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Twins in Death: Chapter Four – Part Two

Twins in Death

A Tale of The Weirdo

By Brett N. Lashuay



Chapter Four: The Red Twin



October 23rd, 2002

6:03 p.m.


            The cockroach is truly one of nature’s greatest triumphs, a great thing without a doubt. It is a rather small creature to be such a massive success story, the largest of its kind maxes out at about five inches. They have been on this earth since before the time of the dinosaurs, scientists say that they have adapted to every change this world has thrown at them. They have managed to live, greatly unchanged, for millions upon millions of years. Many agree that the cockroach will be one of the few species left unaffected by the event of a nuclear holocaust. It has survived much, and can survive more.


            What is not fully understood though is the hierarchy of cockroach society. The regimented lives of cockroaches are often not considered when spraying them with Raid or some other brand of insect killer. The city of New York has a massive multilingual culture of cockroaches, unknown to human kind. It will never be known of course… but that tale would get us ahead of ourselves. We wish to tell this story in some kind of order, and that would defiantly get us ahead of ourselves. Besides the event, which keeps mankind from ever discovering New York’s cockroach, society doesn’t happen for sometime now. It would be wrong of us to get too far ahead and thus I must draw us back to the tale at hand.


            This particular black shiny cockroach was moving across the dirt-laden floor looking for a morsel to eat. It was a low ranking member of its hive, which they actually call a clan from the word for family. Humans use the word hive, they called themselves a clan, and they have a lot of words for themselves that we humans don’t use. If you ever meet and have time to talk to a cockroach you might ask it about the hierarchy, the matriarchy, the ritual fighting. You may learn many interesting and informative things and if you grow to be a friend of theirs, you could get them to spy for you, and you could grow to be a powerful lord of the word since no one ever notices the cockroaches. You could build quite an army of these little soldiers and cause the world to fall at your feet. As it is, this was all the information I could get from the last one before I got disgusted and squashed it, because they’re filthy little beasts.


            This little cockroach was on the search for food, which was not a hard thing for the clan to find these days. The clan had grown accustomed to the easy living that had come about from this particular human’s lifestyle. The human left food on the floor, it threw clothes and papers everywhere. It was messy and grimy and never used any sort of chemical murder devices attempting to rid itself of the clan. Not that it would have been a useful effort, at any rate; cockroaches easily adapt to such simple things as Raid. As it has already been mentioned, the cockroach are the ultimate adaptors, adapting to just about anything. They will mutate and grow stronger and the poison that kills one generation will just annoy the next. This clan didn’t have to worry about mass death by Raid or any other thing. They had been blessed with an easy life. Give this by a lazy human who simply tossed bits of food on the ground and never cleaned his surroundings. The clan had grown from this place, and had time to think and become greater.  They had taken the time to adapt to their surroundings by developing economics, warfare, religion and other detriments to their race.


            They believed in the human, and he was a god to them. He was a provider and a destroyer on occasion. Death came easily though, never a tiresome series of boils or slow poisoning. It was just the occasional clan member who would be crushed under the sole of the shoe or perhaps a newspaper. Their god was one of little mercy but much bounty, and thus they had built shrines to him in their cities on the other side of the wall, and worshiped his image. The priests pretended that their dreams and visions were inspired by him and killed other members of the Clan if they didn’t agree with each and every one of their little quibbles about sex and violence.


            This particular small cockroach was name Miguel and he was a seeker for the clan. It was his job to tell them when and where new food items where deposited by the God. Miguel had murdered his brother to get this position and was currently cheating on his spouse. He figured that these things would, in time become like other adaptations. He was thinking about the betterment of roach kind and how killing one’s brother should be a good adaptation. A steel blade zipped suddenly through the air and split the poor beast’s thorax in half and sent its head spiraling away from it. The thoughts of adaptation rattled through Miguel’s mind as shock took him. He couldn’t feel his legs any more and wondered what sort of adaptation this was. Would it help him be a better seeker to not feel his legs? Was this an adaptation at all?


            “Adapt to that,” the man said.


