OC FOR Holla Forums

Sup guys I'm putting together a collection of short stories that have Holla Forums messages that will be hidden so the publisher will sign me on. I just completed a new one and I hope you all enjoy it.

The Patsy

Barb and Bill Stonecypher knew that something was off about their son the moment they saw him at the airport. For his smile was forced and twisted. His walk was now a lope. His laugh was hollow and sharp like a bark. And his eyes were all but empty save for the times they found something far beyond the horizon and latched onto it in an intense stare. The car ride home was cordial and quiet but with the tight undertones of tenseness. Barb wept that night for she knew her son was gone and the thing that came home was nothing more than a stranger and it slept in a bedroom down the hall.

After his friends stopped taking him out for beers because of constant rage filled outbursts and anti government tirades, James found that company with himself to be the only stable social venture. He quickly developed a ritual where every morning and night James would sit on the back porch and silently stare into the far treeline and drink a liter of whiskey and smoke two packs of Marlboro reds. His mother would ask him why he would do this and he would just shrug. She then would ask why he didn't have a smart phone and he would shrug. His sister would ask why he deleted his facebook and he would shrug. His father would ask why he didn't have a girlfriend and James would bark a laugh and shrug. When the constant questions turned into an aggressive front of bitching and complaining James abandoned the ritual and decided to go out more. With the pay James earned during his tours in the Korengal Valley he bought a used Chevy Tahoe and got a membership at the local gun club. The guys at the range liked James and respected his shot and his service and how he donated the brass casings. The state and DEC officers got to know James as every now and then he would take a long drunken drive at night to visit Pocket Lake and sit on the same bench and stare out over black sheen of water. The first time an officer was called there he had reminded James that alcohol wasn't allowed at the park and that the park closed at nine o'clock. James told the officer that he knew but always picked up after himself and that he just needed a place that was quiet and beautiful and that the world had become so busy and ugly at the same time and that this place was like a vacation for him. The officer got to know James in the ensuing conversation and about the unit he was with and the brothers he had and lost in the valley of the damned. The officer learned of the medals he earned and threw away and of the itch that clawed inside his head and whispered that he needed to go back to find the bodies of those he had to leave behind. The officer then sat on the bench and shared a drink with James before bringing him back home in the front seat of his squad car. From that night James would bring beers and two fishing poles instead of the handle whiskey on the nights on the lake. Whichever officer on duty that night would get to know James and share a beer and every once in a while would get a walleye or bullhead and then drive him home and shake his hand and tell him that they would see him next week.

James hated sleep. Loathed it. Cursed it and fought it. He knew what waited for him there. The repeating film reel of nightmarish memories still fresh. The dead weight of Jackson straining the muscles of his arms and the sounds of bullets pinging off of metal and rock. The tumbling humvee heaved from the mountain road and twisting down down down along the slope in some horrible dance in which it spun itself apart. The smell of gunpowder and sandy dirt and gasoline. The stick of drying blood on his palms and the pistol grip of his rifle. Then he would blink and the battle on mountainside would be gone and replaced by darkness. And in that darkness the faces of his fallen brethren would slide out from the black and appear bloody and pale with lips roiling wildly in whispers and eyes stark wide with pupils engulfing their irises. James would scream and that scream would rip him from that hell and carry on into the waking world. Mom and dad and his little sister would bolt up from their peacefully dreams and rush in to see what was the matter to find a wild eyed man of twenty five weeping into his pillows. They stopped coming in to see if he was alright after the fourth night. When they stopped he knew that he had become more than a burden. He had become a shrieking annoyance and an unwelcome one at that.

The apartment was a single bedroom dump with a shitty view but it was cheap and utilities were free. Barb and Bob wished him luck after all of the boxes were in the living room and went back to the ranch relieved. James got a job at the lumber mill across the street and worked forty five hours a week.

