by: Ira Rat
I wonder if there will be enough air in here to last the next few hours. The guys who built this fucking thing said so, but how would they know? It’s not like they would ever come down here and test it, bet their lives their calculations were anywhere near reasonable. I couldn’t imagine any of those geeks closing the lid on themselves and being lowered six feet into the ground.
It’s not like they even strapped down a monkey in this metal tube just to see if the damn thing came out the other end alive.
What about the meth-toothed freaks who helped seal this thing, should I trust them to ever have done a carnie-level job with this? It’s not like they went around burying people in tubes full of oxygen tanks every day.
What if this thing isn’t properly sealed? How would I know? The air could just be seeping into the ground around me as I lay her in this metal coffin with just enough air to get me through this alive. Or at least that was the plan. What if just enough seeped out so I run out of air minutes before they dig up this fucking thing ?
My last few minutes of air going out to the worms. Do worms have lungs?
I know I shouldn’t have trusted that fucking cocksucker Gary. He’s probably arranged it so I will die down here. Can you imagine the money he’d make selling the story?
The Great Pizzali dies during magic “stunt.” Great fucking stunt, the door didn’t even open.
The tabloids would buy that shit in a heartbeat. You know how those vultures are. My dead fucking body will make the cover of those four-color horror rags.
I’ve seen the way he looks at Sarah. He’s probably planning on fucking her on top of this casket when they pull me out dead. Motherfucker. Never trust someone with your life when there’s more money to be made from your death.
Damned if I’m not too late to realize this little scheme of his. Jesus, here I come. Could you give Gary cock-cancer for me over this? I know he’s trying to off me. Why else would he have suggested this stunt? It’s not even like it’s a big draw these days, ever since that masked dick-bag ruined it for the rest of us.
What kind of world do we live in, that a bastard like that can spoil our craft on network TV, while yours truly down here is stupid enough to risk his life doing a blown gag for a hundred-odd slack-jawed pudding heads?
Fuck you, Gary.
Fuck you very much.
Where’s the air going? I wonder if it’s getting pushed down by all this carbon dioxide that I’m spewing? What if I hold my breath?
Fuck… didn’t work, smells like a Frito died and evacuated its bowls in here.
How much longer do I have, anyway? Maybe I should have bought a digital watch before all this. The second hand on this thing seems to be going at one-third speed. Enough time to play with my prick? I wonder if anyone would notice the jizz-stain on my tux if I cracked one out right now?
TAH-DAH! “Look at the magnificence! The splendor!” If only the trap door would have let me out of here by now, I could be back at the hotel three-fingers deep into that blonde with meth teeth that was giving me the eye.
Now that would go down in the history books right next to Houdini’s exploding stomach.
What a dick that guy must have been. Before he turned up, this was a pretty chill job. Find a card, pull a rabbit out of a hat. I wouldn’t have to be six feet under just to prove that I could pull off a grade-school stunt. Meanwhile, I’m down here and I think my watch has stopped.
I hope some Halloween he’ll make contact from beyond and say that he is sodomized by a train of demons on a daily basis. That would show that Hungarian pole-smoker.
I think I can hear digging, but it sounds too far away to get to get six feet in the next few minutes.
Was Houdini Hungarian? I can’t remember. I should look that up, if I survive. Gary better have finalized those contracts. If I’m doing this for nothing, I’m going to fuck him on top of this casket so horribly that he’ll wish it was a train of demons.
I was supposed to be out of here ten minutes ago, at least that’s what it said before my watch started acting up. They were supposed to digging if I wasn’t out twice that long ago. I see dirt starting to sift through the cracks. Maybe that is digging I hear, but it sounds more like laughing.
Ira Rat is an artist, musician, and writer from Ames, Iowa. A member of Neon Lushell, Tape Ends, and Vicar Elm, his first collection of visual art “i’m sorry mom” is now available. His debut novella, Sliced, is soon to follow. You can check out his art and music at www.irarat.com or follow him on Facebook.
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