-Three-Sixty-


Whenever it's not the urge to be killed, it's the urge to kill. I feel like I haven't slept in years. I quit my job on account of the previously mentioned feelings just two weeks ago.

It's funny how society dictates it all for us. You know. You're born, you live, and you work. You're told to get a job and more or less stick with it. Most people find a career that they turn out to absolutely hate, yet they stick with it anyway, just because it's the way things work. You don't question, you just do it. I guess I got lucky, I figured out that I hated it before I got too old. It hits people very late sometimes. Too late, almost. And so they keep telling themselves "everything is in the right place, especially me"

It got me so sick, thinking of the way it all works, so one day I said to myself "fuck it" I dropped the spoon which I was using to eat my morning ritual cornflakes and loosened my tie. I then just sat, sort of wondering where things might go from there. I can tell you, at that moment, life had never felt better. The biggest weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

Eventually my thoughts caught up with me. This is where I am now. Disgusted with the fact that this place has sucked so much life out of me

Like I said, I haven't been sleeping at all. I lay around, sometimes even shut the lights off, but even then, Sleep can't catch me. I find myself just losing attention a lot of the time. I start dreaming, but without sleeping and it's always the same dream.

The whole place just floods your eyelids with its unequivocal white backdrop. Everything is white and pastel looking. I'm stalking the halls and navigating the narrow cubicles of the office on the 5th floor. Kind of like hunting. It's a normal day; sun is shining through the large glass windows. I always hated that, the way it blinds you. I walk slowly past noticing the stupid details on everyone's desk. The little beanie babies on top of peoples computer monitors, as if to add some kind of personal touch to this drab place. I'll never figure that out, why the hell people would want to make work look like home, why the hell someone would want to try and make the two indistinguishable. Sick, really. Same goes for those family pictures. Stephanie from accounting lives with her grandparents because her mother died when she was a girl. And there as I turn the corner is that stupid looking picture of the two of them, the light from the windows hits the frame and reflects into my eyes. And that's that. Stephanie turns around in her cheaply constructed chair to greet me with the usual smile. I greet her with a shotgun blast to the chest. Almost instantly her white blouse is red. Not just red. The most dark and crimson red I've ever seen. I stand over her and look down to her. She's got a look of peace in her eyes, but fear on her face. I eject the spent shell and walk back the way I came.

There at the fax machine is Brad. He's always tells incredibly stupid jokes and follows them up with his stupid fucking laughter as if it adds a little more kick to the previously told joke. He's standing there, coffee in one hand and a stack of papers in the other, frozen in fear; he raises his hands above his head. With the shotgun slung around my shoulder, I pull out a Smith & Wesson .357 and put two in his chest. His Starbucks falls to the ground right next to a puddle of blood. He's breathing heavily now, shaking violently. I squeeze the trigger and release a shot into his teeth. Who's laughing now?

All around me I hear screams now, 10 meters away I see 4 or 5 co-workers running towards the exit, jumping over desks and knocking over those flimsy cubicle walls. From my left side I raise a Heckler & Koch MP5 and unload half a magazine in their direction. Papers and pieces of the walls fly up and a body takes a dirt nap. All the others run out the exit, down the flights of stairs.

It's not eerily still and silent. I drop the spent magazine onto the polished marble floor and walk in a small circle surveying the scene. Spent shells crunch and jingle as I step over them. What the hell? Carnage is carnage. I pull the trigger on the MP5 and wave it around the office wildly. A steady stream of hot lead rips through everything in my sight. Beanie babies and personal photos are fair game. Out of ammo, I begin pushing over desks and piling up various pieces of office equipment in the center of the room. I proceed to shoot it up, ripping it all to pieces. And I move on.

I swiftly step into the lunchroom and see a sight that I'll never forget. There, crouching under the large table is my boss, Mr. Ross. After 4 and a half years of busting my ass for him, I've yet to be able to address him by his first name, hell, I don't even know or want to know it. Watching him quiver in dear under the table fills me with a sensation I've never felt. Power and control over everything. Swiftly and without remorse I draw the .357 magnum and fire once, blood sprays from his chest, he stumbles awkwardly on his leg and then falls backward. He's not quiet like the rest. He's screaming and yelling in pain. I take my time walking towards him, patiently. Kicking the table out of the way, I put my foot on his chest and step down with all my might, driving the wind out of his lungs and reducing his ribs to fragments, a sick wheeze escapes from his mangled body, along with a thick river of blood from his mouth. I aim the gun at his face and pull the trigger repeatedly. It is at this time that I hear sirens and a police chopper swooping by the window.

This is when I usually snap out of it. I can envision, however, the way that the rest of the act may play out. It seems that most shooters these days see it fit to end the festivities by taking their own life. It's like not letting anyone get the best of you, so I could understand doing it. I, however, would feel the need to go out fighting, like my entire life. I'd fight some more; I'd fight one last time just for the sake of fighting. "Get on the ground!" they'd shout, as their weapons are trained on my head "drop the weapons!" might follow. Oblivious to it all, I'd go down shooting. Make those fuckers earn their paycheck. Besides, "A man who opened fire at a downtown office today was struck down by the local SWAT team after tearing a swath of destruction and taking several lives" sounds a lot cooler than " today a man opened fire on a downtown office building taking several lives, and then his own"

Your life and mine take place within one world. This world is responsible for the creation of a giant act. It's kind of like a program designed for us. This program runs our life. We are a program. All programs are created pretty much equal. There are variables, mostly skin-deep things that aren't overly important, but it all runs according to one rule: Your life really isn't yours. Most people don't realize it, because they really aren't supposed to. but like any program it has flaws. I'll deviate away, cause it to crumble from the inside out, because like everything else in the world, it's cheaply made and it's worn way too fucking thin.

The blood I spill will be a flaw
The rage I feel is a flaw
Fuck you and your program.
I am the flaw.

Written by Dan Chubaty 2003