I'll change the stories and such on this page at least twice a month...

The Incantations of the Insane

Didi Tuttle

I had never really classified myself as being insane until a few nights ago, July 7th, I think. I don’t really know. I was at a bar, you know, picking up women, not an insane thing to do. I hit on a babe and she called me a nutcase. That’s when the shit really hit the fan. I sat down alone with my Foster’s and thought about it. A nut. A crackhead. A loser. I had never thought I was insane. Usually I had pretty good luck with women. Maybe she was a psychic or something and could see my inner self. Or maybe she was just a bitch. Nah, that could not be the case, beautiful women are never bitches. Hmm... kinda makes you think. Maybe she was a lesbian. Or a man. I don’t want to think about that. Anyway, I sipped my beer and thought... I thought for a long time. I thought so long and hard that I pissed in my jeans and did not notice. Unfortunately, those around me did. The lovely lady that diagnosed me earlier told everyone in the bar that she knew I was certifiable, and told Phil the bartender to call the funny farm. Phil told her to fuck off, that I was a regular, and I was not insane, maybe just a bit drunk, he’d call me a cab. Well, I was still in thought, trying to determine whether I was insane or not, when the cab arrived. Phil and two other gents escorted me to my chariot, piss running down my legs the whole time. I must have stunk. They helped me in, touching me as little as possible, and told the cabbie where I lived. The cabbie flipped the meter and took off. Sir Cabbie looked like a reasonable man, so I decided to ask him of my pending insanity. He replied with a laugh and a belch, saying “Who can judge that?” I guess I saw his point, because I was quiet the rest of the ride. When we arrived at my home, I gave the guy a $50 and stumbled out, leaving the befuddled driver in the past. I had more important things to worry about. The woman was right, I thought as I walked towards my house, I’m crazy. Well, I was at my front door, fumbling for my keys, when a truckload of Mexicans listening to ABBA drove by yelling at me. I was mad. They had no right to listen to ABBA. I took off running and screaming after the truck. Fucking Mexicans, taking our music and our beer and our jobs. I began to cry as I chased the truck, knowing that they would get away. They laughed at me, pointing and gibbering in Spanish. The damned wetbacks turned the corner and sped off, leaving me standing confused in the road. The piss on my legs was beginning to dry as I walked slowly back to my shabby bachelor pad where I had made love to hundreds of women, drank thousands of beers, and watched countless football games. I fumbled for my keys again, and walked in the house. The answering machine light winked at me, telling me of the treasures it withheld. I hit the play button and listened to my messages. Mom asking when I was gonna settle down, my ex-girlfriend asking for her panties back, a telemarketer, and finally, a life insurance asshole. He asked if I was prepared for death. He told me that my family would suffer if I died. He told me that I could help them by buying his shit. I cocked my head, thinking that he might be right. I was currently out of work and had no insurance. I called his 800 number. “Hello, Mr. Insured Incorporated, how may I help you?”, asked a lovely voice. All of the sudden, I pictured that voice to be the knockout at the bar, who told me I was fucked in the head. “You have no right!”, I screamed into the phone, “I’ll show you that I’m not crazy!.” I hung up, feeling better about myself. I staggered to the bedroom looking for some clean pants. I found my deceased Dad’s steamer trunk and began to go through it. I found some lovely yellow and blue wool plaid pants and put them on. I smiled in the mirror, thinking that I was Daddy’s big boy, a spitting image of my handsome pop. I glanced down at the trunk again, looking for a spiffy jacket and saw Daddy’s pride and joy, Beretta 9mm, a true beauty. I picked it up, smiling at it’s shiny clean and immaculate surface. The gun smiled back. I checked the clip to see if it was loaded. Wow! Bliss! It was fully loaded and ready to go! I was so happy I thought I’d shit all over myself. I tucked the gun into my snug pants and walked to the kitchen. I sat at the table and looked around the room. The ceiling fan wizzed about, going so fast I could not look at it without getting dizzy. My cat, John, sat by his empty dish, looking at me like I was Satan himself. “What the hell is wrong! I fed you this morning! You treat me