OH HEY ZERO FOLLOWERS, HOW WERE YOU ENJOYING YOUR ZERO UPDATES? I wrote this story in like, twenty minutes, and proofread it, like, once. Tell me if you like it etc etc blah blah blah. Gonna submit this to creepypasta.com, wish me luck! I call it Freak.

The freak meandered through a group of the undead. It was nearing nightfall, and he began to head back home. His pack had plenty of food in it, and he shouldn’t have to leave his house again for another week or so. Unless one of the zombie bastards punched its way in again. He didn’t carry a gun anymore. He had figured out a while ago that they couldn’t see him. It wasn’t necessary for him to carry a gun, because if they did realize he was there he would be dead long before he could pull out any kind of weapon whatsoever.
He did have to carry a weapon, in the earlier days, back when he was normal. Back before he became a freak. The people back then would try to steal food from him, attack him in delirious, starving rages. He killed quite a few people, in self-defense, but managed to detach himself from emotions. If he hadn’t, he would be dead right now. Or insane. He was free of the burden of emotions now, and all he ever felt was contentment. He used to be afraid, he used to hate himself, but now there was no reason for either. He hated himself for not being normal. He used to be normal, but now he was just a freak, a freak in a sea of normalcy. He was only content, not feeling too strongly towards positive or negative emotions.
In the early days, the infected, the zombies, the monster, the ghouls, the beasts, were the minority. They were the freaks. They were the repulsive ones. Now it was him. He was the freak. He was one of the last of his kind. He was the last of his kind he had seen in some time now. When the virus first hit, it wasn’t that big of a deal, just a few hurriedly covered stories in the local news, stuff like that. It wasn’t close to home at all, it was in little jungle villages in Africa. But it spread quickly. This sickness was spread through the air. Coughs, sneezes, bodily contact. It all spread the disease. The symptoms were subtle. And by the time you died and returned, it was too late, far too late.
When they first started to attack, when he first became a freak, he was with a few more like him. Hunted. They all stowed themselves away in a child’s treehouse. They had pulled the ladder up behind them, but they knew where the freaks were. They always knew. They were sitting, waiting. There were seven freaks in the treehouse total. Cramped, moist, afraid. A few of them had guns, and were firing wildly at the remade below. The freaks with guns were panicked, didn’t know how to shoot, and didn’t know to shoot for the brain. They were out of ammo and they had only destroyed one.
The reanimated shuffling men couldn’t see. Their eyes were either closed, filmed over, or missing. They smelled, felt vibrations through the air, heard, or maybe some unknown new sense. Nobody knew. It didn’t matter. You were dead if you weren’t immune. If you were immune, they couldn’t sense you in whatever way it was they used. But if you touched them, they would feel you. They would feel your warmth. And they would take it away. One of the monsters in the treehouse wasn’t immune. The rest were. The one who wasn’t immune was showing symptoms already, and they all knew it. They planned to push him down sometimes soon, but he was too overactive right now.
They had watched as he shot up on heroin a few minutes ago. He was too violent and unpredictable now. His rifle was now firing dry. He kept pulling back the bolt and firing anyways. Crazy bastard. The plan was to push him down when the opportunity was there, distract the re-living enough for the rest of them to get away. They didn’t know how smart the undead were yet, though. About twenty minutes later, he had finally begun to crash. Three of them exchanged a glance, and shoved him down. He hit the ground with a sickening crunch, and the undead closest to him stood up, walked over, broke his neck, delivered a swift blow to his skull and left him there.
That was when the monsters realized how smart the undead were. Maybe not completely genius, but they knew. They had killed the addict, and destroyed his brain to make sure he wouldn’t come back. They needed the food, after all. They had heard two rifles firing at once, and knew from experience a man could only fire one at once. They knew there was at least one other up there, probably more. They were surrounding the tree, waiting. The survivors were at a loss. “I…I think I know what to do,” a small, fortyish balding man piped. He was still wearing a button-up shirt and khaki pants, but he had ditched his dress shoes long ago. They only slowed him down. Everybody turned to him as one.
