Metamorphosis

  Chapter One

A cold cigarette is lit as the background fades in and out, a bustling New York street filled with many individuals, middle class, empty, and covered in scraps as if homeless. The camera pans out to reveal the man who lit the aforementioned cigarette, Johnny Wells, a warm drink of water in a brown bowler with his extremities covered by a black tweed coat. There is a string loose from Johnny’s coat’s elbow, long enough to be a jacket of its own. Johnny walks away down the sidewalk going the opposite way to the direction in which most people are walking, causing many to look at him with frustration and contempt. His teeth glimmer in the grey sun, and Johnny, with vain care inserted, slips into a brick building marked FLORAL SHOP, PSEUDO. The man smiles and observes the shop in front of him. There are many racks covered in flowers of every type, especially those that are pink and red, as the community maintained a certain sexual attraction to those colours, which is sort of funny considering the purity commonly associated with white. He grabs a rose and pushes a thorn into his thumb deep, his eyes rolling at his own masochistic ignorance, clouding his porcelain mind with a shroud of corn-husk.

“Hello!” A voice calls out, smooth and caring in the way that a mother is, but just weak and coughed out enough to aggravate those unfortunate enough to hear it.

“Hello.” Our shining knight calls out to the voice, his lips still forming an aggressive stance in order to push away the waves of emotion that tend to infect men in his current predicament, that of thorn-brought-sadism.

“What brings you here?”

“Nothing in particular, except for something, something along the lines of flowers...”

The woman who had been speaking to Johnny rolled her eyes and brought a flower over to him, expecting an older gentleman with the ragged afflictions that a sailor might be possessed by, but found a skinny, uptight, stick-up-the-ass, bourgeoisie twat, his thumbs pressed together at his chest after the thorn had been removed, although it took a moment to register when he finally did remove it, and when he did, his spine and head jerked back in an obvious display of discomfort. She took great pains to not show emotion when they met face to face, as it was obvious to any passerby that Johnny was an uncomfortable figure to speak with, in such depth that one might frown when speaking with him like one would do in a cartoon.

“I want flowers.”

“You’ll get them.” She handed him a bright red flower, running his actions through her mind as she did so, specifically his disturbed appearance and the odd action of pricking himself with a thorn.

“I want multiple.” Johnny grinned with a certain smugness that brought great discomfort to her, as if he was about to commit some horrible deed with that very same smile imprinted on his face.

“You’ll get multiple.”

“Why thank you.”

“It’s no issue, simply flowers”

“It seems to be, with all this discussion based around the subject.”

“I’d just like to do business sir, no more fussing about unimportant matters.” The woman scowled and turned away, now in a great rush to get this man out of her shop.

“Business we shall do, but not without me first receiving the product that I’ve asked for”

“For God’s sake, I’m trying to get it, you pestering fool!” She spat out, especially on the P in the word ‘pestering’. She tends to over-prounounce her words, and so that is the case at the moment, while speaking to Johnny.

Johnny waited somewhat patiently after being shaken up by the woman, and stood there twiddling his thumbs and looking around the store. There is a large box of pseudoephedrine on a bench next to the door, right in front of the front window. He focused his vision to the stores across the street, reading sign after sign. BAKER’S BAKERY. THE TRAVELLER’S CHECK. NEW YORK BANK, and a few others. None were too notable, and Johnny is visibly distracted by the people walking down the street. There was a man with a cane and a small basket filled with coins and cash alike. His hair was a pure, unchangeable white, with specks and individual black hairs, illustrating his age purely. Not particularly, if one thought about it. He could be any number of ages, but supposing one age was especially obvious, he was about seventy years of age.

“Back, I apologize for the wait, I needed to... Find the... Flowers...” 

Now that she had found the flowers, she handed him them over the counter. Her hands were pale and dry like a cigarette wrapper or something like that, and when she talked, she had this certain lisp. Do it, she would over pronounce some letters and under-pronounce others in a way that caused the listener to grow tired of listening to her rambling. Johnny was no different from everyone else despite his wealth, and so he found her very tiring to listen to and wanted to quickly get out of the store.

“It is what it is, I don’t mind a wait as long as the products that I am waiting for are of an acceptable quality.” He narrowed his eyes at the woman and stared into her eyes as he went about the process of purchasing his flowers. His eyes shined like diamonds in the grey sun, and when he talked he gave out this certain angst that resonated within everyone around him. It made quite a few individuals uncomfortable. It was dreamlike, that quality that his eyes had. Women would lord over them, and men would resent him for attracting their women. It just happened that way, and although he had no control over it, he found it humorous enough to play with others using his eyes, purposefully staring them down in order to make them as uncomfortable, as speechless, as filled with butterflies as possible.

