I'm going to tell you a story.
On a lonely street in a suburb of Philadelphia there is a restaurant called 'The Cheeseburger Man', owned by a man simply known only as Cheeseburger Man. Every employee receives a paycheck signed Cheeseburger Man. And his drivers' license does in fact say Cheeseburger Man.
He is the first one in the restaurant every morning and every night is the last to go home. Every night after anyone leaves he prepares fresh ground meat to be used for the following day, however, he also leaves a pool of blood in the restaurant which of course the morning shift must clean up.
There is much that people don't know about the Cheeseburger Man, however. For instance; at night, when everyone else leaves, he invites the local homeless to come in and eat the remaining burgers that were not sold that day. He brings them into the backroom and gives them the leftovers, and then he cuts their heads off, chops them up and forms them into patties for the morning shift to clean up and sell.
Trust me my friend,
The Cheeseburger Man
5 years agoMndslavr
5 years agoMndslavr
My family, please forgive me.
As I write this, I am being hunted by the vilest beasts imaginable. I feel that I have to tell someone about what has happened to me, to tell this country's citizens about what their government has been doing with their tax dollars. I'm so sorry that I took part in this travesty, that maybe by telling people about this I could, in some way, repent or atone for my sin for my part in creating these abominations. I wish I could elaborate with the vivid detail you deserve to know but I don't have enough time for that.
I found an open email on a computer here, and I'm sending this to everyone on the email list. I hope whoever receives this is sympathetic to what I am about to say, so that this doesn't fall upon deaf ears and end up in some file that says classified upon it. Please, tell others.
I used to be a scientist, trying to discover new life on earth, like in the depths of the sea and heart of the Amazon. But now, if only you could see me, I'm pitiful; I'm slumped over a desk, attempting to type, in a locked room, waiting to die. I'm crying. I wish I could go back to my old job, far away. My career was fairly uneventful back then, but it was safe. Now I envy that position that I had thought to be a wasted life.
It was about a year or so ago, when on an 'expedition' to the rain forest, observing animals. That is when I returned, and with nothing new to return with, I was approached by the government. A green suit came to me; his name was Colonel Craven. Well, he knew that I had never done anything important; perhaps I was chosen because of that, if I disappeared then no big deal, no one would care. He said that I could either stay fairly poor and average or I could save my country and get rich from it. The choice was obvious of course.
At first it wasn't so bad. They sent me to Indonesia; Komodo and Flores, for 'the most genetically superior DNA sample of Varanus Komodoensis'. Apparently gathering DNA from giant monitor lizards is a service to ones country. It didn't make sense; I figured that the government was funding science for genetic mapping or something. Flores wasn't bad, except for the deadly giant lizards chasing you. But that's why I was there, for the lizards.
When I gave them an excellent sample about a month after arriving in Indonesia, I thought that since they had their sample they would send me elsewhere, but I was told to continue my search there for a possibly better sample. All I could do was smile and say "am I still getting paid'. Craven, who was following me around, looked at me and responded "of course'. I had felt eeriness in the air then, it was there for awhile.
But anyways I continued with my exploration of the genetics of large lizards. I must say it was fantastic being paid for doing nothing; it was the easiest thing I had to do. But very scary, if one of those things bit me; I'd be dead. But here I am and dieing I am. I have injected this poison into me, well not literally but it is that I am responsible for my own death; irony, I think.
Craven looking over my shoulder at all times made it hard to relax, however. But, I did find some time to relax:
He would say "what are you doing' semi-suspicious.
I'd go "thinking of my task'
I thought of him as a bit of a gung-ho idiot. And I was pretty much right.
So here I was just minding my own business, relaxing, when Craven-buzz-kill comes up to me.
"I'm thinking' I said as a preemptive retort.
"Your done thinking!!!'
"What' said I without caring?
"What!?!' this time I was surprised, I even got out of my chair. "what did you say to me' I continued with.
"They say that you need to come in.'
"I can't disclose...'
I waved my hand for him to stop talking. I understood the 'we can't tell you where you're going' thing.
Anyway I went with it and packed my things,
'hey at least no poisonous dragons, right' I thought to myself. By the way, I was wrong.
We get picked up by a private plane.
A private plane! When the hell did the government types want to impress me; by the way, again, they dropped me off in a cargo plane. This was much better, there was liquor! LIQUOR!!!
I don't think it would take much imagination to tell you that I passed out drunk on the plane.
I was awoken by an armed guard, not pointing a gun at me, but hell it was still frightening.
He practically yelled at me "come with me' I would have burst out laughing if he had added the phrase 'if you want to live', but he didn't. Anyways, I got up. I was still scared shitless. I walked into the warm welcoming air; it was so bright that I had to squint for a good amount of time; we had gotten halfway across the airfield before I could see clearly.
From what I could see I was in a dessert-ish area. Big hangers holding f-117 and 'spirit' bombers, they're both stealth bombers.
So we got to one of the hangers and all of a sudden, I was out like a light. I heard a thump on the back of my head and I was gone. Out cold.
I sort of woke up; being dragged by two guards.
