Ben Fugman

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on: 03/21/19, 11:11 AM
The Confession Of Geoffry Theodore Keller

So, no shit, there I was. About to fulfil the American dream, at least according to Homer Simpson in that one Treehouse Of Horror episode, are those even cannon? Beside the point. The point is, I was about to kill my boss. He gave me my two weeks notice a week before, but that wasn't why, no there was a lot more to it.

I didn't decide to kill him right away when he started having sex with my wife in front of me. She seemed to enjoy it and had never complained. When he started making me suck him off so he could get hard and go another round with her, it didn't bother me. It was just one of those things... When he started piling his paperwork onto my work-load and not paying me overtime for the extra hours it took me to finish it, I admit I felt a little insulted. When I asked him about the possibility of a raise and he told me he'd rather fire me, that did piss me off, but not to the point where I'd kill a man.

Honestly I wasn't angry. I was calm, I suppose part of me always wanted to kill someone who happened to be my boss, so that gave me a limited time to kill Greg Keffre while he was still my boss. I'd never killed anyone before, but if I had excuse enough to off anyone it was Greg.

Getting into Greg's house was easy, almost too easy his wife, Candilaria, was home alone, she likes to fool around. She let me in and we had fun for a few hours, she hid me in a closet as her husband was getting home, it was too perfect. I watched them go at it until they finally passed out.

I could have just snuck out of the house and slunk off into obscurity, but if I'd done that you probably wouldn't be reading this. I crept into the kitchen, so many potentially deadly objects to choose from, but I settled on a heavy stainless steel tenderizer. I shuffled, ever so quietly, back to the bedroom.

Greg was sleeping so peacefully, just like some dumb schmuck who had no idea he was about to get his skull caved in by a homicidal maniac. If I really face the facts, it wasn't about any kinnd of revenge. I just wanted to kill... I feel weird about feeling okay with that, but I do. I raised the metal block of a hammer high in the air above my head, and brought it down on his head, his eyes shot open and he gurgled, ineffectually. I could thell he died on the first hit, but I struck twice more to be sure. The third hit splashed his blood on Candi's face and she woke up, she saw me standing there with the bloody tenderizer and started screaming up a storm, like she didn't expect this. Thwack! I hit her with the hammer, and down she went, with one blow. Thrack! With my second blow I felt her skull give way. That really shouldn't feel so satisfying, but it does.

I got my clothes back from the closet I'd been hiding in and got dressed. I decided to take the hammer to the sink where I left it unter running water pushing the lever up with the back of my hand. Was that enough to wash away fingerprints? Did I even care? How many other places did I leave fingerprints? How many dozens of other ways are rhere to trace that I'd been there? I don't think I planned that far ahead.

Someone was planning ahead though. Someone was watching my every move. Someone was snickering over my amateurish foibles. I thought I was all that for killing a defenseless couple in their sleep, but, as I stepped into the hallway from the kitchen, someone burst through the front door, he was a slender muscular man of indeterminate age, in black pants and a white hooded sweatshirt, but honestly the most striking thing about him was his bizarrely mutilated face. He looked like a car accident victim, or a burn victim. Like that lady with the Mr. Potatohead face, or Tom Cruise in Vanilla Sky. His skin was milk pale all over, and fairly devoid of features, his big, glassy looking eyes were lidless and apparently bloodshot, his cheeks were cut into with an upward curve which gave him a permanent sinister grin, his whole face was framed with a shock of ragged coal black hair that almost seemed more like fur. A face I'm not likely to forget for as long as I live. The second most strining thing about him was the improbably shiney eight inch buck knife he was casually tossing back and forth between his hands. His stance was low and wide, I remember thinking that he was like a wild beast, but in the few seconds it took me to think that I was too slow to react, in one fluid motion the knife fluttered from his right hand into his left and from there darted directly into my right side, he pressed it in with the heel of his palm as my flesh seemed to simultaneously pull it in, likewise my flesh spat it out as he gently took hold of it and withdrew it.

"Go to sleep!" He commanded. The p at the end of sleep was more like a throaty k accented by a click of his teeth, that must not have decreased the effectiveness of the command, however, because go to sleep is exactly what I did.

A Tale Of Too Many Jeffs

Of all the damned things, I woke up. I couldn't open my eyes, because they were already open, I couldn't close them, because... Why the hell couldn't I close them?!

There was a burning pain in my right side. Oh, yeah, that's rught, I got stabbed. I was looking up at an unfamiliar ceiling, my first thought was hospital, but why couldn't I close my eyes? I looked around there was a bare concrete wall to my right, my mouth felt so dry, and my cheeks ached, my whole face ached the more I moved my head. There was another bed to my left, I was in a bed, with a heavy steel frame, and there was one across the room that matched it. There was a sink with a mirror on the back wall, and a metal door with a mesh reinforced hexagonal window at the foot. And in the other bed was another person covered by a blanket. I couldn't tell if it was a hospital room, or a cell, or what. It was bright in the room, but there were no windows, save that in the door, or lightbulbs, or flourescents, or any other discernable light source.

