The Cramp Apocalypse

Lorka looks at her watch. Its battery died two years ago.

She finds a repair shop, but the repair guy is dead. So, she gets a screwdriver, loosens the screws and screws them back on. She doesn’t know what type of battery to use. Learned helplessness is killing her slowly.

4 years earlier…

“We have been informed that Arnold Cramp has been elected as the new president. His first decree is that anybody who looks Arab is to be shot on sight. Those who have Arab blood in them will be hunted down as well. All Muslims shall be bombed on sight.”

Lorka turned off the TV, grabbed her suit jacket and left for work. She lived at the Fraternal twin towers – that’s what they were called after Cramp rebuilt them.

There was no traffic, and she could see from the bus window that hundreds of cars were being towed away. Ambulances were parked in front of buildings, loading dead bodies.

Lorka was expecting to get shot…

She worked at one of Cramp’s major companies: The Main Cramp Company.

Cramp spent most of his time in the lobby, going up and down the glittery escalator, waving at his employees who waved back. This happened every five minutes or so, whenever he felt like taking a fun ride.

Lorka reached the company, got off the bus and heard a faint shot. She turned around to find an agent standing near the window of a dead driver.

She kept walking until she reached the main entrance where she had to pass a card over an electric key system. Her name appeared on the screen: Lorka Bekdach… Welcome back but don’t get too comfortable.

It was a regular day at work. At lunch break, she went to the cafeteria and had Scallops and Sushi. She ate for free, like always, because she was a valuable employee. Her job was to spit on her hand and readjust Cramp’s hair whenever it looked disheveled. She got paid $5000 a month to do that, and her spit and hand were both insured for $500,000.  When she sat at the table, the afternoon news was on the air:

“All Arabs and Arab look-alikes have been eliminated successfully. However, the bombing of Muslims on sight resulted in billions of non-Muslim casualties. We have also been informed that the decree was a worldwide one. China is now barely populated, so the government issued a new law: each family has to have at least 10 children. Meanwhile, the entire world declared war on Cramp. The Apocalypse has begun.”

Then, the news anchor was dramatically shot with a shotgun, her brains splattering on the screen. A message appeared after the screen went black: No thanks to you, MOBAWA.

Lorka finished her meal and headed to the ladies room. As she washed her hands, she started wondering why she hadn’t been shot yet. She went to her office and dialed the extension to Cramp’s office. Naturally, the secretary didn’t answer, since she was shot. So Cramp had to answer his secretary’s phone:

“Cramp’s office, how may I help you?”

“Mr. Cramp, I need to have a word with you about your decree.”

“Ah yes, come up. My hair is not looking good.”

Lorka entered his office and walked over to his desk. First, she spat on her hand and fixed his hair. Then, she sat on the chair that faced his desk.

“Mr. Cramp, how come I haven’t been shot yet?”

“I can’t shoot someone who puts so much spit into fixing my hair. You are a valuable life. Nobody wants your job.”

“Oh, ok.”

His head suddenly fell on the table, blood dripped into an expanding pool of blood. She spat one last time on her hand, and pushed the hair off his face and went back home.

Back to Now…

Lorka finds a dead, half-decomposed body near the entrance of her apartment. The dead man has a pistol in his right hand. She takes the pistol and shoots herself.

The Alcoholic

I’d hate myself, but that would lead to a depression that would lead to a willingness to end my life, and that shouldn’t be, cause if that happens I can’t drink anymore. Who am I kidding? I loathe myself.

I walk down the road knowing that I shouldn’t have another drink, but the only thing I wanna do is have another drink. I want to chug it. I want it to hit my brain so hard and make me forget I actually have one.

I go into the shop and buy my poison. It’s usually the type that gets me drunk as fast as possible. I pay and step out of the shop to drink it as soon as I can. This is my goal right now: getting even more intoxicated. It makes me feel “free”.

I know I shouldn’t. I want to anyway. The fact that I shouldn’t makes me want to do it even more. I drink large chugs of it, and feel my body resist. I feel the need to throw up. I fight it. I swallow it all, and force it down with determination. What a fucking overachiever. Judge me as much as you can, I’ve passed the verdict a long time ago.

Guilty as charged: first degree alcoholic, someone who would go to inexplicable lengths to have their next fix of vodka, tequila, rum, or whatever, anything, fucking anything. Wine would even do, at least immense amounts of it, but it would do… something to shut this voice up.

Am I monster? I probably am. I become one every single time I black out. Each time there’s that lack of self-control it’s a fucking blessing and the biggest curse. It’s a blessing because you can finally let out all those things that you had to keep in, it’s a curse cause…need I explain that part?

I hate myself today. I hated myself yesterday, and I knew it was cause of all the anxiety and distress from drinking. The hangover is full of uncontrollable emotions. Sometimes it gives you the deepest sadness you could experience for nothing. And that is what I loved and hated the most: experiencing something profound and exhilarating for no reason what-so-fucking-ever. What a fucking poet.

I tell myself time and time again that I’m gonna quit. After so many stupid fights, arguments, embarrassments, humiliations, one would think that quitting would become inevitable. One could never be more wrong.

There is no way to understand the mind of the hopeless alcoholic unless you are or were one yourself. And if you are, no one could ever possibly envy you. You’re on your own. It’s one of the most isolating and loneliest experiences. God help you. In any case, after enough drinks, God either doesn’t exist, or he’s your only friend.