Hole Punch by Simmons, Garth (the dot read aloud TXT) 📕

Not even that worked because they hated their own children. They never said so, but they did. Each generation was a mirror of their own failure and hate. Nothing could justify their ugly existence. They used one another, and they called it love.”

“We do the same,” chittered the cockroach larvae. “Life is predisposed towards survival and having to deal with the inevitability of death in a world we will never understand. Humans may be uglier and stupider than us, but how are they different from us in regards to love?”

“Listen to my story! Otherwise I will be very disappointed in you,” chittered their mother.

The cockroach larvae obeyed. They knew all about parental authority.

“Love killed them,” chittered their mother. “Each individual human inflicted hate and resentment on every other human. Constant pain, both mental and physical, stretched outward until, eventually, the strain tore apart their civilisation. The strain of love.”

When the larvae sleep they dream of eating their mother's corpse.

ROMON

How long has it been? Five or six years? Actually, it was seven. Seven whole years. That's how long he's known her. He thinks he loves her. He thinks he's always loved her. She loved him too. She loved him in the platonic sense. And now here she was on the floor, her head smashed. Blood and bits on the carpet. He had done this. Seven whole years and this is how it ended. Her head smashed. Blood and bits on her Indian rug. Look how fragile she was. How fragile she is. Has always been. She was only human after all.

Now she was dead. She wouldn't disappoint him again now. This body. Was it still her? He laughed. Yes it was. Of course it was. This was her.

“I should have done this sooner,” he said.

Would it have wasted less time if he'd done this sooner?

No.

No it wouldn't.

The timing had been perfect.

* * *

She first became the target for his affections after his ex girlfriend had dumped him.

He was really fascinated with the way she talked about politics. He'd never even thought about politics before. He even started to go on protests with her.

Stop poverty.

Stop racism.

Don't stop abortions.

He grew a beard to impress her. The beard helped him to fit in with her crowd of people. He signed all the petitions that she signed and he cared about what they represented.

She liked that about him.

She liked that he cared.

She had a nice arse too.

* * *

Seven whole years and this is how it ended. Her head smashed. Blood and bits on the her Indian rug.

He opened the fridge and reached in and cracked open a beer.

This is the real him.

The Real Romon.

REVENGE

Acre Drillbit moved all sinewy and taut through the marshlands. He had a machete, rifle, semi-automatic pistol, Swiss Army Knife and a fishing net filled with the severed heads of the tadpoles of his enemy: the CyberToad Footlevac.

“How many of your spawn must I kill before you crawl out of your sludge!?” shouted Acre Drillbit.

He spun around shooting his rifle in all directions into the green mist.

“Come out and face me Footlevac!”

A stooped old toad emerged from the mist and waved her walking stick in surrender.

“Stop!” she bubbled in her mucus-soaked voice.

Acre aimed his rifle at her round, toad head.

“Where is Footlevac!”

“He is no longer here. He flew away to a distant shore.”

Acre pressed his machete against her throat.

“Where?! Tell me! You monster!”

Tears welled up in the old toad’s black eyes.

“You are the monster, not us, how many more have to die before you give up your vendetta?”

Acre pressed the machete harder into her slimy throat.

“As many as it takes!”

STUPID DEAD PEOPLE

The teenage tough laughed at their graves.

“Stupid dead people,” he said.

He shoved a piece of beef pie and some gravy smothered chips into his mouth.

“You can’t even eat. Stupid dead people.”

Full of chip shop food, disorientated from the sun, he ambled about the grass.

“Can’t even walk. Stupid dead people. Can’t even talk. Stupid dead people.”

He laughed at his clever rhyming and took a swig from his fizzy drink.

“You ain't got money anymore!”

He kicked a gravestone hard with his steel toe capped boot.

“You can’t do nothing! You ain’t got nothing!”

He kicked the gravestone again, knocking it over.

“Oy!” shouted the caretaker, stepping out of the church. “Leave them alone you puff!”

The teenage tough kicked at the soil of the graves.

“I’m going to smash in all their stupid dead faces!”

MINUTES

Emmett Corcoran flaps a thick document on my desk. I slouch back in my chair and peer over my sunglasses at his passionless form.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asks, pointing at document.

"Those are the minutes for your last meeting,” I tell him. “Remember? I told you I would work harder. Am I a real boy now?"

He opens the document and starts reading out the first page.

Why does he need to do this? I already know the contents and his terrible tenor is only going to wreck the substance of my prose. What a waste of time this man is. What a waste of man!

"The morons march through the door and sit down around the chemical scented corporate table. The table is loaded with cakes, crisps and sandwiches, all ready to be shoved into their fat, facile faces. I don't recall any of their names because they aren’t worth remembering. The workers in this office are a stream of blood tainted shit. Emmett and Julie are leading the meeting, they are the only exceptions to my memory block simply because I have to look at them more often, also, they are having an affair. They must have a lot in common, every cancer cell is different but also the same. If you stare at anything long enough it will project an illusion of individuality. Emmett and Julie are cancer cells of their very own malignant tumour!”

Emmett stops reading and looks at me, arms outspread.

Does he want an explanation?

“Listen