Upon taking his job he was told to stop the 'boozin and cruisin' so in his spare time he tried to find solace in television. Didn't take long for that venture to wear thin as it quickly became dull and repetitive with too many talking heads spouting out scripted bullshit and too many fucking laugh tracks. So James then turned to the internet. He found a niche there and fell into it. After a week he had become a regular on certain forums and image boards. A week after that he had turned his bedroom into a workshop furnished with bench and tools and materials purchased online.

For six months James became a machine of sorts. Woke up at five in the morning and took a shower and a shave and went to work where he took his shits. He loaded the stacks of lumber with the forklift for nine hours and declined the offers to go grab drinks with his coworkers at the bar down the street. Instead he would cross the street to his apartment and do a quick exercise routine of chin ups and push ups and sit ups and go into his workshop and churn out ammo and other goodies until he grew bored. Then he would spend the rest of his night conversing with the faceless on image boards before passing out on the couch.

That same nightmare still came but instead of terror he had learned to melt himself into it. To become a part of that hellish movie but to study it and derive some sort of hidden meaning that lay trapped inside the unintelligible whispers.

It wasn't long before he started talking to himself. It started off gradually. First in the shower. Then at all times when he found himself alone. When his coworker went to his boss and complained about the nasty habit James simply said he was softly singing lyrics to a song stuck in his head or that he was on the phone. The excuse didn't last for when James was sitting in the stall for his routine shit in the public bathroom he had freaked out three other coworkers in the neighboring stalls. James was faced with the ultimatum and decided to go to the shrink instead of the pinkslip.

Dr. Ross was a squat man who was all belly and neck. James didn't like him right away but he answered his prying questions without resistance. Dr. Ross couldn't get enough of the recurring nightmare and wanted to dissect every frame and scene of it. The quack scribbled furiously onto a large yellow notepad while James took him through it over and over again. The ordeal took an hour or so and at the end of it the turtle looking man demanded that James return at the same day and time the next week. He then informed James that he had schizophrenia and shoved a prescription in his hands. James told doc to go fuck himself before tearing the prescription in half. The fat little man turned red and began making threats to James about how he was going to call his employer and get him fired and how he could have him locked away because he was a potential danger to society. James shook his head and took the prescription and walked out.

After getting the lithium at the pharmacy he drove to Pocket Lake and tossed the horse pills into the water one at a time.

James Stonecypher was twenty four years of age when he heard the voices that weren't there and began to believe the crack pot doctor's diagnosis of schizophrenia. The voices were of his brothers in arms long gone and they all came at once. But he didn't care. He welcomed them. He laughed with them and shared beers with them. Well he drank theirs but they got just as drunk. The lumber mill fired him after he drove the forklift down to the bar and laughed to himself for a half an hour before the cops came and got him. They told him that it was going to be fine. That he was going to get unemployment and disability. More than what he was making at the mill.

But it wasn't going to be fine. For they didn't bring him home. They brought him into the city and dropped him off at Hutchings Home for the mentally ill. James didn't kick nor scream, he just talked to his buddies and they all agreed that this was absolutely fucked up. The cops set him loose in there but not before taking his pistol and knife and cellphone.

The loony bin for James was of a long drawn out fog as his brain was plied with a steady stream of lithium, Geodon, Abilify, Compazine, and risperidone. Lots of terrible board games. Lots of talk shows and wheel of fortune and judge judy. Lots of shitty conversations with equally brain fogged men. But one thing stuck out for James and it was the specialist he alone would go see. Nobody else seemed to know the man. He was a little stiff for a doctor with serious eyes and the lack of humor in his voice. But a normal, plain face. James couldn't form the necessary brain connections to take an educated guess at what this man actually was. The meeting would always go the same way. Sit down talk about how James was feeling then after the pleasantries were over the man would give him a glass of water that tasted funny and the man would demand that it all be drank. Then after it was all down James's gullet an explosion of light would fill his eyes and the impossible shapes would grow at the corners of his vision until they ripped apart the molecules holding the world together and launch his jumbled being through a kaleidoscope of event horizons of every hue. Then in that universe of light he would meet god and god would tell him things that he couldn't remember but he knew that he was told. Then they would shake hands and god would say the word 'bellflower'. God would clutch his hand would say this word over and over again and once James repeated it god would let go and fade away but the jumbled light soup of a world would stay with him for an eternity before waking up on the hospital bed with a steady stream of whatever poison dripping into his veins.

