we killed amanda palmer
Sep 16
The “Who Killed Amanda Palmer Book Killed Me” Contest Winner
By now you guys know that the Who Killed Amanda Palmer: A Collection of Photographic Evidence with stories by Neil Gaiman and photography by Kyle Cassidy, Beth Hommel and many others is out now, right? Just in case if you didn’t, you know now! If you did not pre-order the book you can now purchase it online from JSR Direct and at select book stores world wide. It’s a beautiful collection of art assembled by so many talented people, check it out.
To celebrate the book’s release, last month we announced a contest asking you to take a picture (or create a piece of art) that demonstrated how the Big Book of Who Killed Amanda Palmer killed you.
Exactly a year ago today, on September 16, 2008 the Who Killed Amanda Palmer CD was released and what better way to celebrate the 1 year anniversary than to give away an Amanda Palmer prize pack with a brand spanking new signed Who Killed Amanda Palmer DVD?!
(The WKAP DVD, pictured above, is now available in Amanda Palmer’s JSR Direct webstore)
So, on to the winner…
Congratulations to CourtneyFG, the winner of the signed WKAP DVD and AFP prize pack!
Below is Courtney’s winning photo and a short story she included with her submission:
The Asylum
The doctors called it delusional schizophrenia. She claimed to have killed Amanda palmer, not once, but numerous times at multiple locations by different methods. No one believed her, she didn’t believe her. She remembered it all like a dream, like something that never happened, all in her head. She had terrible trouble dealing with even the possibility of having killed someone. She had to be restrained in a padded cell, too keep her safe from herself and she was there for only two days before if happened.
The doctors called it a brain embolism, caused by stress. She never had a chance once that book passed the threshold. Someone thought it would help to show her that wasn’t real, what she remembered doing was just in a story book. She didn’t think so, she saw it as proof, she really had done it, then pop, she was gone.
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Thanks to everyone who entered! We received many beautiful entries - Amanda Palmer fans truly are talented and creative. In the upcoming weeks we’ll post some of the entries to the site in picture updates.
Don’t forget to keep checking back to WeKilledAmandaPalmer.com for more chances to win Amanda Palmer swag. Also, we’ll be running more contests on our twitter page (like tonight’s ReTweet contest - info here - to celebrate WKAP’s 1 year anniversary)
Sep 12
Photo by Sylvia K
To check out Sylvia’s fantastic art collection featuring many Amanda inspired illustrations visit her Flickr page - www.flickr.com/sylviakart
Photo of Fabian Graf taken by Chris Liebelt
Sep 07
Stories Update 09.6.09
Death of a Dresden Doll by Ric
Inspired by Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five
“Any man has to, needs to, wants to/Once in a lifetime, do a girl in”
TS Eliot - Sweeney Agonistes
Listen:
Amanda Palmer has become unstuck in time… And space too.
Now what the fuck is that supposed to mean?
Amanda is now living, and also dead. She’s out there touring, but she was also assassinated. And will be assassinated, in many different ways. And will also die of natural causes circa 2057. And also, she has never even been born.
And she is experiencing all that at once, right now. (Except, of course, for that non-existence state that comes with the “not having been born” part).
I’ll explain: in one line of possible events, Amanda was born in 1976*, lived on, and died, let’s say, in 2057. In another line of events, she was assassinated while recording her first solo album. I’m not kidding you, she really was assassinated. I should know, because I was the one who killed her. So it goes.
When I decided to kill Amanda, I didn’t know exactly what I was doing. Maybe nobody does. It came to me like a settled deal - an imperative that should be complied - like I was meant to do it. It wasn’t like any “devil made me do it”, or “I did what the voices were telling me” kind of thing - it just was the thing to be done. I would kill Amanda and there was no escaping from it, for neither of us.
I knew where she lived, and prepared a stakeout. I was just standing at the other side of street, pretending to read the paper, and probably looking suspicious as hell, waiting for her to get out of the house. When she did, I crossed over to her side, and hadn’t taken three steps of following her when she turns around and stares at me.
– You came here to kill me, right?
I was stunned.
– I tell you what: since you’re gonna kill me anyway, let me at least take a last cup of coffee and then you kill me afterwards, ok?
