My grandfather has a story he tells, about the day he met my grandmother.
It starts: 'It was a beautiful morning in August, three weeks after the end of the war. Everybody was happy, as if the whole city were on holiday. I looked out the window and felt an intuition that the world held a pleasant surprise for me that day, so I told my room-mate I was going out to buy a pack of cigarettes. Just that: "I'm going out to buy cigarettes." I didn't really feel like smoking cigarettes, but I did feel like testing my intuition to see if it was right.'
Like most men in my family, pasticularly men of his generation, my grandfather is a vain and stuck-up prick. He is a smug, self-satisfied fuck-faced cunt, and I hate him.
Sometimes I imagine the creek that runs past my parents' house, and I imagine him being pitched headlong into the water and cracking his head against the rocks there. Except in my mind the creek is bigger, the currents are stronger, there are rapids which pull him downstream and beat his body against the rocks, mercilessly again and again, breaking his limbs into pieces before hurtling him over a massive waterfall.
I imagine other things too. I imagine my grandfather hacing sex with a cow, or sometimes just masturbating onto its fly-blown anus. Not that it's something he'd ever do, or indeed ever could, he'd have too much trouble getting his withered old dick to stand up. I saw it recently, his dick - don't ask me how - and his limp old testes were hanging down almost to his knees. Disgusting. No, I imagine him having sex with a cow simply because of how old and pathetic and ugly and feeble he'd look, and how little he'd enjoy it.
He continues: 'After buying the cigarettes, I couldn't decide what to do next. I certain had no intention of returning home; my room-mate was a dull fellow. Instead I strolled along the sea wall, which was still there in those days, and as the sun rose higher it turned into rather a hot day. I stopped by a public fountain to take a drink, and saw that a young lady had had the same idea. Naturally I allowed her to go first, ladies must go before men, and as she drank I had a chance to get a better look at her. That's clever, don't you think?'
I wish he was dead. That's not an idle threat, I am taking definite steps to kill that cocksucking fuck.
But before I do I want them to know. I want the world to know what a cunt he is. I want to scream it out of a megaphone. I want to erect the word "cunt" in giant letters on the hill above where he lives, maybe with a big arrow pointing down to his house so they all know who I'm talking about. C-U-N-T, like the Hollywood sign, in fact I'd light it up at night so planes could see it as they flew into the airport. I'd pour gasoline over the sign and set it on fire and then I'd kick out the supports so the huge flaming letters would crash down the hill onto the roof of his house and crush and burn the house with him trapped inside, screaming and dying and covered in shit.
(That's right, kids! The Sleep-Dep blog is not "work safe"! And yo mama.)