03-22-2002, 04:29 PM
I pushed my dust mop forward. The science wing was new, and reeked heavily of formaldehyde. The anatomy and physiology classes were always dissecting cats, and didn't clean up very well. It was the worst smell ever. The odor of the formaldehyde was so heavy I could see droplets in a liquid state forming in the air.
I help the janitorial crew on monday nights, in return for a reduced tuition at my high school (jesuit). Bob, Bill, Larry, and this crazy guy who can't speak English (or any recognizable language at that) that pushes around the chemical cart.
Bill was working the same hallway as me, running the backpack-vac down the corners of the hall. I was working the spot mop. As Bill passed me, he put his sucking tube (for lack of a better term) up to my hat and stole it. Bill is always such a joker.
"Hey man, very funny." Bill had a big grin on his face. He pulled my cap from the end of the vacuum, and tried to toss it over my head. With a short leap, I was able to intercept it. "Nice try, Bill", I laughed and moved on down the hallway where crazy man was in one of the science labs.
I walked into room 256, which had a even thicker formaldehyde stentch than the other rooms. And on top of this, Crazy was putting down spot stripper on some stains on the floor. I waved my arms back and forth in front of my to circulate some fresh air.
"Wooooahhh, Crazy, easy on the stripper. You're gonna pass out!"
"Oech Kaladoinfich!!! Grayltiyles dhufatatyul!" Good old Crazy. Maybe he was a long lost relative of Mr. Lovecraft.
"That's fantastic." No one really liked Crazy. We just all pitied him. He was really dirty and stinky, and had a complexion that would suggest he was Philippino, but I really have no clue. I'm no ethnitologist, but I'd say he was a Dirtian.
Crazy's speaking problem was also trouble. I think he was learning quick though. Sometimes he would have spurts where he could understand and learn very well, and you could almost communicate with him. but other times he sounded like a cthulhu.
But ignoring Crazy for the most part, I walked to the other side of the room and did my floor cleaning. Up and down and back and forth. I pulled my shirt over my nose and mouth to try and filter out some fumes. It really didn't help.
Then there were some strange sounds. I heard a whizz and then a click about every 30 seconds. I ignored it thinking Crazy was doing his cleaning business. But then I started hearing some grunting and wheezing noises out of the corner. I glanced over my shoulder.
Crazy was sitting in the corner huffing the spot stripper. What a moron. After each shot he would put his nose up right on the ground, sniff in like it was his job. He would lean back then and cough a bit, then would wheezing and spin around all idiot like.
"CRAZY! Give me that! You're a fucking idiot!" I snatched the canister of cleaner from his grubby hand. Then a look of possession came over Crazy's eyes. Like I had run his mother down with a bus or something.
"ME HUFF! MEE HUFF! MOM FUCK!!!!!!" He sprang forth and tackled me. The canister rolled out on the floor. He still had satan in his eyes.
Now the following sequence of events is very painful for me to recount, but I shall try my very best.
Crazy was stratling me and had his arms pressed down on my chest so I could not get up. I started shouting with a diminished lung capacity. "CRAZY! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?"
I guess that was a word he knew. "FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!" Crazy was shouting it loud enough for the world to hear. He took one hand from my chest and gropped around in the pocket of his mud stained, torn cargo pants. Then to my horror, he pulled forth a small blade.
"CRAZY! GO HUFF THE FUCKING PAINT IF YOU WANT! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" But in vain.
Crazy was now even more posessed. This is the worst part of my story. He raised the blade high above his head and in one fluid motion, scooted down to my knees, as to where my crotch was exposed, and drove the blade into my wee-wee (cringe). All the while he was shouting loud.
"ME HUFF! MOM FUCCCCCCCCK!!!!!!!" Crazy was berserk. After one jab I think I almost passed out. Lucky for me, that was all I would endure, and he jumped off of me, and grabbed the canister. he rushed down the hallway.
I was still in pain though. My groin was bleeding, and I was pretty sure he had punctured my scrotum. The pain was not nearly as bad as being kicked in the balls (or when that guy crushed them with his hands). More damaging though was the mental shock. I pulled myself to my feet and started down the hallway, when to my disgust, I hear a small, "plop" sound. "Plop" doesn't really do justice, but try to imagine the sound of dropping a cube of Jell-O to the floor.
I glanced down and saw, what I believed to be a testicle. I keeled over and passed out.
