The Crime

The room was stuffy and he was sweating but none of this bothered him because he couldn’t keep his eyes off the stain. It was on the wall and right up near the ceiling. He knew it was shit but didn’t know how it had got there. Could you even wipe your arse with a wall? Someone obviously had. Someone tall. The stain ran down the wall like a crusty brown burnout left by a motorcycle or some kind of truck that had actual shit for tires. He wanted to get closer to look at it properly, to smell it and maybe try it himself. The door opened. It was a man with a file in one hand and a pumpkin under the other. I hope we can resolve this quickly, said the man.
Resolve what? he said.
Let’s not make this difficult, said the man. His badge said Wanks. He looked at the badge again and said Wanks thirty-one times in his head before he was able to get it out of his mouth. I say there, Mr. Wanks, I have no idea what you’re talking about, he said.
Please, don’t be a cockhead, said Wanks and he placed the pumpkin on the table.
That’s not helpful, he said.
NO, CUNT, YOU’RE NOT HELPFUL, said Wanks and he punched a hole in the pumpkin. That’ll be your grandma’s head if you don’t start talking.
I don’t know what you’re on about, he said and Wanks pulled his fist out of the pumpkin in a vicious and violent manner that was without the loving touch you’d expect from a pervert.
You leave me no choice, said Wanks and he left the room. Nothing had changed about the shit stain all the way up the wall.

He was left alone for over an hour. Time was hard to keep track of in that room so it could have been longer. It could have been days. He took off his pants and tried to wipe his arse with the wall. With his cheeks spread he attempted an up and down motion but stopped because he remembered scrubbing his arsehole with steel wool while taking a shower that morning. He wondered whether there was a toilet nearby. Cleanliness was getting in his way. The door opened. A short guy in a tuxedo carrying a sack. He stopped rubbing his arse on the wall and stared at the sack. What’s in the bag, big guy? he said.
Shut up, faggot, said the short guy.
What do you want?
To find out whether you’re going to comply.
With what?
OH MY GOD YOU PIECE OF SHIT LOOK WHAT YOU’VE MADE US DO?! said the short guy and he emptied the sack onto the table. Out rolled a severed head. It stopped on its side as if it were asleep on top of that table. It was his grandma. YOU FUCKING MIDGET YOU KILLED GRANDMA, he said and lunged at the short guy with the ferocity of a horny praying mantis. The short guy dodged his charge with the grace of an anorexic and nicotine addicted ballerina who loves the combined taste of cigarettes and cock. You brought this on yourself, said the short guy.
How?
By not coming clean.
Dickhead, you had already killed her.
I might add, she put up a good fight. Injured one of our guys pretty badly, said the short guy and he left the room. He was alone again and in frustration he punched grandma’s head off the table and into the wall. She left another brown stain on it. This one was lower.

Nine days passed and he had had no further visitors. Someone would come to leave him food but other than that he had been alone. Grandma’s head was no longer with him. He had kicked it out one morning when an old man delivered his breakfast. There were numerous brown stains on the walls now. There was so much shit on the walls that it looked like the attempted renovation efforts of a painter who had failed trade school. Regardless, he put it down as an achievement and sign of personal growth. He was about to add another bacon strip to his legacy when the door opened. This time it was a man wearing a dress. A beautiful dress with blue flowers printed on the fabric. This contrasted quite violently with the man’s five o’clock shadow and rampant armpit hair. You are the worst transsexual I’ve ever seen, he said.
And you and the worst offender, said the man in the dress.
Of what?
And there we have it. Denial.
I can’t deny what I don’t know, he said.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? said the man in the dress.
What?
You’re so ignorant and that is why you must be punished. You’ve been getting away with this for far too long.
You killed my grandma, he said.
No, you killed her. BIGOT, said the man in the dress.
That makes no sense. WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE?!
Guards! said the man in the dress and two guards appeared behind him, both of them wearing dunce hats.
What the fuck are they going to do? he said.
Take you away for your crime, said the man in the dress.
WHAT THE FUCK IS MY CRIME?! he said and the two guards grabbed him by the arms, their dunce hats accentuating their height and making them look like giants.
You are charged under Section 69A of the Act with Homosexual Imitation Facial Expression, also known as Gay Face, said the man in the dress.
What the fuck is Gay Face?
You’ve been doing it for years. That gay look on your face fools no one. Your sexuality is written all over these walls!
BUT IT’S MY FACE!!!
Yes and you’ve been sporting those gay features fraudulently for far too long, but I tell you now SIR, those days are over! Guards, take this motherfucker away, said the man in the dress. The guards dragged him out of the room, the blue flowers on the man’s dress adding a degree of serenity to the screams and shit stains on the wall. HELP! HELP! I DIDN’T KNOW I WAS DOING IT. I WON’T DO IT AGAIN, he said.
No, you won’t, said the man in the dress and he watched the guards take him to the execution chambers. He was still performing gay face. The man in the dress ripped a handful of hairs from his armpit and blew them down the hall. He went back into the room and studied the walls and looked for a patch of white to wipe his arse.

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