“I… I assure you that our products will meet your expectations sir..”

“What’s your name miss?”

“Christie…”

“John.” He said with a chipperness that screamed fifties.

With a brisk skip and a jump, Johnny walked away from her towards the door, although his purchase was left unfinished, as Christie never received her full payment. It was disappointing, but it happened, and who is she to complain. Christine Briars, a forty-something with a speech impediment and a limp, the girl who was know to throw herself out for others like an emotional prostitute, manipulating those around her every moment she was alive.

It was under these pretences that she had received this shop, the floral shop that also sold pseudo and whatever else one would need to make methamphetamines. She was a dirty girl in that way, and she would sell anything, do anything, just be anything in order to make money. She was a prime example of corruption in this world, a dirty emotional whore; doing anything, being anything, and saying anything all for her own personal gain, and most of the time, her own personal gain led to corruption and injustice. She spread greasiness, and not a single individual would find her desires desirable, but she showed them time and time again that she was just that kind of girl. Everything she wanted was dirty. Everything she wanted was vile, and no one ever gave her what she wanted. That made her angry. So, so, angry. At age five, when denied a certain doll that she had wanted her mother to purchase, she fell on the floor, flying into a rage and beginning to hit her mother's leg. At age 12. She did the same thing over a pair of headphones. At age fifteen, she did this over a boy that she had been seeing, and at age twenty, over pot that her mother had found in her room. She never left her mother’s house, and her mother knew why. She was irresponsible. Sometimes her mother would smoke indoors while no one else was home and consider her daughter’s lack of responsibility, never coming up with a reason as to why she was the way that she was.

She finally came to the conclusion one day that it was her disability, the one thing that separated her from those around her. She was born with a rat in her head, eating away at her brain slowly as she aged, day by day. When she was small, her father sat her around the television and let her watch vice exhibited in its purest form. Television taught her English, and when she reached the age of two, she began speaking just as those on television did; in broken English, filled with curses. Yes, that was it. She was damaged due to the rot of television, all caused by her father, the bastard.

It was six-o’clock. She hadn’t been home for five minutes when she heard a crash from upstairs. Just as anyone would do, she investigated, walking up the stairs slowly as to avoid trouble. Of course, if she was aware of the current circumstances, she would have ran, oh Lord, would she have ran.

“Mom? Are you alright?” She called up the old wooden stairs, having only reached the first landing out of three. Her childhood home was set up in the most asinine fashion, with four rooms on every level; a kitchen, a dining room, and a den downstairs, with two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a pantry on the second floor, and three storage rooms and a final bedroom which belonged to her parents.

As she stepped up the stairs those tight black boots, she felt this overwhelming dread fall over her. Although she didn’t want to admit it, something was wrong. She never liked to admit when something was wrong, no matter the consequences. She would just shrug the issue off and pretend like it was all ‘business as usual’, but it wasn’t business as usual this time, and she knew it just as well as anyone in this situation would. She reached the second landing in a moment, followed by the third as her heart began to race and her feet along with it.
“Mom, I need you to answer me. Are you alright?” She hollered into the bedroom, only three feet away.

The bedroom was pitch black inside. The light-switch was on the other side of the room, and one could only turn it on while sitting on the bed, which was pushed into the corner in a rather rushed and erratic fashion, as if they needed to get that bed into that corner at that exact moment. Christie took a step into the dark, then another, and then another, and she didn’t stop until her foot hit something in the dark. She feared it, but she knew what it was.
“Mom, I’m here, what happened, come on, please be okay, come on...” She choked the words out like bile, which is exactly what they felt like being spewed out.

Christie fell onto her knees to her mother, grasping her head and stroking her long, silver hair with those pale fingers. ‘It would be a rough couple of months going forwards. It would be rough moving on. It’s rough always. It’s rough all over the place, but I need to stand strong.’ She told herself. ‘I need to push through, I need

Like a model, each thigh wrapped tightly around his skull, head engulfed by fat and skin alike, she sits on the couch. Noel pays her each session, thinking it would change something in his life. It wouldn’t make him any more of a man, it wouldn’t end his father’s resentment, and it wouldn’t give him the companionship that he so desperately needed. Nevertheless, every Saturday, for thirty dollars an hour, he paid her to crush, choke, belittle, and whatever else that mind of his could think of. He often dreamed about being some form of pet or toy to this girl, to which he ascribed the name ‘Jodie’. Ascription aside, this was no Jodie, but rather Emma, a bored and aching degenerate whore who had entrapped eight other men in this cycle of torment, each man’s desires worse than the last. She believed that she had some moral highground- after all, business is business, and business is good... She tricked herself into this plane of thought regularly, pushing it to the next level, finally culminating in her complete acceptance of these measures and actions after eighteen months of self-encouragement.

