"This is my story. I made it up while I was serving a prison sentence for a variety of offenses, some of which come into play during my recitation. You'll notice the main character is named Jones; this isn't because he is based on me. It is because Jones is the most perfect name in the world.

"Let me give you some background before I begin. During the birth of the text below, I was on a medication to help me cope with the loss of my crawfish ranch; I have marked the times I was properly medicated with green and the times I wasn't with black.

"My story is called Jones in the Craw. I am starting it now.

"Jones held the smoking pistol in his war upon the world. It had etched a pattern onto his left hand, a complex three-dimensional picture of powder burns and singed flesh, stretching tight over the grooves and indentations of the gun. His face matched the grim countenance of his hand.

"The dead stretched away endlessly in every direction. They lay as they had fallen, mangled and broken, ships tossed aside by the tempest of Jones' fury. Apparent in every eye was shock mingled with overwhelming sorrow.

"Before Jones' rampage, the city streets had been bustling with activity and the structures lining it full of life. Now, though, only the occasional drip of vile scarlet fluid interrupted the ponderous silence. The movement and motion of every day life had ceased before the terrifying reality of Jones' actions.

"Hate rose like gorge in Jones' soul and he began to shriek, firing his pistol into random bodies arrayed around him until all his bullets were spent and his weapon only clicked repeatedly. He spat at them and cursed, angry that he couldn't kill them all again.

"A bunch of squirrels ran out of a wheelbarrow and said to Jones, their high-pitched squeals combining with one another to create a respectable approximation of a human voice, 'Hey, Jones, what's got ya down?'

"Jones paused and thought for a moment. Then he said, "Well, this morning, I woke up and looked out my window and there was this big balloon covering up the sun. I went outside and I saw that the balloon was advertising potato chips. I realized that I really wanted some chips so I came to town and they didn't have any!'

"'That's horrible, Jones!' the squirrels sympathized. 'Do you like ponies?'

"'I find their bleatings very soothing!' Jones exclaimed without thinking.

"'Ponies don't bleat,' the squirrels responded mockingly.

"Jones had secretly loaded his pistol during their exchange and, in sync with the rising pulse of his white-hot malevolence, he lashed out, firing into the squirrels, exploding their tiny bodies with bullet after relentless bullet. After the first few shots they scattered, seeking refuge from Jones' righteous violence, but none could escape the killing machine with the oily black hair.

"Finally, Jones stopped firing. He slowly reloaded his pistol as he surveyed his second slaughter of the day. All that remained were assorted squirrel bits, scattered around the twisted corpses of his previous victims.

"The sun came roaring over the horizon, spreading sparkling pixie dust for all the denizens of the world to enjoy. The dead began to stand and smile. They chatted eagerly with one another about what they had seen on the other side.

"Jones joined in the revelry, parading through the streets as a new age messiah, having torn away the blinding veil of mortality from the former cadavers' eyes. They arrived at a huge fountain, water streaming forth in a huge spout that collapsed back onto itself. Here they paused and admired the physical manifestation of a renewal cycle.

"Suddenly, Jones got really mad and shot them all again so they were dead.

"'Oh no! All my new friends!' Jones said. His love made them come back to life and congratulate him.

"But then, Jones shot them all again. And he ate the dead squirrels.

"Finis."