Ballroom. By Mark Gaviglio

Sitting in a ballroom, I’m looking up at the crystal chandelier. I’m thinking I weigh about a hundred sixty pounds, and I wonder the strength of the chandelier. If I take a knife and murder of the groom, the best man, and the wife’s impotent father, could I tie their neck ties together and sufficiently hang myself from the chandelier? I would think a ceiling joist can hold about two hundred pounds. But how much would a crystal chandelier weigh?

More importantly should I block the door and force all the piece of shit family members, and the cum gargling wife to watch my death? So she is forced to watch the lives that she played like puppets for so long end violently on her wedding day. The husband she wishes to drain of money, the best man that had his cock in her ass no more than twenty minutes ago, the dad that polished his turd of a daughter for the rest of the world to see, and me.

Better yet I should take the knife with me and right before I hang myself I slash a large opening in my waist and have all my guts pour out on to the floor. People slipping on my organs as they try to escape. People vomiting on each other. The air will be filled with the sounds of screams, the wet pounding sounds of puke hitting the floor, and people gasping for air. The only thing heard over these sounds would be the sound of my laughter.

These thoughts please me. The thoughts of killing worthless people and ruining the soul of another make me smile. The bride would never be able to recover from the metal trauma. She wouldn’t be able to love. every time she would start to care for someone her mind would flashback to this day. She would picture her new love slaughtered and covered in guts.

The reception center this wedding is held in would probably need to shut down. The smell would never leave the room. After stopping and think about this room, I realize, it’s a very pretty room. And the ushers were very pleasant. They helped me find a nice parking spot and took my jacket. The girl at the front door was very polite as well. She complimented my hair. I made a witty joke and she laughed.

I think these are just mad thoughts and I should never birth them. I wouldn’t want to ruin the girl at the front door’s day. I look back at the bride and groom. The brides face is so plastic. She has a face only money can buy. I would love to chop off that pretty smile. I could sew her face on to mine so I could have an expressionless mask for a face like she does. I could tie her groom down wile wearing her face and sodomize him like she would. I could remove his balls like she would. I could hang him from his feet with hooks to drain the blood from him, like she would.

The fucking groom. You’d think he would rape a child if there was a steady salary to it. He is a dominatrix loving sodomite. He hides behind his façade of Christian morals and a silk tie. He is the type of guy you see in the showers of country clubs with large welts and burns on his back. Welts made from leather whips. Burns made by candle wax.

They all don’t deserve life. I wonder what kind of food will be at the reception.