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The Hogs of Entropy 0512
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ooooo ooooo .oooooo. oooooooooooo HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #512
`888' `888' d8P' `Y8b `888' `8
888 888 888 888 888 "Teenage Angst Has Paid Off Well"
888ooooo888 888 888 888oooo8
888 888 888 888 888 " by Kreid
888 888 `88b d88' 888 o 3/16/99
o888o o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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Alone in a very large bed, flat on his belly, thinking, sweating,
there lay Ivan. The sheets were satin but they had become sticky with his
own filth and sweat, since he had been spending the majority of his hours
in bed for several days now. There in bed, Ivan was accompanied by
nothing. There were many items around his room which he had been living
with for the past few days: several books, a couple bags of potato chips,
and a bunch of empty bottles of hard liquor. His room was definitely very
full, but he made sure his bed was completely empty. Ivan was definitely
alone in that very large bed, his old and new sweat gradually sinking
deeper into the satin sheets.
The television was on, but Ivan could no longer bear to watch it.
But it had a certain presence in the room, unlike anything else there. It
was alive. Ivan had placed it on MUTE instead of turning it off, so it
hissed and shot bright, happy images into the dark room. The television
was the only light, and it caused very rapid color changes in the room as
the happy people on the screen moved around in their nice city apartments
and made jokes for the audience to laugh at. Ivan did not notice this
spectacle, of course, because he was on his belly, facing away from the
television. His eyes were closed; vision seemed irrelevant to him at this
point. He focused on the warm, damp, smooth satin pillow and how it
cradled his face as he drooled into it. The windows shook a little from
the wind outside trying to get in. There was a heavy storm outside, but
Ivan's room did not seem affected much by it. The television shone with
defiance; it ruled the room. Ivan ignored the whole scene. No storm
outside, and no stale room inside with television wasting energy and vodka
spilled on the hardwood floor. Just wet satin and warm drool and Ivan.
Outside that large room of Ivan's was an even larger house, where
windows were open to let the rainwater spill in onto the walls and
furniture. Doors were unlocked, valuables were unprotected. Ivan, the man
of the house, was not concerned. The door to his room was locked, so he
was safe enough. About a month ago, Ivan's father would have made sure all
the doors were locked and windows were closed, and his mother would have
been in the kitchen paying the bills. But that wasn't an option anymore.
Tonight, Ivan's mother and father were together, locked in a small closet,
dead.
Ivan had killed his parents exactly thirty days before that stormy
night. He had drugged their food before dinner. They were eating
Mahi-mahi (dolphin) that night and Ivan had emptied out an assortment of
the family's pills into the food while it was cooking. Pain medicines and
sleeping medicines from his parents' medicine cabinet, Zoloft from his own;
a good handful of pills, popped open and spilled into a frying pan in
which his parents' dinner-dolphin was cooking. Ivan ate only hot dogs
that night.
That was a whopping thirty days ago. It had been a long month for
lonely Ivan, lying in bed and sweating. Now his parents were long since
dead, and they smelled horribly, and remarkably, nobody knew yet.
Fortunately for Ivan, nobody actually cared about his parents. They had
plenty of friends who they invited over at night and had cocktails with,
but none of these people seemed too concerned about a thirty-day absence
for Ivan's parents. Ivan was not surprised that his parents were not
missed; nobody at those cocktail parties cared for anyone, anyway. No one
in that class had ever really known friendship; it was all just a matter
of each "friend" gaining personal security and having "friends" to brag to
when their kids got into Stanford. Nonchalantly, they would say it: "Oh,
Peter and I just got back from a college visit. Oh, Princeton, yes,
that's all. Oh, yes, lots of driving, heh heh heh. Oh, yes, they said
they would love to have him there. Oh, how are your kids doing, heh heh
heh." Ivan heard them every night, talking, talking, talking, and then
asking questions to which they did not care what the answers were.
Sipping drinks made with rum, laughing at each others' jokes, all at once.
Heh, heh, heh. Every night, but not since Ivan's parents had been locked
away in the closet. Now there were cocktail parties going on at the
neighbors' houses, and people momentarily pretended to wonder where Ivan's
parents had been for the past month. "Oh, yes, I called them the other
day. Oh, I left a message. Oh, I bet they're off on vacation somewhere
and they forgot to tell us, heh heh heh." Sooner or later people would
just forget to talk about Ivan's parents. The only memory of them would
be a stink in Ivan's closet. I guess I'll have to bury them tomorrow,
thought Ivan, and he drooled a little more. He didn't really care,
either. Heh, heh, heh.
Ivan kept his eyes sealed shut and buried in his pillow. Water
splashed up against his windows and tried desperately to get into his
room. Outside, there was a very busy and confused world, and their
televisions were not on mute, and their rooms were not hot, and their
front doors were all locked. Ivan rolled over on his side, tiredly licked
his lips, and fell asleep.
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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #512 - WRITTEN BY: KREID - 3/16/99 ]