“I think…since they can’t see us…since they can’t see us we could maybe go down and try to sneak through. A few of us will…won’t make it. But it’s a better chance then we would have.” They had all died but the freak. Now he was alone, and was glad. If he saw another survivor, he would probably kill it in disgust. And he had done it before. A few months ago, he had found one more survivor, dying of dehydration. He slit his throat. They couldn’t be spared to live. And now this. He had just mounted a crest, to see about twenty immune people hiking down the highway. He grimaced. The freak reached into his pocket.
Do not suffer a monster to live. He pulled forth a well-made pipe-bomb. He had made it over the course of a week. Why hurry when he had all the time in the world? He pulled a lighter out of the other pocket, and then stuffed the pipe bomb into his belt, covering it with his “Welcome to Margaritaville” shirt. He held the lighter in his left hand, hidden, then began to tromp down the hill, holding his hands high in a gesture of peace. They were all overjoyed to meet another like them. There was a child with them, but the rest were either middle-aged or in their early twenties. He awaited an opportunity to use his weapon, but none arose until later that night. And he didn’t even need the lighter. There was a fire in the middle of the camp, and they were all sleeping.
They had rigged up an alarm system consisting of soda cans on a string. They all slept soundly. He stepped outside the limits of the camp, and pitched the pipe bomb towards the fire. It detonated almost immediately. He ran from the blast of heat and smiled. He had stopped them from trying to overturn the world, how the world worked. They were re-organizing. That was not allowed. He had ended them all. He giggled, and headed back home.



I figure I should stock my blog up with a few things I've written before chilling out on the contenet and putting new stuff up about once a week, which is the most I've ever written, honestly. I'll put a pem up, pretty dark and stuff, and part of a diad, though the second one is MUCH darker and MUCH better. However, I'd rather not post that. I want to be somewhat child-friendly. Though that's not gonna happen. First off, I'd like to discuss some ideas I had. I was writing something once. I wanted it to be a novella, and I began writing it after I read Greg Bear's novel, Songs of Earth and Power. Great novel, by the way. Anyways, it's an alternate reality sorta thing, a medieval sorta setting. It revolves around a cellist named Heron. In this world, there is the standard warfare and such, but MUCH more spiced up. Ya see, some people are able to play special instruments, and play certain songs with different effects. For example, one song may set a dude on fire, and another may heal someone. These people can also make their spells, poisons, etc. stronger by paying a blood price, or wergild. That's like Celtic or something. I dunno, it just sounded cool. It actually does mean blood price, though. Anyways, They just like cut themselves a little or lob an arm off, depending on the intensity of whatever it is. Heron basically has a hug cello that he uses a mace, smashing the crap outta things. His bow has a blade on the end of it, on the back, for backhanded slashes. His kingdom is in a war with another kingdom, whose soldiers have basically given up control of their minds to someone else, allowing that person to control their bodies, HOWEVER, this makes the controller all gross, monstrous, and tumorous. The soldiers are much stronger in battle, but if the controller is killed (and it needs to be within two miles of whatevr it's controlling, half a mile if they are all active, say fighting) all of the soldiers lapse into a vegetative state. I thought it would make a really good novella, but NOOOO, it had to come out lame every time I tried to write it. I failed miserably in all of the five or so times I tried to watch it. Anyways, here's the promised poem. I think it's about zombies, I dunno. I'm pretty sure I wrote this after I watched The Invasion, that Nicole Kidman movie. Though it's not supposed to be in the same universe or anything, it was just in my head. I DUNNO JUST READ IT.

Step, step
Coming closer
Can you hear Their feet
On the pavement?
They're strolling
No in any hurry
We're trapped,
That door will hold
Not too long now
But if we can just
Say our goodbyes
And I-love-yous
Let's go.
