User:Icy Inferno/Writing/Why Senators Don't Drink the Blood of Puppies

(Please do not edit this page) (No seriously, I'm begging ya, do not edit anything on this page)

This is an original book that I am writing and will probably never be published. Though as time goes on I might replace passages that are on here with newer ones as they develop.

My name is Evan. And this book has a copyright pending so please do not redistribute it.

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Why Senators Don't Drink the Blood of Puppies

Day 1: Today I received my journal. Due to the “No janitor left behind act” I am required to write down what I do throughout out the day (I secretly suspect that this is all a little joke that is played upon “the new guy” here at the white house.) However I am very lucky that the previous hazing rituals have been disbanded for being “barbaric”, “unbelievably twisted” and “kind of kinky”. Sadly ,Joe Almanez Rodriguez, my predecessor in the long line of janitors, did not have this luxury and died thirty-two seconds into his first day (I think the record used to be fifty two minutes and forty two seconds). So, due to fact that somewhere over fifty million dollars of the Katrina recovery fund had been paid in death pensions out over the last month, congress decided to take some decisive action,… eventually. After two meetings that involved a total of fifty strenuous hours of bureaucratic paper-filing and two pints of tequila in was finally decided… to have a meeting about the meeting for whether or not they should reduce the initial hazing ritual (or I.H.R.). The bill was passed (after having the “No janitor left behind act” tacked on with a slight-of-the-hand trick) and soon they began to chew through candidates who were worthy to clean the puke off of floors. Except the only people who showed up for the job interview were me, a parrot that could quote Rodney Dangerfield, and a mop. I will admit the mop had me licked in the intelligence field, but in the end I persevered due to a little can do attitude and the fact that the mop wasn’t actually applying for the job. But the good thing is that now I have the job and I get to hold that smug little son-of-a-broom’s head underwater at least five times a day. Life is sweet.

Day 2: Today I was shown to where I will be living in the White House. At first I was surprised that I get to live there at all. But as I soon found out it’s actually in one of the eighteen or so bathrooms that had been used one too many times by Taft. As I entered the room, I noticed it had a subtle two-bit trash dump charm. Complete with its own mysterious colored carpet spot, a hole in the wall for easy communicating with neighbors, and a complimentary hobo who claims to have met George Washington and is willing to tell me all about it for half a bottle of whiskey. I might have to take him up on that sometime; or at least I would have if I hadn’t used it for that other hobo’s story. Personally I would have picked a story about George Washington over how highways are secret alien probes any day. Oh well, live and learn I guess.

I’m thinking about trimming some of the plants around the bath-tub drain back a bit.

Day 3: Today as I was vacuuming the billiard room when I heard a strange sound coming from down the hall. At first I dismissed it as nothing, possibly just a side effect of those brownies I ate over at the senate rave. But as the noise continued I began to question whether I was tripping at all. After a few moments of blurry recollection I quickly recognized the song to be a 70’s remix of “More, more, more” by Blondie. It was pretty catchy. I found myself being drawn towards the song like a wayward sailor to the Sirens of old, but I checked myself. I had a floor to mop and with the Lord as my witness I was going clean it until I could see my face in it. So I did, but as I completed my task I quickly undid my work. I also vowed to get rid of any mirrors in my bed-bathroom. With my assignment done, and my daily shoe shining for the president still an hour away, I found myself tempted again by the music. It must have been on a constant loop for an hour now since the same song emanated from the slightly cracked open doorway. I could resist no longer. I ran forward and flung open the door to find a sight which I can not put into words. It was Mr. Cheney and apparently he had been practicing his… dancing (if you could call it that) for the talent show. I fled the scene, but the sight of the spasms will never be un-burned from my brain. My vision is beginning to fade. I’m going to go to the doctor later. I’m hoping that I won’t go blind; Mr. Bush gets rather mad when I miss his shoe shining appointments. This is Doctor John Spencer writing on my patients behalf. He has gone into a psychosomatic blindness. It is probably temporary, but to be on the safe side I have assigned him a seeing-eye dog. His sight should come back in 5 or 6 days.

