Suicide And Cheese: Part 3

That evening was the first night in my life that I cried.  The next evening was the second night in my life that I cried.  The third evening wasn’t without its share of tears either.  My eyes were as red as Babybell wax and my cheeks were so salty that crystallised formations were beginning to form on my face.  Breaking off one of the stalactites and crushing it onto my chips, I realised that I couldn’t continue like this.  That’s when I decided to take my own life.

I’ve heard a lot of people say that to commit suicide is the cowards way out, that it is an act of weakness.  Well, let me assure you that taking my own life was probably the most daunting task I’ve ever attempted.  After all, there was a significant chance that I might miss tomorrow’s episode of Jeremy Kyle.  Regardless, I rallied my strength, fetched a large pile of newspapers and my faithful lynching rope from the garage, and began to set up my deadly apparatus in the bathroom.

As I stood atop my newspaper pillar with a noose loosely dangling around my shoulders, I inhaled deeply as I prepared for my short drop and stop.  Since this was the last breath I’d be taking, I decided it had to be a good one and I wanted to enjoy it.  As my lungs filled with oxygen, my mind began to fill with the faces of my loved ones, past conquests, and fire breathing dinosaurs that I thought would be awesome.  Once my chest was as full as it could get without implants, I opened my eyes, looked down at my destination, and lifted my foot in readiness.

Just then, I noticed something printed on the newspaper underfoot that caught my attention.  It stopped me in my tracks and, frankly, it saved my life that day.  I’d spotted a discount coupon giving me half price entry to Alton Towers.

As I started to loosen my noose and tried to remember where my scissors were, I noticed an article next to the coupon about The Big Cheese Society.  It was an interview with Herman Whiff in which he reviewed last year’s annual Cheese Fair, declaring it to be a success.  I reread the interview and I was repulsed to find that Herman was being depicted as a decent, upstanding gentleman and a pillar of the community.  This immediately angered me.  If only they knew the real Herman; the squandering, bestiality-indulging, glutton that he was.  An inferno was opening up in my stomach as I ruminated on this, so much so that I had to drink a whole bottle of Gaviscon to calm it down.  It did little to quench the intense flames of revenge that were burning within me, spreading across my internal forecourt and getting perilously close to the petrol pumps of my heart.

It was somewhere around this point that I decided not to kill myself.  Besides, you can’t really take your own life, if you think about it.  I mean, how can you take something that already belongs to you?  At least, that’s what my stoner brother once told me.  I didn’t kill myself that day, but to appease Karma, a life had to be taken.

I had to kill the president.  Now there’s something you don’t get a second shot at.

It would be difficult to gain access to the Cheese Halls again, especially after the way in which I was ejected, so a plan would have to be hatched.  First of all, I needed a method in which kill Herman, something fitting, ironic and subtle.  Perhaps I could feed him curdled milk, or get a bull to gore him behind a stable.  I couldn’t think of a way in which to enact such plans, so I decided I’d turn to the Internet for answers.

Now, I’m not much of a computer user, but I do remember managing to knock up some rather fetching posters for the annual Cheese Fair last year on a computer.  They featured a large photograph of me guzzling gorgonzola and were pretty spectacular.  Anyway, I’d heard that an Internet resource named Mr Google would be able to find anything I wanted.  I typed in “Dear Mr Google, I require your assistance on finding ways to kill the president.  Hope to hear from you soon”.  I was surprised to find that it found 1,793,000 results in 0.073 seconds, which seems a tad faster than second class post.  Anyway, after doing a lot of research on various message boards, I decided that the best way to deal with this was a good, clean stabbing.  Perhaps this method of dispatch was a little bit more visceral than I’d originally intended, but you don’t have to buy anything special and the weapon is rather easy to dispose of or plant on someone else.  Time and cost were big factors in my decision.

So, after selecting a suitably large knife (a cheese knife that the society had gifted to me last Christmas), I settled down on the sofa and decided to hatch my plan, in between the ad breaks of course.  It occurred to me that the next Cheese Fair was only two weeks away, which seemed like the perfect opportunity to catch Herman away from the safety of his cheddar-laced sanctuary.  Revenge would surely taste like a particularly mature Red Devil; fiery hot and dripping with sin.