Don't worry.
It will be quick,
It's hundreds of feet.
Take my hand.
They can't get us
When we're in
A million
So there you are. A nice romantic poem. Just in time for Valentine's day. If you would like to read the other poem in the diad, just post a comment, I definitely don't mind anonymous ones either. You can also email me at oxymoron424@yahoo.com. I'm also considering posting a poem on a certain weekday, and stories/essays/satires every Saturday or Sunday. Give me your thoughts, guys.


Hey hey, blogspotters. Time for another story thing. I don't have but one other thing typed up besides this, probably should've thought to type more up before I started this blog, but it was an impulse decision anyways. This is one of my favorite works. It's somewhat explicit, but it's not One Among the Sleepless, so not too bad. It's kinda silly, because I don't know too much about spies or espionage or anything. I'm normally a scifi/fantasy writer. Alright, here goes Casmir.

Mister Casmir smiled. “Ah, little Johnny.” John tried to scream through the duct tape. The only noise he was able to make was an almost nonexistent squeal. His capacity to scream was not helped by the fact he had a sock jammed into his mouth as well as tape over it. His throat was also hoarse from screaming and Mister Casmir’s other…ministrations. A tear trickled down John’s face.
* * * * *
And he was back in the snow. He let out a short, shuddering sigh. The sigh puffed into existence in front of his face. It drifted upwards and away. He pulled on his black wool cap. He was already wearing a turtleneck and black pants. He needed camouflage, even in these secluded woods. The trees stretched about him, their branches pleading for warmth. “Sorry trees, I’m not the one to ask.” He stifled his nervous, hysterical laughter. He wrapped the navy blue bandana about his face, and readied the bolt cutters.
* * * * *
“Hey, Johnny boy. Johnny. Look at me, Johnny.” Mister Casmir’s face was inches from the side of his own face. John looked forward, blank. Mister Casmir’s face suddenly twisted into a sick mask of anger, hate, and joy. He slapped John across the face. “Look at me, you ungrateful little bastard!” he shouted. John let out a sob, dampened by the sock. It was beginning to swell with saliva, blocking the opening to his trachea. Worse, he was crying again, and his nose was getting stopped up, as he tried to snuffle the mucus dripping from the end back in. He had learned quite quickly Mister Casmir beat the criers. He was slapped again. John looked at Mister Casmir. His face softened once again. “There’s that pretty little face. You ready, buddy?”
* * * * *
John shook his head and cleared the images from his mind. He walked up quietly to the chain link fence ahead. The fence curved outwards, and was topped with coils of razor wire. He chuckled. It seemed impenetrable until you had a pair of bolt cutters. He shook his head silently and cut his way through. Just a few snips, a jingle, a rush of cloth against steel, and he was in. He began to circle the house, quietly, keeping low. He had left the cutters back at the fence, but he still had plenty of noise making equipment. He had wrapped and insulated each tool as best he could before he stuffed them into the duffel bag. He didn’t want the tools clinking and banging together. He didn’t need to alert anybody to his presence by the simple noise of
* * * * *
different things banging and rattling. A couple of weak rasps. Mister Casmir’s old toys. They were no longer of any use to Mister Casmir. Johnny boy was his new best thing. “Now, will you squeal if I take your…conversational aid away?” John nodded frantically. “Good. It’s not as if anyone will hear you anyways.” He barked laughter and ripped off the tape. He reached his grimy fingers into John’s mouth and pulled the sock out. John gasped for air and sighed. He was pinned against a board by several leather restraints. His arms were spread out, as well as his legs. He looked like a beaten, tortured, young version of Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man. The panels his limbs were strapped to could be moved up and down, and the board he was strapped to had no back. John gulped and Mister Casmir chuckled without a smile.
