Crack Attack: A Collection of One-Shots and Other Disturbing Shit

Livestream (Jerome)

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Why in the half-living fuck am I still doing this shit?

I check everything to make sure it's all turned off and they can't see me anymore. Then I hit the little glowing green button on the webcam just to make sure. My head all but slams itself down on the desk.

I'm so fuckin' tired.

What was I thinking?

Shoulda listened to Nooch, goddammit. Why's he always gotta be right?

I glance up at the screen and I see the evil little black and white timer counting down 'til the next hour of pretending to be some asshole who's ten times happier than I'll ever be. I reach over and snatch one of the empty coffee mugs from the conga line makin' its way toward the keyboard and I push off from the desk and spin around, landing perfectly in front of the door to the hallway for the hundred thousandth time.

Every day's the same.

I hear Dondo snoring quietly in his room as I walk past and I wonder yet again how the hell he manages to sleep with me right livin' right across the hall. That's some fuckin' superpower. I check around to see if anyone else's awake, alive, and home to see if they'll go run and get some food real quick but it doesn't look like anything's moving in here but me and the steady stream of light brown drops flowing from the ceiling in the spare dining room downstairs. The bucket's still half empty so it's not my problem. It just keeps on going with a dependable "Drip, drip, drip."  If it overflows again, someone else can take it up with Bitchy Mitch. Not my turn. I grab the bottle of overpriced mocha shit from Target outta the fridge and pour half a cup in the mug before I dilute it with milk like the cheap fucker I am. You'd think I didn't make eight grand a month, the way I live. Only half cups of coffee, drippy ass houses, and squeaky keyboards for this Bacca. I slurp off the little bubbles trying to escape the rim of the cup and shove the carton of milk back on the door so I can't see the too-happy little cow smiling at me anymore.

I hope this's enough caffeine to make it through round three.

I turn and look suspiciously at the mysterious, still-swinging chandelier in the dining room before I head back upstairs, away from the tree branches scratching against the back window and the still-pissing ceiling. Fuckin' place's haunted, too, I bet. It'd go real great with the goddamn hurricanes and look-at-my-giant-cock-roaches. Back to the ranch- and Monster-scented cave with no natural light, just misshapen Pixelmon, microscopic tanks, and broken dreams.

I open the door and it smells musty as shit in here. Didn't notice that before. Must be the smell of my soul rotting. I shut and lock the door behind me so there're no surprise visitors while the camera's runnin'. It's so disgustingly humid even in the house... You'd think I'd been bawling my eyes out for a solid month and dumpin' the runoff in a humidifier. Warm and salty and n-asty. I see there's only six minutes left on the timer until liftoff and I put one foot in front of the other, like a madman on his way to the electric chair.

"What the fu-" There's a huge wet spot right in the middle of the carpet that wasn't here ten minutes ago. But before I even have a chance to look down and see how bad the damage is, my mug of clearance mocha shit is being knocked outta my hand and the wind's getting smashed right outta my lungs.

I can't scream. I can't breathe. I can't see.

It's wet and heavy and getting wetter and heavier by the second. I pry open one eye and try to look around. I can't move my head. A stream of clear but slightly gritty rain water is flowing down the side of my cheek and a chunk of black, soggy wood is perched on top of my right wrist.

Did the fucking roof cave in again?

Of all places, why did it have to do it on top of me?!?

A rush of air floods back into my lungs but it's nowhere near enough to make a sound. I wheeze on it for a few seconds and I manage to flick the piece of wood off my arm. There's another rumble of thunder up above through the gaping hole in the fuckin' roof and I just wanna scream right back at it. It's laughin' at me. The wind snickers as it rushes by, sending a spray of nasty water right across my face that stings when I try to blink it outta my eyes. Mold and bacteria and all kinds o' great shit in there, I bet. I try to sit up to knock the pile of rotted driftwood off my back. It won't budge.

"You evil motherfucker." This house's been like a nightmare outta a Stephen King movie ever since Mitch signed the closing papers. Nothin' good's come out of it. Nothing. And I'm about this close from burnin' Amityville down to the fuckin' ground with a beer in one hand and a blowtorch in the other. Talk about a good video idea. Even PewDiePie hasn't done that yet.

I reach back and try to grab a hunk of wood to start unburying myself, still gasping for a full breath. This shit's heavy. I can only touch one plank, and no matter how hard I pull, I can't get the leverage to tug it off.

The timer on the computer starts beeping softly, only loud enough for me to hear it, and only every now and again over the hissing, roaring gusts of wet wind. I glare up at the blinking screen and I see my phone perched tauntingly at the edge of the desk, calling me to come get it. Crawling like a fuckin' slug doesn't work, either. Five feet's a long way when you're only eight inches tall. I grab the piece of wood that fell on my hand and I chuck it at the computer monitors, hoping it'll break something and wake Dondo's lazy ass up to come help me.

It misses by four and a half of the five feet.

"Fuck," I grunt, as much in pain and frustration as to spit the rancid water outta my mouth. It's streaming down on me like a river now as the storm picks back up outside. I look around for another bright idea and the coffee mug is sitting pitifully on the soggy carpet a few inches to my right. I struggle to get my other arm free so I can grab it, hoping the feeling of the pile of wood loosening up isn't just all in my mind.

Cr-eeeeeeeak.

I look up just in time to see the next section of the roof tumble down toward me outta the corner of my eye. There's nothing I can do except draw in a half-breath and wait for impact. I smacks down on my legs with a jarring impact, but nowhere near as painful as I thought it would be. That wasn't so bad, right? It coulda-

Sh-tik-sh-sh-sch-tik. Cr-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak.

I'm weightless. And I don't know what that means.

It isn't heavy anymore.

It isn't anywhere anymore.

There's a tinkling of glass.

The dim light disappears into darkness.

Then there's nothing.

I hear a crash somewhere far away.

My lungs try to give a sigh of relief as my eyes finally slip closed after weeks of planes and cars and computer monitors.

The lights flicker again. There's a sharp jolt in my heart before they go out again.

Bet Mitch's gonna be pissed.

Not my problem.

I reach for my coffee mug but my arm won't move.

I'm already dreaming.