The cell was cold. Colder than your grandmother’s nipples at a Bar Mitzvah. Alfonz had lied. No doctor came to see me. I was relegated to white hospital sheets and a thong. It was clearly a male thong, but still. I wasn’t comfortable with this at all. I was only given a tv to watch and they would shove food under the door three times a day. I was allowed to live.
I spent days here. Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to years and I was locked away in my cube-padded prison. Watching all of the television broadcasts on CNN and Fox news, I had seen news reports about a string of murders in my area. The killer didn’t seem to have a motive, I therefore suspected it was George Jetson, Mr. Macdonald or one of the other ragtag groups of magical television creatures that had a horrific vendetta toward humanity. I also saw 9/11 broadcasts, and solved 9/11.
I pieced it together slowly, methodically. In the 1980’s Ronald Reagan had illegally smuggled arms into Iran and trained contras that were meant to overthrow fascist groups. One of those groups went onto become Al Qaida, run by Osama Bin Laden. In September 11th, 2001, Al Qaida hijacked 747 planes and crashed them into several buildings. One of the planes headed for the Whitehouse was intercepted and shot down, but the remaing ones crashed into the pentagon and twin towers. Ronald Reagan caused 9/11. I solved 9/11.
I had to do something. I was going insane in here. After roughly two years, a psychiatrist finally saw me. “We can’t find any information on you.” They said. “You have no living relatives, your home isn’t in our records and we couldn’t pull up any criminal records in your database.” They said. Strange, the records must’ve been erased by George Jetson or one of the other sinister characters. “We have no record of your fingerprints, because…” I looked down at my fingers. They had been sanded, singed and burned to flattened nubs. “Did you do that because you didn’t want to get caught?” The man asked me. I looked him. I shook my head profusely. “No!” I yelled. “There are EVIL television characters who exist in lost episodes and they come out of the VHS tapes to kill me!” I cried. “They probably removed my fingerprints to frame me! You don’t understand!” I yelled. “We understand enough.” The man clicked his pen. They had subscribed me some medication, which I pretended to swallow. “I need to see you swallow it.” Alfonz Riberio smiled at me. “Cmon Renaldo. Swallow.” I feigned swallowing these awful pills that were probably cyanide and attempted to formulate an escape plan. At night, the moon crept into the barred window and I swore I saw big bird smiling at me. Whatever it was, it had row after row of sharp sanded teeth.
After another week had past, I had a visitor. The door beeped and Bob Saget came in. He was the star of Full House, and one of my best friends. “Listen, Michelle.” He said. “You need to understand that we’re just additions and subtractions of your mind. We don’t exist. You made us up a long time ago, because you couldn’t cope with reality. And now look at you. You’re a mess. You’ve murdered hundreds of people, you’re clinically insane and you’ve almost swallowed your tongue. I might be a clean freak, but there’s no way I can clean up the mess on your soul. Time to wake up and see the world for what it truly is.”
Bob Saget vanished instantly, leaving me alone.
The psychiatrist came back in. He asked me some inappropriate questions. “Are you sexually active? On any current medications? Are you married? Do you have a girlfriend? Are you employed?” NO, NO, NO AND NO. As he rambled incessantly, I suddenly got a weird feeling. I saw Mr. Jetson in the corner. “Psst.” He whispered. “We’ve figured out an escape route, you faggot.” He said, smoking a cigarette. “Me and my ragtag group are busting you out of here!” It was weird because he looked slightly cartoony. I know quite a bit about string theory, so his quantum particles were probably hitting the light in a way that made him one dimensional.
Click click went the psychiatrist’s pen. “We’re going to increase your medication.” George Jetson leered at me. “GRAB THAT PEN AND STAB HIM WITH IT!” I grabbed his ballpoint pen and stabbed him in the neck. I don’t know why I did it, I think George Jetson’s persuasive skills may have been better than I initially thought. The psychiatrist stumbled back, gasping for air.
I punched him. “TAKE HIS CLOTHING!” George yelled, leering at me with angry cartoon eyebrows. I did. I stripped the man naked and put his outfit on, and stashed the body in the corner among some dirty rags I had jacked off on. George walked out wearing a scuba suit. “The way out’s not gonna be easy partner.” He approached the bathroom toilet and dove in, swimming deep down into it and shrinking somehow, probably using some futuristic technology. I ignored this because I think George was attempting to drown me.
“These are just illusions!” A voice yelled. Probably one of Mr. Jetson’s assistants. The hospital clown came in wearing some white sheets. He was cleaning the floors, probably with the semen of the elderly. “Cmon bro.” he said. “we’re busting you out of here!” He led me down the hallway toward a room with several kids with cancer. “Wait a minute, patch fucking adams.” I said, hesitantly. “You attempted to kill me, remember? Why should I trust you?” “I was only trying to stop you.” Ronald said. “You were going to end up murdering my family, remember?” He sighed. I found my patient chart outside the window. I read my diagnosis. Paranoid delusions and dementia? What a joke. I knew what was really going on. George Jetson was probably trying to get me to think I was crazy. But I knew I’d be one step ahead of him. After all, I killed him twice before. Whose to say I couldn’t kill him now?! “You’ll need to kill that horse.” Ronald said, pointing to the receptionist. “Here.” He pointed to a helium tank that he had smuggled into the building. Ronald jumped out the window and ran out into a field. I turned on the helium and approached the woman. “YOU DON’T WORK HE-“ she said. I shoved the helium tank up her nose and her horse head inflated until it exploded.
