John leans on the counter as he sips his coffee. Shitty coffee. Filter coffee. Shitty filter coffee. Maybe he should’ve taken a better brand, or gone to a coffee shop, or a McDonalds, or something.
Something, maybe a flea or a cockroach, bit his one leg. The other was an unfortunate victim of John’s hacksaw. A regrettable accident caused by trying to use the saw with a single hand.
As always, the memory of when he decided to amputate that monstrosity always made him smile. The coffee seemed to taste better as he recalled the pleasure of cutting into his flesh, slowly, immethodically, without any attempt at neatness or mastery of cutting.
He’d cut himself accidently with a rusted butcher’s knife earlier that day while trying to scrape the rust off of it. Right now John himself, in John’s house, with John’s kitchen knives and other sharp, metally equipment, was the only surgeon in his bedroom saddled with removing the rapidly depreciating hand…of John.
“Are surgeons allowed to surgeonise intoxicated?” John thought before plunging a machete into his arm.
A pleasant sensation, comparable to a fat kid eating cake, took hold of him as metal made way into his flesh. “This is why some people cut themselves.” He thought upon reaching surprisingly firm bone. Bone would not hamper John’s surgery aspirations though.
Litres of blood sprayed out between jagged bones. Bones were crushed rather than cut by the blunt machete. The human body carries about six litres of blood. John surmised that three were soaked into the mattress.
By some miracle only afforded to the most stupid among us, John didn’t fuck up too much. Rushing to the hospital, his wife could only feel shame for what she had done.
After a magazine article mentioned sugar cubes worked just as well as the real thing she’s emptied his Prozac and refilled it with Prozac shaped sugar cubes.