God Quit

Acknowledgements

Are you a good person? I know that you probably tell people you are and that you might actually think you are but if you were to look deep down inside yourself would you really find someone that you would be proud of? If you were to meet you at a party would you exchange numbers? Would you even continue a conversation? Would you allow your child to date someone like you? We will get to that later on…

How far apart is the one who thinks about murder compared to the one who actually commits it? It is a simple question but one that I doubt you have ever thought of before. Is their soul already in hell the moment that the thought lasts more than a split second running around in their confused heads? Who do you think is worse, the guy who spends all of his free time thinking about showing up to work one day loaded with an assault rifle and turning the place into a fucking meat factory but gets side tracked somewhere along the way or the poor schlep who just finished up a sixty hour work week, at some job that he never really wanted in the first place but took so he can provide for his loving family, to come home and find the love of his life wife bouncing up and down on the gardener’s cock, loses his cool for a split second and kicks the gardener in just the right spot on the temple only to find himself facing twenty five years to life in a cute little cell somewhere upstate? He thought he was doing something nice coming home early to surprise the mother of his children with a nice bouquet to start the weekend and the next thing he sees is tiger lilies and baby breaths covered in blood and spit. You may say it is an act of jealous rage but others will call it murder.

Now what becomes of our little friend while he stews in the minuscule concrete cubicle with barely enough room to sweat? We will get back to him later because while he is in there staring at the bars the imaginative employee will continue to dream about his day of reckoning. He starts out small beginning to think about what exits he might have to end up using in case his melee does not go as it was planned. He laughs at these ideas at first just telling himself that it is nothing more than a silly fantasy. But his mind continues with this game and he takes it a little further. He starts to size up his fellow employees at the office, thinking about which one of them might actually be a threat to him. Who out of this group of fucking weakling derelicts actually would have the nerve to stand up to a gun wielding psychopath with nothing but bloody rampage on his mind? There is Steve to consider, the onetime jock who spends every morning in the gym staying in shape and doing all that martial arts and kickboxing shit, nothing a bullet could not distinguish, he is the only true obstacle in his way. In a perfect scenario he must be disposed of first before anyone really knows what is going on. Not only is he a pretty big guy but there is a chance he has the balls to back it up and the last thing that he wants is for his spree to be stifled before he even gets a chance to put an exclamation point on his opus. Blake, Bill and the big guy Timbo are a bunch of beer bellied armchair quarterbacks who’ll most likely curl up into balls underneath their desks. They are all talk in front of the women of the office, spewing shit about being tough when they go out bar hopping and not taking crap from anyone. Hell, if everything was to go as planned Timbo might actually blow chunks or empty out his bladder right there in the office on the coffee stained floor. Which even I think is quite fitting, any asshole who adds the suffix bo to the end of his name deserves to throw up and embarrass himself in front of his co-workers just once so they have something to fuck with him for the rest of his life should any of them survive this attack.

Our other friend who just happened to have the unfortunate fate of marrying a putana with a taste for El Salvadorian landscapers is also beginning to settle in nicely in his new surroundings and the day to day routines that go along with being in jail. He learns the hard way and real fast that the currency in a place like this is much different than it is outside in the real world. When you are serving hard time the normal five or ten dollars have now been conveniently replaced by hand jobs, cigarettes, anal and oral sex and everyone’s all time favorite, junk food purchased at the commissary. This honest man with only one blemish on the behavior record of his soul is an alien in this environment; the worst crime that he has ever willingly committed was letting his inspection sticker on his sedan run out. He would get up for an elderly woman on the train and always lent a hand to a friend in need but he is quick to learn that these attributes mean shit inside the big house. The longer he sits there surrounded by these animals and listening to them he begins to ponder maybe just how mundane and boring his old life used to be.

At first he finds his fellow inmates repulsive, sickening when they tell their stories of mayhem. Little by little be pities them and then as the time flies he accepts them and joins ultimately becomes them. Fuck, this jump suit is soft and comfortable and besides, it used to take him two or three times to get his tie right in the morning anyway. Oh you would be surprised that there are some benefits to serving this type of time; it is nice to know that you no longer have to worry about your credit report, when is the next time that the tires on that piece of shit car of yours need to be rotated or being sure that you tip the irate ugly paper boy the correct amount before your daily stats ending up three inches from the curb covered in dog piss instead of on the welcome mat in front of your door. These petty little things that at one time not too long ago ruled your whole world, these miniscule little laughing matters that you assumed the entire galaxy was based on have now been replaced by something a little more serious like trying to avoid getting anally raped, keeping an eye out for that violent someone who just might be trying to shank you and figuring out just how many Twinkies you are going to need for another week’s worth of protection without putting your muscle man into a fucking diabetic coma.