* * * * *
John saw no lights on. Perfect. Casmir had plenty of bodyguards. There were plenty of people out for his life, for plenty of reasons. But John was right in his assumption. He was always right in his assumptions. There were only a few guards on this night. It was Christmas, after all. John chuckled again. Christmas for him. This was the present he had wanted for years. He stuck a hand into his bag and came out with a magnet and a lockpicking set. He had years of practice with this, and it was to his advantage Casmir found himself sufficiently protected with just a fence. He had no deadbolt, and a very ancient security system. The door had a small magnet just above the lock. There was another magnet on the door frame. When the door was open, the user had sixty seconds to punch in the code before it set off an incredibly loud alarm. Luckily, it did not contact the police as well. That would have been Casmir’s loss of any kind of power, as well as freedom.
Unfortunately, only Casmir knew the code, and it changed once a week. John’s magnet would do. He pocketed the magnet and cracked open his lockpicking set. Then he hesitated. He fumbled in his bag again and pocketed a bundle of cloth. Right hip pocket. Easy draw. John had the lock open in a trice. There were only four tumblers. He pulled the door open. The hinges were well oiled. He would have thought Casmir would have been more intelligent. You make sure the hinges are creaky on a back door. Creaking sounds are uncommon. When your brain hears a creaking sound, it immediately jumps straight to
* * * * *
a door opening. Mister Casmir was getting the chains. John was already restrained, but that’s not what they were for. The chain had very small links, so fine it was almost mail. They were more effective for cutting off circulation than ropes. The links bit in. They made things turn red; blue; purple; white; black. John gulped. “This will only hurt a bit, Johnny. After a few minutes, you will have lost feeling. There won’t be any feeling. Don’t worry,” he chuckled, “I am a doctor.”
* * * * *
John gritted his teeth as he placed his magnet into the space. The light on the keypad stopped blinking. He let out a breath. He was in. He closed the door behind him, removing the magnet. The cold draft would awake nobody. He smirked and took a few steps, then froze. There was a guard right inside of the door. He was in a kitchen chair, facing the door. He was clearly asleep, but dozing would be more appropriate a word. The guard had a clearly illegal modified machine gun with a grenade launcher attachment on his lap. It was fully loaded, the bolt was pulled back, and the grenade was loaded into it. The guard’s finger was on the trigger, and John could see the bulk of a shoulder holster as well as a pistol with a large caliber in a hip holster. The guard’s finger tensed on the trigger and relaxed as he breathed in and out. The slightest disturbance and the guard would jolt awake, reflexively spraying the room with gunfire and probably end his own life with the grenade.
Just what he needed. He slowly pulled the gun out of his pocket. It was bundled in black velvet. It was a Glock 18, silencer at the end of the extended barrel. The silencer was an advanced one, experimental, and developed by John himself. The silencer was about a foot and half long, but it could fold on a hinge. He quickly, quietly, and steadily clicked the silencer into place. He adjusted the latches that held it, so it was more or less a solid piece of metal. He needed to quietly kill the guard, without triggering any reflexes. He cocked the pistol and leveled it a centimeter away from the man’s head. The end of the silencer was just between his eyes. The no-reflex kill zone. John pulled the trigger. The man didn’t even jerk. A rasping pop almost silently filled the room. The guard’s head jerked back.
John stepped over the guard’s person and began to rifle through his belongings. There was nothing that he could use, except for the Desert Eagle strapped to the man’s hip, and his suit jacket. Very classy. John pulled on the suit jacket and took the man’s holster so he could have a safe place for the gun. He clicked the safety off. The jacket could allow him to pass as another sentry in these low-light conditions, though the guards were paid to shoot first and not ask questions. He pulled his combat knife from its sheath, using it to cut slits in the armpits. The jacket was stiff and reduced mobility in the arms. Another dumb move on Casmir’s part. He was all about appearances.