The one on one visits with the specialist continued for two months straight and the day they ended was the same day James was released from Hutchings. He took a bus back to his apartment and found that the cops decided that nothing in there was worth taking and that the landlord must have been getting paid as well. James wept for a bit on the couch before grabbing a couple beers and his laptop and brought them out on the balcony to enjoy the July afternoon. He popped open a beer and took a swig and opened up the laptop and scrambled his fingers over the keyboard until they brought him to his favorite image board. Every now and then the board would get spammers trying to force an idea or product or meme down everyone's throats but today it was a violet flower posted over and over and over again. James snorted and ignored the endlessly spammed picture and went on to converse with the faceless. At seven o’clock the smoke detector and alarm on the stove went off. James closed his laptop and went back inside the apartment and turned them both off and stood in the middle of the kitchen for a while before walking into the workshop. He emerged with a backpack and his AR-15. With meticulous effort he worked the rifle over before loading it with a drum magazine. He shouldered the rifle and the backpack and headed out of the apartment and into his truck.

When James reached Pocket Lake the fireworks had just started. Rows upon rows of men and women and children sat on blankets in the park watching the bursts of colors and light just below the heavens. All eyes in the air in awe all ears waiting for that coming boom. James threw the pipebombs first. Then as the people got up to run towards their cars for fear of faulty fireworks raining death upon them James opened fire and cut them down. Cut them all down. Old, young, male, female it didn't matter. As he herded them into the lake the pleas of his brother in arms called over the chorus of horror and they begged for him to stop and they clutched at his arms and legs. James responded to them with his own terrified scream as he dragged them through his waking nightmare.

“I CAN'T! PLEASE GOD HELP ME! I CAN'T!”

After the shallows were crimson James knelt amongst the half submerged bodies with hands behind his head and fingers interlocked and begged for god and his friends to help him. Under the flashes of the fourth of July fireworks he was arrested peacefully and brought directly to the nearest federal prison where he was drugged up on a cocktail of who knows what.

Barb and Bill Stonecypher were among the fifty nine slaughtered, which only added to the headlines. The New York Times published the more chilling parts of his manifesto he didn't write. Not that James could register any of that for he did not possess the mental capabilities to understand things anymore. Every waking moment of his life was now in a drugged up haze. When they brought him into the courtroom they had dyed his hair green and his eyes rolled wildly and focused far too long on nothing. When he was directly spoken to by the judge he nodded and shook his head furiously.

The judge deemed James fit to stand trial.

The nation was rapidly changing outside his cell. New anti-anonymity and anti-gun laws were being put in place. New vitriolic attacks against single white males and veterans were plastered across every media facet available. The trial was short and James was found guilty and sentenced to five hundred years of prison with no parole. He made it back to his cell but he didn't last another day. The guard found his body in the corner of the room pallid and slumped with wrists sliced with a whittled down toothbrush. On his cot James left his suicide note with pills as his pen and paper.

“Patsy.”

The guard saw the last words of James Stonecypher and with a flick of his hand he sent the carefully placed pills flying across the cell. Then called in the suicide.

I really don't think this is the board for it. This is for news and politics.

Ok I'll bring Holla Forums literature that will be published to another board. But make sure to use that same comment you just made to anyone that posts OC videos friendo.

Or pictures for that matter.

I really don't think this is the board for it. This is for news and politics.
Do as you fucking like, I'm not the mod here. I'm telling you no one gives a fuck, and was trying to do it politely before people began being far less polite.

Thanks for being polite and all but like I said make sure to use that same comment to anyone who posts Holla Forumstier oc of all mediums.

Ever notice this is called an "image board?" Didn't think so.