I was even more stunned. I thought of drawing the gun right there, in case she was trying to fool me, but she guessed that move too and continued:
– Ah, come on man, you can make it look like an accident later; I’ll even help you with it, promise. Not to mention that, if you kill me now, you’ll never find out how I knew about you, AND you’ll miss the best cappuccino ever.
I had no choice.
– Settled then, – she said – hot drinks are on the soon deceased.
We got to what she said was her favorite café. It was a nice place, chess patterned floor, intellectual types around, antique cash register on the corner, you know the style. She said hello to the baristas, they answered back, she presented me as an old friend, they said hello to me, and I answered back; we ordered, we sat at table in the corner, waited awhile, and the beverages arrived.
She started grumbling from above her steaming cup.
– I can’t fucking believe it, the universe must be joking with me, every-fucking-body is trying to kill me you know? Must be the price to pay, not that I’m complaining of course.
I wasn’t surprised. But I wanted to know how she knew about me, not the others.
– Ok look, here’s what – she said – You know the multi-universes theory?
I don’t know who was the Einstein who first formulated the idea – maybe it was Einstein himself –, but the theory is something like this: at any given moment several things are possible; the next moment, only one of these things happen; but, according to this theory, the universe sort of multiplies itself to permit the other possible things to happen in several new universes.
– And the four dimensionalistic view? – she asked again.
This one claimed that the passage of time doesn’t really exists, that the past and the future are also happening “right now”, they are just different “presents” which we have seen or will see someday.
– So, they’re all for real – she paused for a long sip, and then continued – The thing is that, believe it or not, for some bizarre reason, I’ve been traveling through all of the possible pasts, and the possible futures, of all possible fucking universes; and you know what, I’m feeling really tired about it. So that is how I knew all about your evil scheme to kill me… (she made that “oooo, scary!” mocking face) …as if that could ever happen for real.
I can’t say I wasn’t surprised, but somehow that seemed to fit right in with what Amanda seemed to be. I figure that went a long way in explaining how she wrote such kick-ass songs full of truth and wisdom, but I kept it to myself in case she wouldn’t agree with me. I didn’t felt like beginning a discussion on her songwriting merits.
– And how about you, why did you decide to kill me?
Like I said before, it was settled before I even knew what I was doing. I felt it was something I simply had to do.
– But, like, you could just choose NOT to do it. It’s just one possible outcome.
She told me everybody can choose any possibility, if they know what’s going on. That there wasn’t any imperative for me or anybody, that all the time people did things without knowing what they we’re doing, but that it was their choice, even if they were forcibly prevented to see beyond it. But that if one knows what he is choosing, he can give it up if it’s a bad idea, and do something else.
– And you know what else: one of the many things I don’t understand about this is that every time, on every possible universe, there is always some fucker trying to kill me. I’ve been killed so many times already, in so many different ways, you just wouldn’t believe; the sick things that people do, you know? It’s really bizarre.
She paid and tipped and said goodbye and we got out.
We were walking down the street, nobody in sight. It was getting late.
– So it’s really up to you, see? You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.
But I couldn’t stop it anymore – well I could, she was right of course, but even because she was right. Now it was my choice, I was going to kill her anyway.
We got near to a park. She looked up to the trees and walked towards to the biggest one, and then she stopped and turned around like she did the first time; and shrugged, knowing her eventual fate. I shot.
She fell down, but at the precise moment, she stretched her arms and held her torso up a little. She looked at the bleeding hole in her belly – and then she tapped her belly childishly like that drum bit that goes after a joke.
– Well I guess that’s it then. The last time I fell I hit my head, it really fucking hurt, so I thought ‘not this time’, hence holding myself up like this.
And then she laid herself a little lower.
– You know, we could’ve really hit off if you didn’t do this, I’m telling you because I know, you know? We’d be friends, you’ll present me to your sister Bella, such a beautiful girl, how is she by the way?
She died a little more, lying on the ground completely now.
– It would have been real nice, but hey, one’s got to do what one’s…. But I’ll be seeing you again…
She coughed blood for a bit.
– …better luck next time.
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A Short Story by Jason S.
