Rizzo The Nihilizo

Wednesday, March 21, 8007

Casualty of Solipsism

This is a short story that I'm debating whether I should continue on with, or leave it as it is. I suppose if I get hit with some inspiration for it, I'll continue. I've been thinking of making a series of short stories based on my many seemingly-conflicting-yet-married-together-in-an-orgy philosophies and spiritual views. Hopefully they'll shed some light for myself and others on the nature of reality and how we percieve it. Anyway, here's Casualty Of Solipsism, a look into what it would be like to travel along the left-hand path with a narcissistic, solipsist worldview.

Casualty of Solipsism

As I paced around the room, I wondered how much longer this fairy tale can keep up. How far can I take it? Can I mold the entire world; will the universe bend to my whims? Has my solipsistic world view defined my narcissistic existence, or has my ego determined my philosophy? How can I trust myself?

Apparently, I can't. The two dead hookers lying in a puddle of blood and feces is a grand testament to this. I'd have to take care of the other one soon, before she walks in the room with her saggy Mexican tits and her collection of dildos. She'd cause a scene, and I can't have that. She'd wake up my redneck, white trash neighbors and I'd be off to some maximum security prison where'd I'd wake up each day to an ass full of semen and my resilience left for dead.

I took another line of cocaine and decided I'd strangle the bitch. Much less noise that way, although truth be told, not half as much fun as beating her over the head with whichever blunt object of choice happened to be on hand. Before setting off to increase my counts of homicide, I decide to liberate the oppressed urine from my tyrannical bowels onto the lifeless corpses of the low-class prostitutes that littered my floor. Really, they shouldn't have insulted me like that. I'm not some sort of depraved fucking homosexual; they should have told me they weren't really women.

It's not like they had much to live for anyway. I was freeing them of their flawed material existence, and all things considered, I should probably be awarded a medal. Maybe in their next lives they'd be born caterpillars or something, although I've never seen a she-male caterpillar. Shit, I've never even seen a caterpillar in action, getting all hot and heavy and finishing off with a money shot. Oh, but that's right, caterpillars undergo metamorphosis into butterflies. A bunch of fucking pansies they are, I guess butterflies are the GLBT of the insect world.

Not that this has anything to do with the problem at hand. I stepped over the heap of dead bodies and fluids, exited my room and closed the door carefully. The spic whore was in the bathroom, brushing her hair with all the attention only a woman of the night could give to her strung out, disease ridden body. I stroked my cock until it was erect, strutted over to the bathroom, bent the harlot over the sink and shoved my male figure of dominance into her filthy cunt. She acted surprised, but I knew she could barely even feel it. Not that my prick was small, far from it, but this bitch was a classic case of a "hot dog in the hallway". I'm pretty sure I could fit my foot inside of her. Either way, I wasn't fucking her for my pleasure or hers, hell, the only reason I was hard was because all this killing had my blood pumping, regardless of all the cocaine swirling through my veins. I just needed a distraction.

She was still preening herself as I began to choke her, strangling her with the gentle assuredness that only a man with an ego the size of an elephant and a cock buried deep in a pussy could muster. It didn't take her long to stop struggling and give way to my asphyxiation, and as soon as we both went limp, I slammed her head into the mirror and let her body fall onto the sink, and then the floor. A job well done, I think. It wasn't possible to make her death anymore fitting, I'd wager. I'm sure she always knew she'd go out with a bang, or at least while getting banged and jacked up on blow and hash. Or maybe she was just trying to save up enough money until she could return to back her family in Mexico, marry some nice young man and share the gift of herpes with him.

Fuck! I've probably got it too, now. No matter, I can take care of it; I can take care of anything.

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At Wednesday, January 21, 2009 2:56:00 AM, Anonymous genericyst said...

That's what I'm fucking talking about.


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