You Should Leave E-Book

Ryan Aarset

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Her doctor had hoofs on his back, a rare deformity caused from an excessive calcium intake by the surrogate mother, as the man of medicine was indeed born in a lab vial, monitored by graduate students who were working for free so that they can one day achieve enough work credit to eventually receive compensation.

Leseprobe

Ryan Aarset

You Should Leave

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Chapter 1: Molly Baker

Severe effects are flying in all directions outwards from the source of cerebral commotion. Landing in various portions of a large continuum of characters, events, and stratospheric modules relating to a global heading was the call of a realization during the instant elimination of social concerns. I came to the fruit of my bearing with a call on my shoulder and said that I can’t look at my friends. There are too many of them that wear shirts that say I’m so special on them and I can’t read what they write to begin with, and time passes in one week and you feel like you are on a different level. I have grown, but only in soul, not in scope. She’s obsessed, can’t trust herself. We all might as well set up a party atmosphere as such: There is a mansion with a giant lawn divided in two by a walkway, and it leads to a façade that makes one imagine the white house but on a more humble scale. Then it burns down and the ashes are collected and put into a pile that is forgotten in some remote Alaskan Tundra. Nobody can believe what happens next. Seals forgot their neighbor’s ocean remotes on the bounty of being locked up forever in that tiny turtle of a mansion’s lawyer and against the grain the poor old woman with white hair wrote checks to satisfy the plaintiffs who effortlessly swindled her dastardly son with no suits to wear.

What beautiful times we bore for one another under a darkness of which most men knew little of, even in the harsh realms of modern slavery that exist on the earth was not a fashion of cruelty given to such intelligent bodies under hostility and territorial dominance exhibited by bodies that didn’t know any better. We were all terrible slaves of immortality and we couldn’t even breathe under scopes of glass sound test tubes of baby oil covered in dark chocolate. I drank the fire of my brethren with the ease of a goddess who knew that each terminal was guarded by the sheer will of a fire dragon named Ness who had a penchant for licking the freshly cut grass of a newborn after its own egg feast on the fifth of Mardi Gras. My eggs are intact, said the housekeeper’s granddaughter to her physician in the midst of a gynecological exam. Besides the tremendously monstrous bill that was given to her at the end of her exam, she decided to not receive any financial aid for fear of loan interest, and she was put on a payment plan of around $400,000 per month for the rest of her life. Her kids (if she ended up having any) would have to pick up the remainder of the bill.

Word keeps going around about a Cyclops that’s been hanging around town. He seems to know things that others don’t, has prescient vision or something. He was once friends with a holiday greeting card designer named Ping Yao that had trouble finding a dentist so he consulted a firm that specializes in finding appropriate oral hygiene experts for clients. As he was clearly as fulfilled a man could be with his job, the financial assistant went home and made love to his wife six times in a row and had coffee afterwards while the wife took a nap. If a nap could in fact restore anything in a human being it might as well be libido, but there are too many hermaphrodites to count in this asylum of dirty flesh-eaters. Syringes spike the floors and there are remnants of a black and white tile pattern, but some of them are just dust, dirt, and rocks. The hallways spilled out with dead skin cells and there was hardly any light except for a mutual understanding of ghost particles that only engaged with surrogate lords for protesters’ rights of interaction with dust cells. It all made sense to the elves. Behind the shelves lay piles of notes that were red, and they read on and on about a certain place and time, or a feeling or something. They could only make sense if the Cardinal or Pope attended a Monster Truck Rally just one time. If there were no real possibility of a spiritual guru being behind the actions of racist suburbanites, than I doubt a turkey would have any reason to be jealous of its peacock neighbor with privileges that included feather plucking by world premier bird lovers.

On the most frequent of visits from mother peacock and her flock of well-to-do marsupial cousins, all of the children of hens would rejoice at the mere mention of a bottle of yams to hold down the hunger pangs that stung the bellies of burdened, poverty-stricken Russians. By any account they had high hopes for Vodka becoming as frequent as water, but some of the more sensible decision makers figured why not just ban the whole drink altogether, an action that was met by hostility, especially from the underclass.

