There is no history
of them.
They’ve slipped by,
unnoticed.
Society was always
too preoccupied
with progression.
They were pleased
with this
invisibility.
They could even
carry out
their morbid fantasies
in broad daylight.
Mutilating stray animals,
stabbing unattended children,
hacking fingers
from the homeless.
Parents would tell
their children
not to play
so rough.
People wandering by
would look away
in disgust,
wishing someone
would do something
with these drunk bums.
Nobody even bothered
with the animals.
They were left there
to rot
with the filth
left in the back alleys.
Nobody even summoned
the authorities.
Nobody ever
did much
of anything.
So they kept
slipping by.
One afternoon,
I was having lunch,
when I noticed
a peculiar fellow.
He had on
a nice suit,
tall hat,
a monocle,
and a profound mustache.
A knife
was in his hand.
He walked behind me.
I could hear
his footsteps
stop.
A burning sensation
crept up
my back.
More and more,
the pain
flourished.
I turned around.
It appears as though
you’ve had
an accident.
The fuck I have.
You stabbed me.
Before he could answer,
I took out
my hatchet
and hacked through
his monocle.
People stopped
and stared.
He tried to take out
his knife once more.
Fingers began
to fall out.
Such an unfamiliar sight
to see them
unattached.
Different sizes,
shapes,
colors,
rolling around.
I hacked him,
once more,
on the back
of his neck
before he
slipped away.
Leaving his souvenirs
behind.
I stood there
for a moment,
wiping off
my hatchet.
Everybody went back
to their business.
I tried to too.
My lunch
was not as
enjoyable.
The bastard
ruined it.
