Monty

Monty was pissed. In a cataclysmic shower of sparks and brilliant display of effervescent red, the world had come to an end and reincarnated, like a determined, mossy orb of a phoenix floating in outer space. The only difference was that now, people had abilities out of the ordinary. They could make their hair change colour at will, and all it needed was something inane like a snap of the fingers. *Click* I'm Blonde. Does this colour suit me? No? *Click* My hair is blue. Is that better? Oh wait, I turned purple. Some could levitate my blowing bubbles with gum and others could now hurl a stone three hundred yards. All Monty ever got though, was a mild form of schizophrenia. It wasn't something cool either. It was just a carefully placed shunt between the functioning halves of his otherwise perfect brain. It led to dilly-dallying and general wastefulness. So while other kids were out painting blimps in the sky with colours shot out of their eyes, Monty was stuck with an inability to decide if he wanted pancakes or cocoa-puffs for breakfast.

Monty was dangerous. He often found himself in class, staring malevolently at the professor with every intent to pounce and tear him limb from limb with his bare hands. He could use his nails to hack eyeballs out of their sockets and fevicol to stick them back in. He might have been a sanguinary herald of disaster and he was afraid the only person who could ever know of it was himself. He, a pitiful, lip-biting imbecile who would chew paper from time to time. Monty wasn't a killer. Then how could he stop himself from killing? He was a mind within a mind that shot synapses of havoc and hadn't a clue of how the mind worked.

Monty was suicidal. The only way to prevent the impending massacre, he felt, was to do away with the source. The only way to stop people scaling towers and people bending spoons and people farting rainbows was to do away with them. The conundrum was compelling. The more he thought of it, the more clueless he got. Sometimes, a beautiful mind isn't the most productive thing to have.

Monty was delusional. He had run the maze of his brain and found, by an incorrigible string of reason, that his prize, a piece of cheese, wasn't cheese at all but just a damp piece of slightly moulding bread. It was the dawn of a very bleak light of reason that made itself obnoxiously present. The world was unscathed and as normal as Brownian motion and particulate physics. All he was, was schizophrenic.