VOL 1. A collection of bizarre stories

Party Limo

No one was sure if anybody was okay that night. The driver floored it and the black limousine flew over all the humps and bumps of Interstate 117. The back window was drawn down, air was coming in, girls were laughing, somebody had just popped a cork off one of the most expensive bottles of champagne. "We're going to have a good time. We're going to have a party. Are you sure you know where Livermoor is, driver?" That was the name of an asylum.
     There's so much giggling in the limo now, Jill is taking off her pants. "Alright Jill, take them off!"
     "Whatever," Jacob says, "I just want to get to Livermoor on time."
     At the asylum, all the doors were closed and there was a phone on the table, it was ringing.
     I don't think Jack was awake to take the call, with all the commotion-an answer to his prayers-Paulina was adding to his frustration.
     He ripped the desk apart (any more anger in him and he would have broken his leg). Lights are swinging in the room. A freak wearing a hockey helmet had been roller skating through the hospital listening to NINs and now he was in the room skating around laughing at a bunny, trying to hit it with his stick. A woman nurse entered the room. She took off her top and her breasts were flopping out like a fish out of water. Mill Jackson was the only person that found any solace from the bunny in the room. A lady named Rose peeled the wallpaper off from under the window pane. She found a hollowed out hole. Mill couldn't believe her eyes-it was what they had been looking for-a narrow escape into a dark world, the way to the idea room; sunny morning flowers on a Saturday in May.
     The limo was driving to Livermoor, but was he human? He sure acted like it, saying that everybody would get there on time. Paulina and Jill were the type of girls you wanted on your side, especially driving through the darkness of Mt. Pass, and the driver certainly knew the way-assuming he was sober... or alive.
     She had dysarthria; a baby was left crying on the bed, not a real baby, but a grown woman acting like an infant. The night breeze was flooding the rooms. Sanchez showed up late that night, the hour of the night when the rooms in this asylum came alive and seemed to have a life of their own. It became cool. The ancient ones (people that existed for many, many years, over at least one hundred, and were still living) were approaching the door.
     In the limo was half-way across Mt. Pass. By now, the passengers were all getting sick. Oozing. Disturbing.
Back at the asylum, there was blood on the floor by the bed in the room, beneath a red sled painting, that looked too good not to have been done by Bob Ross. 'A patient a year ago had an epileptic seizure here,' thought Jack (the angry head attendant), who was now playing cards with Sanchez in the kitchen. Every day at around the same time, Patricia would come and see Jack, and sit with him, but not today, because she was camping in that famous Japanese forest known for suicide hangings.
     "This is it, right here," Jacob said. The limo ran over a bottle and there was a loud crunching sound, but you could see the asylum up ahead. 'That's all that's left?' Jacob thought, 'this is the place where we need to go.'
     Now, all Americans have left to do is to stare at the many flavors of ice cream in the aisle at the grocery store. It sucks; that's how it is. And then they might walk down the Hallmark aisle and brood over all the pretty cards, but have nobody to write to in their depressed little lives. The homes on Mt. Pass are all falling apart, leaning towards further dilapidation. Once they were beautiful, mighty homes, standing strong; now they are lost and forgotten as if they never existed.
     Before Jacob could finish his thought, the driver told everyone to get out. "Here is Livermoor," the driver said, "go get some help."