Daemon

I was a hell spawn. I was a child of god. I could have been anything.

“I mentioned your name to Tony Blair”.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

Why did I make this call? Is this what desperation has brought me to? I’ve been brought to many things. Many things. But not this. And for nothing.

“But I am helping you. That’s what I’m doing right now.”

So he’s not going to help. He could, but he won’t.

Late one night, I’ll start whispering the culling song in his ear. He’ll swallow his tongue.



76 years. Enough already. You’re weak now, aren’t you? Frail? I had hoped. I had feared. Perhaps I’ll come out to see you. To stand over your bed, your sick bed, in your sick house, the one I grew up in. You still have it, I see.

Are you not dead yet? How long do you mean to take? Do you remember when you threatened to kill yourself? Even when I was 13, I wished for you to do it. When I was 9, I used to plot your murder. Poison in the food was my best idea. But I thought I had to get rid of the body or I’d go to jail. I could not come up with a way to transport you.


You know you killed your son, right? And ruined every life you touched. But I will see you dead, and I will be happy. You still have guns, don’t you? Bullets? Go get a shotgun, that should do nicely. Go on, I’ll wait. Don’t forget the shells.

You know, oddly enough, Bill Clinton was talking to ME, and he told me that when he talked to you he thought you were a psycho and a moron who imagined he was a genius. Tony Blair said something similar, but was a tad more polite. They both agreed that you killed John, when I told them that story. They agreed that the world would be a better place without you in it. My life would certainly be better without you in the world. You are loathed by everyone in the world. Every person who hears the story of who you are agrees with me when I tell them I want you dead. Everyone thinks you should be dead. Why do you think my friend is making this call right now?

I tried to have you killed when I was 17. I met someone who said they knew people and offered to have it taken care of for me. I believed him. I seriously considered for a while, very seriously. And I said “yes, do it”, very seriously. It’s too bad he was full of shit and didn’t come through.

You’re not that bright, for all your delusions of grandeur. And they are delusions, you must see that. You must have those nagging little doubts. Maybe it’s not that no one is bright enough to recognize your genius, maybe it really is that you are a delusional idiot. You know it happens, right? Delusions of grandeur. Well, you’re the guy. You are really very stupid. Stupid, coarse, selfish, brutal, egotistical, and a huge boor. You remember all those people who you used to rope into conversations? The random strangers you had to hijack into conversations because no one you knew was willing to tolerate you. They wanted nothing more than to get away from you; they were only being polite. They laughed about you afterward, laughed at you and if I was there pitied me for being stuck with you. Grandmom told me once that you wanted to be a good father. You failed miserably at that like you have failed at everything. The only thing left that you could be any good at and successful at is killing yourself. Take some time, think about it. I would prefer you to die slowly and painfully, but choose your own way, just leave. Everyone sees how ridiculous and stupid you are, and they all laugh at you behind your back. You should be filled with shame for who you are, I can’t imagine living with such shame, I can’t imagine how you would want to. Go on, into the void, end it all, do this one thing for me, this one thing ever.