When Bob Goes to the Market. . .

A review & revisit to episode three of The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal.
What happens when Bob goes to the supermarket? Well, this time we look at supermarkets & wonder about some questionable deaths.

Hey, folks.

Here we are taking a look back on Bob’s trip to the supermarket. While exploring this. . .route. . .I had an idea of a story. It’ll probably start out as a short story and then expand, as I continue to add to it.

This was the third episode in the story, and where Bob’s suicide compulsion and good samaritan nature crossed paths. When I did these parts, I wondered [when I was returning some soda bottles at a store] what would it be like to get your hand and arm mangled by the bottle machines? I also wondered what would it be like if you could gorge yourself to death. I mean, really gorge yourself. The fact that Bob is a diabetic kind of also makes a ton of shit rain on him on this fiasco. Then, there’s him just being a naturally good person. . .for one moment. Where he sticks up for someone who is being pushed around, bullied.

I would often witness some people being absolutely horrible. Being complete pieces of shit to other human beings, when all they want to do too, is go home, get their medicine, or just live their life.

So often, too, do the good folks who step up to help get shit on for doing what they thought, was good. They get heckled, pushed back, or blown up in the media for being a bad guy (or things get blown way out of context). So I figured I’d play off that, have a consequence for an action.

Since this episode is a three parter, I have included all three parts for you to read seamlessly.

Until next time.


The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal

Episode 3: Down at the Supermarket [Part One]

So, I bet you’re wonderin’, “Bob, what the hell do you do with all this ‘free time’ that you have?” Well, a lot of things really. I mean, I don’t always just off myself [or for you sick fucks out there, get myself off. What the hell’s wrong with you?]. No, sometimes I do things for the better of humanity, granted no one would ever give a rat’s ass of a care in the world, but fuck ’em. In any case, that’s a whole list of shit that goes on, I’ll share all of those secrets in time. So, don’t worry your pretty little head off.

One day, I was on my way to the market, I wanted to take back some beer and soda cans. Now, you know those machines they have there that crunch the ever-loving shit out of the cans and bottles? Well, here I was, mindin’ my own business, and this kid here. . .must’ve been around the age of my one boy, Chad. Well, this lil’ shit had put his favorite stuffed animal [I can’t remember if it was a bear, a tiger, or some fuckin’ thing. It was just an animal, alright?]. So, everyone’s wondering what to do, kid’s screaming his head off having a meltdown, and the mom’s freakin’ out.

Well, nobody was doin’ anything, so I stuck my hand in there and fished around a bit. Well, apparently, there was a can that was still rollin’ around in the back. The next thing I knew was, I had a hold on the stuffed lil’ shit, and then my hand started gettin’ torn to fuckin’ shreds. I had to fight to get my arm back. After I pulled out [ah ha, I know.] and I saw what was left—a stump. Between the blood that soaked the machine’s maw, to the bottle room that was gettin’ a fresh red paint job. I tell ya, there was blood shootin’ everywhere. I even got some in the kid’s eye, and all over his mom’s chest. There were pieces of the stuffed animal here and there, all good and bloody. Things went from bad to worse, faster than someone who claims that they can rub one out super quick.

Well, someone nearby just so happened to be trained in the medical field, because they took the shirt off their back and started wrappin’ my “hand,” and used their belt as a tourniquet. I had lost a bit of blood before I blacked out. I remember bein’ in the back of an ambulance. They were trying to stop the bleedin’ but it was no dice. I think we were about two blocks away, and the ambulance got wrecked by a drunk driver that blew through the red light. Thankfully, the guys treatin’ me lived and made it through, bless ’em for tryin’. The driver of that old station wagon though didn’t make it, and, nor did I. But hey, one less drunk on the road, and since I can’t die, why not?

I think I had like 26 bucks in bottles too. Ah well. I had a few trips to the market. This was just one of those days I guess.

Episode 3: Down at the Supermarket [Part Two]

Once, I went to the market to get the wife her meds—blood pressure meds and whatnot. Well, I had been behind a lot of folks at the counter to get her stuff. Let me paint you a picture, soon to be literally in fact. Alright, so there’s this guy, a big one, real big. He’s makin’ a scene and yellin’ at the clerk about how he can’t afford the pills he was prescribed, and layin’ blame on the poor young gal that’s just tryin’ to do her job, ya know? I’m sure you know the kind, those ones that insist on bein’ right and that you should bow to their every beck and call.

Well, ol’ mouth shits here was goin’ off and eventually made her upset. So, she started cryin’, and he was makin’ fun of her some more. No one did a fuckin’ thing. Now, I am not one to be a chivalrous kind of a guy, but come fuckin’ on! You can’t be walkin’ all over someone doin’ their job, let alone dealin’ with your raggedy ass that’s shovin’ your ragin’ dickheaded nonsense down their throat. No, sir. So I did what any real person with balls would do. I found my balls, stepped the fuck up, and told that son of a bitch to calm the fuck down, and go take a time out.

Lemme tell ya, tellin’ a grown man, let alone a fuckin’ behemoth-sized one, is basically signin’ your death certificate. To me, though, I’d care less. I’ve been there, and I know what it’s like, and it bothered me none. He shifted his anger to me, which was fine. I could take it. Well, I did. Included were a few gallons of water and other fun liquids. So, I took a lot to the face, plus a monitor. That son of a bitch tried to smash my skull in with a fuckin’ monitor! Can you believe that?