I posted images as well. But are you implying that we all should convey messages through pictures just because this is an "image board"?

tl;dr

Ingredients:
3 ripe bananas, peeled and sliced into 1/4-inch rounds
1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/2 cup granulated sugar, plus 2 tablespoons
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
4 large eggs, separated
2 cups half-and-half
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
45 vanilla wafers
1 pinch cream of tartar

Directions:
Heat the oven to 400 degrees F.

Toss the banana slices and lemon juice in a small bowl and set aside.

Combine 1/2 cup of the sugar, the flour and salt in a 3-quart saucier. Add the egg yolks and whisk to combine. Add the half-and-half and carefully whisk to combine. Cook over medium-low heat, stirring constantly until the mixture reaches 172 to 180 degrees F, approximately 5 to 10 minutes. The mixture will begin to thicken and bubble around the edges. Remove the pan from the heat and whisk in the vanilla extract.

Spread a small amount of the pudding in the bottom of an oven-safe 1 1/2-quart glass mixing bowl. Cover with a layer of vanilla wafers, followed by a layer of banana slices. Pour 1/3 of the remaining pudding on top of the bananas and repeat, ending with a layer of pudding.

Whisk the egg whites and cream of tartar in the bowl of a stand mixer on medium speed until soft peaks form. Gradually add the remaining 2 tablespoons of sugar and continue whisking until stiff peaks form. Spoon the meringue over the warm pudding, being sure to cover the edges. Bake until the meringue is evenly browned, about 8 to 10 minutes. Remove the pudding from the oven and cool for 15 minutes before serving. Cool completely before refrigerating. Refrigerate for up to 3 days.

Is there even a /pollit/ board?? I always see talk about how Holla Forums needs to start creating lit, film, art, etc.
And this guy comes with something and gets shit on. Just a thought.

Holla Forums is kept reactionary by being fed MSM news and being disallowed to talk about art.

DINGDINGDing

In case mods nuke this because they are barely literate in english being turks and/or retarded, post it in /polk/

Nice idea user, reading now.

OP, this was great. Amazing prose, phenomenal story.

Can you share more?

Sure brother give me a second.

are you taking input?

good job op, nice read

Sure but I have a publisher and editor already who both found my novella who shares the same views as I do but wants me to tone down the rhetoric so it can be consumed by the normies.

Well, let's change that. Creative arts are vital to culture; we can't just preserve what's gone before, we need to support those who create new material.

There Was an Accident

The rooftop had soaked in a whole days worth of relentless sunlight. The gravel top was a half step away from being bed of glowing coals. The soles of Matthew's boots didn't quite melt but they did give in to the heat and enveloped clusters of heated gravel into the warmed rubber. It was now on the cusp of evening and the blood orange dusk sun fell slowly below an army of black sky skyscrapers riding the horizon like the lower row of an old god's teeth. Down below in the deep ravines of city streets hordes of ants pulsed as they waved flags, lit parked cars aflame with moltovs, and rained fists and kicks to those who they deemed as their enemy. With hands in black gloves Matthew dragged a yellow extension cord from the opening of the rooftop door and dropped it next to a large satchel and long hard plastic box. Every moment the man of barely twenty one was calculated and full of confidence as if he had practiced for this day a million times over in his head. The latches of the satchel snapped off and a laptop within a large plastic bag was sleekly ripped from its confines. He placed the laptop down upon the satchel and connected the charger to the yellow extension cord. He then got up and briskly stalked over to the far corner of the square graveled rooftop and snatched up a green plastic fold-able table covered in pigeon shit and brought it back to where the rest of his items were. With a grunt he shifted and pressed down upon the table so some of the gravel went on top of the splayed feet of the green plastic shit covered legs and offered a modicum of stability. Brisk open palms sheered away piles of white pigeon shit from table then in the clear space the laptop was placed and young Matthew went to work setting up the high definition web-cam and microphone and high speed hotspot with quick mechanical slides into usb ports.