John slammed the knife back into its sheath and continued on to the next room. The next room wasn’t even a room, it was a hall. This dining hall stretched very far, and had several doors for the kitchen staff’s explicit use. Casmir almost never entertained guests, but he definitely had enough money to have this hall built. John peeked through the door, cursed and slithered it back shut. He leaned against the wall and thought. There was a poker table off to the side, three of the guards sitting at the table playing poker and drinking. John had very good reasons to believe these were the only other bodyguards stationed in the house currently. The room was lit only by a dim lamp. Bad move on their part. However, he was not expecting it, as it was a small light, and the hall had no windows. This was the reason he did not see it from the outside. Now, he had to figure out what to do.
John examined the rest of the kitchen. The doors stretched along the hall at ten-foot intervals. This could work. He went through the drawers until he found the eating utensils. He grabbed a handful of salad forks, and went to the last door. He gently tossed the handful of silverware out and sprinted back to the end of the kitchen. He snaked back out into the hall. Just as he suspected. Two of the guards had walked to investigate the din made by the forks, leaving the third alone. It wasn’t safe to check out noises alone, right? John stifled a giggle. John crept behind the third guard and slammed his hand over the guard’s mouth. He put the gun to his head and whispered.
“Tell them you’re going to go check the kitchen. Say anything besides that and I blow your brains out. Understand?”
The guard nodded and John moved his hand. He didn’t have the heart to tell the guard he would have his brains blown out anyways. He didn’t even have to prove he had anything besides the pistol. The man didn’t care that John couldn’t take down the other men. He just cared about living. What a coward. The guard said exactly what John told him to. They didn’t even turn around. They just nodded and kept walking. They were walking slowly, cautiously. He slowly led the man into the kitchen. As soon as they entered the door, John shot him in the head. He lowered the body to the ground, so as not to make a thump. He positioned the body in a place that, once the other men saw it, it would be too late for them.
He waited almost a half-hour, about five feet away from the head of the body, in the shadows. He flicked on the gentle lighting on the back of his gun. It was just like a child’s glow-in-the-dark toy, and the glowing panels faced him. This way, unless they were behind them, they would not even be able to see a slight glow. The panels were on his ironsights. This ensured an absolutely perfect shot. The only way that he would miss would be due to human error, and his years at the firing range prevented that. As the guards turn the corner, they stopped. The guard on the right took a step forward. The other one took a step back and leaned against the counter. Perfect. He fired once. The guard on the right was too entranced with the body to notice the muzzle flash. The guard on the left was too dead to notice anything.
He quickly swiveled the gun around and shot the other one. He stood up immediately afterwards and began to walk out. As he did, he heard a click. He turned back slowly. He had been careless. He had stood up as he was firing. The bullet went astray and had hit the man in the lung. He was going to die soon, but not soon enough. He was raising his rifle. John quickly twisted his gun and shot the rifle out of the guard’s hand, then quickly blasted his brains onto the floor. The rifle rebounded off the floor with a clang and a snap. It clattered off the marble floor twice more before coming to a rest.
Loud. He needed to get out. Or maybe wait? This was right below Casmir’s room, and the house was cavernous. This would be heard throughout the house. Maybe he should wait until someone else came so he could kill him too. No, that would be too obvious. He turned off the glowing sights. He folded the silencer and returned the gun to his pocket as he stepped out into the dining hall. He pulled out the Desert Eagle. Stealth was no longer possible. He just prayed to whatever gods there were there were no more guards. He sprinted out of the entrance hall and up the stairs. He burst into Casmir’s bedroom and shouted for him to put his hands up. He aimed the gun at his face. Casmir sat up and frowned.
“You awoke me from my sleep, dear boy.”
“Raise…your fucking…hands. Now.”
“I have no armaments, boy. There is no need to.”
“I don’t trust you. Do it now. Or you die.”
