"I used to be fat. I mean a reeeeaaaallllll FAT! FUCK!" Nathan said, spittle forming at the edges of his mouth.
"And my dad. He was an asshole... a drunk asshole who also happened to be a volunteer figherfighter and he used to tell me son; You know what happens to all that goo when a person goes up in flames? I do. It ain't pretty but there's some sort of twisted beauty in it. Just like with a lot a things that ain't too pretty."
Nathan R Robinson II (better known as lightbringer13 to the more unsavory online message boards he frequented), set aside a cigarette from his well worn pack of Reds, tugged at his greasy hair and let out a sigh before continuing.
"Fire, the chemical catalyst that gives every starving cell in your body what it wants That transcendent liberation that the christfags- important to note here that Jews and Arabs are just as much christfag as the Catholic kiddie-fuckers, but anyway... The christfags would have you believe that you have to die for their God. That the only way to free yourself from this putrid body is through tolerance and obedience. Nah, it isn't. It's through violence. Good. Old. Fashioned. Violence. Whatever is out there...beyond all of this. And you better fuckin believe me that I've seen it. Known it. What I can anyway, that it wants us to scream to it that we exist. So... very shortly from now. I'm going to be screaming."
Nathan, pre-soaked in high octane gasoline courtesy of the Shell station down the street, lit his cigarette. The rest should go without saying.
"My condolences," Ed felt the first tinges of light rain beginning to fall as Nathan's casket was lowered into the ground (a modern homage to ancient times. Rites of blood and passage into an afterlife, far beyond the human substrate it blossomed from).
"Thank you. Nathan was- he was very sick. We both know you did the best you could," Nathan's father (Gerald Smith, and step-father to be exact. The drunken turbulence of his youth replaced with an archetypal father figure... It wasn't enough "I'm not enough Gerald thought to himself but we're getting off track...) held his wife close. Ed had a fleeting thought of her legs, how nice they looked in her slim black dress "a little risque for a wake but what the hell?"
"I'm sorry," he said. Ed's room-temperature, academic way of approaching life providing a shield of detachment from the pain of death, and questioning one's own eventual expiration.
"You know-" Gerald said with some hesitation. "Nate was... he was involved with someone-something rather before he passed away. Whatever those people were on, or up to. It wasn't good. They were mostly online... He spent so much time locked in his rooms taring into that damn computer... I don't know what he told you about any of that, but I can't help but think that it had something to do with...everything. Everything that just happened. It goes deeper than him being troubled. There's something truly evil at the root of it all."