“I’M FUCKING YOUR CAT, GEORGE. I’M FUCKING IT RIGHT NOW AND I’M GOING TO FUCK IT TO DEATH, GEORGE. GODDAMNIT GEORGE I HATE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH I’M GOING TO KILL THIS FUCKING CAT BY FUCKING IT UNTIL IT’S DEAD. FUCK.”

That’s your neighbor, Nelson. He’s an incompetent idiot, but he’s also a raging lunatic that has finally slipped off the deep end into irrecoverable oblivion. Right now he’s on your front lawn sodomizing a male stray cat that you’ve seen lurking the neighborhood. It’s screeching and shrieking in tones that cats shouldn’t even be allowed to make, and it’s rather discomforting.

“I FUCKING HATE YOU, YOU HEAR ME? I HATE YOU MORE THAN I HATE THIS FUCKING CAT. HOLY SHIT YOU CAN’T EVEN BELIEVE HOW MUCH I HATE YOU. THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT CAT FUCKING GODDAMNIT I HATE IT SO FUCKING MUCH I WISH I COULD HATE IT TO DEATH. FUCK YOU. FUCK. GOD. FUCK SHIT GODDAMNIT FUCK.”

Nelson has never come across like as a particularly imposing person. He’s about five-seven, bald on the top of his head with brown fuzz that line the sides, thick glasses and a bushy mustache: the picture of a middle-class middle-American unmarried cubicle worker. He sucks at his job, but he also has never had any ambition. You’ve never actually seen him work, either, since you work as a manager down at the local bank in town, while he commutes to the city to work in some office building where all the bosses wear blue suits with red ties and all the secretaries are ugly whores whose skirts are too short—or, at least, so says Nelson, whenever the two of you share a moment in the back yard with a case of beer and a fire going in the pit.

“FUCKING SHITHEAD. I FUCKING CAN’T EVEN FUCKING SHIT WITHOUT HATING YOU AS HARD AS I FUCKING CAN. FUCK YOU YOU PIECE OF FUCKING TRASH. DIE. I’M FUCKING YOU TO DEATH YOU FUCKING CAT SO JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP AND TAKE IT. FUCK. I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU SO MUCH I HATE FUCKING EVERYTHING.”

The house you own is about a mile from the closest neighboring one, which happens to be Nelson’s. “Rural” is a good way to describe the development, though it’s more like a remarkably large plot of forest haphazardly dotted with a few houses that simply hasn’t been divided up and sold yet.

“GODDAMNIT. GODDAMNIT. GOD. GOD. Oh fuck me. GODDAMNIT. FUCK ME. OH FUCK. OH. OH FUCK. Fuck. Goddamnit.”

And now he’s staring up at the sky as he smashes an unconscious feline against his crotch, tears running down his face, his mouth contorted into that kind of horrible grimace that inmates seem to wear during the throes of a violent repentance, drool pattering about him as the sweat rolls off of his ugly, fleshy body.

The next day is a school day. Gleefully, you bounce down the steps of your suburbanite home in the middle of FUCKING EVERYWHERE AND HAVE A GLORIOUSLY BODACIOUS BREAKFAST WITH YOUR OVERLY CHEERY FUCKING PARENTS. GODDAMNIT. Your mother’s smile is slightly crooked and it looks like your dad might have hit her a few times again. Oh well. SUCH IS THE LIFE IN SUBURBIA. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD

At school, you meet your childhood friend named SAMANTHA who also happens to be an INCREDIBLY BUSY SLUT. Her smile is dead and her eyes are hollow as she greets you cheerfully. Her uncle raped her regularly when she was a child, threatening to kill her loving parents if she ever told anyone. Later, her loving parents were killed in a car accident. You were there to comfort her, but she ended up compensating for her severe sense of inadequacy and guilt by seeking solace in regular jock gangbangings and orgies. You secretly find that side of her disgusting. The image of the cross country team filling her holes with their cocks and covering her with their slimy, disgusting seed while—impossible to be satisfied—she lays there in a grotesque mockery of happiness, begging for more that they simply cannot deliver makes you want to puke.

After a short and contrived conversation about the weather, you part ways; you head to class early while she presumably goes off to the custodian’s lounge to whore herself out to the custodian staff of greasy old cantankerous men and gardening equipment.

In class, the teacher drones on. “Bunny rabbits are cute and I am a faggot that can’t teach the material and I hope you’re all paying attention while I write this nonsense upon the walls with my dick. I GOT A PAPER CUT. FUCKING SHIT GODDAMNIT OW CHRIST. I HATE YOU ALL AND I HOPE YOU ALL LEAD MISERABLE MEANINGLESS LIVES LIKE I HAVE.” When he runs out of the room, class is canceled and a few of your classmates kill themselves. You don’t care. The class representative, a good-natured girl whose glasses remind you of Patrick Swayze, approaches your desk amid the chaos.

“Hi George,” she mumbles bashfully. It’s so adorable that you want to jump out the window and shit yourself at the same time. “Mind if we eat lunch together?”

“FUCK YOU, BITCH. I DON’T EVEN HAVE A LUNCH. FUCK,” is what you want to scream into her round, blushing, adorable face, but you don’t do that. Instead, you mumble an ambivalent affirmative and leave the fucking classroom.