“That would be quite…counter-productive. You see, I have a bracelet I hook up to me while I sleep. It measures my vitals. If, at any time, for any reason, even if it is a natural death, say a heart attack, it will send an electrical charge along these wires. These set off an explosive device. It will destroy this house and everything within the fence. You see now why my security is so…lax?” He raised his arms above his head. A small bracelet was wrapped around his wrist. A braid of delicate cords slithered from it and under his bedside table.
John smiled, returning Casmir’s smirk. Casmir couldn’t see it, but he was smirking all the same.
“What if…what if I were to cut the cords?” Casmir’s smile wavered for just a moment, and then returned, bigger than ever. He was the goddamn Cheshire Cat. John could tell from that little hesitation, that he would be perfectly safe from that charge if he were to cut the cords. He then noticed the LED on the wristband. A heartbeat. It began to blink faster and faster as John waited.
“Why, it will go off by d-default.”
“Did you stutter, Mister Casmir?”
“My th-throat is just dry.”
The LED blinked faster. Casmir was shaking, and there was a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead.
“Anyways, I’ll take my chances.”
John pulled the trigger on the Desert Eagle. The cords were blasted away and the blinking light on the wristband began to fade. John laughed.
“Critical oversight, Casmir.”
“One…of my boys. My perfect one. The one I let out to save the people.”
“Perfect. Perfect? You bastard! You ruined my life!”
Casmir continued to smile.
“Johnny boy. Let me see you.”
Casmir’s hands began to lower slowly. John quickly stiffened the gun again. His wrists had been drooping slowly. Casmir’s hands quickly returned. John tightened the bandana around his face and reached into his turtleneck’s lapel pocket. He clumsily undid its zipper and pulled out a little blue canister. He pulled the pin from it and tossed it across the room. It landed on the bed and began to hiss. John stepped back until there was about twenty feet between them. After the chloroform fumes had cleared, John walked into the closet and pulled out the board he had been tortured and maimed upon. It was small, too small for Casmir. Just what he needed. There was a little label on it. It simply read ‘PERFECT’. John tore it off in disgust. He pulled Casmir’s limp form to the board and strapped him in.
He had to snap Casmir’s collarbone and pelvis to fit him in. He didn’t have to use any instruments, as the tight straps did it for him. In ways, it was probably better than having the constant strain upon his bones. He used the lamp in the corner to put a harsh light in his tormenter’s eyes. Casmir could not see what was coming. John could see fine. When Casmir finally awoke, he smiled. John took his shoes, hat, jacket, and bandana off. He rolled his sleeves up. He cut off all of Casmir’s clothes and let him sit there, naked.
“Do you see now?”
“Make me amazing Johnny. Make me like you.”
Johnny reached into his bag. He pulled out some various masonry tools and left them on the floor. He smiled and walked downstairs. He pulled the bodies up from below and put them into the room. It took about an hour. He then went into the basement. Good, drywall. He carried it up to Casmir’s room. He removed an IV drip from his bag and filled it with a saline solution. The bag was massive, big enough to fit two gallons. He hooked Casmir up to it. Let the bastard starve. Johnny walled up the entrance to his room. Never again, Casmir. Never. His final touch was still needed.
He went to the basement and placed a C4 charge on a support beam. It was just big enough to burn down the house slowly. He set it to blow after two months. Casmir lived at least one hundred miles from civilization. He was thought dead. This plan had gone off without a hitch. He laughed, and set up camp in the basement. A month and a half. Forty-five days. He would wait. This had been his life, his whole life. Fixing this problem. He heard Casmir’s screams for about a week until his vocal cords blew out. A waste of canvas. A waste of artistic genius. John had nothing to live for. All he had was his life. It would be best for Casmir’s works to die with him. This cellar was stuffed to the brim, the walls and floors overflowing with failed pieces. On the last day, he leaned his head against the charge. Five minutes. Four minutes. Three. Two. One.
John was done.

This is probably th elongest story I've written that I'm actually happy with. Hope you guys liked it, even if it is realistic in a non-realistic way. I tried my best to characterize Casmir as a sick man via flashbacks, and this is probably my favorite work as far as flashbacks go. All in all, I'm quite proud of this.