Business was hard on her- customers would come and go, and the requests kept rising in their reprehensibility. One man wanted her to sit on his face, another for her to kick and beat him, another to... She’d rather not get into that one. Then there was Noel. A balding Jew from Chicago, he stood a measly five-foot-five, maintaining a rather light build for such a height. She kept his height within her mind as a way to belittle him, calling him all sorts of names, from a sissy to a midget, and although they didn’t impact Noel much, they gave power to Emma, and that’s what mattered in her eyes. It wasn’t her superiority, her morality, her brevity, or her wealth, no, it was simple power. It was the only thing that stood between her and a small child in her eyes. A small child will never hold power, never become a bold creature, marking its way as it goes with a crooked smile, that is, until it can mature and be like her. She was, in her own words, a “Shining star” and “An example, unlike you, such an unworthy, lazy kike”, and these ideas pushed into everything that she did.

Noel, on the other hand, was a foolish old boy, drearily wandering from city to city until he found purpose. Now, as we have already noted, he was a pitiful sight to behold, and one would seldom see him in a good mood, likely on account of his lack of companionship, brotherly or otherwise. I suppose one could say that Noel was a social creature, but without friends, family, or really anything, he was left without a purpose, and he resented that. He wanted to be like his father, old Staniel Briggs, a hefty sailor who wooed every girl around him within moments, and was never the first one to pick a fight, that is to say that he was a man of astounding moral character, and it was visible to everyone who had ever met him. Noel knew his father until the age of thirty-five, when his father suffered a heart attack and died on the scene. He resented that. Somewhere, there was a flaw in that man. For some reason, somewhere, somehow, he had made a profound blunder, and Noel was desperate to find out what that blunder was. He would walk this Earth for only another day before giving up on his search for an impurity in his father, before slitting his wrists inside his cramped little bathtub. He left as he came; a sullen man stricken by grief.

The street was filled with people, each of them going somewhere, doing something, and being something that they often were not. In truth, I hated these people. I hated the dirty, dingy streets of New York. I hated the muggers, and the beggars, and the women complaining about their hair, and the men too big for their britches, all lined up to see who had the biggest cock of them all. It never meant anything. I passed by a couple holding a baby and smiled. The baby looked at me with a grimace before letting out a long and pathetic cry, adding to the jumble of noise consistently present in this miserable place. I hated babies too. Evil little fucks, never adding anything to society, always given whatever they want. It disappoints a small child to be denied their wishes, but there’s no reason that they shouldn’t be disappointed. They were given anything and everything while they were small, talked down to and left separate from the bustling world around them, and then forced out of that comfortable hole, just like we see in birth. I hate babies, and the parents who happily engage in their bullshit are just as bad. They’re supporting it. They’re directly supporting the noise, the miserable noise of the streets, the noise that took her, the noise that takes me, the noise that brings all of us in this godforsaken hellhole together. Togetherness. Ha. What a dream. Dream on, and say another prayer.

I kept walking down the street until I reached a turn, turned left into the old brutalistic area that I call home, and kept walking. It is hard to walk directly straight, so I often found myself walking at a slight angle while I peer around like a pothead worried about police intervention. I remember being that young, that naive. I remember being fifteen, drinking and smoking and coming home blackout drunk. I remember those days well. When Dad would get mad and belt me until my skin formed welts. Belting me until I bled, until I was coated in black and purple bruises. I remember Mom laughing at me, telling me that I deserved it all, that I was just another no-good son of a bitch. Perhaps she was right, fifteen year old me scoffed. Maybe I am a son of a bitch.

Chapter Two

I'll stare into those velvet gates...

Where pain meets pleasure,

With many hates;

The world around us crashes and burns,

But still my beating heart it learns

To love,

To feel,

To truly heal,

From whippings, those of verb and steel.

But still she waits,

My patience states:

"Dear sir, let Maiden feel.