Inspired by this photo taken by Kyle Cassidy
Let me tell it to you straight: Amanda Palmer was killed by Watchmen. Well, if you want to be all technical about it, the book did and didn’t kill her. The squid did. It was more of an indirect murder. Actually, I don’t know if you would call it a murder. Perhaps a little back-story would be a good idea.
Amanda came into the world without any complications. No C-section needed, no premature birth, no deficiencies, no problems in the womb, and, eerily enough, right on time. It’s as if Amanda knew what her due date was.
Her first few years breezed by. She learned to crawl, walk, and use the facilities. She experienced the pains of teething. She spoke her first words: “Ba ba.” Everything passed uneventfully – that is, until kindergarten.
It was some point after the children learned the alphabet. The children were given free time to draw things like their houses and families and such things. Now, mind you, as the children were all around the age of 5, the best drawing expected from them was stick figures in front of “houses” that resembled either something constructed by Frank Gehry or something thought up by Salvador Dali. Or explosions and fire. But you wouldn’t expect that from 5 year olds. The teacher treaded slowly around the tables, looking over each and every shoulder, saying the customary “Oh, that’s such a nice house,” – that is, until she got to Amanda.
Amanda’s house was – well, in a word – stunning. It looked like a sketch of a classical painting. The house was a majestic and domineering Victorian, with a lush green lawn. On the lawn were perfect drawn-to-scale replicas of her parents. However, there was a shadowy, human-like figure in the attic window of the house.
“Amanda, who’s that?”
“Him? In the window? Oh, that’s RJ! He’s lived in the house for years. I can see him, but my parents can’t.”
Amanda’s teacher didn’t tell her parents about RJ. He seemed like your average imaginary friend. But her parents and all of their friends and all of their friends’ friends and so on raved about her drawing, even more when they came over for drinks and had a little too much and got a bit giddy.
You’re probably wondering, “Okay, this isn’t as mind-blowing or confusing as the 5th season of Lost, but what the hell is going on here?” Perhaps I should explain. Amanda had a gift, if you couldn’t deduce that from her flawless drawing featuring RJ the ghost, along with her punctual birth. She had psychic tendencies, which amplified her art skills, allowed her to communicate with RJ, and gave her knowledge of her birth while in the womb.
You’re probably now wondering “How do these tendencies figure into the story?” Well, whenever people write books or comics or anything that’s read by an audience, they unknowingly leave small psychic imprints that the readers slightly sense or pick up on, affecting their emotions while reading. When Alan Moore was writing Watchmen, the squid received a heavy psychic imprint, heavier than anything else in the novel. This imprint causes heavy feelings of fear and disgust in average readers when they reach the point at which the squid appears. In those with psychic tendencies, it results in severe Grand Mal seizures. And those tend to result in death. And that’s what happened to poor Amanda.
She was in her early 30s when she decided to pick up Watchmen after seeing the film, which is a poor choice if you’re a fan of graphic novels and adaptations. The proper thing to do would’ve been to read the graphic novel, see the film, and then nitpick to one’s hearts’ content. Let’s just say that Amanda chose poorly. She was lying on her bed, working her way towards the end, when she came upon the squid. The strong imprint, amplified by her psychic tendencies, immediately caused a neural overload, which lead to a gushing nose and a cerebral hemorrhage, killing her almost instantly. Amanda toppled off of the bed, landing on the floor, out of sight. The novel landed within arm’s reach and without a trace of Amanda’s blood on it. Amanda’s mother found her body when she came to let her know that dinner was ready. They were having meatloaf, Amanda’s favorite.
And that’s how Amanda Palmer died.
How do I know all of this, you ask? Let’s just say that when people read my works, I learn all about them, through a psychic connection of sorts. And I must say that Amanda was the most bloody interesting person to have read my works – well, except for that Neil fellow. And he turned out okay. What a pity. They would’ve made a fantastic couple.
Aug 31
Domestication Kills: Twitter Contest Entries
This week WeKilledAmandaPalmer.com ran a contest on our twitter page (@WeKilledAFP) where we asked our followers to describe in one tweet (limited to 140 characters) how domesitication killed Amanda Palmer.