Once connected to the internet his fingers were ablaze upon touch pad and keyboard as he simultaneously connected to a deepweb steaming site and created posts advertising his soon to be live-stream on seventy different websites. One of them being twitter under the handle #Letfreedomring. Once he used enough proxy posts to shill himself into a relative limelight he began to fiddle with his microphone and webcam. It took him two minutes to cancel out the constant ripping of wind infecting the input recording of the microphone. When he began canceling out the glare of the setting sun on the web-cam he paused for a moment to study his face. The bottom half of his pale youthful face was hidden beneath a black half belclava which started beneath his grey tee shirt and ended on the bridge of his nose and under his ears. Only his eyes were revealed as a baseball cap covered his head. When he gazed into the eyes being shone upon the screen he halted the preparation.

The eyes that stared back through the lighted rectangle burned like sapphires. They were hard and unforgiving. They were foreign and Matthew wondered how long it had taken for them to go from warm and welcoming to being distant and intimidating. But as he asked himself that question the answer came like a lightening bolt.

WHEN THEY KILLED YOUR FRIEND DURING A PHYSICS LECTURE BECAUSE HE WORE A TEE SHIRT AND A HAT THEY DIDN'T AGREE WITH! WHEN THEY DESTROYED YOUR CAR IN THE UNIVERSITY PARKING LOT BECAUSE OF A BUMPER STICKER! WHEN THEY BROKE INTO YOUR DORM ROOM AND LIT IT AFLAME BECAUSE OF YOUR SKIN COLOR! WHEN THEY SEND YOU DEATH THREATS EVERY DAY AND NOBODY SEEMS TO CARE! NOBODY SEEMS TO NOTICE! WHEN THEY GET YOU THROWN OUT OF COLLEGE BY FAKING A RAPE CLAIM BECAUSE YOU SUPPORT A POLITICAL PUNDIT THEY WANT DEAD! BECAUSE THEY WISH YOU DEAD! BECAUSE THEY WANT YOUR RACE TO DIE AND THEIR HISTORY TO BE ERASED! BECAUSE THEY HAVE FORMED A FEDERALLY FUNDED WARBAND AND ARE PURGING INNOCENT WHITE MALES FROM THIS CITY!

Matthew stared back at the hard militant face in the screen and spoke to it. “I was going to be engineer. I was going to find a wife and start a family. I was going to have land and build a house on it. Mike was going to buy land next to mine and do the same thing. He said South Carolina. I said upstate New York.”

Something snapped inside his head and Matthew broke his gaze with himself and finished up with the shading in order to get the best picture on the stream. Once the finishing touches were completed he went live and a river of viewers poured in and immediately began calling him a faggot in the chat sidebar.

A small smile appeared on Matthew's serious face as he caught sight of the comments. He shrugged and went to his hard plastic gun case and undid the metal clasps and opened it and pulled up the Barrett 50.cal 82A1 with Leopold scope and fluted barrel. When he lifted the rifle he ensured that the motion was in the webcam's view and once he snapped the large modified magazine in place he faced the camera and gave it shit eating grin hidden beneath cloth. The stream now had one thousand viewers and the comment section was rife with a flood of 'BASED' and 'MADMAN' and 'IT'S HAPPENING!'.

With confident and steady hands Matthew stabilized the father of the first hand-held rail gun against the rooftop bordering wall and knelt into the scalding gravel and brought one eye to the scope and the butt to his shoulder. What he saw through the enhanced lens brought a wave of disgust and rage up through his gullet and into the back of his throat.

Every parked car down Water Street was on fire and fiends and imps danced in and out of the bellowing black smoke. A line of five young white men were slumped and bloodied and motionless and drained against the low laying brick wall of a Starbucks. Above their heads written on the large pane of glass were the words “WHITE CIS SCUM” written in blood. Some individuals draped in rainbow flags of the passing horde would break off from the street and rush over to the fresh corpses and spit on them. The finger on the trigger itched and burned as the crosshair hovered over the skull of a bulldyke with a pink mohawk viciously slapping the recently slain and making their their pallid white faces and lulled heads roll violently on dead muscles.