Someone was screaming and calling the police. I had to get out of here. I looked out the window. George was sitting there in a director’s chair, floating in mid-air. “No, no!” he yelled. “This is all wrong. Remember, you’re not killing the horse her, you’re killing the real her. Try again.” I ran down the hallway and got into the elevator. I looked out the elevator window. The police were coming. Surely, they’d frame me for the crimes. The police were probably horses themselves. Alfonz approached me in the hallway. He handed me a syringe. “Inject air into that woman’s veins, and you’ll kill her in minutes!” He snickered and danced down the hall. AC slater was there too, they were all there, all the lost children.
I approached the woman, pretending she was a horse and injected a bubble of hair into her neck. She twirled around in the chair convulsing and died instantly. I broke the hospital window. Someone slipped some notes under the door across the hall. I picked them up. I stood up straight and covered the blood on my t-shirt with a festive name tag. The police approached me. I looked at the paper and read it. “THEY’RE UPSTAIRS! THEY KILLED ONE WOMAN AND THE OTHER IS DYING! Hurry!” I yelled.
They ran up there, following the scent of my rotting red herring. Second floor, but I wouldn’t get past reception on the base level. Aladdin flew by the window on a magic carpet. He was holding a bomb. “We have to jump!” He yelled. “Jump onto my carpet!” I jumped but fell through the carpet, crashing into a pile of garbage and spraining or breaking both of my ankles. “Hahahaha!” He laughed, and flew away. I had to kill the garbage man. There would’ve been no other way for me to clear my name. I immediately snapped his neck and threw the body in with the trash.
I grabbed his garbage keys and started his garbage truck. A huge mass of cartoon and sitcom characters were marching down the street. They were all there. Spongebob, The Winslows, the cast of Sesame street, even the rugrats. They were forming a barricade to stop the police! I knew they would come through in my time of need. The garbage truck crashed into a magic schoolbus. This one wasn’t all that magical as I killed several children. The garbage truck’s brakes went out and it went down a hill rather violently and experienced a head on collision with a building. I climbed out, stuttering, shaking. “You need to let go of the past.” They said. “You’re holding on too much. It’s time to grow up, Michelle.” Bob Saget lifted me up and sat me on his lap. “I’m not always going to be here to clean up your bruises. Why don’t you just confess?” he asked me. This guy was insane. I grabbed a smoldering tire and smashed it on his face as he screamed with severe pain and burning. His eyes smoldered as he cried and turned into…George Jetson. I knew it. I FUCKIGN KNEW IT. He started to unzip his pants before I ran out of the building. A combination of horses and George Jetson clones walked the streets, snickering, laughing at me. Dangling and dangling their ballsacks.
The teletubbies were at the end of the straight holding a garbage bag. They probably expected me to run into that garbage bag. “No one will ever love you!” they yelled. “No one has ever loved you!” They yelled. They yelled and yelled at me. “She’ll never love you!” yelled Droopy Dog, who sat at the corner of the street. “Let’s end it, here.” He pulled out a handgun next to porky pig and they invited me to come closer. I refused and they shot themselves in the head collectively. Their bloody hole-marked corpses lay in the street as blood dripped down into the sewer.
I finally made it to the house, but the door was locked. I broke the window with my shoe and found a grandmother staring at me, screaming in the bathtub. Her face smiled at me, slowly. It smiled at me and she opened her mouth, revealing vampire fangs. And then her head turned into George Jetson. Mr. Jetson was snickering and snickering at me. “You can’t kill me!” He snickered. “You don’t have the … the.. the.. THE BALLS!” He laughed and popped his nutsack out for the thousandth fucking time. I picked up a hot toaster, plugged it in and threw it into the bathtub, instantly shocking him and turning him into a bubbling, boiling mass of soup. He got into a space ship, leaving the old woman’s body and flew away.
I let the old woman sit there, stewing in the soup and sat. I waited for weeks, months and years. Eventually, the hub bub had died down, and I was safe. Safe here, forever. But then Bill Cosby walked in. “It’s not too late for us.” He cried. “We can still confess, we can be free. Be free! Be free!!” He started to cook some jello pudding before dissolving into the carpet.
A few weeks later I noticed a man taking a shit on my lawn. I went outside to the mailbox and found a VHS. It was from my friend in Russia. Yeah, I didn’t have dementia. They were all crazy. The whole universe is crazy, in fact. It bends to my will. It’s whatever I believe. And in the words of George jetson, you never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from. So I was thankful, just to be alive. And all my creepy friends could come and visit and we’d be free forever. Away from the psychotic men with the angels and needles, mental illness and suffering. No, free, as we were meant to be. You can’t control an animal, after all. It’s just the way things are.
I’ll just keep watching my tapes and solving the mystery. After all, Mr. Jetson and the other insane freaks would soon be back. They never let me sleep. At night they crawl like cockroaches and dance on my head. Big bird is always at my window. And the other creatures would sooner be crawling out of the woodwork to get me with their crazy VHS tapes. But me? I’m the doctor, I work for Nickelodean, I’m the fucking president of the united states. They’ll never get me, no one will get me, I’ll be free here.
I picked Up the VHS tape. “The Lost Episode of the Teletubbies” Neat. Hadn’t seen that one before. I had feeling there would be something evil about this tape. I noticed, strangely enough that the VHS had a very familiar cover, but I thought nothing of it. I didn’t even have a VHS tape player. I’d have to go buy one. I went into the executive office and picked up my phone. “Mr. President, George Jetson just crashed into the twin towers.” So my solution was wrong. I pulled out a huge notebook over a hundred pages thick and scrawled something. I’d have to start over from the beginning. I put the VHS tape in, expecting a great program. Boy. Was I wrong. THE END.