I can surely handle this. The only real issue is finding a hose. I think there's one attached to the side of the condo... I'm just not sure if it stays attached through the frozen months of winter.
I rush outside and look around, my finest blade in hand. Sure enough, the hose is just where I thought. No clue how long a gas pipe is, I cut off a pretty long chunk. I put my mouth to it and suck, making sure it isn't clogged. A lungful of stuffy, stale air invades my essence. It isn't tasty, but it works.
I go to my garage. I'm moving fast, giving myself as little opportunity to think as I can. Thinking could only be counterproductive at a time like this. I need to go go go go go, with serious intent, and I need get this done.
I stick the hose down into the tank. I have to take a couple deep breaths before I start to suck, nervous about what’s to come. I put my mouth to the hose and stop. Couple more breaths, then I'll be ready.
You know what, fuck it. I put the hose in my mouth and suck.
Getting the gas to my mouth is no simple task. My first couple sucks are shallow: tentative. I don't want to take more of this shit into my mouth than necessary, but when the first two pulls provide nothing, I suck hard.
A huge mouthful of acidic waste floods into me hard enough to send a fat trickle down my throat. I thought I'd have a moment to gather myself and pull away when the gas hit, allowing only a small amount into me. Not the fucking case.
My throat constricts in revulsion. The hose falls from my mouth, causing gas to pour all over my face and clothes before I get a hold of myself and aim it into the bucket. What starts as a gagging cough quickly evolves into a belly warping retch. My mouth and throat are fire, and I've got nothing but the acrid taste of chemicals to ease my pain.
Holy fucking shit. Awful. Absolutely awful. Had I known it would be this way, I don't think I would have done it. But thankfully, I didn't know, so here I am, one step closer to my goal. Take heart, Chales. You should be happy.
When the bucket is full, I lift the hose above tank height, stopping the flow of gasoline. The stench of exposed gas, mixed with the flavor in my mouth, is overwhelming. I don't waste time moving back inside. I fucking hustle. Tonight needs to be done. The frenzied state I'm in surely can't last.
Gas sloshes out of the bucket in stinky globs as I jog to the end of the hall and enter my room. I don't use a ton of the gas in here, figuring my dresser and bed will need little encouragement to rip and roar. I make a trail of gas from my room to the bathroom. I'm more generous with the gas in here. The only particularly flammable thing in the room is the cabinet under the sink; everything else is tile and porcelain. Gas pools on the floor as I pour. I'm careful not to step in it. I'm not gunna be one of those assholes who light themselves on fire.
Speaking of which... I should probably change. I put the bucket down and dash back to my room, thanking god I didn't splash any gas in my closet. Despite the cold, I go with the classics: tank top and running shorts. I figure if this outfit was good enough to live in, it's fitting to die in. I quickly change, being sure to keep any gas far from my fresh threads, then immediately resume the task at hand.
I grab the bucket from the bathroom and move to the kitchen, continuing with the generous portions. I pour most the gas on the cabinets and table, figuring they have the best chance of burning like mad. I finish up and move into the workout/living room: the final area to receive its dose. There is more gas left in the bucket than I anticipated, so I use the extra to soak the couch through. I save just enough to make a trail to the door. Fumes have got me light headed as a mother fucker. I escape outside, but it isn't until I am about ten feet from my door that the air is fresh enough to breathe deeply-which doesn't mean the smell of gas isn't still permeating everywhere-it just isn't
I rush outside and look around, my finest blade in hand. Sure enough, the hose is just where I thought. No clue how long a gas pipe is, I cut off a pretty long chunk. I put my mouth to it and suck, making sure it isn't clogged. A lungful of stuffy, stale air invades my essence. It isn't tasty, but it works.
I go to my garage. I'm moving fast, giving myself as little opportunity to think as I can. Thinking could only be counterproductive at a time like this. I need to go go go go go, with serious intent, and I need get this done.
I stick the hose down into the tank. I have to take a couple deep breaths before I start to suck, nervous about what’s to come. I put my mouth to the hose and stop. Couple more breaths, then I'll be ready.
You know what, fuck it. I put the hose in my mouth and suck.
Getting the gas to my mouth is no simple task. My first couple sucks are shallow: tentative. I don't want to take more of this shit into my mouth than necessary, but when the first two pulls provide nothing, I suck hard.
A huge mouthful of acidic waste floods into me hard enough to send a fat trickle down my throat. I thought I'd have a moment to gather myself and pull away when the gas hit, allowing only a small amount into me. Not the fucking case.
My throat constricts in revulsion. The hose falls from my mouth, causing gas to pour all over my face and clothes before I get a hold of myself and aim it into the bucket. What starts as a gagging cough quickly evolves into a belly warping retch. My mouth and throat are fire, and I've got nothing but the acrid taste of chemicals to ease my pain.
Holy fucking shit. Awful. Absolutely awful. Had I known it would be this way, I don't think I would have done it. But thankfully, I didn't know, so here I am, one step closer to my goal. Take heart, Chales. You should be happy.
When the bucket is full, I lift the hose above tank height, stopping the flow of gasoline. The stench of exposed gas, mixed with the flavor in my mouth, is overwhelming. I don't waste time moving back inside. I fucking hustle. Tonight needs to be done. The frenzied state I'm in surely can't last.
Gas sloshes out of the bucket in stinky globs as I jog to the end of the hall and enter my room. I don't use a ton of the gas in here, figuring my dresser and bed will need little encouragement to rip and roar. I make a trail of gas from my room to the bathroom. I'm more generous with the gas in here. The only particularly flammable thing in the room is the cabinet under the sink; everything else is tile and porcelain. Gas pools on the floor as I pour. I'm careful not to step in it. I'm not gunna be one of those assholes who light themselves on fire.
Speaking of which... I should probably change. I put the bucket down and dash back to my room, thanking god I didn't splash any gas in my closet. Despite the cold, I go with the classics: tank top and running shorts. I figure if this outfit was good enough to live in, it's fitting to die in. I quickly change, being sure to keep any gas far from my fresh threads, then immediately resume the task at hand.
I grab the bucket from the bathroom and move to the kitchen, continuing with the generous portions. I pour most the gas on the cabinets and table, figuring they have the best chance of burning like mad. I finish up and move into the workout/living room: the final area to receive its dose. There is more gas left in the bucket than I anticipated, so I use the extra to soak the couch through. I save just enough to make a trail to the door. Fumes have got me light headed as a mother fucker. I escape outside, but it isn't until I am about ten feet from my door that the air is fresh enough to breathe deeply-which doesn't mean the smell of gas isn't still permeating everywhere-it just isn't
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