This is a reader submission from Mhordanis. Never heard of him.

"Unbelievable," he thought to himself as he rode his bike southward down the busy highway. "Unbe-fucking-lievable."

It's not like this was the first time he had done this, either. Just last week he had left it out in the rain at a friend's house; god, was that a fun night. He biked almost 10 miles that night only to spend an hour and a half digging on his hands and knees through his friend's yard. Maurice, who could forget Maurice, with his perfectly shaped face and over-worked body. "The man's going to die before he's thirty," he thought to himself, as he pleasantly recalled the nights he had spent in Maurice's arms.

And there was the time he was at Claire's house; so much money spent for one night, so little to show for the weeks and weeks of pay he spent on the supplies. It probably took him somewhere near three days to come off the high he got from all the acid he took. Car rides seem so much more fun when you're rolling, or tripping, or drunk, or anything besides the ordinary, average, day-to-day task of pushing your self-propelled automobile through the callous streets of the town he lived in.

"Shit. Where the fuck am I?" He suddenly looked around at the scenery he was completely oblivious to not one minute before. This wasn't the street that his friend lived on, nor was it even a recognizable distance from the house he was supposed to be venturing towards. Memories often cause lapse in... well, memories, if you delve far enough into them. He saw a house that looked absolutely the fucking same as every other house in the complex, so he figured that this was as good of a place as any to ask for directions.

Without a care in the world, he strolled up to the front door of a painfully bright white house with aqua green trim. The number on the house read "216", unbelievably premoniscient of the surprisingly different actions that were to take place in such a drab, mundane neighborhood. He hummed a song he heard at the club last night as he knocked twice on the door.

Looking back on the event in the afterlife, he sorely wished that he had been more observant when a seemingly ordinary man opened the door. If he weren't so obsessed with the memories of his past, he might have noticed he blood stains on the man's white collar shirt, or the gun held at his own head.

He looked up into the man's eyes and smiled a warm greeting. "Hey there. Sorry to bother you, was wondering if you know how to get to 9 Cloud Avenue."
The short, bald man who answered the door replied with, "Who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want?"
"Well, sir. I'm trying to get to 9 Cloud Avenue. I have a friend who lives there, and I guess I left my..."

The man who answered the door wished in hindsight that he had waited for the very next word out of the man's mouth before he ended any further speech with a single shotgun blast.

The short, bald man drug the body into the house and laid it on the couch, where he proceeded to rip through the pockets of the man's clothing. "It's not here. IT'S NOT FUCKING HERE," he exclaimed, obviously reaching a hurdle he had not expected. "I watched this one for WEEKS. I watched him throw it around everywhere he went. He didn't already give it to me, did he?"

The man pulled out a PDA and a stylus, and begun tapping furiously on the LCD touch-screen. A few moments later, he threw it down in a fit of rage, obviously not finding what he was expecting. "He hasn't given it to me yet. Where the fuck could it be?"

Suddenly the dead man's cell phone rang.

"Hello?" the short, bald man answered.
"Josh?" the voice on the other end of the phone replied.
"Yeah, it's me. What's up?"
"Well, you left a slip of paper on my table. Remember? You took it out before we snorted that line. I can't read the handwriting on it... looks like it's in some other language."
The short, bald man danced a tiny dance. "Thanks for finding that for me. I'd KILL to get that back. I'll be there in a bit, ok?"
He then hung up the phone without waiting for an answer.

The short, bald man put on a clean shirt, combed over his three hairs, and put on a devilish smile. He grabbed his shotgun and whistled a Led Zeppelin tune as he walked out to his cherry red Corvette, eager to gain an incredibly easy two-for-one deal this afternoon. It turned out that this just may be the day he had been waiting for." />
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Reader Submission #87198528

Posted 7 November 2002, 11.20 pm by Alexander

This is a reader submission from Mhordanis. Never heard of him.

"Unbelievable," he thought to himself as he rode his bike southward down the busy highway. "Unbe-fucking-lievable."

It's not like this was the first time he had done this, either. Just last week he had left it out in the rain at a friend's house; god, was that a fun night. He biked almost 10 miles that night only to spend an hour and a half digging on his hands and knees through his friend's yard. Maurice, who could forget Maurice, with his perfectly shaped face and over-worked body. "The man's going to die before he's thirty," he thought to himself, as he pleasantly recalled the nights he had spent in Maurice's arms.