A winning tweet from all entries would be picked to win this spiffy “Domestication Kills” magnet by Paula Picard from Post War Trade (http://www.postwartrade.com/products/domestication-kills-magnet):
To enter the contest each tweet had to contain the twitter hashtag #WKAFP and had to be submitted by 11:59pm on Wednesday 8/26. There were no entry limits - as long as you were being creative and having fun!
Drum roll…
Congratulations to @lovehound for the clever, yet gruesome domestication death tweet:
laying there on the floor, watching the blood flow across the linoleum, amanda felt a tinge of guilt about leaving a mess behind.
Thanks to everyone who entered the twitter contest, we’ll be sure to run some more so if you’re not following @WeKilledAFP on twitter, now would be a good time to start!
Also don’t forget, the WKAP Book Death contest is still going on - you have until September 5th to submit entries (click here for more information)
Here are all the entries for the Domestication Kills contest in the order they were received:
sholmes672 she ironed herself to death. All that is left is an iron print on her face. or an iron sticking out of her head (ouch)
ajekofalltrades With enough pills, they’re all pliable, dead flesh.Her,she only had to be choked the one time & she snapped like a burning bra strap.
ajekofalltrades that was supposed to be an insane husband talking, k? Not me! Just letting the creativity flow.
ShiversTheNinja Her husband asked her to tend to the fire while the guests were out of the room. She never expected him to push her into it.
ajekofalltrades Dishes washed,children watching TV, he with HER at work, the Bell Jar on the nightstand & slipping down to greet her, an old friend.
sanarose Dresden Dolls singer died today in her home. Husband, author N.G. is said to have found her in the garden, stung to death by bees.
RachelCraves While simultaneously cooking & cleaning, AFP slipped on the freshly mopped floor and fell onto a meat cleaver. She’s no June Cleaver.
RachelCraves AFP was just weeding her garden when she fell into an open grave. Now the worms fertilize more than flowers.
Ardna55ac A delectable meal,indeed. Check the turkey…SLIP! Her brand new pumps and undetected cake batter on the floor didn’t mix.
Alkalune The children’s muddy tracks on the carpet were too much for AFP and she drowned her sorrows in a bottle of bleach.
ajekofalltrades Little did he know & little did it matter. Domestication kills, she wrote upon the letter, knowing that soon, she’d feel much better.
PGFShady Who the hell would say that trying to stop a fire of burning oil with water could kill you. Such a terrible lost. R.I.P Amanda Palmer
ajekofalltrades THe voices said there was a magical realm through the portal at the back of the stove. She tried in vain to explore it.
ajekofalltrades In a dog collar, leather straps & little else, bloody & broken, her ragdoll body surprisingly beautiful. A scrawled sign, “Play Dead”
insignifikunt Domestication didn’t kill her, but it bored her to the point where death seemed the only way out - she hung herself with hubby’s tie
Lexeme Her life in her husbands hands. He gave her all she desired, & it was desire that drove him, to wrap those hands around her throat.
desired_waste Domestication killed AFP by putting her head in an oven. Didn’t you see the button?
lovehound she weighed herself down/with heavy things from the house/and jumped in the pool.
essers Domestication killed AFP, turned her into just AP
lovehound mr. palmer had had enough. he had her in his sights, and was gunning for her. “locked and loaded,” he said to himself. “here i come.”
johndpoole suddenly, from out of the blue, the Winged Steed swooped down and knocked the gun out of mr. palmer’s hand with his hoof
johndpoole while Granny Scythe went Old Testament on Mr. Palmer’s ass with her flailing scythe!
lovehound kinsey thought mommy was being funny at first, because kinsey always thought it was funny when people fell, but mommy didn’t get up.
lauriepink She would have lived, if she’d just given in. There would have been treats, massages, long walks. That damned, damned choke chain.
lovehound miss palmer regrets she’s unable to lunch today.
cyndaelle I’m sorry, Amanda can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message, she’ll get back to you. Eventually.
charliespats What could be more tragic than the loss of cookiedough for cookies?Nothing, she thought.Nothing. She dove in to taste what would never be the same again.
