The Violent Life and Ugly Death of The Noid
Because this is an honest, authentic exploration of the life and death of controversial advertising pitchman The Noid it contains strong language, unrelenting violence and a disturbing amount of sex. Do not read unless you are an adult ready to handle the truth about The Noid, and, by extension, the universe and yourself.
The man woke up with a hangover as always. Every day was the same, waking up sometime late in the afternoon with a pounding headache and wicked hangover in a den of sin littered with the half-used detritus of the previous night’s debauchery, little baggies of smudgy shit-brown Molly, empty vodka bottles, once-mighty joints that had been reduced to the flimsiest of roaches and used crack pipes.
He lazily scratched his enormous, greasy, sore prick and immediately set about getting fucked up all over again. It caused this infernal, unspeakable agony but it also took it away. It was savior and curse, medicine and poison, the antidote and the disease. All he knew was that his body didn’t just want this rocket fuel for Olympian-level self-destruction: it needed it and he wasn’t about to deny his basic, essential needs.
He diligently smoked what was left of the joint by his bed, downed half a bottle of vodka without a chaser and hungrily fished out the remaining MDMA with a greedy finger and stuck it in his mouth.
By the man’s side lie a naked woman in a state of disarray, her wild, curly hair matted, a bottle of cheap scotch mere inches away from her outstretched hand. They’d fucked, obviously, but that was all he could remember. He’d blacked out everything else. He once again found himself in the curious position of playing amateur sleuth in the case he only ever investigated, the eternal Case of What the Fuck Happened Last Night?
What was the girl’s name? Cindy? Crystal? It was a stripper name, he sort of remembered, or something kind of eighties. Plastic. Or did he even know her name? Did she give it? Did it matter? Did it ever matter?
Did his own name even matter? Could he even remember it? It was Marshall or something but it had been a very long time since anyone had called him that.
Words didn’t matter now. Named didn’t matter either. All that mattered was that the obliterated woman lying beside him was horny and lonely and desperate and sordid and sad and so was he.
They’d found momentary escape from their misery in the sweet oblivion of orgasm, in debasement, in turning themselves into grunting, fucking, drug-fueled animals because the pain of being human and sober and alive was just too terrible and grim to even contemplate.
She had not asked his name. Nor had he given it. Fuck, she didn’t even ask him why he was wearing a red jumpsuit with the letter N in the middle of the stomach, white gloves and a red mask with bunny ears, even during sex. She just sort of accepted it. You know you’ve met someone exquisitely jaded when something like that doesn’t raise an eyebrow but this woman had to know who he was. The man’s crimes had rendered him a folk legend, a bogeyman who had spent nearly a decade tormenting Domino’s pizza delivery men and women with increasing savagery. He was a merciless urban hunter who would eat the pizzas he ruined and stole from delivery people even when they were soaked in the delivery person’s blood and viscera.
At first the man was content to merely sabotage Domino’s drivers so that they were unable to meet Domino’s famous half-hour 30 minute guarantee and had to give away the pizzas for free. But soon that wasn’t enough. He physically attacked and intimidated delivery people, often with guns and knives he wrote the words “Pizza Crusher” on in black letters.
Then one night after a furious struggle the man finally did it: he beat up a Domino’s delivery man so badly that he bled to death. He was a baby-faced kid, seventeen at most, and now he was dead. The high the Noid experienced after killing his first pizza delivery driver was unimaginable. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before. It was better than sex, better than drugs, better than anything. Nothing beat the thrill of revenge.
Over the pizza delivery boy’s dead body the man, who then called himself The Noid, wrote in the dead man’s blood, “Avoid the Noid.”
But that all seemed very far away from the grizzled, meth-addicted man of violence and infinite sadness as he woke up on what he could not possibly know would be his last final day on earth.
After finishing the previous night’s roach he rolled himself a fat new joint and looked at the sleeping woman with an expression that combined pity, concern and lust. She looked so out of it that he checked her pulse to make sure she was still alive. She was. That wasn’t always the case. He’d had hook-ups die on him before, overdoses mostly, but this woman, whoever she was, was just fucked out, or near-comatose after crashing after days of drug-fueled decadence.
He had met the naked woman on a hookup website called Fuck Buddies whose slogan, “No feelings, all fucking” succinctly summarized its philosophy. His profile read, in its entirety
Big dick fuck machine looking for sex
Quote: “How about a bit of the old ultra-violence, guvnor?”—A Clockwork Orange
“Why so serious?” The Dark Knight
Loves: Fucking, Drugs (all kinds), Ultra-Violence, Mayhem,
Hates: Not fucking, Sobriety (ugh!), timely pizza delivery, Literally everything else, oh and daddy. Definitely dear old daddy, but that was nothing a baseball bat couldn’t take care of (ha ha ha!)
