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[Blood-Pigggy]

My butler was a wiry man, he sported a twirled mustache and white hair, a pure white, much like the cocaine he probably snorted whilst I was away. And if that was not stereotypical enough, the creature was a dreary eyed thing with taut leathery flesh and a somewhat “HA HA HA, YOU ARE SUCK!” look on his face, IMPROPER GRAMMAR INTENDED. If he wasn’t polishing his tuxedo (which I have never told him to wear, but he does, for he is the spawn of the devil and his mother was a harlot, or he is old) the conniving fool was most likely incriminating me, or framing me for a crime I did not commit, whichever one makes him sound worse.

People have told me I am a paranoid man, and I usually I agree, but it’s most likely that they just say this so I won’t kill them because if I agree with something they say it makes me happy and they get all nervous and such. I wouldn’t actually kill them, but they probably think I would, that’s dumb I know, but I am a man who enjoys cookies.
As I was saying, people say I am paranoid, but in this case I’m certain my butler was up to some hideous evil that would destroy the entire existence of the universe if I discovered it, like putting his laundry in a coal mine by accident because he thought it was the dryers and killing everyone in the mine because there’s like 500 pounds of wet clothes falling onto their heads and smothering them. The dangerous smoke and dust from the coal itself wouldn’t help either.
I had reason to suspect him of such evil, the dead bodies in the freezer, his diary full of insane rantings and psychopathic visions and fantasies of pagan rituals summoning forth draconian demons from the ground as the earth splits in ear shattering roars as the pits of hell reveal themselves preceding the massacre that occurs when said demons snap our bones like pixie sticks and proceed to pour the marrow from our bones down their throat while sighing in ecstasy, like they’re feasting on sweet sugar, leaving us alive for the experience as we writhe in agony, praying for death until they snap our spines and make small toys out of the remains that they can use as really crappy gifts for their niece.
I used this passage because he was a terrible writer, obviously the use of the word “draconian” is misplaced, and improper grammar and vocabulary like this can only point to some disturbing problems that lie deep in his psyche.
If that wasn’t bad enough, the food he cooked, or baked, or however he decided to prepare his disgusting gruel for the day, often contained brains, eyeballs, human organs, or something else, it was really badly done, very chewy and tough, and I believe he was most likely plotting something against me while cooking, which would explain the carelessness that cause my broiled eyeballs to be so chewy.

I had all this evidence that something was not right, so I decided to prepare an investigation regarding his activities. I was going to begin, but Ms. Peri, who I was told is our next-door neighbor (which is very strange, according to my butler we have had around five thousand neighbors or something, maybe the smell of the intestines littering the ground outside the mansion was getting to them) was too busy screaming and wailing in my butler’s room. I don’t know what he was doing in there, but it was very inappropriate, especially considering there were other people in the house. Also, there was a very disturbing and sickening crunching sound coming from his room, which I suppose was the sound of them cracking walnuts, even though I forbid him to eat walnuts in his room. I think he was just rubbing it in my face that he liked to defy my orders by displaying the ecstasy of the wonderful taste of these walnuts with Ms. Peri who is now a total ass for engaging in his defiant behavior with him. If anything, she’s an enabler.

After I got my butler to clean out Ms. Peri’s dead body from his room (she died from a heart attack apparently, that somehow made her ribcage explode and guts fly everywhere) I decided to set up a false task for my butler to perform, hopefully something that would keep him busy for awhile so I would have enough time to reveal his evil plots that I was certain he had. I settled on sending him to the supermarket where he was to harass strangers by taking those peach cans full of that weird sticky junk, gnawing open the lids with his bare teeth, then tearing off his clothes as he proceeded to dump the contents of the can on the ground, he was to repeat this process about 20 times (although he wasn’t to put his clothes back on, that would be pointless) until he had an absolutely humungous pile of that peach junk on the ground. I told him he was to roll around in it until he was totally greasy and then he was to run around naked with a boom box playing my favorite Creedence Clearwater Revival songs.
I knew this would occupy him for a while, since the hambeasts that patrol the supermarket with their inbred redneck children were already disturbing everyone else with their outbursts of fury at their children. Usually they would beat their already misshapen child into a bloody pulp at the checkout lane while old women and hot moms would stare at the chaos. In fact, one time, a hambeast actually began to toss candy bars around, this was the closest I ever got to my dream of candy falling from the heavens, and it was good, even though I was to pay for all the candy I ate.
After he left I started my investigation in his room.

