And here... we... go! Again.

Hello there fellas!

It has been a rather long time since my last scribble, do excuse me for that (who the hell am I talking to, no one reads this load of shit anyways). Aaaaanywhore, here's something I created for my English class since for once we got to write what ever we wanted.

So here it is, I present to you the latest addition to this remarkable collection of Stories from the Mute stories:

A Stories from the Mute story Hank

Written by Wille Holopainen

A slight sound woke me up, and when I opened my eyes, I was looking at the face of a lion. I never really understood my cousin’s fascination to taxidermy. And I certainly do not understand why anyone would hang a head of a lion on the ceiling.

                      My head hurt like hell. It was the whiskey. Ahh whiskey: the cause of (and solution to) all of life’s problems. Although in my defense I must say that I needed that liquid courage in order to accept my cousin’s invitation to visit him. In his manor. In Scotland. During the winter.

                      “Swell now, how about that Charleston!?” Those were the words that my cousin bellowed, accompanied by a horrible Charleston piece from The Boyfriend. God awful stuff. On top of all that, it was 6.00 am. I was shivering and not only due to the freezing temperature of 16 degrees Celsius INSIDE, but also because of sheer rage. “Shut the fuck up you little prick, I’m hungover!” I shouted from the top of my lungs. “Wow, there is absolutely no reason to get yer bollocks in a twist mate” said that pretentious bozo. I was getting even more pissed: “Hank, stop that now, would ya? You’re not even British for god’s sakes!” I was vacillating whether I’d get out of the bed and rip his tongue out or just stay in bed and fall back to sleep. I did neither and just rolled about in my bed, wishing my cousin would perish.

                      When I finally got downstairs for breakfast it was already 7.30 am. Hank was sitting in the library, sipping tea and reading The Guardian. Unfortunately I was forced to walk through there, which gave Hank a golden opportunity to push my nerves little closer to the edge of snapping. “Looking a little shaky, eh?” I glared at him with a look that could vaporize a lake like a flame vaporizes moisture. Yet he just kept going: “Shouldn’t have had that last Laphroaig. I think you ought to stick with the carrot juice, you know, like me. You naughty lad”.

                      This same pattern repeatedly haunted me throughout the whole day and every single time he opened his mouth I wanted to stick a bundle of dynamite up his “arse”, light it up and enjoy the gory fireworks.

                      When it was tome for dinner I had had it. It was my time to act on this nonsense. We were supposed to eat pot roast, but we never actually got to that point in out attempt to satisfy our need for nutrition. Mainly because I had another satisfaction to fulfill. I was sitting at the other end of the table, next to the meat and there just so conveniently happened to be a bulky chef’s knife beside my left hand. With fingers tinkling from excitement I grabbed the knife and started to the other side of the seven-meter table, tossing the knife from one hand to another. I walked up to Hank, greeted him politely and stabbed him in the thigh. It felt wonderful.

                      So there I was twenty minutes later. There was also Hank, although he was tied up, so to speak. I was equipped with a variety of power tools from the garage and an admirably large collection of blades. I liked blades. And there was Hank. Hank, Hank, Hank. I hated his guts, so I figured I might just pull them out. That way they perhaps would stop bothering me.

                      Hank was not awake, so I decided to put some more life to him by sticking my index finger to his fresh wound. Surprisingly it worked. Hank was screaming, which sounded more like a Chihuahua trying to poop out a saw. I liked it.

                      The next few hours passed like on wings as I enjoyed the last agonizing moments of Hank’s pathetic life. To feel how his fingernails gave in under the force of my pliers was exquisite. To feel how he was fighting me when I dipped his hands in acid. To feel him biting his lip when I smashed his knee caps. At one point Hank pulled himself together so we could have a little chat. “Why are you doing this? Why can’t you just kill me already?” I found that plea for mercy a bit too cliché, so I decided to torture him a little more. But first I wanted to finish the chat. “Well, mainly because you irritate me way too much, which means that just slaughtering you would not be satisfying enough. Slaughtering… Slaughter… I like that word, but not the meaning. Slaughter…” I got lost in my thoughts as I let the word dwell in my mouth. I tasted it. I let it take over my mind. It is a wonderful word; I just don’t like the meaning.

                      So as I was saying, time flew. It was a shame to end it all, but Hank just couldn’t keep up. Although I am a cruel man, I am respectful in certain matters, so I placed Hank, and the parts that were more or less detached from his torso, into a chest I found from the library. I took the chest to the backyard and then I took a leak on it, poured some gasoline and, after lighting my Churchill piccolo cigar, tossed the lighter on it. I think it is better for a man to be cremated rather than being eaten by worms.

                      I went up to the bedroom and watched the flames from the window. I had called the police earlier and when I heard the sirens I took a long and enjoyable gulp from the bottle of 28 years old Laphroaig I had opened. When the warm and fuzzy feeling from the whiskey running down my throat, I took a moment to think what I had done and I felt… proud. I felt proud for taking responsibility for my acts. I also felt peaceful and tranquil. I had a long draw from my cigar and I let my head drop back. That’s when I saw it: the head of a lion, hanging where it had hung all the time, except that now it had a neighbor. Hank.