I woke up in the hospital, and the doctor said it was so dmaged that it would be no good to reattach it. I would be fine with one testical he said. When I asked my mom what had happened to crazy, she said he had run out into the street with his canister and had been hit by a bus. Hot damn.
I help the janitorial crew on monday nights, in return for a reduced tuition at my high school (jesuit). Bob, Bill, Larry, and this crazy guy who can't speak English (or any recognizable language at that) that pushes around the chemical cart.
Bill was working the same hallway as me, running the backpack-vac down the corners of the hall. I was working the spot mop. As Bill passed me, he put his sucking tube (for lack of a better term) up to my hat and stole it. Bill is always such a joker.
"Hey man, very funny." Bill had a big grin on his face. He pulled my cap from the end of the vacuum, and tried to toss it over my head. With a short leap, I was able to intercept it. "Nice try, Bill", I laughed and moved on down the hallway where crazy man was in one of the science labs.
I walked into room 256, which had a even thicker formaldehyde stentch than the other rooms. And on top of this, Crazy was putting down spot stripper on some stains on the floor. I waved my arms back and forth in front of my to circulate some fresh air.
"Wooooahhh, Crazy, easy on the stripper. You're gonna pass out!"
"Oech Kaladoinfich!!! Grayltiyles dhufatatyul!" Good old Crazy. Maybe he was a long lost relative of Mr. Lovecraft.
"That's fantastic." No one really liked Crazy. We just all pitied him. He was really dirty and stinky, and had a complexion that would suggest he was Philippino, but I really have no clue. I'm no ethnitologist, but I'd say he was a Dirtian.
Crazy's speaking problem was also trouble. I think he was learning quick though. Sometimes he would have spurts where he could understand and learn very well, and you could almost communicate with him. but other times he sounded like a cthulhu.
But ignoring Crazy for the most part, I walked to the other side of the room and did my floor cleaning. Up and down and back and forth. I pulled my shirt over my nose and mouth to try and filter out some fumes. It really didn't help.
Then there were some strange sounds. I heard a whizz and then a click about every 30 seconds. I ignored it thinking Crazy was doing his cleaning business. But then I started hearing some grunting and wheezing noises out of the corner. I glanced over my shoulder.
Crazy was sitting in the corner huffing the spot stripper. What a moron. After each shot he would put his nose up right on the ground, sniff in like it was his job. He would lean back then and cough a bit, then would wheezing and spin around all idiot like.
"CRAZY! Give me that! You're a fucking idiot!" I snatched the canister of cleaner from his grubby hand. Then a look of possession came over Crazy's eyes. Like I had run his mother down with a bus or something.
"ME HUFF! MEE HUFF! MOM FUCK!!!!!!" He sprang forth and tackled me. The canister rolled out on the floor. He still had satan in his eyes.
Now the following sequence of events is very painful for me to recount, but I shall try my very best.
Crazy was stratling me and had his arms pressed down on my chest so I could not get up. I started shouting with a diminished lung capacity. "CRAZY! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?"
I guess that was a word he knew. "FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!" Crazy was shouting it loud enough for the world to hear. He took one hand from my chest and gropped around in the pocket of his mud stained, torn cargo pants. Then to my horror, he pulled forth a small blade.
"CRAZY! GO HUFF THE FUCKING PAINT IF YOU WANT! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" But in vain.
Crazy was now even more posessed. This is the worst part of my story. He raised the blade high above his head and in one fluid motion, scooted down to my knees, as to where my crotch was exposed, and drove the blade into my wee-wee (cringe). All the while he was shouting loud.
"ME HUFF! MOM FUCCCCCCCCK!!!!!!!" Crazy was berserk. After one jab I think I almost passed out. Lucky for me, that was all I would endure, and he jumped off of me, and grabbed the canister. he rushed down the hallway.
I was still in pain though. My groin was bleeding, and I was pretty sure he had punctured my scrotum. The pain was not nearly as bad as being kicked in the balls (or when that guy crushed them with his hands). More damaging though was the mental shock. I pulled myself to my feet and started down the hallway, when to my disgust, I hear a small, "plop" sound. "Plop" doesn't really do justice, but try to imagine the sound of dropping a cube of Jell-O to the floor.
I glanced down and saw, what I believed to be a testicle. I keeled over and passed out.
I woke up in the hospital, and the doctor said it was so dmaged that it would be no good to reattach it. I would be fine with one testical he said. When I asked my mom what had happened to crazy, she said he had run out into the street with his canister and had been hit by a bus. Hot damn.