            Other seekers saw this and reported back to the great priests that God had struck down Miguel who everyone knew was a murdering, adultering bastard. The God had struck down Miguel, and only Miguel out of all the seekers in the group. This was proof of to the clan that God punished evildoers, even though all it really proves is that people will give divine intellect to a random bit of meaningless violence.


            The roach was nothing to him, just something else to kill. Something to pass the time with, admittedly not a lot of time but there wasn’t a lot of roach either. It was a very simple thing to bring down the blade and cut the bug to bits, but to the clan, it was an act of god.  This particular god was sick, sadistic and random, but that fit his view of all deities. In his eyes they were all random, and mean.  He watched as the remaining legs tried to move around, the wings fluttering back and forth. The antenna on the head spun madly around, trying to find the rest of the body. He watched fascinated, and then brought his heel down and crushed Miguel’s skull, scrambling his brains. He saw himself as a great god, one who killed for no other reason than to prove he was a god. He was a god of cockroaches, yes, but surely even Cthulu had to start somewhere.


            Cockroaches today, who knows where tomorrow…


            He had a thin build, which spoke of high metabolism and little actual bodywork. He was thin, but soft. His arms had a certain amount of muscle to them, but it was clear no actually work had gone into the physique. There was something in the body though, something that broke the regular laws of physics as we know them. He had a way of walking which noted more strength than the body should be able to hold. There was a sense of speed that was more than muscle would allow, a feeling that there was more here than the physique could hold. It was in the subtle movements, the way he held himself, but it was there.


            He stood naked in his apartment, not because he had just washed, but because he liked his own nudity. He looked at the blade, with its small smudge of yellowish blood on it. He walked towards the kitchen and picked up a tissue. He wiped the straight razor carefully, dripping a bit of oil onto the cloth to clean it properly. He looked down the blade and noticed the slightest bending of the blade. It was an off centering that had to be measured in micrometers, but he noticed it. He pulled the leather strap he kept tied to one end of the kitchen counter and turned the bottle of oil until five drops had landed on the leather. He then began to slide the blade across the leather, back and forth. He did this with the slow deliberation that one would have found odd looking at his surroundings. He would simply throw things down when done with them and continue on his way.


            He finished the two dozen strokes that his mind demanded he make and looked at the blade. It had gone back into its perfectly honed state. He closed the blade gently and set it down on the counter. He was then able to breath properly again. He felt free of the obsessive need to make sure the blade was kept clean and sharp. He felt his body slip out of the constraint, demanding he perform a task, relaxation filling in. He took in a breath and released it, feeling the shudder deep within.


            He looked at his clothes, and thought about the fact that he had to put clothes on to go outside. He didn’t like the idea, but there was nothing for it, he would have to. He picked the red leather pants up and slipped his legs inside them. He buttoned the fly of the pants and looked around at him. The pants weren’t actually made for a man, but he could fit into them. The shirt wasn’t made for a man either. With the red stretch material and red sequins one couldn’t argue that it had been made for a man. Even the most flamboyantly gay man couldn’t really claim that the red sequined spandex shirt had been made for him.


            He picked up the socks, which were still in their plastic package and tore the pack open. They were white socks, but no one would ever see them. He slid the socks on, obsessed with the sensation of the fabric as it slid over his skin. He reached without looking and grabbing at the combat boots, which had been painted red. He didn’t know why red, and probably wouldn’t have cared if he did know. He didn’t know why he felt compelled towards the color red or the honed razor. It wasn’t like razors were hard to get a hold of, or even sharp knives for that matter.


            He picked up the coat, which was also not made for a man. His shoulders were narrow enough to fit into the woman’s leather over coat. He looked at the red cowhide, which had been tanned and dyed and sold for twice the price it should have been. He looked into the window, at his hair which he had first bleached and then added the bright red color to it as well.          He picked up his dark red sunglasses and slid them over his eyes. The world became a world of red, of splashing blood and red fire. Pain, agony, he would cause all those delicious things.


            Some say that viewing things through rose-colored glasses makes them seem better. It’s an expression that means a person is looking at things with perhaps an idealized viewpoint. It would be difficult to say that this boy had an idealist view point, but then the glasses were red, not rose colored.





© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions

August 22, 2012 - Posted by | Fiction | ,

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