The rich never had drinking problems because all of the problems that came from drinking could be solved by the excessive amount of money that everyone had. Gathering in big churches can only appease motherless children and spouseless women for so long before they all get together and decide to sing Christmas carols under mistletoe that rhymes with fairy dust. Furthermore, the fairy dust kings would bet anything on the fact that their long-time friends, the beavers of York Street, could easily make bets that would put bookies out of business if it weren’t for the old-time handicappers and wisecrackers that visited the shark rooms biweekly. If anything, the old cats were only in the house to take care of the newbie crooks that came in thinking the whole thing belonged to the new cats when it was really an old-timer business. How pathetic they all felt. She cherished most that which was hardest to obtain, a purpose behind a pulverizing work routine. After church she would count the change in her purse and make sure she didn’t try too hard to look saintly when the collection basket came around.

Oh, and what a basket case the pastor was with his big hat and fancy black shoes that reeked of bad leather during the worst of the summer heat basketball game marathons. Even though shooting hoops was the only thing a kid could get used to during the dense summer asphalt gatherings, there was still hope for the Europeans who came to basketball games dressed as Ralph Trujillo. In opposition to the fundamental communist outbreak that was taking place in modern capitalist countries, there formed a coalition of demonstrators that wished for their voice to be heard in space among other places, and somehow NASA ended up building spaceships that were friendly and accepting towards the LGBT population, issuing in a whole new era of learning institutions that were centered around the principle that all structural foundations serving the larger population of LGBT youth in the area wouldn’t be complete without dildo lockers. Most Hollywood actors rallied behind this movement for reform within the structures’ architectural plans. Princess Diana even had an idea for a shoe store to have the slogan, “Come and find your Sole!” upon which she was handsomely rewarded for being so witty. If the Emperor of the known continents ended up seizing control of the will of the larger population, there is no stopping the amount of fines and fees that we could implement on them without becoming sucked into a vortex of tiny lines that spoke of rules within rules. There are fine prints that delegate the very fabric of our disgusting lives, and they are all dictated by a single ruler, a man with no purpose. We shall waste away our resources until we all bottom out and eat one another and our families will waste away and perish in garbage bins with leftover cabbage heads.

By my lord’s hand doth my spirit perish, under ochre fields of decayed plant matter, where tornadoes rip through homes until the foundations are flattened and tree bark speeds through the air and blinds the vision of cows. Instead of a maple triangulation coveting the inner workings of a pancake conspiracy, now we take our vows to cripple the bodies of protesters speaking out against the injustice of Marshal Law upon citizens. And who could blame the blokes for their renewed interest in obtaining control of themselves within a self-sustaining community? Outside the fences a different story was being formed at the mouths of the gossipy residents of a town that was no bigger than the lot used for the next town over’s shopping center. Glorious rows of stuffed animals decorated the outline of the world’s largest stuffed animal center, located right next to the town recently demolished by a tornado. There was no question that the preacher considered the vandals responsible for the tornado to be devil-worshipping heathens that went to rock concerts and smoked herbs that made the eyes droop. Corn was their crop. Justice was the ethos.