Daddy. Fucking daddy. That’s where this all began. That was the source of all of his incandescent, incoherent, overflowing rage. It was daddy who had turned him into a monster due to the monstrousness within himself.
Daddy was a real piece of work, alright, a real piece of shit. He was a committed racist and anti-Semite, a rank and file member of the local Ku Klux Klan. He hit his wife and kids and drank too much and played grab-ass with his 13 year old nieces at Easter parties. But because he was an award-winning Domino’s owner with a peerless reputation for customer service and delivering on the company’s famous 30 minute guarantee he was seen as a great man and a pillar of his community.
Nothing the scrawny, painfully un-athletic boy did seemed to please his father, who divorced his mother when his son Marshall was three years old, shortly after winning Domino’s manager of the year for his district.
In a desperate attempt to have a relationship with his father, the boy got a job as a delivery boy but after delivering four pizzas late his first night he was fired in front of the entire staff.
With pure hatred in his eyes, the manager screamed at the boy, “My assistant manager Chad is more of a son to me than you will ever be! Domino’s is the only family I will ever need; its rule book is the only law or moral code I will ever recognize. The only thing that matters to me in this world and the next is Domino’s 30 minute delivery guarantee.
Why can’t you and that whore mother of yours get that through your thick skulls? I CHOSE Domino’s over her and you. It was literally the easiest decision I’ve ever had to make. I would do it again in a heartbeat a million times in a row. I thought you might be worth a damn if you were able to do something worthwhile, like deliver a pizza in a timely fashion but you’re too much of a fuck up for even that. Unlike Domino’s pizza, you are garbage. I never want to see you again! You’re fired! You’re fired as a Domino’s employee and as my son.”
Marshall couldn’t hold back tears. He wanted to crawl up into a little ball and die. Never in his life had he felt so humiliated. He felt ashamed down to a cellular level.
“Go home and cry, little boy! You’re weak, just like your mother. You are not, nor will you ever be, Domino’s material. You’re not my employee and you’re not my son either.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. All I ever wanted to do was please you, to have a real relationship with you, and I thought maybe by working here I could make that happen but you don’t love me. You never will love me” Marshall blubbered, unable to contain or control his soul-shaking sadness and sense of rejection.
“No shit, Sherlock” the older man roared with a chuckle, “You’re better at ruining pizzas than you are at delivering them. Too bad there’s not a job doing that. You’d be over-qualified. Hell, I’d write a glowing recommendation! Now, get out of here, woman, before your crying and sniveling make me puke.”
Marshall went to his car and wept uncontrollably. It felt like he was crying not just with his whole body but with his whole soul as well. He felt like killing himself. He felt defeated, lost, abandoned, rejected by the universe itself, not just one horrible, horrible man who happened to be his father.
The shattered young man looked in the back seat of his car. In it was an ill-fitting Spider-Man costume. Marshall wished desperately in that moment that he could be a superhero, not a broken little boy destroyed by his father’s rejection. Or, better yet, a super-villain.
In that moment, Marshall Goosenberg died. From his ashes a monster the world of pizza delivery boys would know and fear as The Noid was born.
The young man dyed the Spiderman costume pure red, then painted a black N inside a white circle. He put on white gloves and a red mask that covered his face to conceal his identity and, looking at himself in the mirror with a pleased expression, said, “Now I am become Death, destroyer of worlds.”
Even in the intensity of that awful moment, The Noid realized that he was being, at the very least, a little on the melodramatic side. So he dialed it down a bit. “I am The Noid” he rasped angrily. “I ruin pizzas.” For the time being that would have to be enough.
Maybe his father was right. Maybe his only real talent was for ruining pizzas. Maybe that was ultimately his destiny: to be the monster who ruins pizzas by any means necessary, whether that meant running a pizza boy’s car off the road and into a large body of water or slitting their throat from behind and then watching in demented glee as the life seeps out of them.
His father’s cruel words played on a loop in Marshall’s head, gaining more power with each masochistic repetition. “You’re better at ruining pizza! You’re better at ruining pizza! You’re better at ruining pizza! Ruining pizza! Ruining! Pizza! Ruining!”
Those cruel, taunting words would become the troubled man’s new identity. He would ruin pizzas. From that moment on, that’s all he lived for: to punish his father’s cruelty, rejection and abandonment by hitting him where it hurt: at work, and on the bottom line.
The police were on perpetual high alert for a mentally ill man in a skintight red costume attacking pizza deliverymen in savage, unconscionably violent ways but that did little to nothing to halt The Noid’s crime spree or lessen the ferocity of his attacks. He knew the police were out looking for him. He didn’t care.
