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Perry Pearson
He had been sitting in the shower for a little under three hours. The warm water rained down onto his hairy stomach and his cock had become numb from the constant barrage. It was useless anyway. After ten more minutes he heaved himself away from the safe isolation of the shower and towelled himself off. Only partially dry, he threw the towel on the cluttered tile floor and wandered naked through his mod/con apartment. During the day his bedroom window opened to river city views. He drooped onto the end of his bed and peered into the charcoal night. The lights of the city glowed like tiny embers. Everyone in that fucking place was as depressed and lonely as he was.
Perry Pearson was a pessimist at heart.
Sure, he had some friends. “Buddies” from work who would come round to watch the football and drink. No one he could really talk to, not properly. In his life women weren’t an issue. It wasn’t that he was fat or particularly ugly, and he certainly had an interest in them, it was just one of those things. Where do people meet members of the opposite sex these days? Work? He only had to imagine the wenches from accounting to dismiss that idea. He’d read in the paper that the supermarket was currently the number one location to meet a future partner. The problem for him was that his refrigerator had been pre-programmed to his culinary tastes. As soon as the super-smart machine detected something was running low a delivery person would be dispatched within twelve hours to replace the item.
Perry Pearson loved technology.
He grabbed the remote and skipped through his audio list before settling on a bootleg of Neil Young and Crazy Horse live in Frisco, 1972. He grabbed a joint off the bedside table and flopped onto his double bed. With his spare hand he fondled his balls. Not that he particularly felt like masturbating, he just enjoyed the feeling of his cold hands.
Perry Pearson had been driven to boredom.
He hated his job and consequently, most of his life. He was just another citizen defined by the job title. He knew it wouldn’t change; he was too scared to start all over again. As much as he hated his life now, laziness stopped him from being adventurous. Boredom forced him to establish new forms of distraction. Although he was only an occasional pot smoker he’d dabbled in all sorts of apothecary. A while back, after a particularly hazardous joint that he’d bought off a gangly man outside a 7/11, he’d decided it was safer to grow his own. Having no other spot more convenient in his apartment, he went to work cultivating a garden in his bathtub. Through his travels he managed to track down eleven different types of marijuana. Although a long and arduous process, the end result was the most magnificent dope cocktail he’d ever smoked. Every two weeks he would water his plants with a mixture of water, growth nutrients and scotch whisky. The irrigation system clicked on as he sat on his bed and stared desperately at me.
Perry Pearson was a cynical, psychotic bastard.
I’m sorry. I have to stop. I feel that I must tell you the truth. I owe you that much. As the reader you deserve it. When I first conceived his story I had absolutely no idea as to where the story would lead. I’m afraid I’ve failed as a writer. All I’ve really done is developed a vague description, with a few interesting morsels of information, about him. It’s not that I don’t like him, really I do. I just feel as if his life is a little too mundane to be recorded by the written word. I’m sorry, but I feel it’s best if we don’t continue. What do you say we cut our losses and part ways amicably?
You’re a fuckin’ disgrace he said to me. That’s a bit harsh isn’t it? I responded. A bit harsh? You leave me here naked because you got bored and I’m the one being harsh? And what’s with the emphasis on my genitals? You’re a closet bloody poof. That’s enough, I said to him. I’m done, I’m not writing about this anymore.
I put my pen down and stood up. I shuffled away from the desk. His outburst had shaken me a little; I hadn’t envisaged him to be such an aggressive individual. It was just as well I’d stopped when I did. Who knows what could have happened if I’d continued. I’d already started to lose control of him. I decided it would be a good idea to go for a walk. Hopefully some air would expel the lingering state of unrest I had developed. I threw on a jumper and closed the door behind me.
Perry Pearson is insane.
I crashed through the door of his apartment and charged straight for him. All the lights in the apartment had been turned off leaving only the dull glow from a lamp in another room. We fought intensely and I bit his hand as his fist rocketed into my jaw.
I swallowed down the blood that was welling up in my mouth. We struggled against each other. Clothes were ripped; blood and sweat stained the carpet. This wasn’t a choreographed Hollywood fight. It was ugly and dirty and tiring.
I hated him. This crazy bastard who I couldn’t get out of my head. He wouldn’t let me sleep. He was always there talking, arguing with me. He was alive, I swear. Real. Living and breathing like you or I. There was a knife.
There was a knife. A thick, plunging, sucking sound before the gnash of steel on bone. Then red, warm red. But the red was black in the dark. It felt like cum oozing down my hand. Cold sweat. I nearly passed out. From exhaustion or terror, I don’t know. He was alive when I left. I saw his chest rising and falling. I heard the blood sputter and gurgle in his throat as he took each breath. He was alive.
There was nothing left when I came back. I stayed away for a few weeks. He had stopped bothering me. I slept through the whole night, every night, for two weeks. When I went back it was like no one had ever lived there. I went home and slept through the night, only waking up once when my irrigation system clicked on.
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