Miniscule jobs led to a long path that ended with those who believed themselves to be righteous gods of privilege and un-challenged leadership. Along this road were the lamp posts that resembled the curling light that emanated from the unicorns located in the lowly stables of the mighty preacher and his aura of justice. If ever there was a wise word given to the people of that land, it was this by the preacher himself: “To be fed corn is to sustain. To be fed ego by the greedy mind is to fail in front of your brethren shamefully. Just relax, eat, and sleep and perhaps your job will always be done.” Most people didn’t listen to the preacher because he nearly always spoke in strange riddles like this one, and he hardly ever made true sense. Some of the more philosophical acquaintances of the preacher would often speak of his progressivism, opting for the mention of his myriad charity funds working towards a sustainable ecosystem for a forgotten community, one that was swallowed up by those with power and leverage. If and when the natural calamity of a societal breakdown was to come, the preacher figured there would be enough corn, justice, and bedding to sustain the people of the land while they prayed on their knees to his favorite god of the high sky. Noon was the timed sound of roosters going cock, etc. into a rough mix of trebly bells that changed sound when you drove your dirty truck swiftly across its horizontal presence. Ghosts lived around that place, and the bells seemed to drive them away on occasion. Even more terrified of the ghosts than the preacher himself was the lonely widow who wore black every day of her life, moving from town to town and stealing corn from grain silos while cursing the ground she walked on with a patient stare and a foreboding intensity. She never looked upwards and never looked people in the eye, forever staring at the ground, limping on her left leg (which was shorter than her right and was frequently sprained from having to avoid law enforcement officials after grain-silo thefts). Terminating at the cal de sac, families lined up to wait for bread bells so they could appease their whining stomachs with corn meal and wine.

The preacher preferred hundred-year-old goose, claiming that by eating the tender bones one could prolong life indefinitely. “The secret to immortality lie in the goose meat and bones,” he used to say to the people of the tornado. Catching almost no wind of the situation, the children of the farm tech believed that by grabbing their crotches and screaming to the clouds they could become one with the reincarnated spirit of child molesters throughout history. I only molest myself, and when my neighbor video tapes it he moans in ecstasy/agony, creating a symbiotic bond of circular welfare within the moniker that Bigfoot’s niece adopted when she first learned how to fish. Problematic as a five year old with a bag of chocolates, the careening ape stepped in puddles and it splashed filthy gutter water all over the man who once owned the largest chain of candy stores in the Milky Way Galaxy. Even a physics professor gets tired of figuring things out after a while.

The big questions that drove humanity led the greatest minds to developing theories about how stuff works, and all they came up with was more efficient ways of killing each other. As serious minded as a priest during a consecration ceremony, we all jack off to the predatory ailments that combat our mysterious origins. Judging from the wall paper that interrogated each member of Congress’ mother in law, they were all aiming for a sort of pastiche of early 19th century American Colonial interior design. Unfortunately for the cockroaches, the refrigerators that held sacred colognes were also highly toxic, and their skin melted under heavy lights. Thieves came and went by the tropical bazaar, telling tales of the many items they had taken from kings and queens who lived in the Mediterranean. By the end of the day, one thief by the name of Storm Rider had built a ship that houses what many believed to be the first penis ever to have grazed the edge of King Tut’s wife’s vagina. It had herpes on it. The thief found the herpes-infected penis to have a delectable taste, and as he scarf it down with red wine, he began to imagine better days, ones in which his main course for lunches did not consist of male reproductive organs. His dog, whose name was Tim, lie on a bed made of old carpets and flees could be seen as thick as black balls congregating around him. Although the dog died next to his master on life support, he howled at the moon when he finally passed and a child named Denny answered the call of the dog with a swift whiplash Cherokee dance that called to mind the time when The United States of America was a reasonable place to live. When stripped of privilege, the royal bishops commit suicide by strapping bowling balls to their ankles and walking planks. Babies cry when their supper time is remorselessly denied by serpentine friars.

One cute baby is all that a mom and dad need to get their fucking habits in line, but all condom jokes aside, tubes ended up tied off. If a camel smiles while smoking then his teeth light up the dust of a fairy’s asshole and she ends up with one hell of a cool motel sex story. Just in time for his bitter divorce, the friar assembled logs together to imitate his favorite architectural center piece, the ark of Noah. Many believed that Noah’s children were bratty, and that they slept through most of their days and picked plants from the ground and wrapped them in thin pieces of Papyrus to breathe in the smoke trails. Since tin foil did not exist, there was no real way to ruin their microwaves by accident, but some of the less intelligent kids used to put cats in the microwave because they wanted to eat more pussy. Word has it that pussy is high in protein.

