I'm young, healthy, and most of all, strong as an Egyptian slave hauling a crowning pyramid block. I rolled onto my stomach and sprung myself upright with a launching pushup.

"Okay, fucker, what's the gig? Spill it."

"Son, you sit back down. Now. My nephew Joey will be here any second. We need to talk to you. For legal reasons. No shenanigans. Joey's gonna explain a couple things. That's all."

"What's to explain? I'm looking at dirt traps like this for a new home! You know I can't afford to sue you over a little mishap like that accident. If it was an accident, which I doubt now. I'm outta here, Ron. You weird old fuck."

As I went to brush past the lumpish geriatric, he brandished his can of insect mace and sprayed forth another cloud of corrosive droplets. This time I was ready. I closed my eyes, raised my hands, and turned away, sparing my punished face the brunt of his malicious extermination attempt.

"I said sit down. Last warning, sprout."

I think the chemicals searing my throat and eyes made me angrier and more deranged than I usually am. I like to consider myself a nice boy with good manners. However, once pushed beyond reason, it seems I enjoy a capacity for viciousness and brutality. Such uncharacteristic traits were regrettably brought to fore by the old man's seemingly nonsensical attack. So yeah, I retaliated. Big time.

I had a pencil in my pocket. Pretty sharp, too. I fisted it, spun, and lunged for his pasty sagging face. My graphite tip sunk into his left eye with a quick quiet wet sound, like a baby's fart. Somewhere, Hammurabi was smiling.

The old fella flailed and swore. "My... mah... shit... I... Oh." He sat down hard, his neck twitching his head left and right. Shock set in quickly. I could've left at this point. I didn't. My blood was sizzling with adrenaline rage, and I felt something primal, something thirsty, something howling for carnage, carnage, carnage.

I scavenged around until I found a paint scraper. Perfect. I dragged Ron from the kitchen to the living room. His mouth was bubbling, his breaths hitching. He was dying. I knelt over him raised the scraper above me with both hands. I jabbed it down, altar sacrifice style, deep into his ample lardy gut. There was no geyser of blood or loud screams, just an "oomph" and then silence. Gotcha, old man. Bucket successfully kicked.

With dirty hands I reached inside him. Once my fingers navigated past the creamy cornish lard to his vital innards, I wrapped intestines around my spread out fingers like spaghetti on a fork. I took a deep breath and yanked.

I unspooled him, yards of gleaming endless tentacle in red, yellow, purple, and grey. I made a loop of loose guts and swung the slippery intestinal lasso towards the ceiling fan, catching it over one of the blades. I did this three more times until all four blades were adorned, and then I turned the fan on at full speed. For twenty seconds it struggled to spin, braiding the codger's wriggling guts together into a slick twist. Finally, the rope braided tight. The fan halted, still humming, still straining, trying to cool me off.

The nameless fluids of eviscera drizzled from my clothing as I left, leaving licking puddles on the sidewalk for hungry raccoons. I should've felt afraid, wondering where inside me my hateful ejaculation of energy had come from, wondering what kind of person reacts like that, wondering if I still like the person living in my body. I didn't feel that. Instead, I was triumphant, a predator licking his chops after his prey is slain, eyes darting about seeking the next pounce.

I got in my car, fired the ignition, and pulled off. As I turned from May onto 33rd, a blue van sped past and whipped around the corner, zooming to whence I came. That must be Joey, Ron's nephew. I pulled over and ambled back to the corner and peeked at the van, which was still running, the door open. Joey was running towards the house. He clutched a pistol in one hand. Urgency.

I sprinted to his van and swung open the back doors. Inside sat two styrofoam coolers. One was open and full of ice, but otherwise empty. I flipped the lid off the other. Inside sat a pair of organs, still hot, melting the ice they rested upon, staining everything red. Kidneys, definitely. I know that shape from eating chili. I took them, one per hand. I squeezed one over the van's windshield. The kidney popped. A weak splash of half-processed urine mixed with brackish blood gurgled out. I tucked the ruptured organ under a windshield wiper. I wondered where Joey had left a fresh corpse, missing kidneys, missing the light of life in the eyes. I still had my kidneys. Hell, I had three right now!

I left, leaving Joey to clean up the messes, one inside, one out. I didn't want to confront him. I don't mess with guys with guns. I'll look for places to live somewhere else in Chicago. Ukranian Village, maybe.

I'm taking the other kidney to a taxidermist. 12:50 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm