Trying some extemporaneous writing because I am fucked on actually getting a paper done. Just gone wail some shit -- hopefully I am not fucked on grammar because I am not going to edit anything!

Part 1:

John walked on the barren highway with the sun in his eyes. It wasn't a bright day -- no, it was a very bleak day, brazen in its barrenness, with clouds in the sky hovering like vultures on top of him. He didn't care where he was walking. He knew where he was going, but he didn't care if he got there. The air moved slowly in and out of his nostrils. He never once opened his mouth to alleviate his stress, to exhale, or to mutter exasperation. He knew what he was going to do.

He didn't look behind him. He didn't want to look behind him. It would have scared him so, that he would have lived forever if he looked back, and he didn't want to live forever. He had done what he wanted to. John Oaks, the man; the legend; the outlaw; the murderer; the vigilante; the rapist. No, he didn't want to live forever. Only fools live forever, and those that are stupid don't deserve to think. He didn't want to think anymore, because he was stupid. Always was, always will be. No, he wanted life to be freed from his body, to be living on the pavement like crimson water, forcing its ways out of his veins and broken neck, seeping from his pores and from his eyes. He wanted his life force all over the hot cement; he was going to get it.

The hill he was walking up was making him breathe harder. Harder, John, Harder, walk harder. Come on John, get up the hill, John. Don't open your mouth, John. Don't show your crooked teeth, John.

Fuck. This hill is too goddamn high. Why can't this thing get over with? Why can't that truck just come right now and hit me from behind? Why can't that motherfucker get here? Shit. Just wait, John. Just wait. I can't stand to wait. Fuck.

He, still struggling up the hill, was forcing images of his childhood into his vision. Fuck. Ma was so pretty. Why couldn't I find a gal like her? And pa, he was so strong. Why did he have to not want me to do anything? Was it because I wasn't Robert? What the fuck was he thinking? Goddamnit, pa, why couldn't you tell me to do something? I mean, Jesus Christ. I could a been a lawyer, or a doctor for Christ's sake. But no, Robert got to be a fucking officer and all I got to be was a dime store hooligan with a taste for trouble. Goddamn pa, why couldn't you a shown me the right way? I always wanted to be you. To have a wife and two sons, to come home to a meal and family. Goddamn, pa.

The hill was making him breathe harder. It was making him breathe so hard, he couldn't stand it. He couldn't open his mouth, though. Not those crooked teeth. Not those goddamn crooked teeth. They don't go with my suit and my shoes; my tie and my hair. I got it done just for this. I can't look like a heathen for when someone comes to get me. Goddamn this hill is rough.

Oh shit. That's a car. Where's it coming from? I can't tell. Goddammit, John, you can't do this. Come on. Jesus fucking Christ, where is that car coming from? Shutup for a second, I'm trying to listen.


The car -- no more than a few miles away -- was holding a young woman and her boyfriend. She was driving while he was smoking a cigarette, forcing his hand down her shorts. She told him to stop and to wait, but he, with his sunglasses and 5 o' clock shadow and cigarette wanted to stop and get it over with right there. They were going 70 miles an hour on that country road. The girl was trying not to enjoy it. He was just looking at her from the side of her face, focusing on her small nose, and her blonde hair; it was so blonde, he couldn't stand it. He wanted to pull it.

John Oaks, 25 years old with two illegitimate children on the way, both with his own mother;
John Oaks, 25 years old with a looming warrant on his head for the murder of his mother.
John Oaks, 25 years old with a warrant for the rape of a 16 year old girl on the first date with her boyfriend.
John Oaks, 25 years old and wanting to die.

John Oaks knew where the car was coming from now. John Oaks saw the headlights from two miles away, and he knew what he had to do. John Oaks wanted life over with, and he was going to get it, no matter what. John Oaks stood silently, just beyond the crest of the hill, out of sight and out of mind. John Oaks looked towards where the car was coming from, and he looked still and silently, listening for the sound of the grinding static of rubber on pavement.

That sound whistling like the crunching of bones, whistling like the pains of a soon-to-be-mother. Those sounds are all we have in life. The things in which we derive pain or pleasure from -- those are the things we have. That sound, that imminent sound, that noise that can drive us to insanity. Those noises were coming. That crunching sound. The sound, the rhythm of the wheels hitting uneven pavement, the CCTTTHH-UUUNNKK--CTTTTHC-UUNNNNKTH. The sound of ma making mashed potatoes on the stove and pa reading the newspaper, the pages turning and turning because pa didn't know what most words meant: CCTTTHH-UUUNNKK--CTTTTHC-UUNNNNKTH. That moment on Thanksgiving, it was the happiest moment in the world next to this. This painless moment. This ecstasy in murder.

The car was no more than 30 seconds away. It came in closer and closer. John looked forward and forward. Death was no more than 30 seconds away.

The car came upon the crest.
The headlights hit John's suit.
Rachel saw a man's back.
Steve kissed her neck.
John's eyes shut.
John's eyes shut.
John's eyes shut.