” I said with just a bit of scorn in my tone. I wasn’t going to take any of the usual bullshit. That old refrain about being a free spirit, when one owes to society more than their miserable existence is ever capable of producing, brings a taste of ashes to my mouth.
“Why don’t you save us the trouble and take your own life? I have needles or pills, as you’d prefer, in my briefcase.”
The blind man still hadn’t measured the severity of his situation. Rather than heed the absolute intent of my speech, he elected to attempt a comical exit:
“Robert, don’t speak like this to your old man. You know it makes me feel queasy. Make me a banana milkshake.”
Such ridiculous tricks are often attempted by human beings who understand that they are about to die. They try to personalize the situation, however they can, hoping to draw humanity from the unknown depths of their killer-en-devenir’s soul. I am no more human than if I were made of steel and electronic components, but I am entirely cellular, organic even. My genes have been free-range farmed, not floated in the infectious beansacks of this banana lover.
“YOU KNOW WHERE YOU CAN STICK YOUR FUCKING BANANAS!”, yelled I to reorient the situation.
“I’m going to kill you if you don’t do it yourself”, I added in a raspy voice.
“Come on, Bobby, you know I’m going to die soon. Can’t you wait just a bit longer? Do you really have to marry this girl now?”
Of course. The whining stage. I hate to admit it but almost all of them go through it. I wish there were something I could do to improve this part of my job, which I find a bit unpleasant. There is really only one way to move on to the next phase, so I stick my fingers in his eye sockets and pull his head back.
“In the name of God, Robert, behave yourself!”
He still sounds like he thinks he’s my fucking father, so I slip my elbow under his head and snap his neck.
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Antoine Bargel's fiction has been described as "bizarre and grotesque", "outrageously naive", and "downright obscene" by the critics that he makes up in his mind.
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Author:
Antoine Bargel
