Wednesday, November 16, 2022
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Murphy's Crush
Murphy is one of those people that falls through the cracks. The privy to the mind melter. Some trip into a spiral of bad choices that drags them down slowly awakening one day with the realization that their path is irreversible. Others are snatched by the collar and dragged through the darkness kicking and screaming unbeknownst. There is the child rapist whose life has been deformed by social norms and habitual disregard and there is the child whose been raped who forever struggles with the mental scar. There are those who destroy and those who are destroyed.
I've spent much of my life as an investment banker in Indianapolis funding jumpstarts independently and I'm not going to lie I've screwed over a mom and pop in my time. I balked out of a mexican restaurant on northside that netted enough to buy me and my wife a home on the east river.
She wanted her own baby, she never liked the one I picked up. My wife despised his dumb look, his distant demeanor and drooling chin. All he does is touch braile and listen to the TV. Random shows with the volume pumped high. She teaches math at Northwood Middle and while the pipsqueek Middleton gangsters have the efficiency to get on her nerves, she likes her job. She runs the afterschool program which I have always felt was a cop out for not having to take care of Murphy. Though one of the reasons he has been able to stay with me is because he is rather self sufficient. He knows how to go to the cupboard and make himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and flush the toilet when he's done. He just looks like he has more problems than he does.
I don't really get to spend much time with either of them. You see, last friday I had to work overtime. The company had a new deal with an internet socializing website and the paperwork was heavier than sumo wrestlers. I came home a quarter past 11 and my neighborhood was covered in blue and red lights. Cops and ambulances lined my drive way like I was holding an extravagant costume party. Po Pos and Firehoes. My neighbors were standing outside their houses in their bathrobes. They wouldn't let me inside, the police said there was a murder. There seems to be no murderer only a murder. And it wouldn't be until I saw my wife's face on MSNBC, CNN and FOX news a dozen times a day in orange garbs that I'd get the full story.
You see, Murphy wasn't blind his whole life. He actually use to live in Dunfield Heights with his mother, Jane, a social worker of Irish decent. One night while Murphy was sleeping four men broke into his home. They burst right through the front door snapping that chain off the lock. They rush into the abode grabbing and dragging Murphy's mother into her room. She cried, and shrilled like a black cat climbing a black chalk board. The four donned black ski masks and black turtlenecks. They threw her on her own bed. She yelled for mercy as one of the ski masks began to mount her.
They punched her in the throat to stop her from screaming. They punched her in the ribs to stop her from moving.
All the rustle and bustle woke Murphy up on a school night. After exiting his bedroom, he walks into his mom's room to find out what's going on. She calls out to her son which gets her popped in her sob-filled face. One of the guys grabs Murphy and forces him to watch. It's novelty to these guys. After the debacles finish busting their load they pull a pistol. The metal is cold to Murphy's neck.
With the gun they push him to the bed. They tell him to take his pajamas off. He says no and he gets the pistol's butt to the back of his head. They scabbed some skin and a trickle of crimson gets his hair wet. He submits and the debauchers force him to rape his own mother.
I have no inkling as to the psychological damage that was inflicted on him in these uneasy moments and so I will not even attempt to describe this space, this time. It is not that I am unsure of its veritae. I just don't want to go there. But to answer your burning question, he did not cum. The birthing cycle failed to come full circle.
They laughed at him. Big belly laughs that rumble like far away thunder. They touch the pistol to his pasty exposed ass, they giggled as they proclaimed him a baby for crying. Before they left, they poured bleach into his and his mother eyes. You could hear the sizzle as whites boiled like eggs frying on a skillet. A cry horrific it made the thugs spill bleach all over the carpet. A pain so immense they were left gasping for air, unable to do anything other than breath.
A couple of months later Murphy's mom found out she was pregnant. After she shot herself, I took Murphy in and took care of him. That was years ago. I got married and moved away from Dunfield Heights.
Now my wife didn't kill Murphy, which is what my first inclination was. I had been waiting a day when I found Murphy with a pillow over his face or something funky in his cereal. Some passive aggressive assassination by my wife. But that wasn't the case.
She is on the news because of something completely different. She is on TV because she fucks 13-year-olds.
Over my wife's short tenure at Middleton, she seems to have caught the eye of a young buck. A budding boy; scrawny like a twig, acne like the underbelly of a docked ship and from what I've heard, a voice more fragile than your grandfather's record player. His name is Jonas and he ain't got no wheel but somehow got invited to pour himself some tea.
When the EMTs dragged his body out of my bedroom for the world to see, you could see the torn liesion carved out of the dent between his pecks. Murphy came in with more retard-anger than the Texas Chainsaw massacre. The doctor said Murphy successfully dug his finger into Jonas' chest cavavity with bullet-like speed.
Her fault for keeping the door slightly ajar. The sound of a young boy mounting an older woman must have triggered an episode, because for a comatose blind kid from Dunfield to commit one of the most bloodiest murders in Indiana since that eastern European college grad took buckshot to English 214 it would take all those planets to align.
Murphy's hands were pressed together, the doctor continued, like he was praying. After knocking my wife off Jonas, separating her vagina from his penis, he stood over the middle schooler and plowed his hands into him. It was like kill bill the way the blood sprang out. If you listen to the 9-1-1 tape you can hear his voice cracking as he screamed.
I'm not mad at that kid. I swear, imagine your having an intimate moment with your first "love" and someone you've never seen before comes out of nowhere with no association with any social norm and stabs his hands into your chest and punctures bone and meat. I feel sorry if anything, in his last gasps he joined the club with me and Murphy, another soul snatched with no for warning, no memo, no nothing.