Nelson, still screaming and cursing on your lawn, jams the pathetic hunk of fur into his groin as though it were his last act on a pathetic Earth as it spirals hopelessly into a dying sun.

This girl’s tits are great. You stare at them the whole time, even though you know she notices. You only look at her face to watch her squirm and blush and rub her hands together uneasily. “Y-you seem to… u-um…”

She starts to say something, but she stops and diverts her gaze elsewhere. You shrug and take another bite of your sandwich. Goddamn her tits are amazing.

School ends and you find your childhood friend SAMANTHA waiting for you by the school doors. She asks if you want to walk home together, but you scream “FUCK YOU, PIG!” and push her under the wheels of a passing truck. Her body is crushed immediately, but you’re already dashing down the street by the time the truck puts its brakes on and spins out of control, flipping over and exploding through the window of a daycare. Crying toddlers bathed in flame are immolated as their caretakers, horrified, stand helpless.

When you get home, it’s already dinner time and your father, as usual, is late because he’s fucking his secretary at work in the pooper. Coincidentally, your mother is a nymphomaniac that has no problems sexually abusing her own son—which, similarly coincidentally, happens to be you. Instead of eating dinner, your loving mother is fellating you in the upstairs shower with a desperate blush across her face and desperate moans emanating from deep within chest.

“If only your father could satisfy me this much,” she says around a mouthful of you, her bright blue eyes shut tight. The movement of her tongue is steadily bringing you towards another moment in which you can briefly forget about the extreme self-loathing you feel. “You’re such a beast. How can my own son possess so much dick?” You decorate her face with your despair and she sighs happily, already pounded into oblivion over the last couple hours of home-grown fucking. Everything is shit. You hope the whole world burns down.

Your mother drinks a whole bottle of wine over dinner and your father laughs uproariously as some sit-com comes on. The can of beer in his hand dribbles droplets that reflect nothing but inanity and gloom. The doorbell rings and it’s the class representative.

“C-can I come in?” she stutters adorably. God her tits are delicious.

“Oh hello,” your mother drunkenly slurs from the kitchen table. Her whole face is red and her smile is gorgeous.

The class representative waves and smiles in return. “Hi, I’m George’s classmate. I’m just here to drop a few things off,” she lies.

Upstairs, she tells you that her father is going to sell her to Russians as part of a gambling agreement that he lost. It’s probably going to be the last time you ever see each other, she mumbles despondently, and that she wishes there could have been more time to get to know each other. You reply with a whatever.

Nelson is still crying and fucking a goddamn cat on your lawn.

After she leaves, you return to your room to jack off. But before you have the chance, your mother barges in with a knife in her hands and pins you to the bed, screaming incoherently. “I’M ONLY TRYING TO HELP YOU!” She’s screaming through her tears, jamming the knife down into your pillow and somehow—in her incompetence—continually missing your face.

“MOM, STOP! STOP!” You’re pleading with her. The walls are closing in and the ceiling feels like it’s the lid of your coffin. Cold sweat is pouring off of you as you summon your strength and push her away. She hurdles into your dresser.

“You can’t be so loud,” she says, seeming to regain some ounce of composure. You’ve curled up into the corner where the bed meets the walls. “If you’re too loud, a neighbor might hear you. Someone might come. I don’t know what could happen to you. I don’t want you taken away from me.”

Your kind, tender, loving mother approaches you, but the knife is still stuck in the wall. She’s removed her shirt and bears her slightly sagging breasts. “Don’t you want them like you used to? I’m a kind mother, and you’re such a sick boy—”

Before she could get closer to you, the door to your room bursts violently open and your father—drunk with whiskey and rage—enters the room all bug-eyed and full of vigor. “GODDAMNIT WOMAN MY DISHES ARE STILL DIRTY!” he screams at the top of his lungs. You don’t see the skillet in his hands until the loud PANG slams your mother’s head across the room and into the wall. Her body doesn’t move.

“WHAT THE FUCK, DAD?!” But he doesn’t hear you. Instead, he approaches the woman’s body and starts whaling it in the face with the hunk of iron, stopping only after there’s nothing but an unrecognizable hunk of meat where her head had been. You keep cursing and screaming and cowering in the corner until he stops and stands up straight, sighing contently.

Nelson is still on your lawn, sodomizing a stray cat.

Your belligerent father throws the skillet onto the corpse of the woman he had just recently lived with and turns to face you, still spattered with chunks of the dead female. “Goddamnit you piece of shit I wish I could hate you to death I hate this fucking cat holy shit,” he says in a rather conversational tone. Then he smiles and walks out of the room to retrieve the handgun he keeps in the drawer of his bed stand.

Still shaking—and too horrified to move—you can only watch in terror as he returns, a loaded silver revolver in his large, firm, steady hands. “Son, I never hated you,” he says. “And you were never a disappointment,” he adds as an afterthought.

You feel a wetness spread across your groin when he shoots himself in the face.

Nelson collapses to the ground crying. The cat is dead and his blood-covered dick has shriveled back to limpness like a slug covered in salt. You traverse the lawn with a couple of beers, popping one open as you hand it to him.

“Thanks, George,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay, Nelson. It wasn’t my cat anyway. I hate cats,” you reply.

“Me too,” he cries. “Me too. I can’t fucking stand them.”