And there was the time he was at Claire's house; so much money spent for one night, so little to show for the weeks and weeks of pay he spent on the supplies. It probably took him somewhere near three days to come off the high he got from all the acid he took. Car rides seem so much more fun when you're rolling, or tripping, or drunk, or anything besides the ordinary, average, day-to-day task of pushing your self-propelled automobile through the callous streets of the town he lived in.

"Shit. Where the fuck am I?" He suddenly looked around at the scenery he was completely oblivious to not one minute before. This wasn't the street that his friend lived on, nor was it even a recognizable distance from the house he was supposed to be venturing towards. Memories often cause lapse in... well, memories, if you delve far enough into them. He saw a house that looked absolutely the fucking same as every other house in the complex, so he figured that this was as good of a place as any to ask for directions.

Without a care in the world, he strolled up to the front door of a painfully bright white house with aqua green trim. The number on the house read "216", unbelievably premoniscient of the surprisingly different actions that were to take place in such a drab, mundane neighborhood. He hummed a song he heard at the club last night as he knocked twice on the door.

Looking back on the event in the afterlife, he sorely wished that he had been more observant when a seemingly ordinary man opened the door. If he weren't so obsessed with the memories of his past, he might have noticed he blood stains on the man's white collar shirt, or the gun held at his own head.

He looked up into the man's eyes and smiled a warm greeting. "Hey there. Sorry to bother you, was wondering if you know how to get to 9 Cloud Avenue."
The short, bald man who answered the door replied with, "Who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want?"
"Well, sir. I'm trying to get to 9 Cloud Avenue. I have a friend who lives there, and I guess I left my..."

The man who answered the door wished in hindsight that he had waited for the very next word out of the man's mouth before he ended any further speech with a single shotgun blast.

The short, bald man drug the body into the house and laid it on the couch, where he proceeded to rip through the pockets of the man's clothing. "It's not here. IT'S NOT FUCKING HERE," he exclaimed, obviously reaching a hurdle he had not expected. "I watched this one for WEEKS. I watched him throw it around everywhere he went. He didn't already give it to me, did he?"

The man pulled out a PDA and a stylus, and begun tapping furiously on the LCD touch-screen. A few moments later, he threw it down in a fit of rage, obviously not finding what he was expecting. "He hasn't given it to me yet. Where the fuck could it be?"

Suddenly the dead man's cell phone rang.

"Hello?" the short, bald man answered.
"Josh?" the voice on the other end of the phone replied.
"Yeah, it's me. What's up?"
"Well, you left a slip of paper on my table. Remember? You took it out before we snorted that line. I can't read the handwriting on it... looks like it's in some other language."
The short, bald man danced a tiny dance. "Thanks for finding that for me. I'd KILL to get that back. I'll be there in a bit, ok?"
He then hung up the phone without waiting for an answer.

The short, bald man put on a clean shirt, combed over his three hairs, and put on a devilish smile. He grabbed his shotgun and whistled a Led Zeppelin tune as he walked out to his cherry red Corvette, eager to gain an incredibly easy two-for-one deal this afternoon. It turned out that this just may be the day he had been waiting for.

another waydown
on 8 November 2002, 3.01 pm
Thats a damn good piece you got going . I printed that out if you don't mind. I enjoyed the way you jumped back and forth between perspectives, though confusing at times but non the less inspiring.


Arguile
on 8 November 2002, 9.00 pm
It's cool. Not a whole lot of comments on that one... must be because it's so awe-inspiring ;)


Firebrand
on 9 November 2002, 9.07 am
well, i already read it, you schlub.


news-
on 4 August 2004, 7.19 am


link-
on 4 August 2004, 7.21 am


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I done it in pencil on cotton bond 8 1/2" by 11" in November of 90. I call it "Self Portrait". That's me in the gas mask.


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Hey Cris, it's as busy here as it was at the end - which is to say, not at all

I wish I could new you guys was here in the beginning of 2020 LOL

OMG I was feeling nostalgic and I can’t believe that AKP is still here! So how’s it going ?

Props to Green Mamba for bringing the weirdness

Hmph

80s candy bars were pretty good

only because i traded it for a candy bar in the 80's.

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