"This guy weighs a fuck load' that was the guy on my right, I think.
"Let's just get him to the cage.'
Well what I feared had come true, I was going to disappear. They were going to lock me up and leave me there, forget about me, let me rot in a cell.
This did not set well with me; I slowly gained awareness of my limbs. I'm not sure how but I grabbed a gun.
"God, forgive me' I had murmured.
Lord have mercy on my soul, I killed em. I killed em both.
I wobble-like-spun around a couple times, and I had no idea which way I had come from, and which way was this jail thing. So I just ran down this hallway.
I had to hide several times from oncoming guards; I didn't want to kill again. I had soon realized the blood on my face and the back of my skull. I was bleeding pretty badly.
I found a green door. "Why not' I stumbled through the door.
It was a computer room. I stood there a bit dazed.
The door opened and two white suits came
5 years agoMndslavr
His eyes popped out of his sockets as the fingers tightened around his throat. He lay on the asphalt of the ally twisting his body, kicking his legs around, clawing at his covered neck. His face got red. There was a pair of glasses a foot away from his head and an empty wallet by his feet. Redder. Frantic attempts to draw breath were met with failure. Spots began to appear before his eyes. Blue. His body was slowly getting numb; he could no longer feel the pain in his back from when he had hit the ground or the back of his head when it was slammed against the asphalt, this was somewhat welcome. His hair was wet with blood which was now pooling behind him. Purple. His vision now narrowed with only the vision of the other mans eyes, the rage he saw frightened him. Black. His struggling stopped and the hands no longer felt the pulse in his neck. The hands loosened, and the strangler got up and took a deep breath. He took a phone out of his pocket. "911, yes, I was attacked. He tried to rob me, and I... I think I killed him'
5 years agoMndslavr
He had referred to himself as Sanslo, although he had spelled it CaÐ½cÐ»o . All he owned besides his torn and pauper-like clothing was an old yet well maintained mandolin. That man would play the sweetest songs, songs that I have heard no where else; with a single note he could induce a wave of euphoria, and with another a feeling of deepest depression or a most furious aggression to all in earshot. I know very few things about him besides his name: I've never seen him in the same place again nor have I ever heard him play the same tune twice.
I had first seen him on a February 6th many years ago at center city in Philadelphia. He was sitting in the central promenade off to the side playing a galloping tune that had caused several, including myself, to skip rhythmically, It seemed to be but a simple series of chords that would not normally inspire such a response yet it was how he played these chords that had made me feel as if there was nothing in this world that existed but this sound, that although clichÃ© I hadn't lived till now; at least for the short time he was playing.
When his arousing piece was finished he had most casually gotten up and left without saying a word to neither his audience nor me so as I did not get a chance to learn the identity of this savant.
I went back to where I had seen him the very next day, it was quiet unfortunate that although I spent all day there that I did not get to hear his fantastic sirens' song again. I left for home with no fulfillment and spent the walk to my apartment contemplating what it was that I had witnessed the day before. It was as if I was a hollowed out log that was filled by his wonderful playing which had dragged me below the Marianas trench to the blissful seafloor, and now that he was gone I am hollow again floating on the surface of this ocean called melancholy.
I'd given up the hope of ever hearing anymore of his tune until the 6th of February came around again. I was on my way to my friends' house traveling through 69th street station when I faintly heard something that was very familiar. I began walking, transfixed, towards the sound as an unbridled wave of emotion began growing up inside of me and welling up in my eyes more and more every step I took.
I had an audio recorder on me and intended to record this beautiful music once I could confirm the Identity of the musician, but when I turned that corner to see Sanslo sitting on a bench hunched over his aged mandolin the emotion hit me in such a way that all I could think of was sitting down and crying due to the emotion his somber melody rendered. It wasn't that I had forgotten to record his talents, but it is that once I heard the unhampered notes he plucked at, I simply didn't care about anything else; certainly not recording him, I barely cared about breathing.
Unlike his previous performance, when the echoes of his masterwork ended I was able to force myself out of my reverie. It was then, that while walking beside him, I was able to ask much needed questions on who he was and how he became such a fantastic musician. He talked in a rather monotone fashion, but he prefaced every sentence with a musical note that gave the subsequent sentence its proper weight. after walking with him for about twenty minutes a ambulance loudly sped by, I instinctively turned my head away from Sanslo and when my gaze had returned he was nowhere to be found.
It has now been just over thirty years from when I had first heard his music. I have followed him on his yearly sojourn, each time further west than before. For every sixth of February I desperately seek all around beginning where I had last seen him just to hear that magic that comes forth from his strings. Not every year was rewarding, but most were. I still remember what he had said to me that second year when I asked him 'when will I see you again' and he had responded with (A) "tomorrow, and almost every day, like you saw me yesterday". I did not understand what he had said as I did not see him the previous day nor the next. I understand now that his music is the eternities.
I expect that tomorrow I will see him, today being the 5th of February. I also expect that just like every year I see him, he will not have aged since I had seen him the first time over thirty years ago. When I die, Sanslo won't have aged one day.
2019 years agoMndslavr
No questions have been answered yet