My failure to follow through with a college degree or apply myself in any credible way lead me down this path of misery. I don’t remember raping a baby, because that’s the only act that would justify the karmic backhand I tolerate every day I work at a toy store.
Being face fucked at knife point by a clown is a worthwhile analogy. Imagine a bright, colorful clown raping your mouth hole, spraying jizz all over your face, then tossing glitter all over your tear stained, cum splattered mug. That’s what a day in the toy store is like.
I get through my daily rigor in different ways. For instance, when the frustration reaches a fevered pitch, I’ll grab a random stuffed animal off the plush aisle and rend it asunder, replacing the eviscerated critter back with his peers who are still in tact. No one has discovered who the mystery plush toy murderer might be. They have their suspicions though.
Murder is a fantasy I indulge. My disdain for all humans is palpable at the job. Sometimes I’ll imagine launching myself across the counter, wrapping my clawing digits around the throat of the first cunt who behaves as if they’re royalty instead of botched anal sex at a drunken high school prom.
I imagine coming to work with a razor-sharp machete, rampaging up and down the aisles as I separate little heads from shoulders in an incredible ballet of homicide. The daydream is so visceral and complete that I can feel the warm spray of childrens’ plasma as it coats Barbie dolls, stipples Monopoly board games and soaks bargain action figures of popular super heroes.
My imagined spree would continue into the food court, where patrons would be struck silent with the horror of a blood marbled grim reaper in a red polo shirt and name tag, his eyes pinholes of insanity, his face a twisted joker’s mask of kill-crazy euphoria.
I fathom the gunshots as a distant sound, hardly associated with the sociopath who’s currently bathing in the life fluid of fuckable teenagers and morbidly obese consumers. My skull would explode under the concussive shells of multiple high powered rifles, my body slumping onto the boot scuffed tiles, a pool of crimson that matches my red shirt perfectly in tone. The machete would still be gripped in my fist as rigor mortis sets in.
But alas, I never carry out my hateful vengeance on the mall. I’ll know it’s time to make a lateral career move the minute I find myself actually shopping for the machete.