While our honest husband hardens a little bit more with each day, our distraught employee takes some more baby steps toward his life’s greatest achievement. After his wife dozes off to sleep he is like a teenager on a porn site with glee. But it is not girl on girl action that has got him this excited… Instead he goes on line and visits a few gun shops as he researches all different types of side arms, which ones reload the quickest, how many bullets can certain guns hold if you go ahead and purchase the extra clip which also happens to add comfort, sweet bonus!!! And which ones are known to have the least amount of problems with jamming because the last thing that he needs is starting his rampage only to have the kibosh put on it because of a faulty gun. He spends his nights online investigating the quickest way he can acquire a permit and his weekends visiting all of the local trade shows seeking the perfect solutions for his problems. He does not purchase the death machine just yet but goes ahead and picks up all the little attachments and doo-hickies first. He buys that really cool extra big freaky looking survival knife, the same one that you see Rambo use to kill a small country of brown skinned people with. He makes sure to even buy some sturdy rope to tie up those who treated him alright so they can still watch the slaughter of the scum bags but be out of harm’s way. He even wanders over to the local flea market and picks up a pair of handcuffs for the portly guy who might break the rope; it took him a little while to find a pair that did not have pink ruffles and glitter on them.

The skin of our once happy go lucky husband has now thickened to that of a Rhino. All those scenes and images that had once repulsed him to the point of actually vomiting, he has now learned to stomach without so much of looking away or a blink. Then after some more time passes by he begins to actually enjoy witnessing some of these scenes and finally when enough time has passed he becomes the one who is inflicting the pain. He has taken the steps for survival that has now made him the aggressor; maybe it was inside of him his whole life and just needed to be ignited. He becomes the feared, the man that others seek for protection because he no longer cares anymore and nothing is more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose. When he first arrived at this concrete cube his days go as slow as molasses pouring from a Bell jar in January but that will all change too. Quickly with a blink of an eye his weeks will blend into months and he begins to forget more and more of the outside world that he was so much a part of before entering this new realm of insanity. There were countless things that he once found quite enjoyable; like the sound of a train slowly applying its brakes slowing down to come into the station, the rare sun shower in the middle of an Indian summer when the feeling of cool rain breaks the monotony of the blistering heat and within an instant brings you back to the thought of lazy childhood days and of course one of his favorites being the sight and screams of countless children running after an ice cream truck, which now elude him. All that he knows now is pain, hate and fear… how much is needed to get what he wants and just how much he can inflict without getting in trouble and that is what he begins to thrive off of.

When all is said and done and this now jaded ugly man serves his allotted time to society he is let loose only to be released into a society which he no longer recognizes and one which no longer recognizes him. He does not belong here because it differs so much from what he has become accustomed to. There is no space for him in this new world, he is a convicted felon and that is how everyone will see him. They consider him a threat and a loser; he is dangerous to the social well being of their society regardless of what actually went down in that master bedroom with the huge maroon flowers on the shams so many years ago. He will find countless doors being shut in his face and work near impossible to find because he will wear the tattoo of shame that comes with being an incarcerated man. Nobody cares that he served his time and paid his debt to society, no one even cares about the truth or his side of the story. In their opinion of him, once a criminal always a criminal. All they see is some thug who they do not want as an employee, neighbor or in-law.

When the frustration and rejection is too much for him to take anymore he’ll act up and break parole and everyone is so surprised as if this is coming from nowhere. They blame the penal system for failing, they get mad that the prison system does not rehabilitate but instead creates a stronger and smarter criminal. And this once loving family man is now quickly becoming a statistic that will continue to bounce to and from institutions until he is a harmless old man, no longer a threat to anyone. He will be a life wasted, potential thrown away. You will pity him when you see him eating the daily chef’s special all by himself at the counter in some grungy diner and you’ll quietly question aloud ‘how did this man end up in this predicament’? Then you will get a little frightened when you start to wonder if maybe someday you can be that guy sitting at the diner counter all by yourself silently hoping that someone strikes up a conversation with you because it has been so long that you have spoken to anyone besides the voice in your head you fear that you might have lost use of you vocal chords. Men like this will not live to a ripe old age, collecting their pension and rocking back and forth in their favorite chair; the parole system does not have much of a health care program and could give two fucks if this guy sees another day as long as he does not commit any more crimes. He will pass away alone someday in a filthy apartment located in the shittiest part of town. No one will be out there pounding the pavement looking for him and after weeks have passed by the only reason that he is even found is because the guy in the apartment upstairs could not withstand the smell of rotting flesh any longer. Of course, there was no article in the paper remembering his life.