The mansion I lived in was pretty huge dude, so huge that I never managed to get out. I became lost constantly, and I finally got lost so badly in an endless labyrinth of corridors and hallways that I couldn’t find my way back. After futile hours of searching for a return to familiar ground, I gave up. I decided to stay where I was, and lived in rags and devoured rats and the like as they came by. My butler knew the lay of the home entirely (an amazing accomplishment) but he never showed me the way out, which was my first suspicion of his evil intents. I am certain my parents have died since then, if the strangely familiar rotting corpses in my closet said anything, although I’m not sure how they got in there. Maybe it was just like when you hear your favorite song on the radio when you’re in the waiting room before you got an operation for that huge steel pipe jutting out of your face, but then you figure out it’s not your favorite song and it’s something really similar that came out a few days ago and you start to get really pissed because this dumb new band totally ripped off your favorite song and you use the steel pipe in your face as a massive battering ram and shatter the glass in front of the secretary who handles all the incoming patients and stuff. Not that that ever happened to me though, but it could, it really could, so I keep myself prepared.
So I was in my butler’s room, which was pretty average, curtains, drapes (are those the same things?) a bunch of severed limbs lying around, some windows, a gaping skull fixated on each bed post, a poster of Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome, some dead fat guy, and a bunch of human organs. He also had a bunch of red wine stains on the carpet which was sickening since it was very expensive, and there was a pretty lame picture of that satanic pentagram thing, with a bunch of blood connecting the corners. I really question his artistic skills.
So I began in the closest, which was tough because the body of the dead fat guy was blocking the way and he weighed about ten hundred pounds even with all the flesh rotting off his bones, which smelled bad as well. Almost as bad as that time I went to the public swimming pool and all the kids began peeing in the water and a bunch of nihilists ran in with super soaker guns and some other Nerf guns I don’t know the name of and shot up the place, the two incidents weren’t connected, but I thought it was a crazy coincidence since I hate children.

[Blood-Pigggy]

As I reached into the closet, I noticed the mass of dead bodies and organs wrapping themselves around the place like Christmas decorations. This made my job of rifling through his Tuxedo collection quite difficult, as the intestines and muscular tendons were quite slippery and my arms and fingers kept getting caught in them. I tried my best to intertwine between the confusion of slippery blood and viscera on the floor while simultaneously attempting to push away all the dead bodies on the ground. This was pretty tough since these guys were everywhere and the tormented visages permanently etched on their rotting, decaying faces filled with painful incisions and missing eyeballs kept getting in my way as I pushed their heads in another direction in an effort to make more space.
I tried being a little more aggressive in getting all this unkempt rubbish out of my face but that only accomplished in me slipping on an especially greasy puddle of liquidated fat and grime face first into one of the rotting heads lying near me. It tasted really bad, like Butterfingers except I actually like Butterfingers, I guess what I meant is that it tasted bad like Butterfingers when you ate too many and decided to wash it all down with a glass of milk, but you realize that the richness of the Butterfingers and the milk are making a really bad taste in your mouth and you start to groan because you ate too much. I didn’t groan because I didn’t eat this dead dude’s face, but he smelled bad and I wonder why my butler never decided to put these guys in the wash as much as he did with his Tuxedos since they smelled pretty bad, the dead guys I mean.
Anyway, I pushed off of the face of this corpse and it caved in which pissed me off since there was some pretty sharp cartilage still creaking around in his nasal cavities and it hurt pretty bad when it shoved itself into my hand, pinioning itself into the middle of my palm. It didn’t actually cut me, but it was pretty lame and I smacked the crap out of that cadaver’s face because it dared do stuff like that. It was pretty rude, so he should have seen it coming.