BuoySirUs She would have lived…had it not been for the timebomb hidden in the laundry hamper.
lovehound skeeter johnson rang the front bell, then went around back when she didn’t answer, where she hung from a tree like a chinese lantern.
ajekofalltrades Her note read,”I’m not gonna live my life on one side of an ampersand.”Red, elegantly exploring fingers, tears on her porcelain grave
lovehound mix bleach with ammonia, wait for chlorine gas to form and hasten asphyxiation. wonder how long it will take husband to find you.
CourtneyFG i did it! she told herself the bin goes to the curb. but has she stood by to admire, the garbage truck forgot to brake and, crush.
cyndaelle Men are filthy creatures my dear, but you really shouldn’t have mixed that ammonia with the bleach while cleaning his bathroom today.
cyndaelle The cold night called for a hot bath. Candles, music & wine. Unfortunately, she left the CD player on the ledge, & jump went the cat.
lovehound paring strawberries, she let the knife slip along the inside length of her forearm. her flesh parted quietly. buddy barked to go out.
ajekofalltrades She wouldn’t listen. I said sit. I said lay down. I said roll over. I said beg. A choke chain helped, but she just. wouldn’t. listen.
johndpoole When suddenly, the Winged Steed kicked in the door and quickly applied a tourniquet, using his big horsey teeth…
lovehound in the end, the vacuuming pushed her over the edge. she wrapped a cord around her neck and jumped from the second-floor railing.
lionl She took the revolver and pulled the trigger on the kitchen, blood splattered over the granite countertops. The trophy wife act, over
lovehound she sat in the dark, the garage closed, the car running, thinking about everything she had to do, until everything slipped sideways.
lionl Amanda thought the closet would be a nice place to die. Surrounded by colorful fabrics, she took the final pill. So long, Mrs. Palmer
johndpoole When suddenly the Winged Steed swooped down just beneath her and … aw, you get the story…
lionl Fire, you say? She just didn’t want the neighbors to see the mess of dishes that last night’s dinner had left.
lovehound she dropped the babysitter off, then drove back home, parking outside. “crazy” was on the radio. bobby’s .57 magnum was in her mouth.
Aug 30
Photo of Erin Merrill taken by Andrew Jankowski
This photo is part of a series a group of artists are doing inspired by Who Killed Amanda Palmer called Who Killed…? To check out more information on the project and to view more photographs you can visit their deviant art page for the here!
Aug 23
Stories Update 08.23.09
A Short Submission by Kelly Smith
It was around noon when I started to catch the smell of something rancid on the air. Something told me to leave it alone, but that digging curiosity got the better of me, as it always does. You see, I had been sick and laid up for far too long. My body was screaming at me to move, somewhere.. Anywhere. So, I decided to take a walk. A walk that would land me smack in the middle of the most beastly mystery of our time. Like I said before, the smell.. It was like something straight from the bowels of hell. The southern heat has a way of makin that smell come to have a very life of it’s own. Perhaps, it’s the way our ugly souls really smell, hidden deep inside our perfumed bodies. It was ripe, pungent and my relentless need to know drug me right toward it. God, how I wish I had just walked another way. You see, I love the woods, the creek, the way the light falls in beams through the canopy above. The light, like poles we could climb straight up to heaven, and today, maybe that’s what they were used for. The ground felt great under foot after being down so long. The wind caressed me and seemed to whisper sweet nothings in my ear, How it missed me, how good my skin felt. Everything was just about as perfect as a day could get, except that smell and the nagging thought at the back of my mind that this was the wrong place to be. I found out real quick that that feeling was right. As I came to the edge of the creek I started to sit, take off my shoes. Let my feet have a little rest in the cool of the water. That’s when I noticed there was already something resting in that cool water and this would be resting there forever. She was wrapped in plastic. You know, the kind we used to pour dish soap on to slip and slide. She didn’t look like she was in the mood for any slipping or sliding though. Her hair was this reddish brown hue, the color of dry, burning leaves In autumn. The way those beams of light hit it, I could swear there were embers of a long gone fire still hiding in the strands. There was no fire though, you could tell from the translucent white film that took over the vibrancy of her irises. That milky whiteness that robbed her of clearly seeing how beautiful her final resting place was. At least, that could have been some solace. Some warmth too, could have taken that cold shade of blue off her fair skin. It truely was an odd sight to see something, espcially a person, in that frigid hue, in the heat of the day. Hell, it would have been a strange color in the snow, to be honest. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I was quite transfixed on her stillness. Laying there in that shallow creek, wrapped up like a deli sandwich, eyes to the heavens, peering into eternity. Her mouth slightly open as if to give one parting note, one final aria. Her right arm was loose of the wrap and outstretched as if she gave her final breath trying to worm out of that plastic cocoon, poised to make one last bow. As obviously dead as she was, she was still quite beautiful. Pale skin yet unravaged, hair still ablaze, a lovely Dresden doll for all to see. The only thing that I could see out of place, besides her life, was that her left eyebrow was smudged ever so slightly. I can’t even begin to tell you why but that one little detail made me crack. Tears fell like torrents from hurricanes and a cry escaped my throat that sounded foreign and ferrell. It was then I saw that wrapped inside the plastic with her was a book. I could swear that the woman laying nearly atop my bare feet was the very same woman that graced the cover. This book, certainly, had led to her untimely end. Then and there, I decided, I must find out Who Killed Amanda Palmer.
