Not so much
a diary but a distubing look into someone else's mind.

I used to work in a bar on Oxford St. One day a bag was handed in to us, and what with the way things are we checked it for bombs.

Inside sat a small number of items. A newspaper, two job applications, one for a postman's position and one to work for MI5. A locking penknife, with the blade modified so that it now came to a sharp, stabby point. Two minidisks.

At the bottom there were four rectangles of card, the labels you get in factories and warehouses, with the part numbers and quantities on one side and a blank reverse. The owner of the bag had written some poetry 'pon this empty space.

There were four. The first was quite happy-go-lucky, and danced playfully around his belief that money was not important for a happy life.

The middle two were slightly bitter, and you got the impression that he was agrieved by something or someone.

The fourth detailed how the burning, blinding rage inside his head was about to boil over into a psychopathic murdering spree involving his 'trusty twelve gauge' and he was going to blast 'them all' both barrels.

Being a good citizen I did the socially responsable thing and took them to the police, lest anyone be hurt. Actually, I didn't. I just showed them to my colleagues, we had a laugh, and I kept them. And the minidisks too in the end, as they were never claimed.

I still have those four poems somewhere. They sit in a box unattended, like the stiffening, mutilated bodies of his (possible) victims.
(cs1ca, Mon 5 Feb 2007, 2:06, Reply)