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 A Battered Recorder

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Posts : 3
Join date : 2012-02-25

PostSubject: A Battered Recorder   Sat Feb 25, 2012 6:45 pm

A shoe box filled with an assortment of micro cassettes and a battered Coby recorder, each cassette labeled and dated.

"Test test...one, two, twelve-" Pause.

"It does work, best fifty cents I ever spent that's for fucking sure." Another pause, followed by the sound of a glass being filled, ice rattling.

"Sailboat portraits, why are they in every motel room? Must be paint by number and the artist was dyslexic cuz the color's off," the sound of moving furniture, "nope, that's cum." Vague scraping sounds heard.

"Ah well. Another room. Dunno why I bought this thing." Whooshing and static breaks up the speech, followed by a repetitive thumping noise, one can assume the speaker is tossing the recorder back and forth between his hands. "Does ----- lonely...bored---...fucking pimple on my shoulder I can't reach."

Ice rattles in a glass once more a slurping sound recorded, "All right, don't judge me, I'm nervous is all." Another long pause, "My name's Will now. Can't even risk using my real name any longer. Most of this will likely have me committed which I think, would be worse than jail. I can do jail." Another chink of bottle against glass. "There are such things as vampires and werewolves and worse out there, that is the truth. I may have killed one, that is the truth. I was nearly mummified by two vampires, that is the truth. At times, I'm very scared. That is the truth."

The squeal of worn bed springs and a contented sigh is recorded, "You know how you occasionally get a glimpse at what goes on behind the scenes of the C.I.A. and all those spooks? That's sort of what it's like. Ignorance is bliss. As long as you wake up, go to work, brush your teeth, and go to sleep, there's always some covert operative out there bombing missions in Sao Paolo but you don't give a shit cuz you don't have to see it. That's why ignorance is bliss. At times though, mistakes are made. You see it on CNN, in the newspapers and so on. That's when your reality gets checked and you get a look outside that warm zebra stripe snuggy. Course it goes away quick enough, after a few convos a few days later, ignorance once more makes you a happy fool." A laugh is recorded along with the sound of a healthy drink being taken.

"One thing when it's a spook a thousand miles away. It's different when you find out anyone you have ever known may just be looking to you as a quick meal. You live with it constantly. You notice things. It's like...those shadows at the edge of your vision at night, you can see them. It...fucks you up. Is what I'm trying to say."

"Jeremy is where it started." Another laugh recorded, this one longer, sounding more forced, "I remember when me and him passed a bottle of mescaline back and forth at the Diamond Club and that fucker told me of the time he tried hanging himself with a clothesline but it snapped cuz he was too fat." Another peeling laugh given, a bit drowsy sounding, followed by another rattle of ice.

"Ah...to Turkey J," glass chinks, then another swallow. "not tonight brother, not tonight."

End of tape.
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A Battered Recorder
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