Poetic Imagination
2 Inches wide by 3 Inches Deep
Home | Do They Understand | The War on Drugs | The Apathetic Reality of American Culture | Words To Live By | Poetic Imagination 8 | For My Wife | Two Essays | Meeting of the Masters | Poetic Imagination 7 | New Book Out Now Entitled Poetic Imagination | Eyes of God | 2 Inches wide by 3 Inches Deep | Poetic Imagination 6 | THE TREE- BLOODY ROOTS | Poetic Imagination 4 | Poetic Imagination 5 | Do I Have a Conscience | Poetic Imagination 3 | Biography and Contact Info | Tribute | The Pot Smokers Guide to the Planet Varpeth | Her Name Was Cally | The Rejection | Poetic Imagination 1 | Poetic Imagination 2

2 Inches Wide by Three Inches Deep

By Jaystone

Have you ever seen a person completely engulfed in obsessive compulsive disorders? I have seen such a man. His name is Roy. He grew up in rural Missouri, worked hard his whole life, but his dark side began to take it’s toll. Not in a murder sense, but in a crusty old bastard, paranoid, lame, fuck way. Each of his prior housekeepers, or home health, took care of him in his fragile state, yet this is too far for one to acquire such dissident behavior.

I was at the local bar, doing my best to get drunk on a poor mans salary. But what the hell, I needed to get fucked up. My life took a downward turn as my mother and father died. (RIP) I can’t make many excuses, but I would surely like to find some good paying job to help me with my habit. Ok, I am an addict. But who cares. I am a nuerotic facsimile of who I am supposed to be.

I went to the grocery store to pick us bread, milk, and all potheads foavorite food tangy taffees. Fuck they just fucking rule. Munchies on tangy taffess gives the sensation of estatic worth. While at the store I saw a HELP WANTED sign. It said:

I am an elderly gentlemen looking for a male/female housekeeper to tend My garden and help me around the house. Pay is $250 per week.)

With no one looking, I ripped down the flyer for the job and returned to my mouse and roach infected slum house. After a pork cutlet sandwhich, I called the number. It rang for what seemed days. Anticipation is the ultimate sin, so I waited and waited, then when I was getting ready to leave, the old man says “Do you want a job?” Do I want a job. You fucking right I do, so the old man and I began to have sensible conversation. He told me of his war horrors. How he had to kill babies during his tour of Vietnam. All the indonesion ladies he fucked and the heartache of leaving them all behind. The old man wept.

My life is a series of fuck ups. In and out of prison, no family, no hope, so I made it a promise to myself, that I would not go back to jail. I still do the drugs, but I am smarter this time. If I do get caught, oh well, life is a series of fuck ups. I’ve lived many. Too fucking much to reveal at this juncture of my life. I wept.

The old man stared as if he was witnessing a lost soul looking for a place of salvation. With none in site, his imagination is playing head games. “Do you clean toilets?” ‘I will do anything. I just need money.” “

Alright you can move in the upper stairs where you will have a warm bed.”

Grand I thought, life has just gotten better. I’ll have money in my pocket, a nice pad to crash, and with all the pain medicine the old man was taking, it was easy for me to steal a couple of his oxycontins and get fucked up. I had to be careful though, cause I know how violent things can do if we fuck with the wrong people.

In the morning I was awoken violently by a loud ass siren, and the old man screaming my name. I got up in my boxers and went to his room.

“God dammit boy, can’t you get up any earlier than 6:30? Fucking lazy ass if you ask me.” I awoke and Roy asked me to make him a cup of coffee. I obliged. I cooked him two eggs and fried bolgna for breakfast. He seemed to like the meal.

After breakfast he asked me to clip his toenails. I said that I didn’t want to clip his nails, in a sarcastic way. Roy said ok, picked up his walking cane and preceeded to beat me till I was gasping for breath. Get up he asserted. It’s time for your daily chores. He then gave me a handwritten list of things I had to do everyday.

1. Clean the toliet and bathroom. (This one is important.)

2. Open up all the windows so I can see the birds.

3. Do as I say when I say.

4. Change my bed sheets daily.

5. Remember I am the boss.

Fucking rules. I hate fucking rules! But at the same time, I have to keep this job cause I need the cash. So I cleaned his toliet, scrubbed for what seemed a hour to get the thing clean. To my own observation, the toliet was clean. To him it had micro germs which are planted everyday by evil spirits. I had to laugh, I mean come on who is afraid of a few germs on a toliet seat. Roy got pissed and threw a knife he had been using to cut open an apple right for my head. Luckily I dodged this ignorant fuck. Then I took some of my shit and left.

I went to Sally's Bar and Grill met up with a woman named Mariah and we spent the night fucking and sucking and getting stoned. This chick was able to score some acid, and man did we trip. Then we fucked and sucked some more. I went home about six in the morning.

The old man with his cain was standing at the door pissed off. I still tripping asked what the problem was. He started bitching about his toilet. He swore that since I didn't clean the toilet he had contacted a rare disease. I told the old fool, man your fucked in the head, I cleaned the toilet. No you didn't he scream as he hit me in the head with his fucking cain. I fell down the front porch stairs and cut my head open pretty good. He said if you ever don't clean my toilet again I'll kill you. Pretty strong words for an 76 year old fuck.

The next few day at the house where kind of strange. The old man and I hardly talked. I did the usual chores, but deep inside my mind I wanted to kill the mother fucker. I thought of pushing him down the steps, but that would be to easy. I wanted this fucker to pay for hitting me in the head. I wanted to stab him repeatedly.

I waited until I felt the time was right, cause I knew I was going to kill the bastard. Three days had passed, and I was getting more and more pissed as I scrubbed his fucking toilet.

Then the perfect time arose. He was standing on the stairs bitching at me for not cleaning the shower stall, and I lost it. I said you stupid mother fucker, and I pushed him down the stairs. He fell. His head bloody, arms and legs broken he was trying to mutter for help, but I couldn't let him. I knew I had to kill him and dispose of his body. I went to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest butcher knife which was in the upside down pineapple. I went to his body laying there I seen the pain in his eyes, but I knew I had to kill him. I could just say he fell down the steps, but... fuck it that wouldn't be good enough for me. The old bastard must die. I took the butcher knife in my right hand. Looked him in his eyes and plunged the knife into his chest two inches wide by three inches deep. The old man gasped for his last breath as I stood there and lit up a joint and watched him die, and wept.