I finally get to the end of this closet, which, if I haven’t mentioned, is pretty freaking huge. It’s like a hallway just going into the house with a bunch of Tuxedos at one end. I don’t know why my butler hadn’t whined about it before since walking down this thing would suck pretty bad, and I wonder twice as much considering the other day when he complained that the bath tub couldn’t catch enough blood and plasma, and then he got even more mad when I told him to clean up the mess on the bathroom floor. Or maybe he didn’t want to mention it since he knew that the reason this closet was such a crappy place to go through was because he kept throwing all these bodies in here instead of putting them in the laundry chute with all the others.
As I placed my hand carefully in each Tuxedo pocket, searching for any evidence, I got pretty bored. I was reminded of the time I was in Vietnam and I was carrying two M60s in each hand and shooting up a bunch of Viet Cong while there was an inferno of ridiculous flaring explosions in the background illuminating every chiseled featured of my rippling muscles as they contracted from the recoil of the two high powered weapons blowing hundreds of rounds each minute in every direction. It was pretty boring since it went on for about thirty minutes and some really unfitting music was playing in the background which I assumed was coming from the speakers in the Viet Cong base, but I might be mistaken since I don’t think they had invented the concept of sound yet at that point. So I’m digging through the pockets of these Tuxedo’s and among the inappropriately disproportionate items I find in these pockets that somehow fitted inside of them without destroyed the suit itself (I found a cannonball and a three headed monkey) I finally came across a note that read a simple but telling message.

“It’s happening tonight at 9 PM, party at George’s!”

This was the evidence that I needed. The irrefutable proof that my butler was a raging murderous psychopathic, and a definite and concrete confession of his criminal intent to frame me for the crime of stealing candy from small children, or even worse, kill me by slowly driving my eyeball into a jagged wooden splinter on a framed door that he had shoved a chainsaw through only moments earlier.
All I had to do now was fire him without him going insane and murdering me with impossible strength. I knew what powers that deceivingly frail shell of his possessed, the fireballs that sprouted from his fingertips as he cooked food. He had told me that he didn’t know any magic, and he was only using something called a “lighter” but the idea of an invention so ridiculous as something that emits flame had me knowing he was a liar, it was like something from 2001: The Space Odyssey, or that really crappy movie Brazil.

Unfortunately he was right behind me as I was reading the note and reminiscing about his lies of developing heathen technology for breathing flame through the lifeless and soulless contraptions of metal while bending the laws of the universe in order to shape the ambiguous and faceless material into a vessel for evil that would spread the all consuming fires of hell like a deadly plague festering the flesh of its victims into boils and pustules that would erupt and send viscera flowing like a deadly river of acid down their arms and necks and burrowing into the flesh as it unleashed swarms of deadly insects and arachnids that would screech with the tormenting wails of a highway of death where the wounded and tortured would go after they suffered unimaginable agonies of death visited upon them from demons of the fifth dimension of Nebulon where the rules of our universe were twisted and antagonized into a beast that lived only through the simple vile pleasures of destruction and torment through the burning of liquids harnessed from the pained screaming organs of innocent humans.
And I’d be DAMNED if he wasn’t plotting the same thing against me.
Like some random two dimensional character in that 1999 film developed by two brothers with shallow characters and vapid overtly philosophical writing masked by nonsense action sequences veiled by special effects and slow motion ripped directly from the legacy of John Woo, I flipped five thousand feet into the air at the mere realization of his presence behind me.
It must have only been like a few inches of the floor, but I felt like a Vostok rocket exploding in outer space, and the frantic insanity of my mind attempting to create an excuse for my intrusions in his closet was like the oh so beautiful and structured chaos of the rocket disassembling in the black void of outer space and releasing a single satellite to survey the endless dullness of our black sky.

“What are you DOING!!? Letter L, letter O, letter L once again I say dear sir, that spells LOL, ALTHOUGH I DO NOT KNOW FOR WHAT I AM LAUGHING SIR!” He screeched like a bat out of hell, a screech that sounded much like the derisive wail coming from a literary critic as he read clichéd similes in a novel with no direct evolution of the characters.

I attempted to cover up my actions by contorting myself into a ball and employing the pained wail of a dog that has just been serrated with a plastic spork. This didn’t work, although it might have been the fact that it accomplished nothing in the first place, I really think it didn’t work because I actually didn’t do it. Instead I said something to the effect of…
“I’M NOT DOING ANYTHING! BUT I HAVE DONE SOMETHING! SOMETHING HERE WHERE I HAVE SAID I HAVE NOT DOING ANYTHING IN ORDER FOR MYSELF NOT TO SAY SOMETHING INCRIMINATING DEAR BUTLER SAH!”

He flailed his arms around like some sort of floppy Stretch Armstrong (HOW DO I MAKE THE TRADEMARK SYMBOL!?) and proceeded to scream.
“BUT HOW IS THAT, KIND SIR OF MINE? Sir which I have served for many years sir, in this large mansion I might mention sir! I CLEARLY HAS SEEN YOU, AND I EMPHASIZE HAS FOR THE IMPLICATION OF IMPROPER USE OF GRAMMAR AND THE POSSIBLE EFFECT THAT I HAVE HAD A BAD UPBRINGING TO BE INTRODUCED INTO THE STRUCTURED FRAMEWORK OF THE PLOT, SIR, I MUST MENTION THAT IT IS PRETTY OBVIOUS THAT YOU WERE UP TO SOMETHING IN MY INAPPROPRIATLY LARGE CLOSET DUDE, SIR, SIR KIND SIR.”

This was starting to piss me off, the screaming was pretty loud and it was kind of weird because we never actually talked like this, so I started acting normal.
“I found something, something that will end your WEB OF LIES!!”

He threw his arms around like soggy pieces of spaghetti, the words coming from his vocal cords like the fires of hell erupting forth.
“Oh yeah?”
“YEAH!”
“Well… suck it!”
“HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO YOUR EMPLOYER LIKE THAT, YOU SIR, ARE FIRED!”

I screamed this at the top of my lungs, and it came out really high pitched which really embarrassed me, I probably learned it from playing online shooter games on my X-Box 360 all day long while shouting racial epithets and slurs against other players’ imagined sexual orientations that I had placed upon them, during this period my voice would crack uncontrollably as though I had returned to the young stages of puberty, and I would sometimes realize how much of an idiot tool I was being and would momentarily think about playing video games with actual substance to them other than Halo, like perhaps a good turn-based hex wargame perhaps? But then my momentary insanity would subside and I would return to being the asocial moron teen that I was born to be.

So I said to him, I said.
“NOW LEAVE!”

And he did, into the night, as a massive hurricane swept over him, enveloping him in darkness and returning him into the abyss of horrors from which he came, which was probably a bowling alley or something full of small children having a birthday party.

[Blood-Pigggy]

I felt heartbroken to a certain extent, he had been like a father to me, a father that would occasionally run through the house in a Michael Jackson costume firing a pistol into the air while exclaiming “Yee-haw” and kicking those heels with those cowboy spurs of his as he rode into the sunset with his merry band of Samurai tarantulas.
The memories would last forever, but I would not, nor would he. Which is why I decided to totally pig out for the last days of my life since I would never find a way out of this house. I stocked up on all sorts of things, chicken wings, the bodies of long deceased people, some popcorn, the bones of thousands of rats, and the Beyond Thunderdome poster, although that tasted kind of bad because the ink they used to color the thing would come off when you were chewing it in your mouth and you got this feeling in the back of your head that it maybe wouldn’t be good for you to eat it, but you do it anyway because you have nothing to lose like Clint Eastwood in The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly.

Alas dear butler, I could not have kept you around, for all the good you have done me, the pain you would have brought could not have been contained in my poor heart, it would have burst and exploded, like Old Faithful, and you would have been to blame. You douche bag.

You seriously suck, I hope someone finds these memoirs (if they can even be called that) and you’ll read them and feel really bad because you were such a terrible butler. I hope you choke on those weird litchi fruits you like so much. In fact, I hope you become so old and senile that you eat one with the shell on and it burns pretty bad as you swallow it down the wrong pipe because the shell is all rough and stuff, you know. SO LONG!

[_r.u.s.s.]

[Blood-Pigggy]

........ Epic.

[Eagle of Fire]

Bla bla bla indeed...