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Oct. 22, 2002
volume i, issue v
Mr. Binkles and the Curious Case of Changed Perspective
Concept by Vidicon, Words and Story by Pulse

Mr. Binkles waited patiently in the ratty paper bag that slumped against the hamper inside the closet. The inky darkness within was broken by thin slivers of light shooting through five ventilation vanes cut in the door. The vanes were perfect for Mr. Binkles plan. Just perfect.

For years now Mr. Binkles had sat in the paper bag that slumped against the hamper inside the closet. He knew why, he was unloved. Timmy, his boy, had "moved on". His parents had certainly helped him "move on", but Timmy had a large part of the blame to call his own.

Move on. Move on. How Mr. Binkles hated those words, so like death, the death of love and joy and happiness and slick warm droll in the night and everything that mattered. Move on, pass on, die die die die die. Mr. Binkles had heard enough.

Oh yes enough! ENOUGH! It was bad enough living in the paper bag that leaned on the hamper in the closet, filling his days in near-total darkness alone but for the occasional touch of his boy. The touches only came when a used sock missed the hamper and landed on Mr. Binkles. A few years back his boy had even stopped apologizing to Mr. Binkles for missing. Even then Mr. Binkles had bided his time. Deep in his stuffing he knew his boy, Timmy, would see the error of his ways and when he did Mr. Binkles would forgive him without question. Such was his nature.


Last week, while Timmy reached in the closet to grab a shirt off a hanger, Mr. Binkles had heard his boy tell his mother, as clear as day: "No don't worry Ma, I'll toss out all that old stuff before I go move to the dorms. Yeah, even the stupid bear."

Stupid bear? Toss out? Neglect was one thing. Neglect happened, Mr. Binkles had heard and knew of it. He knew that if you waited long enough your boy, or girl, would end up giving you to their boy or girl and you were loved again. He had faith, Mr. Binkles did, faith in his boy. No more. No more waiting, no more cherishing the love he and the boy had shared, no more biding his time, no more. That moment things had changed.

In that moment Mr. Binkles had found a new reason to exist. Even as his stuffing churned in his pot belly, his button eyes loosening their threads in tears, his very seams threatening to come undone, even as he was destroyed he was reborn. He rolled the new feeling across his felt tongue and found it tasted possibly better than the salt of his boys tears when Timmy was 4 and had scraped his knee, finding solace only in Mr. Binkles. Revenge tasted better than that had. Mr. Binkles found a new reason to live.

So he had planned. He had planned and plotted and schemed. Mr. Binkles took his time and made sure to do things right. First he had rummaged in the closet at night and found several small pieces of metal. These he slowly sharpened until they each held an edge. He practiced slipping then in the small spaces between stitches on his paws until he could place them all or remove them within seconds. Mr. Binkles had found claws. He sat on them now, his large fuzzy ass a safety buffer. Then Mr. Binkles had stolen a few socks. Not all at once, of course, but one at a time slowly over weeks. Using his new claws, Mr. Binkles had sliced along the socks, opening their seams up and making them into long strips. These he had practiced securing with knots. Mr. Binkles planned.

One rainy-waney-rolly-polly day, as Mr. Binkles used to call them, everything fell into order. His boy had brought home that other one again. Sharia, he called her. As if she was a replacement for Mr. Binkles. Indeed.

Timmy, Tim or baby Sharia called him, only brought her up into the room when his parents were out. Then they played doctor, just like Timmy had gotten in trouble for years ago. Except they seemed more enthusiastic now. Mr. Binkles wondered why they liked to scream so much when they wrestled. Mr. Binkles had never screamed when his boy would jump around on the bed with him. Come to think of it, his boy hadn't screamed then either. It didn't matter. What did matter was that Mr. Binkles knew the course of events now: Sharia and Timmy would close the door and remove each other's clothing and then they would wrestle and scream on the bed. The wrestling could take a while but the screaming didn't. Mr. Binkles knew he would have to move as fast as his stubby little legs could carry him.

Mr. Binkles watched them from the vents in the door. When they made their move to the bed he pushed the door carefully open just enough to slip out. Mr. Binkles was a little afraid, he realized as he padded over to the bed inserting his new claws. Mr. Binkles had been careful to never move when his boy could see him.

Mr. Binkles scrambled up the foot of the bed, one two three, leaving little holes in the blanket. His boy was on top of Sharia, his soft white ass presented like an offering to the Gods. Mr. Binkles slashed his claws along Timmy's ass raking true and deep even as he let out a war cry from the depths of his soul. To Mr. Binkles ears the cry was fabulous and mighty, Timmy and Sharia heard a small squeak. The cry didn't matter anyway, it was outdone in either case by Timmy, who leaped up and tried to spin around to see what had happened to his ass. As the boy spun, Mr. Binkles leapt forward, landing on Sharia's chest. He slashed open her neck, feeling a spurt of hot blood slap into his face. He sighed inwardly at himself. Mr. Binkles knew that this would cause a stain and a stain meant time in the washing machine and Mr. Binkles hated the washing machine, drowning for what seemed like days even as he was flung around in horrible circles. Mr. Binkles didn't even want to consider the dryer after that. Oh Gods, the dryer.

Sharia laid on the bed gasping for air painfully, bubbles oozing out of the gash in her neck. She slid downward to death with two thoughts swirling in her head: "Was that a fucking teddy bear?" and "I didn't even cum."

Mr. Binkles didn't even give her a second thought though as he stood on her chest, small cylindrical feet planted each on a breast and considered Timmy. The boy, his boy even after this still his boy, screamed and lunged at Mr. Binkles. Mr. Binkles blocked with a set of claws, losing one deep in Timmy's palm. While Timmy screamed again, Mr. Binkles leapt once more, off of Sharia's chest and onto Timmy.

His boy had no real chance, not against a small stuffed bear filled with such anger and resentment. For every attack on Timmy's part there was a bloody parry by Mr. Binkles. Mr. Binkles used to watch G.I. Joe with Timmy every afternoon and he had learned a trick or two in his time. Timmy hadn't paid as much attention to the cartoon sadly. One hand useless and scores of slashes, both deep and shallow, crisscrossing his arms and legs later, Timmy sunk to the floor by the bed helplessly. Mr. Binkles descended on his boy like a pudgy Angel of Death. He swiftly gagged his boy and went to stand on his stomach. He shook his head sadly as Timmy tried to raise an arm to swat him off, stabbing him in the stomach. It only took a few tries for Timmy to utterly give up and lay quietly on the floor. That is when the cutting started in earnest.

Later, when it was over, they found Sharia dead on the bed and Timmy on the floor, gagged with a ragged sock gag. Mr. Binkles, slick with blood, sat once again in the ratty paper bag that slumped against the hamper inside the closet. Mr. Binkles sat peacefully in his bag, dried blood caking his once soft fur, clutching Timmy's heart to his once fuzzy little chest.

vidicon, pulse ©2002
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