Well, dumb ass there must’ve never got the memo on water and electricity mixin’, equals bad news bears. Yep, you guessed it. Poor dumb fuck got his ass shocked to death, with me takin’ the ride. It was pretty fucked up, but you know, that’s what I got for stickin’ up for someone. Now, granted, results may vary, and you might not have a juiced up, strung out twat-waffle that will bash your brains in with a fuckin’ monitor, but let’s just say if the opportunity presents itself, just go for their balls and end it quick.

I swear, though, I had a lot of bad trips to the supermarket. Another time I decided what it would be like to OD on all the pills. You know, try to live out the high. Man, I gotta tell you, it was some fuckin’ crazy shit. I hallucinated every kind of thing imaginable until I blacked out. You ever hear of the Exorcist? You know the creepy girl that does the whole projectile vomiting shit? Yeah, I was doin’ that on people, food, ha, you name it. I would say it was a pretty painful way to go, but honestly, I didn’t feel the vomit comin’ or goin’. Chokin’ on my own shit though while I was passed out was a bit lame, but y’know, these things happen.

Let’s see, what else happened? Ah, yeah, I tried to drink the whole liquor aisle. Now that one took some time. I almost made it too, had it not been for the cops showin’ up and arrestin’ me. How did I die there? Again, vomit. Fuckin’ vomited in the back seat of the car and croaked. At least I left them assholes a lil’ somethin’ special from dear old Bob.

The next time, though, things will be different. You’ll see.

Episode 3: Down at the Supermarket [Part Three]

So, here I was gettin’ stuff for the long weekend. You know, Memorial Weekend? For me, it’s about as good as enjoyin’ a Labor Day weekend. The guys would round everyone up, have a bunch of brews, a cookout, the whole shebang. Now, I don’t have nothin’ against it, in fact, I’d look forward to it. Though, the last few years before I killed myself, things were goin’ down the shitter. Fewer folks were comin’ and eventually, I ended up havin’ to move away.

Well, I was gatherin’ stuff up for this…weekend barbecue shitfest at the new place and well, I wasn’t lookin’ forward to it. I was against goin’ to the store with the fam because I had the itch. I already offed myself in front of them, and I regretted it. Though they’d never remember it, it still struck a nerve with me.

I was wanderin’ around the home goods side of things, after gettin’ the charcoal, fluid, and other “fun” things. I happened to find those knives that they have for, uh, kitchen use. Well, that itch got to me, and I cracked open a package and gave myself a nice new set of lines up and down my forearms and throat. I gotta say, it was a nice contrast—white peppered tile—with that rich blood all over. I remember some folks screamin’ and runnin’, some shielding their kids’ eyes…that wasn’t my fault, they dragged their kids along to fuckin’ gawk at me twitchin’ and dyin’. Who the fuck does that?

Before I ended up blackin’ out, with the lights fadin’ and shit, I remember one guy put down a “Floor slippery when wet” cone. I am not sure if that final laugh escaped or not, but thanks, kid. You made a dead guy laugh.

Hindsight bein’ 20/20, I guess I could have gone to sportin’ goods, gotten a rifle or a handgun, maybe even a huntin’ knife…but that would have been a little more complicated, and they probably would have thwarted my attempt.

Another trip in, since it was a “soft reset,” I got all the shit I needed, avoided the knives, and made my way over to the deli to get some fried chicken and stuff for lunch. I still had that itch though and well, let’s just say it was just goin’ to be a long fuckin’ day.

I got over there and was lookin’ at all the great food. Usually, my mouth would be so wet; it’d be ready for mouth huggin’ some food ’til it’d make my throat orgasm. It wasn’t this time. Maybe it’s because of the itch, I dunno, and frankly, I don’t care. Either way, I kind of went into autopilot mode, and that was that. What happened was, I ended up goin’ over to a deep fryer, shoved a few people out of the way, and just slammed my face nice and deep in that vat of hot oil. It was for a good…I think 20 or so seconds? Eventually, I just kind of slid in a little bit and died there. My head was good and fried, though, to a golden brown I will add. I will say this…that hurt like a mother fucker.

Reset again and here I am, back at the store. Well, this time around I got the hunger itch. So I got to thinkin’, all this cereal, and all this candy…in one fuckin’ giant aisle. It’s a wet dream come true. So, for diabetics, kids, and curious folk everywhere, I grabbed a few gallons of milk, grabbed the candy, the cereal, and just ate and ate, and fuckin’ ate that shit up like succotash. It was an enlightening experience…until I got all jittery and started throwin’ up. Milk, cereal, vomit, and candy does not taste good, lemme tell ya.

Well, because of diabetes and whatnot, I ended up passin’ the fuck out, choked on my fuckin’ vomit again and was left in an awe inspirin’ decoupage of gluttony.

After that, it was another reset, but that part was borin’. It ended up bein’ an alright weekend, but I think I could have had more fun at the market. Sometimes, though, those damn morals get in the way of really havin’ fun…but I’m not that psychotic. I guess, though, if it ever came down to it, I’d hope that I would finally die.

The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal is a writing project by Robert J. S. T. McCartney, here at A.B. Normal Publishing.
This story is a work of fiction.

Author: Sincados

Writer, gamer, foodie, brew enthusiast, and awesome dad. Also likes to make explosions...but not in any particular order.

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