A soft exhale pushed the air out of Matthews lungs and the finger began to squeeze down but something else caught his eye and he smoothly brought the scope to focus on it. Down the middle of Water Street the horde of violent Marxists and Shitskins marched and screamed into megaphones and waved communist flags. But the one thing that stuck out within their ranks was the crucifixes and they stood like wooden beacons. Nailed to them were naked white men with a bloody mess where their genitalia should be and they squirmed against the spikes and mouthed silent screams through the visage of the scope. Matthew did not hesitate pulling the trigger and punched holes the size of a small fists through the chests of the crucified men. It was eight in total. After he ended the anguish of his brethren the horde in the immediate area began to take notice so Matthew took aim further up in the brightly colored warparty and quickly ended the life of a Latin looking pistol wielding rioter with a speeding bullet ripping the top half of his skull clean off. Across the street a roiling circle had formed around the entrance of an apartment complex. In the center a young white man was in the fetal position as twenty fists and twenty feet struck at him from above. Matthew growled a 'fuck you' and dismantled the circle of degenerate jackals into red mist and twisted bodies. Once the young white man noticed the punches and kicks stopped he got to his feet and limped back into the relative safety of the apartment complex.

A bloodrage had taken young Matthew. There were no prime targets anymore. To him there was an army below him and it needed to be stopped and so he would do his best to stop them. The magazine held thirty rounds. After a total of forty seconds it was empty. The barrel was smoking and rooftop smelled of fresh sweat and gunpowder. When he reloaded the army below was no long a large snake but had broken off into large amoebas with panicked soldiers lining the outskirts of each of them as they witnessed twenty two of their brothers and sisters bleeding out and twitching in the street that they once thought was under their control. After the fifth shot with the new magazine the amoeba shaped masses of people blew apart like bees escaping a hive smacked by a baseball bat. With the remaining twenty five rounds he picked off stranglers. Mostly brightly colored planet sized hambeasts and limp wristed queers and niggers weighed down by sagging jeans.

When the magazine was empty he turned and waved goodbye to the steam which had reached over five hundred thousand viewers. He then ripped out the customized hotspot comprising of a walmart smartphone and something his buddy back in uni called 'The Mask' which looked like a bastardized gameshark made for cellphones. With a snap he closed the laptop and flipped it over to rip out the battery and hard-drive. He placed the hard-drive in his back pocket of his jeans and put the laptop and battery and the accessories with it back inside the plastic bag which was then mashed back into the satchel. Matthew then went to work on the rifle and gently dismantled it and placed it back with the hard plastic case. Sixty brass casings were then picked up and dumped inside the satchel next to the plastic bag. With a heave the satchel was shouldered and the hard plastic case was gripped in his strong right hand.

It took three minutes to descend the stairwell of the almost skyscraper. Another five minutes walk through a labyrinth of alleyways before reaching his dark blue impala his grand father gave him as a present for getting in the top three of his high school graduating class. He put the hard plastic rifle case in the trunk next to three ammunition boxes and the satchel in the passenger seat. Through memorization he sped through side streets that led away from the highway and downtown and managed to escape the sprawl of the city without hiccup in twenty minutes flat. After an hour he was on state routes with farmland stretching in patches on hills like great green and brown quilts. When the farms gave way to forest he pulled over and exited the car with the satchel slung over his shoulder. He walked in deep but cautiously as he kept near the clear snow mobile trail. After twenty minutes his shoes began sticking in mud and in the moonlight he could see the shimmer of a bog clouded by swarms of black flies and mosquitoes. Matthew halted and removed the satchel from his shoulder and opened it. He took the laptop and the battery and the webcam and the microphone and placed them into a neat pile atop a dry patch. Then one by one he took sixty spent brass casings from the satchel and threw them into the swamp. From one of the pouches of the satchel he removed a canister of lighter fluid and a childproof lighter. He then tossed the satchel on the pile and doused it all with large squirts of foul liquid. The stench of butane wafted to push out the hanging smell of slow decay of the swamp. He then lit the lighter and brought the small flame down and instantly made it into a larger flame. Matthew jumped back as a wall of fire shot up but then quickly receded into a medium sized inferno as it ate away skin cells and hair from nooks and crannies of the keyboard and canvas. In the light of the fire he searched and found a round rock the size of his hand and dredged it out of the muck. Like a caveman he grunted as he took the harddrive from this back pocket and stuck it halfway into the black mush of the mire and lifted the stone and forcefully brought it down and drove the piece of hard-ware deep down into the earth.

