"Yeah, right." My father snorted derisively. "The kid's a freak!"
They would have this same arguement over and over again, and each time neither would give any leeway; my father would adamantly argue the cons while my mother, ah the wonderful visionary that she was, would argue the pros. But I knew. Yes, I knew neither of them liked it.
"What about football? He would never need a helmet!"
"Yeah, you think the Coach would let that freak play?!"
"How do you know? He could see what a valuable asset he would be."
"Sure, and cows can fly." My father, of course being ignorant, neglected to acknowledge that there was a rare breed of cattle who were fully capable of becoming airborne at will. We owned three such cows, but they would never fly for my father. He was always treating them like ordinary livestock, and the flying cows would never do what he asked until he virtually tortured them into doing what he wanted. It was bad enough that he branded them with a curling iron, but he was also a big fan of the tourniquet.
"The ones in Russia can!"
"Only the ones near Chernobyl."
"That doesn't matter. They can still fly."
My mother would never surrender a point to dad. She was either right, or she was right. In either case she came out ahead.
"They're mutants! Just like that sonamine!"
My father was, unfortunately, the same way, which was where the majority of the strife arose from.
"oh, Roger..." she sobbed. She was very emotional, especially towards me. Her melancholy nature however wasn't due to any amount of pity she had for me, but rather from the fact that she never seemed to be able to come out ahead on an arguement. My father would win by hook or by crook, and when words failed him, he used his meathooks to pummel her into acquiescence. That was when we got the M-16.
My school years were the toughest. "Look, here comes Exo-Skeleton Boy!" all the schoolboys and girls would jeer, pointing accusing fingers at me. "Hey, can we play the xylophone with your ribs?" they would constantly inquire. They were determined in their child-like fashion to elicit some feedback to stoke their fire, and refusing to give in to anger and frustration only made them come on stronger. They would, just to show they had every intention of carrying out their wishes whether I wanted them to or not, beat on my carapice with sticks and various impliments to create musical tones as they struck bone after bone. Their appetite for mischief and misery seemed insatiable. Just when I thought they had had enough they would come around for another volley of attacks even more demeaning than the last. This was when I got my own personal rocket launcher and blew up the entire school and part of the surrounding neighbourhood.
Then I turned 18 and got a job. It wasn't easy. The racism against invertibrates was phenominally common. Application after application was rejected on the grounds that I didn't have "the look" they were looking for. Mostly my clothing hid my boney nature, but there was no hiding my face. That was my achilles heel. But finally I got hired as a telemarketing agent. I was given my own office, persumably to hide me from the other workers there who might have found my presence offensive and perhaps just the slightest bit sickening. But it was a nice enough environment; quiet, detatched from society; it was my element. It was not long, however, before I found out how rude some people that I called could be, hanging up in my ear, swearing at me, calling me rude names - some even recognised my voice and proceeded to jeer me about everything. That was when I got plastic explosives and went to every one of those rude people's houses and blew them up. This was subsequently also when I got fired.
Then I got my second job, and surprisingly enough, even though they checked into my checkered past of mass murders and general disdain for society, they still hired me - in fact, they said I was perfect. I was now working for the government. My job was so simple it almost caught me off guard. All I was to do was deny any accusations made against the politician in question's personal activities of drug smoking, phillandering, masturbating in front of the secretaries, swallowing live hamsters on a regular basis, squandering the country's money on carcinogens and anal sex, eating out of the toilet, reupholstering his penis in gold lamais, et cetera. Everything went very well for the first few months, until one reporter - an exceptioally sneaky bastard - caught me off guard.
"Is it true the prime minister wants to buy your bones next week for three dollars and a Willie Nelson CD?"
"No." I said in the true fashion of my duties.
"So you deny ever having agreed to such a proposal?"
"Yes. I mean no. No, I mean yes. Yes."
"So you admit to denying ever having denied agreement to it?"
"Yes. No. I ... "
That was when I rammed his microphone up his anus, then reached down his throat and pulled out his pancreas. He responded to the offending act by falling over dead. Then I considered this whole business of having my bones bought. I decided I didn't like the idea, so I rammed the reporter up the prime minister's anus. His response was slightly mixed, as that of pleasure, and also of pain, but his final gesture was plainfully clear; Death. I was, for the second time in my life, fired. That was when I killed everyone in parliament with a "Garden Weasel", dismantled the House of Commons brick by brick, then dug a gigantic below-ground swimming pool out of Parliament Hill.
Which brings us to present day. I write this brief journal of my life from the country's largest, meanest, nastiest prisons. I write this in the hopes that one day someone can read the chronicles of my life and remember that I was here. For now I spend my life hoping and praying that I don't
Drop
The
Soap.