A room is filled with tiny pieces of honey pebbles, and around its eastern walls are lined dozens of mud-covered huts that house the babies of yesterday’s slut fuck sessions. Wait, because there is more mud-covered honey soon to slide down the eviscerated beehive. An execrable mound of goo is all that remains after the suckers get their fill of sweetness that otherwise would have poured forth from the mouths of wicked sea creatures and their copious tuna delights. Mercury poisoning is the last thing our children dearest should acquire from the undercooked sea monsters. Here there is no lever to pull, and no trap door made as an escape from the horrifying realities of a life without any external struggle. Luckily, most of the pain that a modern homo can feel comes from the internal, like a bruise that is under the skin, deadlier than a purple hue of wrecked flesh. They seem to mock my mistakes, make huge deals out of the similarities that they see within their own tarnished minds, and if only a witness could take reference to the countless insults being hurled at my very humanity, this court room would arrive at justice swifter than a sullied Victorian harlot that has recently made leeway into her royal circles of upwardly social mobility. Crying after dinner, she never meant for her husband to come barging in like that, causing a stir among the dinner recipients and flattening her own bosom with her hand as if shocked by the sudden stagger. She knew exactly what was going on, and even after being shamefully dishonored, she carried on nonchalantly, ultimately looking about as inconspicuous as a tarantula in a Caesar salad.

Ringing doorbells replicated the melody of 18th century composers but only in obviously miniature scales, and new company arrived with the glee of people who were thankful to have exchanged long awkward coach rides for the joy of new and pleasurable company. Conversations arose simply out of the novelty of seeing new faces, but after they subsided there was a peculiar air of hostility that seemed to conjure from internal struggles related to the dampening of the ground by hard hail. The rooftop was mangled and the workers cried about it the next day over tea and crumpets. Each toad that was a referee to its ecosystem hopped from pond to pond in an over-abundant display of acrobatics that forced bird-watchers to abandon long-time hobbies in favor of reptilian fetish. Frogs never have huge breasts, but they certainly stick them out like they do. Some of my friends used to be incredibly attracted to marsupials, but it turned out to be a simple desire to experience the warm, sticky goo of the pouch as a remedy to the rocket birthing of beloved uncles through damaged wombs, ones with tumors and preposterous malignancies that needed to be surgically removed. The loved ones’ doctors believed that even after a good portion of their patients’ hopes and dreams were buried under oceans of wiry dinner plates, their hemoglobin was still worth a paycheck and a house with stairways that led nowhere.

The doctor’s daughter once believed it was worth it to exploit the sexualities of her friends by sleeping with their loose boyfriends, and after the actions took place in the master suite, a fireplace illuminated itself without the aid of a nearby fire starter, an incident which provoked fear and loathing in the mouths of her majesty’s nieces after chess games played with canines. Working around the clock, the doctors of the illegitimate emergency room always found room for cocktails during and after operations. She chopped her baby into thousands of pieces, each a uniform length and width, citing the motivation that crept up on her in exponential increments and ultimately escalating with the sweet motion of axes hitting hardwood, bone crusted in shattering splats. Thereby the sacred mother earned passage into her master’s chambers and he refused her admission otherwise. Yelping for some kind of salvation, she wept by her bedside near the old grandfather clock, praying for grace to waft over her but receiving not but cold shivers. Here is the century-old tale of a mother’s way to the gas chamber, the long and bitter struggle for redemption defined by a deft ineptitude and followed by numerous years crying under a starry night of rainfall and fogged pollution. Let the dogs examine their own piles of shit in the coming years. The queen says that there will be no justice for the examiners of one’s own subconscious, and as she quoted Shakespeare’s verses endlessly, crowds dissipated over the hoarse banter. She often dribbled when she spoke, the Queen, and there was even an instance when a young squire chuckled at the happening, regrettably so once he became aware of his new fate, a date with a girl named Guillotine. For someone to have rewarded a baby with the most handsome of gifts could not have been further from something that the young squire once called niceness of spirit, but it was his own nice nature that was complicit in the separation of his dome from his torso. With a diet consisting of mainly nuts and berries, some would say that the squire was a lean fellow, but it was a love for the drink which appropriated him to only seek out the company of other fellow drinkers, shaping his intelligent, thoughtful character into a sharply crass man of the fluid of god’s temple of Judas. Thankfully, the mother’s promise to protect her young ones from the disaster of the man standing behind you led to the elimination of ants from older, dirtier trash cans without political connections. There is a man standing behind you. The squire looked into the mirror from time to time, hopelessly dreaming and wishing that he looked differently, felt differently. His hair was curly and black, and those women who saw him dance said he had all the elegance of a flamingo in mid-flight. Birds can fly too, young Sam. Sam was the name of his dog. Dogs were not welcome in the porch light conundrums that instigated law enforcement tactics involving shaving cream and a raven’s feather. Heralded as a national hero, Sam the dog grew in stature throughout the course of history, while the poor master squire was sadly forgotten, left to the mercy of a queen who knew only cruelty and selfish egotism.