The hole in his chest would eventually kill him long before the ambulance would arrive. The cops said they found my wife naked in the corner with her hands on her face, a pubescent dead on my bed with more blood then some africa tribes after a large genocidal raid and a dumb kid starring at nothing mumbling to himself about his mommy.
I've spent much of my life as an investment banker in Indianapolis funding jumpstarts independently and I'm not going to lie I've screwed over a mom and pop in my time. I balked out of a mexican restaurant on northside that netted enough to buy me and my wife a home on the east river.
She wanted her own baby, she never liked the one I picked up. My wife despised his dumb look, his distant demeanor and drooling chin. All he does is touch braile and listen to the TV. Random shows with the volume pumped high. She teaches math at Northwood Middle and while the pipsqueek Middleton gangsters have the efficiency to get on her nerves, she likes her job. She runs the afterschool program which I have always felt was a cop out for not having to take care of Murphy. Though one of the reasons he has been able to stay with me is because he is rather self sufficient. He knows how to go to the cupboard and make himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and flush the toilet when he's done. He just looks like he has more problems than he does.
I don't really get to spend much time with either of them. You see, last friday I had to work overtime. The company had a new deal with an internet socializing website and the paperwork was heavier than sumo wrestlers. I came home a quarter past 11 and my neighborhood was covered in blue and red lights. Cops and ambulances lined my drive way like I was holding an extravagant costume party. Po Pos and Firehoes. My neighbors were standing outside their houses in their bathrobes. They wouldn't let me inside, the police said there was a murder. There seems to be no murderer only a murder. And it wouldn't be until I saw my wife's face on MSNBC, CNN and FOX news a dozen times a day in orange garbs that I'd get the full story.
You see, Murphy wasn't blind his whole life. He actually use to live in Dunfield Heights with his mother, Jane, a social worker of Irish decent. One night while Murphy was sleeping four men broke into his home. They burst right through the front door snapping that chain off the lock. They rush into the abode grabbing and dragging Murphy's mother into her room. She cried, and shrilled like a black cat climbing a black chalk board. The four donned black ski masks and black turtlenecks. They threw her on her own bed. She yelled for mercy as one of the ski masks began to mount her.
They punched her in the throat to stop her from screaming. They punched her in the ribs to stop her from moving.
All the rustle and bustle woke Murphy up on a school night. After exiting his bedroom, he walks into his mom's room to find out what's going on. She calls out to her son which gets her popped in her sob-filled face. One of the guys grabs Murphy and forces him to watch. It's novelty to these guys. After the debacles finish busting their load they pull a pistol. The metal is cold to Murphy's neck.
With the gun they push him to the bed. They tell him to take his pajamas off. He says no and he gets the pistol's butt to the back of his head. They scabbed some skin and a trickle of crimson gets his hair wet. He submits and the debauchers force him to rape his own mother.
I have no inkling as to the psychological damage that was inflicted on him in these uneasy moments and so I will not even attempt to describe this space, this time. It is not that I am unsure of its veritae. I just don't want to go there. But to answer your burning question, he did not cum. The birthing cycle failed to come full circle.
They laughed at him. Big belly laughs that rumble like far away thunder. They touch the pistol to his pasty exposed ass, they giggled as they proclaimed him a baby for crying. Before they left, they poured bleach into his and his mother eyes. You could hear the sizzle as whites boiled like eggs frying on a skillet. A cry horrific it made the thugs spill bleach all over the carpet. A pain so immense they were left gasping for air, unable to do anything other than breath.
A couple of months later Murphy's mom found out she was pregnant. After she shot herself, I took Murphy in and took care of him. That was years ago. I got married and moved away from Dunfield Heights.
Now my wife didn't kill Murphy, which is what my first inclination was. I had been waiting a day when I found Murphy with a pillow over his face or something funky in his cereal. Some passive aggressive assassination by my wife. But that wasn't the case.
She is on the news because of something completely different. She is on TV because she fucks 13-year-olds.
Over my wife's short tenure at Middleton, she seems to have caught the eye of a young buck. A budding boy; scrawny like a twig, acne like the underbelly of a docked ship and from what I've heard, a voice more fragile than your grandfather's record player. His name is Jonas and he ain't got no wheel but somehow got invited to pour himself some tea.
When the EMTs dragged his body out of my bedroom for the world to see, you could see the torn liesion carved out of the dent between his pecks. Murphy came in with more retard-anger than the Texas Chainsaw massacre. The doctor said Murphy successfully dug his finger into Jonas' chest cavavity with bullet-like speed.
Her fault for keeping the door slightly ajar. The sound of a young boy mounting an older woman must have triggered an episode, because for a comatose blind kid from Dunfield to commit one of the most bloodiest murders in Indiana since that eastern European college grad took buckshot to English 214 it would take all those planets to align.
Murphy's hands were pressed together, the doctor continued, like he was praying. After knocking my wife off Jonas, separating her vagina from his penis, he stood over the middle schooler and plowed his hands into him. It was like kill bill the way the blood sprang out. If you listen to the 9-1-1 tape you can hear his voice cracking as he screamed.
I'm not mad at that kid. I swear, imagine your having an intimate moment with your first "love" and someone you've never seen before comes out of nowhere with no association with any social norm and stabs his hands into your chest and punctures bone and meat. I feel sorry if anything, in his last gasps he joined the club with me and Murphy, another soul snatched with no for warning, no memo, no nothing.
The hole in his chest would eventually kill him long before the ambulance would arrive. The cops said they found my wife naked in the corner with her hands on her face, a pubescent dead on my bed with more blood then some africa tribes after a large genocidal raid and a dumb kid starring at nothing mumbling to himself about his mommy.
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