Someone Called Me Larry

Braxton Uribe

As I walked out of a supermarket, I heard a familiar voice scream Larry. I turned around to see my college roommate. He walked up to me and attempted to give me a high-five. Rage engorged my butthole. I took out my knife and I stabbed him repeatedly in the chest and stomach. He tried to open his worthless mouth to speak, but I stabbed him in his tongue and cut off his uvula. As he choked on his own blood, I stood above his soon to be corpse and shouted, “My name us Cornelius Vanderhaus Wallbacher III!” And with that I stabbed his heart and removed most of the left ventricle with the tip of the knife. Afterwards, I shat in his mouth.

As I walked up the staircase to my 78th floor apartment, I heard a familiar voice scream Larry. I stopped and looked behind me to see my upstairs neighbor bounding up the steps. She smiled and was about to start a sentence when I flung my briefcase at her. I hit her right between her right eye and her right temple. She fell backwards down the five steps she climbed to near me. She appeared to hit the back of her head against the floorboards. I leaped down and stood over her. I lifted my briefcase and slammed it into her skull numerous times. Blood spouted with each successive hit. I fell to my knees, straddling her limp torso, and continued to pile drive my briefcase into her face and chest. She started to gurgle blood. I took one final swing into her stomach. I rose and screamed, “My name is Cornelius Vanderhaus Wallbacher III!” And with that, I kicked her down the next flight of stairs and watched her lifeless body bounce and flop down to the floor below. Afterwards, I shat in her mouth.

As I sat on a bench in a local area of greenspace, I heard a familiar voice scream Larry. I lifted my head and saw a colleague step out of his recently parked car. As he approached me I shifted my sunglasses to the top of my nose and stood up. He extended his hand to shake mine. I reached my hand up and instead of taking his hand, I gripped his forearm tightly, and twisted his arm and then kicked his right leg out from under him. He fell awkwardly, with his elbow and skull hitting the ground in quick succession. He blurted out a yelp of pain and I took a pair of pliers out my jacket pocket and jammed them down his throat. I squeezed the mechanism to make the prongs open and close with great force and brutality, as I dug my fingernails into his forearm. Blood flowed around my cuticles and he attempted to scream louder, with the blood and saliva filling his throat. I continued my assault with the pliers, stabbing and pulling and twisting and ripping. I pushed them down even further into his gullet, contorting ever stronger. Rather quickly his tongue, cheeks, uvula, esophagus, and larynx had been completely torn apart. He attempted to bite down on my hands, but his medial and lateral pterygoid muscles (along with the masseter) were partially dislodged from his face. I took my other hand off of his forearm and took out a second pair of pliers from my pants pocket. With these I dug into his forehead and nose. Pieces of blood soaked skin filled the air and his screaming started to subside. As I left the first pair of pliers in his trachea, I took my free hand and held his skull to the bright red earth. I stood and placed by foot on his chest and I screamed, “My name is Cornelius Vanerhaus Wallbacher III!” And with that I wedged the other pair of pliers into his left eye socket as he suffocated on my contempt and hand tools. Afterwards, I shat in his mouth.

As I coughed in the perennial’s room at the local florists, I heard a familiar voice scream Larry. I craned my neck to see a short blonde woman approaching from the south. She smiled as we made eye contact. I instantly recognized her as the girl I talked to at Marin Schollatt’s retirement party. Once she was 5.1 feet away from me, I grabbed a nearby bucket and stuck my finger down my throat. I started to vomit profusely. I made unearthly noises as the regurgitation spewed from my open hole. After 22 seconds I stopped and rammed my finger in my mouth again. The puke flowed like wine. At this point, she screamed in disgust. However, she continued to approach me and attempted to ascertain if I was feeling alright. With that question, I shoved my finger once more into the back of my throat and hurled from a third time. The bucket was about three-quarters full, so I took one final dip again. She looked like she wanted to vomit as well. After filling the bucket to the outer lip, I looked up at her with soft eyes. As she cautiously leaned in closer, I grabbed the back of her head and shoved her face into the bucket. I put the bucket on the ground and whammed her in a second time. She struggled against my grasp as she desperately tried to breathe. Her arms and legs flailed wildly. She motioned as if she was throwing up herself and tried to tip the bucket over for relief. I pulled her by her hair out of the ooze and she proceeded to expel even more fluids. I immersed her a third time, this time violently rubbing her neck against the top of the bucket. Blood started to flow and I could hear her straining to sustain life. I yanked her head up and cleared the vomit from her ears, eyes, and nostrils. I looked deep into her eyes and shouted, “My name is Cornelius Vanderhaus Wallbacher III!” And with that I plunged her weary saturated head into the bucket a final time, stood up, and slammed my foot on the back of her neck. She squirmed intermittently for six more seconds. Afterward, I shat in her mouth.