At first The Noid would only kill pizza delivery men. That was his moral code: he didn’t feel bad about killing pizza delivery boys to keep them from delivering pizzas in a timely fashion but he wouldn’t kill women or children.
Then one bloody, meth-fueled night The Noid accidentally murdered a female pizza delivery person. After that no one and nothing was off limits. He killed a small boy who was accompanying his dad on his pizza delivery rounds, as well as the golden retriever puppy yapping at him from the back seat.
Domino’s placed a bounty on the Noid’s head: a million dollars to anyone who could bring him in, dead or alive. The Grazziano crime family, the proprietors of the poorly named Grazziano Crime Family Money Laundering and Pizza Emporium, secretly aided and abetted the Noid, because he almost single-handedly destroyed the business of one of its biggest competitors, in addition to ending the lives of many of their employees.
But when the Noid, in a drug-fueled crime spree, ended up killing several pizza boys employed by the crime family, it put a hit out on the sex and drug-crazed mass murderer in the red suit with the insatiable blood lust.
The mob dispatched multiple hitmen to take out The Noid before he eliminated any more of their people but the man who ended up ending his nearly decade long, corpse-strewn crime spree was a second-generation Domino’s delivery boy named Tommy Houlihan, whose life changed forever as a fifteen year old when a policeman came to the house he shared with his mother and nine brothers and sisters and told everyone that their beloved nineteen year oldest brother Mickey had been brutally murdered while trying to deliver a small cheese and green pepper pizza.
A small cheese and green pepper pizza! No one should have to die over something like that, particularly in the unspeakable manner in which Mickey was killed: his limbs had been hacked off while he was still alive and he was castrated shortly before being hung upside down with a sign taped to his chest reading, “Avoid the Noid.”
Ever since that moment Tommy lived only for revenge. The following day he enrolled in Karate and began assembling a massive arsenal to take down the monster the city knew and feared as The Noid.
He got a job at the same Domino’s where his late brother worked before he was butchered alive and waited for the call to arrive that would bring him into The Noid’s world. Tommy knew that it was dangerous, if not suicidal, to use himself as bait to take down a monster who had killed, at that point, over forty Domino’s pizza boys and girls and a smattering of delivery boys for other pizzerias but he didn’t care. This had to end. It had to end soon and it had to end with Tommy achieving vengeance.
When an order came in from a particularly violent and squalid neighborhood an eerie sense came over him. He could feel it in his gut. This was it. This was go time. He grabbed a machine gun with the words “Noid Destroyer” written in blood red on the side, drove to the building and walked up to the third floor of the building for his date with destiny, a pizza in one hand, a powerful assault weapon in the other.
Tommy did not even bother to enter the squalid apartment where The Noid was staying. That’s how sure he was. Instead he knocked on the door gingerly and when he was greeted with a single gunshot that barely missed his skull he retaliated with everything the Noid Destroyer had to offer.
It was, in the most literal possible sense, overkill. The Noid’s long lucky streak of not getting murdered despite the many, many murders he himself committed shattered instantly in a deadly flurry of bullets. The Noid had lived by the gun. He was dying by it as well.
As bullets tore through the Noid’s rancid, filthy-smelling devil-red leotard and into his cursed flesh, the notorious pizza-defiler and mass murderer let out a howl of excruciating pain. He could feel the life leave him. The gun he held in his arms fell gracelessly to the ground, letting out a few random shots.
In the process, a hole developed in the fabric of the time-space continuum and The Noid somehow escaped his own brutal, ugly, uncompromising universe and entered our own imperfect hellscape so that he might deliver a last message to you, the reader of this very piece.
With soul-consuming righteousness he is staring into your eyes and screaming at the top of his perforated lungs, “If you think The Noid doesn’t kill, that’s cool. But you’re living in a fucking dream world. If you think The Noid doesn’t fuck, Wake the fuck up. If you think The Noid isn’t a machine built by the devil to deliver pain, you’re Pollyanna living in a fantasy world of sunshine and lollipops and I am going to have to skull-fuck some reality into you, princess. The universe is pain and death and now I am finally one with Lucifer, who created me in his foul image.”
The Noid ripped off his blood-soaked homemade costume and started to paw furiously at his inexplicably erect penis in a bizarre erotic death-frenzy, achieving messy orgasm mere moments before his bullet-riddled heart stopped and his damned life ended violently and dramatically, as fate had always preordained.
The Noid would end life as he began it: naked, covered in a pool of his own blood and screaming with incoherent rage at a God who either does not exist or is a half-mad fool careening headlong into full-on insanity. With his final breaths The Noid uttered the four words that had been vibrating in his soul for years. As he lay dying, The Noid rasped, with furious urgency, “Release. The. Snyder. Cut!”
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