Our disgruntled employee has a much different fate than our incarcerated friend. He does go ahead and purchase that gun. He pounces around his house with his new toy and plays quick draw with the man in the mirror as if he were Gary Cooper. He was upset about being forced to wait the mandatory background check period but after that he was excited about getting down to work. He loads up his shiny Bill Blass suitcase, the one his wife was so happy to put his son’s name on the tag when she gave it to him for his first day at the new position, with all the ammunition that it can carry without being too heavy. He wants to make sure that he has enough fire power to take out as many people as he needs to but at the same time he cannot be slowed down by anything that is bulky. He is so proud of himself for thinking of this and at one point even thanks God for putting the thought into his head! He wraps the knife around his leg like the muscle bound freaks in movies do as if he is about to go into the Congo and then continues to walk out the front door just as he has every weekday for the last seven years and five months. The drive in to the office is just as normal as any other day except his mind is running through his plan over and over like a second string quarterback trying to memorize a new play book in order to impress his coach.

Except his destiny now takes an unexpected turn, one that he never counted on, his piece of shit car gets a blow out. With all of his planning and time spent on this the last thing that he thought of was his ride to work, fuck, in all the years that he has worked there he does not remember ever being late due to car trouble. He is fuming and nervous and these feelings escalate when he notices the donut he kept in the trunk was taken out last year to fit beach chairs for his aunt’s annual barbecue and he never bothered to put it back. He tells himself everything will still go to plan as he waits for the tow truck but deep down he knows the dream has died; he has completely lost his nerve and is damn well convinced that it will never come back. He begins to laugh a little bit and then he finds himself disgusted by the thought of what he was prepared to do to his co-workers only minutes before and is downright frightened with himself for how far he let this crazy fantasy go. As warm tears stroll down his face he decides to call in sick that day and after the repair of the tire he freaks out a little more about his plan and tosses his arsenal into the lake he has passed on his way to work every day for the last seven and a half years. He stops at a strip mall and picks up some take out on the way home and spends the rest of the day on the couch with his arm wrapped around his wife’s shoulder watching Twilight Zones episodes that he has already seen a thousand times but never grow old. Hoping they show the episode where that old man who loves to read breaks his glasses after he survives the Apocalypse.

Now let me ask you a question my friends; who do you think God was really with on that fateful day? Did he decide to shine his grace on our angry employee who was stopped before sending his soul towards eternal damnation? Or his co-workers from the blood bath that awaited them at their cubicles. Then there is the bigger question; was this disturbed man’s soul sent to hell immediately following the moment that he decided to go on through with this heinous act? Even though he never committed the crime the intent was there…

Here we are shown two separate men. Both of them received different fates. Does one deserve to spend eternity in hell anymore than the other? Hasn’t one of them already been through hell wasting away in that jail cell? This is my journal, it will be the first entry of many that are part of a rehabilitation designed to help me get back and these are the thoughts that go through my head. Is it hot in here or am I crazy?

If you are sitting here and hoping for this story to end with a ‘happy ever after’ it would be in your best interest to turn back now and forget that this work even exists. The days of yore where the cat never actually catching that cute little mischievous mouse are long behind us at this point, one would be smart to question if those days ever existed to begin with. So many people incorrectly refer to the past as the ‘good old days’ even though history has showed us we as a whole have always been fucked up. Some of us know how to cope with it a little bit better than others, others just know how to hide what is going on and there are the select few who just do not give a shit. We tell ourselves that things will get better, that this is only a phase we are going through or we do a line of coke and wash it down with a cocktail; whatever gets you through the day, I am not here to judge.

You may call this hell, you may think of it as purgatory, when in fact it is life and we are all dwelling here.

My name is Tobias Spark but everyone has just called me Toby since I was about sixteen years old. It shouldn’t have come to a surprise to most that I find myself in this place, though some mornings I do wake up here and have no recollection on whatever brought me and no wonder why I haven’t been sent home for that matter. Oh, I am sure there are going to be some people who will just be blown away by me being here, a handful of warm souls truly upset and concerned about my well being. Family members shocked with what happened to me because they were witness to the façade I pulled off for such a long time. They knew the fun loving Tobias who danced away at weddings and was always quick to make you laugh. The people who genuinely enjoyed my company and looked forward to seeing me at their door.