As I stood urinating in the men’s room of a movie theater, I heard a familiar voice scream Larry. I tried to ignore it and focus on my urethra. However, the voice repeated and I tilted my head to see the man that bought my tuba, five years ago. He waved to me from across the room as he stood in from of a sink. I acknowledged his existence. He turned off the tap and started to walk away. Just as he reached the garbage can, I leaped across the room, urine still flowing, and tackled him to the ground. I punched him square in the stomach and crotch and then thrice in the jaw. I took his arm and thumped his elbow on the hard tile floor shattering it. He screamed loudly. I then took his other arm and started to beat him in his face with it. Every four or nine slaps I would sucker punch him with my own fist. Shortly thereafter, I stood up, stepped lightly in the pool of blood that was beginning to form and stomped upon his mouth. His teeth shattered with a jarring snapping sound. As he wriggled on his side, I stomped down on his neck with all of my weight. I then began to pummel him mercilessly. I started near his clavicle, slid down to his coccyx, and finished around the shins. By now, his limbs were becoming loose with his many avulsions. I ripped off his dangling leg and thrust it into what was left of his mouth. I ripped off his left forearm and jostled in into his anus. I took his remaining foot, and tried to shunt it into his navel. At this point, he was near exsanguination, so I turned his face side up and shouted, “My name is Cornelius Vanderhaus Wallbacher III!” And with that, I plucked his head off his shoulders and threw it into the automatic hand soap dispensers. Afterwards, I shat in his mouth.

As I read in the attic of my old childhood home, I heard a familiar voice shout Larry. I put down my book and peered down the ladder. I could see the hairstyle of my beloved grandmother as she timidly ascended. She murmured Larry again as her head popped into view at the entrance. I quietly opened a nearby hopechest and strolled behind the largest pile of packages, assorted memorabilia, large wooden containers, and treasured memories. She finished her climb up and repeated the name a third time. Just as she placed her back foot onto the hardwood floor, I lunged out and toppled the edifice upon her. She screamed as she was walloped by the boxes and many heavy things. I grabbed my grandfather’s old chainsaw and wielded it menacingly. I shredded anything that was in my path. I thrashed wildly through the clutter that cascaded into my grandmother. Every now and then, I would hear an ear piercing scream and would be showered with blood, as I nicked something that was attached to her. I swung the chainsaw with blatant disregard. Not only was blood and viscera flying, but papers, cardboard, clothes, oak logs, antiques, and various knickknacks and sundries that were stored up in the attic were being shredded and the shrapnel flew victoriously. Eventually, a path cleared to my grandmother. I held the chainsaw like an ax and drilled into her shoulder with childlike abandon. I lifted it again and submersed it into her left thigh. She would attempt to stand to run away, but would just stumble and crash through another pile of childhood lore. I lifted the chainsaw again and this time stuck it through her thorax. I pushed on through until the blade hit the wood floor below. I left the chainsaw in her and walked over to the hopechest. I dragged it across the room and lifted it up over my grandmother. Over her wails, I yelled, “My name is Cornelius Vanderhaus Wallbacher III!” And with that, I dropped the hopechest. It fell like a Norwegian pine in the midst of a forceful winter, crushing her skull menacingly. I dragged the hopechest off of her face and threw it violently across what remained of her legs. Afterward, I shat in her mouth.

As I put my pants back on, I turned around to turn off the chainsaw. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a book at the bottom of the hopechest. My picture adorned the cover. It was blue and white and had a label on the front that read ‘Larry O. Walker’. I flipped through it and saw all the photos that were taken of me when I was young, starting from when I was less than a year old, to when I graduated college with a degree in Complex System Engineering. After the last page, tucked into a pouch, was my original birth certificate. It read ‘Lawrence Osgood Walker’. I thought about all the events in my life.

“Oopsie,” I said.