And if she's left

In quite a state,

And no one knows the place or date,

It proves of you-

Dear kindly sir,

Your excellence,

Loyal to her."

A life without you, my love, would be a life wasted. A life spent exploring a smoky crevice of mammonist glory. A life spent climbing the unclimbable. Bodies marking basecamp. A stolen mp3 player filled with mediocre indie shit from bandcamp in my pocket, I head out the door. Down the street. Down the long street, way down south. Down towards something beautiful, but I am not truly free. Never free, free from the others. Someday it will solidify. You ever notice how sand gets compacted into stone-like bullshit? That's me. I'm nothing special. Another poor northern twink, spending the cold Autumn mornings under a sheet until I wake up and head down to Cumby's.

An afternoon on Xanax, clouded by thoughts of past friends, a partner or two, and the next dose, specifically whether or not it would be clean, or whether some scummy asshole from the Bronx would administer like the government administers AIDS. It’s cold out today, but the weatherman seems more like a whether-or-notman with all of his lying bullshit. Warm out today. Cold out. Cold out today. A grass stained pair of jeans wasted on that middle aged prick’s lies. He might not control the weather, but at least put some effort into assuring you get it right. Asshole. How the fuck can they be that fucking far off? They get hopes up and then

Getting up now. Sat in a puddle of trash-juice. Disgusting. It stinks of spoiled cheese and some form of children’s fruit juice that’s hardly juice at all. Corrupt assholes everywhere I look. My ass is going to be sticky from sitting in that festering pool. A match is lit from the corner of the alleyway where some faceless no-one smokes some dissociative suicide fuel. I sit back and watch them. They look into my eyes and we make this deep eye contact. I think about sulking over and jumping the defenceless alleydweller, just bashing his thick skull in, seeing the chunks cover the newspaper laced sidewalk like a pie dropped. Make a necklace from his skull like an estranged Mayhem fan.

Walking away. The temptation to waste that weak old thing was too great to remain within his immediate eye-line. I’ll probably pop by the alley later, at least. I walk down the street towards the library, until I stand up swiftly and observe that the pants had been torn in the fall. I scoff and rub the torn fabric between my hyper-calloused fingers.

Temptation. An expression of something, but a PURELY MATERIAL SOMETHING. Where is it... I spent 20 minutes

Now I’m dreaming of semen and coconut trees, the bright yellow sun beating down on my skull like a hot pan coated in oil. I believe that a sunlight based monopoly will control the world by 2022. maybe we won’t make it that far and we’ll get overrun by diseases, COVID and cancers and whatever the hell else God throws our way. The Hellenists cackle as they peprform another ritual, further dampening the spirit of individuals like us, the ones broken by monopoly, the ones that come when fingers are snapped. In semen. In dreams. Orbison. What a man. Music shrill and bright fills my ears as I board his ship, bound by the infinite neon dreams of a child’s... Dreams... I hate dreams sometimes, a reminder of what I can’t do, held back by my therapist’s voice, held back by that sun, held back by her, and the memories of the other one, and thoughts of what is to come.

I get off the train and wrap my hand around the bar that stands between me and the exist. I taste blood in my mouth and kick back, slipping onto the cold pavement feet first, then legs, then the rest, you know? I smile and start to walk down the street, or the subway, or wherever. I smiled at a little girl with a girl-scout on and try to contain my thoughts. Lovely, I love her cookie. Those cookies. Yummy. Then I take a moment to ask myself, can your dreams come true when the grass turns blue? Can sheep fly, or can women lie? Can she get what she deserves? Can you? Perhaps you will, and perhaps there is a God after all. For your sake, you hope there is not. That angel in the sky, arms raised above its head as if it was using its entire body to point. How silly would that be? How silly you are, with the taste on your face, and the verbal waste, and the haste of my actions, what a silly little boy I am, expecting you to honour your promises. What a silly little boy I am, eyes wide open, staring into that space between your teeth, that space with a tiny little triangle of darkness. That place where stars lie, and where I see my eyes staring back. Wide-open. A ship soars out of the darkness and crashes into the surface. I blink. Two small grey men step out of the ship, or rather, they run. Why wouldn't one be in a hurry after such a crash? The two little men run in circles around their ship. They are so incredibly silly. I blink again. They disappear. My eyes are sore as if I had been staying up for too long. That's likely due to how long I've been staying up. I pat her back and step away. What a silly little girl. She smiles and turns away. Her turn is stiff, but it soon becomes smooth a sudden run. I don't expect it at all. There is a gasp, then a cough. There is dirt in the air, a consequence of the drilling. The cat runs faster, faster, faster, towards a can in the distance. The can opens. Delicious. It's a smell that attracts both of us. It angers us, so we fight over food. In the end, she gets it. Yummy. Black ink. Yummy. No answer. Yummy. One last little server for a silly little boy. Not so yummy.

