Wednesday, January 31, 2007


Yeah, I was in my mother's garage last Saturday. We were in there doing all sorts of organizing and reorganizing.

I saw this desk in the dark corner by my father's workbench. It was a metal desk that I hadn't seen in years. I stepped up to it and opened one of the metal drawers. I blindly thrust my hand in. Suddenly, pain shot up my arm like a flash-flood. There was a trap-like contraption at the bottom of the drawer. It whirred and clicked as I pulled away from it. The desk was bolted to the cement floor of the garage, so I couldn't drag the whole thing into the light. I leaned in and saw that somehow, a noose was holding my wrist in place. The more I pulled, the more a series of what looked like ice picks and razor points worked their way into my palm and the back of my hand. My skin wasn't entirely broken. I was more or less in shock from the fact that my hand was in this trap. I was trying to comprehend how it worked. I must have put my hand through the noose. When I hit the bottom of the drawer, I must have triggered the mechanism. All I could tell about the mechanism was that it was well built, and it was engulfing my hand. Furthermore, I was wrestling with a serious form of deja vu. I remembered this thing somehow. I was actually thinking that maybe I had made the thing.

I pulled against the noose again. it tightened and the picks went into my hand, sandwiching it and puncturing between my fingers. I let out a grunt. I looked into the drawer further. Suddenly something squirted. I recognized that smell. It was that Rosinol lighter fluid that I used to feed to my Zippo. The fluid went into my recently torn wounds and now I howled. that stuff hurt. I pulled back again and the picks went in deeper. Somehow, I had one working its way under my fingernail. Working its way? Was there some sort of mechanical intelligence at work here? There was a whirring that I could hear underneath it all. The pain all seemed to be "puncture-pain" rather than the "paper-cut/razor-cut" pain that I was expecting.
I remembered that razors wouldn't hurt me unless I moved against the blade. For it to go straight at me, that wasn't going to be too much of a problem. The rest of it hurt though. I could feel my blood dripping into the base of my palm and then to the bottom of the drawer. There was another squirt of lighter fluid and I recoiled. I recoiled wrong and the razors began to slash. There was another squirt of lighter fuid, another recoil and another slash. All of the little pricks and pains in my hand were turning into one big worried wound. I still heard whirring. I could see that the lighter fluid was clearing the blood away, just in time for more to weep.

I looked around for some help. Dave and Thurston had gone out for burritos and Veronica and Mom were at the neighbor's house. I needed to handle this myself.

But the whirring was bothering me. I leaned in closer. In the darkness, I could see an old egg-timer in the corner of the drawer. The whirring wasn't a whirring at all, but the steady ticking of a plastic timer from somewhere in my childhood. I squinted and looked in more. I had one minute. I had no idea what was coming, but I needed to stop it. I looked wildly about, for an exacto knife or a blade to cut the rope that had now dug into my skin. No blade in sight. I had to improvise. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my VW key. I began furiously sawing at the rope. I was pulling as I did and I felt all of my flesh serated in directions I couldn't comprehend. What I did know was that I'd lost an incredible amount of blood in a short time. One of my arteries must hanve been punctured in the process. Blood was now dripping out of the drawer and onto the floor.

My boot slipped in my blood causing me to fall back, further shredding my right hand and forearm in this contraption. I was now pissed. I re-footed and began to saw like a maniac.


The timer went. There was a flash somewhere within the drawer. It was too close to my face. I was scorched. My left eye took the flame and I muscled it shut involuntarily. My hand caught on fire. Rosinol, goddammit. The whole drawer exploded and blew me back again. More tearing and severing. This time, I could feel the ligaments near my thimb beginning to give.

A lower drawer in the desk suddenly popped open. Popped and slid open with a sloshing sound. My upper body was covered in flames now, and I leaned forward to see what was in there. The whole drawer looked like it was full of water. I reached in with my free hand to douse the flames. Then, mid-splash, I realized that it was gasoline.

The following explosion blew me into the front yard. The force put me through the wall. I felt the plaster and drywall give around me. I must have flown for ten or fifteen feet before I landed. My solar plexus spasmed on me and I was short of breath. I could no longer feel my right arm. I was on my back. I lifted my right arm to look and saw a frayed smoking stump where my right hand had been. Blood still rolled casually out of any number of wounds in the general area. The explosion hadn't cauterized shit. I rolled onto my left side to get up. My legs were on fire. It was at this moment that I saw the picture at the top of this post lying in the burnt grass next to me. It is a picture of Casson and myself in much more innocent times.