After five minutes the fire had died down but it had done the job and with a heave Matthew tossed the conglomerate of twisted plastic and melted plasma into the bog. On his walk back he almost pissed himself as he spooked something large not twenty feet from him and sent the creature crashing through the forest and he power walked the rest of the way back to his car.

Once he got inside he started the engine and it whined as he got back onto the state route road. A smile twisted upon his face as he said to himself. “One down. Three to go.”

On the floor resting against the back seat three more satchels waited heavy with equipment contained within. In three days three more cities were to be the sites of so called peaceful protests. Three more cities to be besieged by the bringers of equality and peace. Three more opportunities to show the world that the war was on. That we aren't leaving without a fight.

Matthew smiled and his blue eyes had lost the edge of cold they once held not even two hours ago. With one hand on the wheel he used the free hand to pop a cigarette into his mouth and lit it with a white lighter held in the cupholder. Smoke filled his lungs and as he exhaled the dark country road exploded in artificial light. Something flew past his window and a violent whirring filled his head.

“FUCK!”

Matthew's right booted foot slammed on the breaks just as a storm of angry lead wasps poured in through the now ruined windshield and turned his face into a smashed mess full of displaced teeth and dangling brain matter. His chest was porous and leaking crimson with thirty separate bullet holes. One arm shot out straight and fell but the other gripped upon the steering wheel and led the car off the road and into a pair of old oaks.

The front end of the impala crumpled like an accordion and the air bags launched a gory mess of brain matter and intestines into the back seat. A gloved hand reached in and popped the trunk. Four other black garbed hands opened and entered the back seat and retrieved the three satchels still wedged against the seats.

Gasoline was then poured upon the ruined car and corpse within and set ablaze. Matthew's body was melted within that fire and his flesh stuck to the charred metal. The next day the firemen decided against peeling away the layers of fat and instead took out the blackened skeleton and called it a day. The police were able to get the plate number and called the legal owner of the car. They told Matthew's grandfather that there was an accident. And his grandfather told them that he understood as he stared at a receipt for a high powered rifle bought with his credit card. A fat backed television behind him in the living room droned on about a sniper killing innocent civilians in a city not one hundred miles away from where they found the car and his grandson's remains.

Through paper thin lips a mumble escaped. “There was an accident. There was an accident. There was an accident.” The old man then picked up a corded telephone and called his daughter.

I'm going to give feedback regardless.

Great character, he was cool (-1 charisma for throwing that lithium bottle in the lake, but he was nuts)
Nice imagry, I like your style.
Believeable story and has some open questions, like what exactly made him snap?
Was he some kind of mkultra to be used as an excuse? like britain's maymay is doing to get rid of online encryption.
Why did he chose to off his parents? did he have a choice?

Nice, doesn't paint a pretty picture of the imageboard user so I don't like it for that, and it was very short, could expand it along the open questions. Enjoyable short story, good ending, I'm a bit unsatisfied as I want to know more.

Finally, something I can help with. I'm a great editor & also a former academic PHI prof w/an extensive Thesaurus in my head. I can help you "tone down" simply by using different vocabulary.

Let me know.

Ah ok, fair enough

I feel like if I answer any of those questions I would take away from the story.

Keep them wanting more

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I enjoyed them. Do more.

shame filled self drunken bump

What's kosher salt? Was it killed in a special way?

koshering salt is big grained salt used to cure meat. jews use it for getting blood out of meat, hence the name.

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Quality bread

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