The Holder of Vagrancy

This is my first blog entry, if you're too lazy to move your eyes an inch to the right to find out. I don't expect to get many follows, unless I post a link on 4chan or something. I made this blog thing mainly just to share ideas, works of mine, etc. I'm mainly a writer as far as creative stuff goes, but I also do my own fair share of drawing, though most of it is horrible. I also play the violin, though I kinda suck with it. So, without further ado, allow me to post a short story I wrote. I personally find it kinda lame. I wrote it for the Holders Series, but decided not to even submit it. You can find the Holders at www.theholders.org. It's exciting at first, then it gets kinda lame, then gets really awesome again. I think mine would make it up, seeing as how "the holder of the boom" made it on, but I don't want to put this up anywhere, except here. Here, I can do this because it's for all my works that are typed up. Even if they are bad works, explicit, or both. I don't like this mainly because a few of the steps are kinda gay. I really dislike the part with the hjomeless man, but I really don't want to rewrite it. I don't see much of a point, I guess. Anyways, here goes. The Holder of Vagrancy.

In any city, in any country, visit any halfway house or mental institution and ask the worker at the desk to see someone called “The Holder of Vagrancy”. The worker should tell you to leave immediately. If he tells you to wait a second, then as soon as his back is turned, run, and never return, lest he manages to touch you. If he does tell you to go, apologize, and leave. Come back in a few minutes and say you forgot something. The worker will ask you to follow him to the lost and found. This is your last chance to leave. Just tell him that whatever you said you lost wasn’t important, and you didn’t want to be a hassle. Leave, and don’t come back. If you have not given up, follow him. He will show you to a room and tell you to walk in. Do not enter the door, nor break eye contact with him. You will stand there for a few minutes, until he sighs and continues onwards. Follow him until you find a fork in the hallway. Do not look down either one unless you wish to join all the other Seekers that have failed in their quest. Wait until the worker walks down one of the forks. Take the other one.
It is now safe to look up, to find yourself in a seemingly endless hallway, doors on either side, stretching into oblivion. You will hear the sound of paper rustling constantly as you walk down the hall. If it stops at any time, stand still and shout, “I only wish to stay for the night!” If it does not continue, find a weapon. It will be a long fight to the door.
Keep walking down the hallway until you reach the 538th door. It does not matter which side of the hall it is on. Do not open the door, as there is no need, and you will only experience endless torment. Simply walk through it. The room will be small and dimly lit. There will be a pile of rags in the corner. After a few minutes of standing still, the rags shall speak in a loud, slurred voice, “Who’s there?” Do not answer. The thing under the rags, which might be a man, will sit up. He is old, ragged, and dirty. He will sway slowly, holding a vodka bottle. He will ask you what you want. Respond to this only with “How do they sleep when the nights are long?” Ask anything but this, and take his place. After you have asked this question, he will explain exactly how each one of them sleeps.
When he is done, and if you are still sane, he will offer you a drink from his bottle. Take the bottle and drain it of the remainder of its contents, then smash the bottom of the bottle of against the wall. Use the makeshift knife to kill him. Do not worry, as he will not resist. You must bleed him out, making no cut deeper than a half-inch. When you are done, the alcohol shall overwhelm you and you will black out.
When you come to, you will have a terrible hangover and be in the alleyway closest to wherever you live, looking incredibly homeless. The bottle clutched in your hand is object 50 of 538. Whatever you put in it will never run out. If it does, they will already have been brought together, and it will be too late for that to matter.

I wrote this a while ago, and I realize now how LAME of an object that is. A bottle? Really? Also, "looking incredibly homeless" is kinda a lame description. So I guess I started my blog off with a good laugh. I hope this blog spirals downwards into horror, grotesque things, and pain. In a good way.