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Story by Matthew Stalbaum
Inspired by this photo by Nicholas Vargelis
Of course the store was crowded on a Sunday morning – ironically enough, there’s a lot of business that day of the week. I usually avoid that crowd, I’d rather have less people around by going a weekday instead. Besides, those guys who show up Sunday mornings always creep me out a little. They always wear real nice clothing, like they want people to think they’re going to church, and they walk down the aisles with these grins that give you shivers. Hell, even the dolls start to shake and move to the back of their containers, though of course still smiling cause a sale’s a sale and they’ll pay hell if the manager catches them scowling or frowning some guy away. I feel a little sorry for the ones who get bought up by those Sunday guys – I hear they’re into some sick shit. I mean, my tastes are a little violent, but damn, the Sunday-bought dolls barely last a couple weeks, or at least that’s what I hear.
I was only there that morning because the doll I had bought on Friday had fuckin’ run right into the street and a Volvo hit her right in the back and tossed her, and I was gonna see if I could get my money back. It wasn’t the guy’s fault though, the dumb broad was trying to escape and just ran in the street half naked, didn’t even know where she was going. His insurance can cover the damages to his car, cause no one’s weekend should be ruined by some dumb doll doing something stupid. I’d have waited some other day to take her back, to avoid going in on a Sunday, but I was afraid she’d start to rot or something, and I didn’t have no where to store her until Monday without stinking up the house.
She was in the freaking S&M section at the store, she knew what she was in for, and I’m damn nice compared to a lot of other guys browsing that aisle. Hell, I didn’t even mean to give her a black eye, and I apologized for it and offered some ice to put on it. Now how many other guys would do something like that? A handful maybe – we’re a rare breed, us nice guys. The guy who owned the Volvo wasn’t that mad though, luckily. He was telling me how he had a doll who just up and killed herself, just hopped out of the top story of the house and broke her neck on impact. I told him that was a shame. I said, “Man, it’s like they don’t appreciate anything! We feed them, we give them a place to stay, and most of us take them out every once in a while. I don’t understand why they do this stupid shit! I know I’m not what you’d call a looker, but dammit, it ain’t that bad! I’m giving them a better life than those girls on the streets just selling themselves.” He nodded in agreement, cause he was a nice guy like me – I could tell, he didn’t give me no trouble or anything, he knew it was just a freak thing.
I don’t get how those girls get the nerve to just bypass the store and sell themselves, and for a limited time only no less! I guess it attracts that crowd that only wants a quick pleasure, not a keeper like me, but it’s still pretty strange. You don’t know what can happen to you on those streets anyways. I remember reading about that Jack the Ripper guy once – don’t any of those=2 0girls see any guy could just come up and get them around the throat? At least with a store they get made up, they’re clean, and the clientele at least has decent money and will take care of them – most of ‘em anyways, and even the crummy ones just rough ‘em up, no one just ups and kills their doll. Those street girls should just find other work, like waitressing or something, cause those streets just aren’t safe, you know?