But not everyone will be as warm hearted as those few close friends. Because there will also be a shitload more people who are privately happy about this outcome that I now find myself in. They will all play the part as if they care and that they are praying for my quick recovery. Some will even make up some bullshit lie how they ask my wife if she needs help around the house. They may say at parties that it is a tragedy and they are devastated and that they are losing sleep thinking about me stowed away in this place. But the moment that they are all alone or safe within their homes with their spouses and not worrying about what flies out of their mouths they are reveling in the fall of the great Toby. They will laugh and say I told you so. Say stuff like they are not surprised in the least and that they saw it coming now for a long time. Well, fuck them, I never needed them anyway.

Truth be told, I was a prick of the highest degree. I was the guy who made you laugh, sometimes even at yourself, but you couldn’t really tell if you liked me or not. Deep down and I guess I know it is still there if and when I ever need it, I am still a prick. Though it has been toned done some now thanks to the medicine administered to me like clockwork every morning at the same time. I was never one to use my enormous size to bully others or the fact that I had a few relatively tough older siblings at my beck and call to bail me out of trouble if I ever got into trouble I could not handle on my own. My life raft in those shaky situations, and more often than not my undoing, was a sharp and quick tongue that came at you like a banshee cracked out on Mountain Dew. Though I was often the brunt of many of my own jokes, as a six foot and three hundred and eighty pound teenager you are going to take some ribbing. I definitely dished out more of the lashing than I ever received and when I cut I cut deep, nothing was off limits and nothing was considered sacred. It was a family trait that I was fortunate enough to inherit from my father. The ribbing and teasing I took with stride and acted as if it never got to me but as the saying goes those are really the scars that never heal. Even to this day some comment that I overheard about me decades ago can ruin my day if it surfaces in my brain. That is why it is important to keep that bottled up and stuffed way down there.

And where is there you ask me? My current living arraignment is at a cozy little place called Crane’s Neck Rehabilitation Center located on the north shore of Long Island, New York. It sounds so posh and classy, almost like the kind of place that celebrities go to dry out or get the monkey off of their back before they have to promote that new kid friendly holiday movie that they decided to make in between bare backing prostitutes and trashing pricy hotel rooms. Some of them even get those fucked up coffee colonics so their stomach is always flat. It is not that type of place.

Do not get me wrong, this place is not that bad. There have been no late night secret lobotomies being performed on so called violent patients nor is a bunch of hot anorexic want to be cutters looking for attention with too much time on their hands and way too much money in their parents’ bank account. And though I have waited patiently we have yet to receive one celebrity who crumbled under the pressure of the fame. These places are not like the movies, the glamour goes out the window when the lithium goes down the throat or into the vein. There is a variety of everyday people most of whom just gave up. No one here freaked out one day and decided to take a knife to their cheating wife and turn her chest into a fucking spaghetti strainer or did they opt to go to the local Wal-Mart, pick up an assault rifle and play shoot `em up at the workplace with everyone who disagreed with them over the last decade. No, there is nothing that exciting here. The residents in here with me threw in the towel, and really can you blame them for doing so? Does it really surprise you the staggering numbers of people who opt out of society every day? We speed up our pace when we are walking past these people every day and try to act casual when we quickly look the other way because we say we are embarrassed for them. We do not want them to see us looking at them because we are just so sure that they will feel the shame attached to their current living situation. We refuse to stare too long looking at their sneakers duct taped together or how matted their hair has become after months of not seeing a hot shower. When maybe deep down inside we are a little envious of them? Could that be the truth? The question runs through your head, how nice would it be to walk away from all this? I think we are not just sorry for these people but also a little scared because the more we think it over in our head, the increase in the chances of us acting upon it. One day we might decide to not get off at our usual train stop and stay on the train just to see where it goes. Keep going until you get to a town that has a more interesting name that the one you already reside at, the one that you now have no intention of ever stepping foot into again. You will set up in a town that you have never heard of before and which has never heard of you. Maybe look around for a few moments and then throw your wallet out into a trash bin with all of your shit inside and just keep the cash. Toss that fucking cell phone in to the sewer drain; it never brought you anything but headaches. Then start from scratch as a free man, if there is such a thing. But I must proceed…

Here we have your run of the mill housewives who were wiping noses, asses and whatever else gets soiled for ten hours a day praying and hoping for some form of excitement only to end up getting a meal out with the man of the house one night a week and possibly some boring missionary action in the bedroom if his stocks were performing well on the market at the time. She is so fucking tired of the same routine every day that the mere thought of looking at her children for another moment sickens her. She finds herself regretting ever having them and then the thought of even possibly