I really like Honey Combs. Or Honey Comb. The cereal. I don’t know if there’s an “s” in it or not.

The vomit-worms I milk the life-juices out of like life-milk never have the time to ask me why I do what I do before their lives and histories are naught but homages to my depravity. But it’s a bad-ass story.

You may submit to the idea that it takes “one bad day.” That if I had been knocked into a vat of something or had my face messed up or watched my parents die I’d irrevocably follow a set path from that day forth, destined to perpetuate a swirling Dyonisian/Appolonian conflict or some comparable shit.

Others of you may think that once some super ability is gained, like a super-soldier formula, or a rhino suit, or an electric suit, or a symbiote suit, or a suit fashioned like a scavenger bird, or a monster suit or pretty much any kind of suit that gives one the right to awesome, often animal-related evil shit. Like rob banks and…well, just rob banks.

Still others may figure that it takes a lifetime of misery and neglect to become a sprawling conquering and unreckon-withable force. Like Bill Gates.

But, really, honestly, sometimes it just takes a total lack of purpose. Sometimes, you just want to split open a toddler’s skull and put a grenade in it and hide him in the Hightown Baptist Church Senior Transport or the bus that takes retards bowling and fucking detonate it while the kid's mother watches, but has a hard time concentrating on the fact that her child was the vessel through which lives were ended and tragedy begun with my dick in her mouth just because there’s nothing really on TV.

See, one day, I didn’t wake up until noon. So it was too late for cereal. My son was at his mother’s for the week, and I just really wanted some Honey Comb or Combs. And I wasn’t sure which one it was. Comb or Combs. But I couldn’t look at the box, or else I’d end up eating it. And then I would be a fuck up. I’m not a fuck up. I’m a winner. So I decided to go to the store and look at the box there. No temptation.

As I was getting ready to leave, I realized I was gonna watch "Gladiator" on AMC that afternoon. But I just taped it. Like I said, I’m a winner. Anyway, I walked to the store ‘cause my car was in the shop. It was cold and I had forgotten my gloves.

The miseries built like manure piles in my brain. My divorce, my loser pothead son with a stupid-ass name (Jericho? I mean…fuck), my relegation to walking to the store to satisfy a curiosity…all because of the incompetence of others. The English couldn’t make a car that lasted more than thirty years, my wife couldn’t make a goddamn vegetable lasagna worth dogshit, and my son was probably a pothead to cope with her terrible fucking vegetable lasagna. I was 100 percent rage by the time I got to the store. There was a pretty girl with a baby there and too many kinds of peanut butter. It’s too simple a thing to have so many varieties.

That must have been what broke the camel’s back. I forgot about the Honey Co—dilemma until the end of the night, which ended with me standing in front of the pantry without peace, but with purpose.

Having abducted her and her baby, I took her to my home at gunpoint, and she tried to wrestle the gun from me. A shot went off into the pantry. I hit her in the head and she went down like a cerebral palsy kid in Hiroshima. I dressed her like the pink Power Ranger, Kimberly, and had my way with her. I killed her baby with a meat tenderizer, because that was all I had. When I came the third time, I shot her in the head. And in that moment, I saw my first death-doomsday device thing, pure and complete in my head.

I’ll name it Pritchard. It’s being built in my basement by vagrants and my neighbor’s older son. They had a new baby, and they don’t even realize he’s gone. He’d make a good main henchman, or something. I'll think of a title. He’s got a lot of anger. Needs help. Did I say I’ll name it Pritchard? Yeah, I did. Right up there. Like, four sentences up.

Anyway, an hour or so later, after I had cleaned up, I went back to look in the pantry for the answer to the Combs or Comb question, which I had just remembered. I saw that the gunshot had gone through the last letters of the name. All I could read was HONE- COM-.

I watched Gladiator, put the bodies in my furnace and made a microwaveable pot pie which you’d better believe was better than anything my bitch-tit wife could make.

I never looked at another Honey Comb or Combs box again. But it is the only thing left that makes me tremble. All else is but fodder for my cannon. I’d blow up the company that makes them, but I haven’t looked at the box, like I said, and I honestly can’t remember which company it is. Sometimes I cry because it just hurts so bad. But it is the weeping of a man with nothing left to fear or conquer. I’m a winner. Smoke dick, vomit-worms.

unseen589@hotmail.com