To hurt the ego of a prideful woman one signs their immediate death sentence. No amount of battlefield champions or male athleticism could compete with the wrath of the mightiest womb of power and command to ever have graces the salty earth, which is why the empress of the Milky Way took pity on the poor boy’s canine and adopted it, renaming the poor animal an atrocious nine-syllable name that history has by now forgotten. Day after day, the howling of Sam at the moon brought down the gravity of stars with its wicked rapturous pounding of deep lung-capacitated growls.

For some, the dog was the way out for Sam, who was the poor boy that lost his head over his inability to not laugh at the Queen’s “sacred” mannerisms. Even if a howling did good for her majesty, tumbling out of a boat’s cabin and floating on the high salty seas could do no good for a boy in his already soaking wet trousers with hearts embroidered on the sides. She opened her jack-in-the-box with glee. None of the trouser baskets had enough bleach at the bottom to damage her clothes, and although there are plenty of ways to get revenge, this one seemed honest enough. To catch one’s own kin committing acts of vandalism against government officials means to accept the consequences of endless hours of meditated questioning. The sheets that had numbers on them reached down to the pits of hell, sequenced patterns forever. Come on, even though Susan was a vampire she tasted bits of death when she went through the subway at night. It didn’t matter if he made seven hundred or fifty thousand in a week, it would almost be gone before the sun came up the day after pay day. Can’t there be an equal share for the newcomers who feel that the world owes them something. Perhaps it’s true and the world does owe people the rewards that they get in life, just as it punishes those who deserve it. Each person deserves exactly what they get in every way, and there is no other path around it. It is all perfect. As far as starting a drive-in pornographic theatre, one might as well post signs that say “masturbation clinic.” Forget red roses and champagne, the best way to steal the heart of the one you love is with a serenading under the moonlight followed by successive porn watching of the bestiality caliber on a giant flat screen while making chocolate truffles. Only the great Gordon Ramsay could instruct the temple children to make the cuisine of the gods. Catching trout isn’t much different than catching the flu. If there was a faster way to make money during expeditionary monkey-collecting than it would have already been extensively researched.

It was lustful tortoise-breath again. Just by the middle of the century came fervent wonders of a peacetime that harkened to glorious salad days of Renaissance fairs and rabbit races. Maybe the point of the obnoxious billowing was to ward off the infectious terrorism that comes from guessing too much. It means as much as the rabbit puts his own tongue down his esophagus and chokes on the most vitamin-enriched carrot juice available at the health food store. It’s poison to the rabbit. Green leaves and mazes of graze as tall as bald tree stumps burden the young hare to a festival of deer-gathering critters. There were no predators any more. Well if the makers of a juice called wonder gave a fuck about the village leper than why not trash the temple and make use of its expensive cedar? A booth will do for now, waiter. Hop on the trundle while it slides into an abyss of scathing brain cockles. Loading the shotgun by hand, travelling by foot, and being trailed by an enraged madman, Bob McCormick’s stepmother began trembling at the thought of being chased for another hour, maybe two, and that she wouldn’t have enough saliva in her mouth to take breaths, much less move her tired plump legs. The vultures would end up picking her bones clean long before the cold morning arrived here in the vast desert of Arizona, the fabled ice tea.