I had bought this one on Friday cause I’d just gotten a raise and figured I’d get myself a present. I’d had one before her though, bought right after Juliet, my wife, died. It took some getting used to I’ll say, to suddenly have this doll in front of you who isn’t like other women, who you don’t have to go through that bullshit process with of courting and flowers and movies and looking good and what not. God, I was so new back then, I didn’t sleep with her for a week, just kept taking her out to restaurants and hoping she’d get a liking to me. One day she finally asked me, “hey, how come you don’t wanna do it? Got a sex problem?” She was a bold one, had short brown hair and tough limbs, small but all muscle. It probably never occurred to her that I thought she had to like me before we did any of that. She just asked me that question straight out, word for word, and I realized that it didn’t matter whether she liked me or not, she’d still do it, so I smiled and kissed her all over her lips and neck, going down her body like an animal cause I hadn’t gotten any in so long.
What really got me was all the things I could do with her that my wife wouldn’t agree to. I won’t go into detail, but she never once said no. I don’t know what they do to those dolls, but they should do it to all women if you ask me – it would’ve saved me a lot of endless and winless goddamn arguments, I can tell you. She didn’t always smile about what I asked from her, but it didn’t matter. She made the sounds and put up the motions, worked her hips the right way each time, so she was always worth it. Sometimes she even forced a smile, and I know she didn’t mean it but that’s alright.
She stayed about a year, and could’ve stayed longer if she hadn’t been a bitch. Back then I was real green to the whole doll thing, so on most nights when I’d use her she’d just fall asleep in the bed, and I, being the doormat I was back then, didn’t ever bother to wake her. One night I got up to go the bathroom and when I came back the drawer of the bedside table was open and she was holding a picture of Juliet I had put in there when I had decided to buy the doll. It was this picture of Juliet at a company party a year or so before she died. She was a little big at the time, and those days she would hound me for damn near everything, but her smile in that picture was so damn…I don’t even know what, just her, I couldn’t bear to look at it. The doll went, “hey, who’s this?” I told her it was my wife. “What, she leave you or something?”
“No,” I told her, “she died,” keeping my lips as tight as possible so we’ll drop the subject.
“Well, that’s a shame” she says flippantly, and then a smile grows on her face. “Hey, least you got me now!” That’s what did it. Not the actual words, but that goddamn smile she was wearing when she said them, I can’t tell you, I was so close to just smacking her across the face. The nerve of her, going through my drawers, and then talking to me about my wife! I clenched my teeth real tight and snatched the picture from her hands.
“Get out” I said calmly. I remember breathing it out of my teeth, and it felt like fire against my mouth. My fists were balled up so tight, it’s a wonder I didn’t break that picture. Her eyes got real big suddenly, not scared exactly but just big, surprised I guess. She sat up and just stared at me, with those big eyes, kind of half defenseless and half shocked. That smile was way gone now, but I still felt it – made me wince a little. I told her, “tomorrow morning, grab whatever clothes you got and get out.” That was that. Next morning I woke up and she was gone, she wasn’t in my bed, wasn’t in hers, and there wasn’t the slightest trace of her anywhere. Juliet’s picture was face down on the table, and I needed a long shower before I could pick it up again. Don’t remember how long ago that was, and I don’t care enough to figure it out.
Now here I was with a dead doll – great fucking luck. I had to scour the parking lot for a shopping cart too, guess they were all taken by the Sunday crowd. Sure, she was light enough to carry probably, slung over my shoulder I guess, but that felt weird to do. I mean, she was a doll, not some old rug or something. When I found a cart, I dropped her in and rolled it on inside, avoiding the looks of the guys around me. Knowing those types, they probably assumed I had done the dirty work. I thought I heard some snickers and laughs as I found the help desk. Thank God it was near the entrance so I didn’t have to go through any aisles or anything. I really would’ve felt bad carrying that dead doll past the others on display, watching from their plastic cases at what they could become. I think people have done that to them as a joke before, I remember coming across videos of that on the internet, but even that’s a bit too fucked up for my sense of humor.