like shit!” I screamed at poor John, who just looked at me, not understanding my insanity that I just knew existed. I pulled the Daddy’s gun from my pants and aimed it at John. I smiled at him and pulled the trigger. “Bang!”, I screamed delightfully, but to my disappointment, the bang did not come. I looked at the gun and noticed that the safety was on. I frowned, looking off at the fan again and pondered this mystery. I was sure the safety was not on when I first picked it up. Maybe this means John deserves life. Something the insane never get; a second chance. I smiled at my pussy and told him to carry on with whatever he had been doing before. I picked up my keys and trudged towards the front door, letting my mind and instincts lead me to my destiny, something that I had heard a serial killer say once. I stepped outside, and turned to lock my door, glancing at the smiling brass knocker. It approved of me. It knew I was just as sane as the next man. I walked to the curb and hailed a cab. A few moments later, my Wagon to Destiny pulled up next to me. I opened the door and climbed in, smiling at my new friend. “To Phil’s Bar, please.” I said politely. “Sure thang, pal,” replied the driver, and we sped off. I spoke not a word to the driver the whole way there, but upon our arrival he asked for his $3.30. “Yeah”, I replied, pulling a 100 dollar bill from my pocket. “You want me to autograph it for ya?” I asked the cab driver, who looked at me impatiently. “I don’t give a shit, I just want my money.” He replied. I smiled warmly at my friend, “I’ll sign it for you, and be sure to keep it, because one day it’ll be worth money. You were my escort to destiny, you see. People will worship you. You’ll be a hero all over the world.” I told him happily. “Whatever, just give it to me,” he said, mumbling about the people in this city under his breath. I pulled out my pen and signed it, passing it over the seat. I opened the door and sighed, breathing in the toxic, yet lovely air and stepped out of my buggy. I turned to wave at the driver but he was already headed away from me. A tear trickled down my face as I thought about the friend I had just lost. I steadied myself, knowing that now was the time to keep my head. I walked, no, I pranced into Phil’s, feeling proud of what I was about to do. I nodded to Phil, who frowned at me, but did not say anything. I stopped and looked about the room, searching for that red hair. She was still here, my bride-to-be, the woman of my dreams. Her back was to me and she was sipping a White Russian, staring at a well built man in the corner. I approached her quietly, gazing at her beautifully exposed neck. I bent down and tasted her, loving it. She turned abruptly and screamed. “Pervert!” she yelled, slapping me. I glared at the girl, knowing that this was no way for my love to treat me. I backhanded her, telling her to behave and she fell to the floor. I heard the 5 or 6 men in the bar approaching me, and I knew they wanted my destined love. I turned to face them, reaching into my pants. My hand found the Beretta. I pulled it out and began to shoot, yelling loudly. I saw the big man from the corner’s chest explode. I saw poor Phil running at me with a bat. I shot him cleanly in the forehead. As my opponents all lay dead and dying in front of me, I heard my beloved whimpering. I turned to her, looking at her tear stained face. “Baby, don’t cry,” I told her, stroking her red locks lovingly, “I just did this to show you that we were meant for each other.” She whimpered again, looking at her dead friend from the corner. I glared at her, pissed at her concern. “Your loverboy is dead! He felt nothing for you! Nothing like what I feel! I love you! You are my chosen one!” I screamed at her. I saw that my words had no effect, so I grabbed her by the hair and drug her to his body. “Look! He’s dead! Forget him!”, I yelled, slamming her face into his bloody chest. Suddenly, she stopped whimpering and whining. Her blood streaked face turned to me and her wonderful blue eyes met mine. I saw in them what I dreamt... insanity. I had made her mine. My destined bride. Now, a few days later, I am still having to force feed my pretty new wife, and I have to clean her beautiful twat when she pisses in her pants, but that’s OK. She does not complain. In all actuality, she doesn’t talk. She doesn’t cry out when I fuck her in her ass, doesn’t moan when I suck her tits, but she screams in her drug enduced sleep. Weird. Oh well, I am done pondering about life. From now on, I will not think. I will run on my emotions. I will become what my love wanted... insane.

Back up...