D ay           4: My seeing-e ye dogg st arted che wing on my  l eg today. I bel ieve it mi ght have rabies. I hav e barricaded my se lf in my bed-bathrroom, but the do g is still sccratc  hing at the doo r and I believe is tr  yying to gn aw  his way through. I do n’t know if I’ll make it out o f this s o I h  ave deci ded to  make a will. I give al l  my po ssess ions  and assets t o my mom, who has b een so kin d to m e ov er t he ye ars. I c all ed ffor so m e h elp ea rlier, but I th iink the door killed the secu rity gu ard s that  cam e to  a ssist me. I hope one of th eem m ade it aw ay, so th at the y co uld get mo re he lp. I t hink th e d og ggot me really deep, bec ause I ’m begin ning to feel somet hing we t arou nd m y th igh. The d og h as stop ped for f or now, and m y he ad fee ls kiind of light. I’m gon na shutt m y  e yes now, if thhey ’re not al  ready y shut. Hop efully som ebody else wi ll

Day 11:

I have about seven days to tell about in order for me to keep my job, so here goes:

After passing out from blood loss on my fourth day, I awoke on my fifth day to find myself in the same situation with a little less blood. I heard that the dog was still at it and as I began to feel around with my hands I began to notice something wet and slimy on the door. I surmised it was the dog’s nose, meaning the dog had made more progress in gnawing through the door than I had originally estimated. Acting quickly I tore off a poorly hinged door from the cabinet and placed it over the spot where I felt the dog’s nose. I then took the porcelain cover of the toilet off and used it to pin the cabinet door in place. After that I tore off a sleeve of my jacket and wrapped it around the wound on my ankle, which was still bleeding. After that I went over to the bath-tub to forage some food from the drain but accidentally hit the shower bar with my head and passed out. On my sixth day I awoke to find little shards of porcelain scattered about the floor. I went over to the door to inspect my handy work and found that the dog’s entire head was fully through. It took another chunk out of my leg before I was able to free myself from it. I used toilet paper, which I believe was from the early 1900’s, to wrap that wound. Fearing that the dog would soon get through I tried to climb as high as I could to get away from the growing danger of the dog. But only did so after ripping the toilet from the ground and attempting to attack the dog. In a rendition of whack-a-mole I attacked but soon found the endeavor fruitless and used the toilet to plug the hole which the dog had gnawed. After awaking from sleep from my precarious spot on top of the shower bar, I jumped down into the room to find it half-full with water. The toilet had done all too good of a job plugging the hole and now the room was filling with water. I could hear the dog outside, growling and pacing with hunger. I was pretty hungry too. I guess the guard hadn’t gotten away, or at least they had quarantined the area hoping the dog would starve soon enough. At last I realized that the only chance I had of not drowning was to unplug the hole and let the water that was spouting from where the toilet had once been drain out. Meaning I would have to face the dog. I weighed my options and decided to live for a few more hours. I unplugged the hole and let the water drain out. Soon the dog had returned to chewing away the door. I spent the rest of the seventh day and eigth morning kicking at the dog’s head, making its progress slow. But I lost my shoes to the beast and, not wanting to lose my feet too, stopped kicking. So I ripped out the shower bar and used it to prod the dog. And so my eighth day went. On the ninth day I had regained a little bit of my vision. I could only see blobs of grey but it was still something. I began to see just how large the hole had gotten. In an hour or two the dog would be able to squeeze through, so I formed a delusional plan. After a few moments of preparation I opened the door and the dog leaped through the opening. I took the other cabinet door, which I had torn off, and swung it knocking the dog back through the opening (my five years of little league softball had finally paid off). With only a few moments to use while the dog was stunned I threw down the door, grabbed the toilet, and walked into the doorway opening. The dog attacked anew, soaring through the air. If I could have seen, I probably would have seen two skulls occupying the space where its pupils had once been. Sidestepping the dog, it sailed into the bed-bathroom, giving me the perfect opportunity. I closed the door, plugged the hole with the toilet, and collapsed. The deed was done. I awoke on the tenth day of my job, and found my vision to be fully back. I got up, walked to the changing room, took a shower, got on some new clothes, and grabbed my mop. I also borrowed a sub-machine gun from the white houses personal stock and returned to the bed-bathroom. I decided against opening the door and began to fire, peppering the now mauled entrance with holes until there was little more that two toothpicks of wood left. It was glorious, like a Scarface remake, except with a janitor and a starving seeing-eye dog. But as I entered the room I found the dog to be completely gone. I realized it was free now; free in its own habitat. Perhaps, it was better this way. It needed to be free among its own domesticated kind. Or maybe it had just escaped into the ventilation ducts. Either way.