To just make things more uncomfortable, a woman was manning the help desk. She had a smile plastered on her face, done up so well that I couldn’t even tell if she was affected or not by the dead doll I was bringing to her. “Hello, what can I do for you?” she asked. She didn’t even look in the cart, the same stupid look of customer service on her face. For a moment I wanted to just break that smile, just do something to her so she’d stop being so damn cheerful, but I resisted the urge. I looked away and forced myself not to make eye contact with her mindless stare.
“Yeah,” I said, “I just bought this one on Friday, and last night she tried to run away, bolted right into the street and got slammed by a car, and I was wondering if I could get my money back, seeing as how they’re not supposed to try to run.” I would’ve told her my frustration at how she ran because of what I wanted her to do, even though she was a BDSM model, but I didn’t feel like letting the help woman know that information unless she really needed it; no need to reveal too much, you know?
“I’m sorry,” she starts, and already I’m feeling annoyed. “We don’t give refunds unless diseases are involved, but you could exchange her for another one if you’d like.” She still hadn’t looked at the cart I don’t think, at least I never saw her glance towards it. Hell, she was like a robot or something! Even dolls have more feeling than that girl had. A guy would’ve been a better choice for that job probably, would’ve understood my annoyance and it’d have felt less awkward, but you can’t choose those things I guess.
I tell her, “ahh, I don’t really want another one right now, or today at least. Can I get store credit or something?”
She smiles real big and goes, “sure!” Her enthusiasm wasn’t exactly contagious. Something gets typed into the computer, a slip of paper prints out, and I get handed a nice IOU for one new doll sometime in the future. Haven’t thought about when I’ll use it or what I’ll get, might go for something different, like an ethnic flavor or something. Some guy nearby who worked there came up and took the cart from me, pushed it over to the side of the store where I saw an Employee’s Only doorway. I guess he just took it out back and tossed it in the dump, considering there wasn’t much else you could do with it. But she was off my hands anyhow, and I basically had a free coupon for a good time whenever I wanted.
I’ll pick more carefully next time around, find some girl who won’t do something dumb or insane. I swear, I get the worst luck when it comes to picking dolls. I’ll look for some girl who doesn’t look like she’ll question or resist anything. If I wanted that I’d fucking start dating again.
Aug 22
Photo by Meghan
Photo by Fae Lenore
Aug 16
CONTEST: The Who Killed Amanda Palmer Book Killed Me
Who Killed Amanda Palmer: A Collection of Photographic Evidence with stories by Neil Gaiman and photography by Kyle Cassidy, Beth Hommel and many others is out now! If you did not pre-order the book you can now purchase it online from JSR Direct and at select book stores world wide.
Want to win AFP signed Who Killed Amanda Palmer stuff? What about pretty things from Post War Trade? Of course you do!
Here’s how:
First, be sure that you are following We Killed Amanda Palmer on twitter: @WeKilledAFP
We’ll be announcing how to win some AFP merch from @PostWarTrade next week on the WeKilledAFP twitter. All the information for this part of the contest will be posted on twitter and the winner will be announced on this site in a future post.
Now, how about that signed AFP stuff? Here’s what to do:
Submit a photo of you with your Who Killed Amanda Palmer book, the dead-er the better! Not a photographer? No problem! Unlike our usual submissions of only stories or photographs, for this contest we will accept any art medium you choose. Examples: photography, sculptures, drawings, paintings, sketches etc. Be creative, have fun and show us how the Big Book of Who Killed Amanda Palmer killed you!
Send the submissions to Stories@WeKilledAmandaPalmer.com with the subject: CONTEST WKAP Book Death or email us by clicking this link
- Entries will be accepted until 11:59pm Eastern Time on September 5, 2009.
- Winner(s) will be announced in a post on WeKilledAmandaPalmer.com
- If you’ve already submitted a dead photo to us that has incorporated your book and you want to enter this contest please RESUBMIT the photo with the instructions above.
If you didn’t receive your book yet don’t worry, but be creative! Create a faux-WKAP book, show us how the CD was a weapon to your demise etc. but it must be a staged Who Killed Amanda Palmer related death.
Be creative and have fun. And of course the submissions should be of staged or posed deaths and no one should be harmed in the creation of your art… but you already knew that, right?
Feel free to email us if you have any questions: Stories@wekilledamandapalmer.com