I held up my hands, they looked unnaturally pale, and, examining them more closely I found that I had no fingerprint definition, not just on the tips of my fingers, but all the way down my fingers and palms... Impossible... I rubbed the souls of my feet together, I could tell instantly they had undergone the same glossy smooth transformation as my hands. I peeled the sheets aside, I was dressed in a white T shirt and boxers, which reminded me of LDS garments. Was I in a Mormon hospital/jail? That's what I asked myself. It would explain the overlying odor of warm stale gingerale... The floor was smooth concrete painted maroon. I sat up and put my feet down on it. The floor was warm to the touch, and pulsated with vague fluidity. Radiant heating, I presume. The pain in my side was noticible, but less than it aught to've been I lifted my shirt, and foud a token bandage wrapped loosely around me, I hooked my thumbs under it, stretched it away from me a bit and saw my wound, which was already more scar than scab, it was only then I mentally noted the observation that I had no body hair. Not on my arms, legs, chest, back, I reached my left hand in my shorts to be sure, not even any trace of stubble, I reached up my sleeves, finding the same to be true of my uncharacteristically dry armpits. I fealt around the hair on my head, it felt surprisingly bristly. As my fingers started to touch the edges of my face, it fealt so odd, I had to see it. With some effort I got up and faced the mirror.

I don't know how you'd react in my situation, but what I saw horrified me. Staring back at me from the mirror was the face of the man who stabbed me. Well, not quie, it was my face, only it wasn't, but it is. My nose was gone, no excuses, no traces left behind, just gone, I could feel air draw in and if I covered two distinct spots, in the middle of my face I couldn't inhale through my non-nose. That just caused air to rush in between my cheeks, which were opened up in a gastly JackO'lantern grin, I could bring my lips together, but my extended lips hung open in grotesque mockery of the effort. My eyelids were blackened ovals around my bloodshot eyes, my furrowed brow was hairless, all the way across. My hair was not as long as my attacker's, but had taken on the same fur like quality. Had he done this to me somehow? My features stood out more, unless I relaxed my face, which under the circumstances was more effort than tensing up. I sneered at my reflection, wondering why my eyes didn't feel dry, if I couldn't close them. I put a fingertip up to my right eyeball, wincing in expectance of pain. But I barely felt it. It was just like putting my finger to my eyelid. It felt like smooth plastic, but most things felt like smooth plastic to my newly smoothed fingers. But I found I could press and move my eyeball, and feel my eye moving underneath a surface, like an artificial lense. My occular cogetations were interrupted by the loud yawn of my roomate who suddenly sat up, threw his sheets aside, and stretched his arms up over his head.

My roomate had the same Mormon uderwear as me seeing him at first from the back I could tell he was pale, like me, like the man who stabbed me. His hair was long, but it looked stringy and greesy and did not have that same fur like quality. As he got up I whirled around, his face was somwhat different the cuts into his cheeks looked thinner, were we somehow both victims of the same madman?

He stumbled out to where he could see the feet of the beds. "So, you're Jeff Keller?" He inquired. I looked at him in a way that should have been quizzical, but with my realigned features I'm not sure what it was. I've never gone by Jeff in my life. But instead of saying anything I strode to the foot of my bed, where a chart hung, the name on it read Jeff T. Keller.

"I guess so." I breathed.

"I'm Jeff Hodek," he extended, smooth white hand. I glanced at his chart, which had the name Jeff K. Hodek at the top. "Judging from how you carry yourself, you must be new. You're lucky you got roomed with me, it's my third time back on the farm."

"Farm?" I shook the extended member, blankly.

"Oh of course!" He exclaimed, "you don't know anything about it. Don't worry you'll figure it all out." I was not necessarily affected by his confidence. In fact I was more frightened than ever of wherever I was.

My roomate oppened a steel chest at the foot of his bed and removed black dress pants, socks, and slip on shoes, and a white stitched together hoodie and doned them, I retrieved and reuctantly equipped the same garb from an identical chest at the foot of my bed.

"Watch out, Nubi," he warned, "Someone's gonna try to punk you for that name"

I wanted to ask something about the inigmatic statement, anything, but my hought process was interrupted by a sound like many ringing alarm clocks, I couldnd't see any alarm clock in the room/cell, or any kind of clock. The door swung open, soundless apart from the initial click.

"Breakfast!" My roomate declared. I could already see a train of identically dressed, and mutilated men moving down the hall as he beconned me out to join the throng.

I fealt a familliar sense of givving in surrendering my free will to the mob. I could not resist. I let go my reservations. Like always, I'm nothing but a cuck, a drone, and a puppet. And so sat I, a voyour, watching my own puppet show unfold. I watched myself join that river of smiling faces, marching like uniformed cadets, arrowed signs the crowd was following read MESS HALL ➡ I don't know why. It just all seemed so goddamn silly. I really couldn't help myself, at first I started tittering, just like a happy puppet, then began laughing with increasing volume and maniacality.

"Whoa, hey," my roomat exclaimed, his eyes stretching into vertical ovals, "are you alright, Jeff, take a chill pill."

My cacodeamoniacal cackling came to a cacophonous crescendo, drowning out the footsteps, my roomate's cautionary comentaries, but not the liquescent mechanical hum, playing off my bones through the floor. My pace was slowed as I had to catch my breath. "Watch it!" Grunted some Jeff who bumped into my back and pushed past me.

"Seriously," my roomate went on, "Chill pill! Left inner pocket." He demonstrated produding a small ziplock baggie containing three blue gell caps from tge recesses of his left hoodie pocket and returning it there to demonstrate. I mecame aware of the shape of the pills inn my own pocket, against my abdomen, but I had no interest in swallowing some weird goop from this place, which reminds me, the general slowing of mass locomotion told me I was in line for breakfast.