Chapter One The Diary of Sam Tattle (March 15th, 2015) It starts like this, a gloomy road in the pitch black Seattle. The back alley lamps flickered their heart beats, buh-bump, buh-bump. There I was, a cold man, with plenty of baggage. My dick is slunk between the skirt I wore to my son’s funeral four years ago. I’ve worn this shit infested school-girl-skank outfit since the day he was buried. My bones stuck out like a xylophone, protruding out from my toilet paper-stuffed bra. She would’ve liked this, my dead wife. She would’ve liked my whore ass out in the streets. The cigarette in my lips was sucked dry of the smoke, one last puff for the week. I got to quit these damn things. I need to quit a lot of things. I dropped the cancer stick, stamping out the remains with my mud clustered heels. I then took my business elsewhere. Click, click went my toes, prancing my way through the murky roads of the rainy city. The shops on the downtown sidewalks blared with white light. Inside, they hosted the mannequins behind the windows. Kinda like zoo animals. Reflected glass separated me and them. The segregation between us was humiliating. I felt wronged. The lifeless dolls gaped at me with their plastic judgement. “Who is this? Oh, it’s just another nobody.” Yet at the same time, maybe this is what I deserved. A melancholy fall breeze brushes my wig, averting my hollow eyes from their angel sculpted faces. Heavier droplets of water fell harder than before, rudely plopping on me to move. I groaned, debating on whether or not I should walk back to my apartment. The bus would come around soon, but I didn’t have much cash on me. Damn, some McDonald’s sounded good too. Oh well. It’s not like it mattered anyway. I figured my job would pay well tomorrow, maybe. And I was tired. Slinking my way up a Seattle slump, I found anti-rain shelter at the bus stop, awaiting my ride home. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - (March 16th, 2015) I woke up in tears the morning after last night. I don’t know why, but it was easily resolved. The cockroaches in my moldy coffee cup scurried in a hurry, hiding themselves from God. Just like I was doing. The make-up was a cheap drugstore disguise, but Heaven doesn’t recognize horrible tranny trash. I rolled my eyes back into their sockets, waking myself up into the day. The blanket bed below on the rotting carpet was messed up and scattered, like a rough couple after some scandalous sex scene. Empty Dorito bags, half-eaten ice cream containers, and dirty clothes laid in awkward positions upon the ground. Ants took their refuge in my refrigerator, maggots made their home in my meat. Single, crooked pictures of my son were my only decorations. This was my home. (3:00PM) The same customers. Everyday. No new pleasures, just nonsense. Red rooms consumed my vision, a limpness of my penis. Same men, same games, same decomposing life. One offered me X, I took it without hesitation. Whatever. Whatever to get me through this damn day. At least I could take the excruciating erotica excellently now. “Sommi Girl,” Hiccupped the drunk, half-naked Hungarian in my play bed. “Marry me, Sommi Girl.” His venomous vodka breath smelt worse than my mother’s. He played with me, like a molestation doll. His fat fingers wiggled their way in between my thin legs. His lips smacked together, trying to feel for that tinnie tiny vaginie. I snapped, slapping that smelly seductive hand off my snatch. “Your session ended, now pay up, cow.” He grunts, obviously offended. I ignored him calling me a bitch as he reached for his black suitcase. Out came the copious cocaine, heroin, and heaping stacks of ten dollar bills. (7:36PM) A long trail of blood flashed like a flood from my nostril. It flowed, and flowed. It came down. Acid Bath blared on my beat up stereo, my twitching toes danced. My eyes bled tears and it wasn’t long before I sang through my yellow teeth. A rapid pulse in my veins shocked my entire body as I sat there, smiling at the slimy walls for what felt like hours. It felt fun, I felt funny, pretty, and perhaps a little dead as well. I didn’t care either. The sensations it brought me stole my sad, festering sorrows away. Then suddenly felt like Jesus hated me, and I was deathly afraid of his wrath. I stopped my singing. My eyes wide. Bleeding more tears. “Oh god, no Jesus, I love you.. Oh god, please, I’m so sorry…” The tensed electrocution of a fake rigor mortis zapped me up. Cold and stricken, there I was. I slumped on my man made bed, eyes circling the room. Fractals of darkness consumed me, my heart held a gun to it’s head. I clenched my foul teeth and let out a pleading whimper. He was only five… He was only five when he died! Dear God, that was four years ago! Four fucking years ago! I woke up an hour later, still, and almost flat lining. Almost dead. I wanted to be dead. I let out a cry, unable to get myself up. “Dammit… dammit!” I yelled, smashing a fist against the wall. I cursed aloud. Screamed, if you will. A pounding rupture came from the other apartments, hissing for me to shut the fuck up. And that’s what I did. I shut myself up. I laid in my broken solitude, miserable and scared for my sanity. My son was just a baby. A baby taken into God’s custody. I put my hairy hand up to my herpe-infested mouth. I squeezed my vision away, salty water drained about. I could only think of Toby, my boy. My angel. Too young to die. I wept in silence, unsure of what the new day would bring to me. (March 17th, 2015) Morning came, the light beating me to awaken. I vaguely remembered my dream, it was something happy. A fond memory that buzzed brightly as a beam. It wasn’t ashamed of me, nor did it mock me. It was beautiful, amiable. Unfortunately, dreams are just scams, forged in the sweatshops of our brains to build us up to unrealistic standards. Depression took it’s turn to kick my head in. ‘Wake up, fool,’ the blues said, 'Time to go to your fucking “job.” Or just sit here and waste away.’ With the pounding of my headache, I finally rose from the grave. (8:24AM) Sam Tattle. Sam Tattle. That’s me. A man of many mistakes. I can’t count the times I got in trouble at school. Smoking weed, smelling panties, interrupting the serenity. I was an all-out alien growing up. A freak, to you. Believe me, as a bisexual boy, I dared to boldly go out in drag. Sure the big bullies at my school had a knack for calling me a 'fag,’ but they were just silicone Ken dolls to me. I liked messing with them. And between you and me, I knew they wanted my goods. Those jocks loved seeing me in the locker room, all lascivious and playful in my prime. I loved it too, watching them ogle their wandering gaze upon my buttock. Even the gym teacher got caught in my tender trance. Sam Tattle wasn’t perfect, certainly, but his profuse positivity proved otherwise. I wish I was the same Sam Tattle. Well, where is the wretch now? Where’s that old Sam Tattle? Let me tell you something- He’s deceased. He’s fucking gone. No, not for awhile. For - Fucking - Ever. I murdered that bastard long ago, the cocaine was my axe, and my poisoned sex life was the gasoline. After chopping up the corpse and pouring the flammable liquid upon his ruins, I lit a blue flame. That blue flame represented the self-hatred, insecurity and immeasurable grief the new Sam Tattle defined. With a heaving blow, the old Sam Tattle was destroyed. His happiness, his sanity, his humanity, splattered all over the damn place. His remains, eaten away by the empathy of others.
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