And not because of the homicide, but it was typed by our favorite fan fic writer. Nicky “two kitchens” Pacione! You may be wondering how I coulddelve into another one of his scribblings so soon, and the answer is I dipped into my kitty’s stash of catnip. It was either that or the banana peels.
Oct 13, 1993. I remember that day as the day a friend of mine took the life of a cab driver in Itasca, Illinois.
August 15th, 2013. I remember this day because it was when my nervous system and brain activity spun out of control, near irreversible damage done by just one sentence,
I have a lot of questions of that night of what went through his mind — and wanting to know why he threw away his life at 17 years old.
I have a lot of questions too, like why would you think you could actually write? I’d suggest basket weaving or collecting toe nails.
here I am close to ten years later writing of this horrifying crime —
Because I haven’t had an original idea since thoughts of model bound up being bombarded by Richard Matheson novels.
As it was written in our school paper
Never mind local news, television or even a pennysaver, when you need info, you go to your high school newspaper.
and there was nothing I was able to say to warn them about it.
That’s due to the fact you dodn’t know about it until long after it happened, dipshit.
Then the next thing I knew was that there was a clipping from The Daily Herold. It was almost out of the pages of a bad nightmare that I was not able to awake from
the thoughts that are still there are what would stay in the shadows wandering.
The bad writing is still there as well.
the questions as there were many when they sat in the courtroom and the horror drawn out from the drama of the jury.
What was the jury doing that was so dramatic? Shouldn’t they have been paying attention? Perhaps victims of your inability to string words together in a coherent fashion.
“You mean to tell me that you knew the murderer,” asked the Cab driver who was driving me from the sporting good store
Bwahahahahahahaha! We all know they greaseball would never go to a sporting goods store. well, unless he was picking out a new sleep sack.
“I was supposed to do that call that night. The driver that died that night was a friend of mine,” he added.
Totally didn’t see that coming! Oh wait, yes I did.
“Holy shit,” the driver responded, “you are sure brave to write about this. I don’t think if my friend was a murderer — I would not of even tried to write about it. It would scare me so shitless that I could not even sleep at night.
Don’t worry Mr. Cabbie, Pacione is still afraid of his own shadow, and runs away screaming like a little girl.
With that I know it must be done — this narrative in the sense that I try to find the words to describe that he had done,
Well it isn’t, there’s still five more paragraphs of this crap. Don’t tease me!
I can’t. I just can’t.
Someone call me a cab.