I walk away and take a moment to breathe. It’s been a long day, filled with the endless screams of a raped orphan boy. I hate this city. Town. Not big enough to be a city. I hate this place, drenched in the corruption of a forgotten
I hate you. You’re the most pompous, whiny twat that I’ve ever met. I think about the day we met like I think about the Holocaust. I’d rather die a thousand times than go through that day again. I don’t know how much I would pay to forget about you, but it’s got to be a hefty sum. I think that it’s somewhere in the hundred-thousands. I don’t have millions to space. 1,603,393. That’s the sum. All that and I still can’t afford to make the thoughts and ideals of that stupid bitch fade.

Looking around, I saw several people. Some were young, some were old. Not much difference, none of them mean shit to me. Some have families, others have none, and others have families. I like to focus on younger women while I look around the black-top. Beauty enthrals me and keeps my mind off the filth filling the street. A bunch of disgusting materialistic watchers, endless streams of whores, and coked up politicians policing their people while they fuck up their own bodies. It makes me vomit. I focus on a dead moose I saw driving down I-95 last month in an attempt to demonstrate that disgust. I vomit up the last thing I ate; an orange and a shitty and dry granola bar. There is one woman that I cannot keep my eyes off. She is a milky white-skinned woman, with deep golden hair and a sharp nose. Her eyes are a cloudy blue. Fucking gorgeous. Fucking young. Fucking perfect. She dresses beautifully, in expensive and soft clothing, a fact that I would not find out until later, much, much later. Her eyes were bright and gorgeous colours. I could not look away from her.

Melting slobber, running down a pale and clammy cheek. Not clammy in that traditional traditional sense, but clammy as a clam is, cold and oceanborn, Now he's got her in a pinch. Break the cage. The bars are beginning to crack under his pressure. Escape the stage that he has pushed you onto SHERRY. SOPHIE. MAKE THE RIGHT DECISION...

Her head is pale, so pale, and very pale, and quite pale. The bread on the counter is stale. A brick of health. Crusty, mouldy, difficult health. So stale. Her head is long like one of those traditional Africans. It’s hard to look at such a grotesque little thing. Sing a song for me my love. Let her pray for death. She's always wrong. Prayers only deny the inevitable, o fearful Jesuit. Kiss me on the forehead. I’ll kiss on the cheek and taste your estranged son’s spittle. Kiss late at night while that whore is asleep. Breakaway, breakaway, breakaway. It’s a new day, a bright dawn. Today is the day, the day she will pray. Ripping, tearing, and stinging. What tender paper. It tears so easily. It is so easy to crinkle it up into a little ball. Give me a kiss on the chest. Kissing her breasts. Kissing her chin. I love you to death.

Remember the sparkle, old girl? Remember the sparkle in my eye when we looked at opposing screens? My hair on the top of my neck, uncut, all fancy-like, just like an unkosher Jew. I stare deep, dilating in front of you. You've got something in you. Flesh and bone aside, there's something peculiar in that shell. It cracks easily, but someone's got to rebuild... It'll be me, at least I think so... It'll be me, the one standing there until the end. It'll be me who watches you rise and fall. Up and down... Picking you up like the fathers do for their children. Loathsome. I hate seeing that shit. Maybe it's jealousy.

Who knows. Fly bitch very great, ask who needs they pussy ate

Pussy passed around, passed around

Like a collection plate.. See what you see, don't see me. Look at me. Look at me. Don't see shit

Don't see it, my Collection plate.

Who the fuck is laughing? Tell me who planned it, Tell me just to stand it, Tell me who banned it. Race around the planet. Fuck this bitch I can't stand it

Look at me now, Losing colour again, Taking cover again

Lose my cool bitch. Heavy weight. We were very great

My collection plate.

Come dance with the drug-store cowboy. Come feel the noise, the layered sheets of opium laid thick on your fragile, petite little corpse. Come dance with me, dance with my spirit.. Dance while I watch in the corner, ashes dripping off of a cigarette held aloft by two bloody white fingers. Feel the noise come out of my fingertips, surfing through endless waves of asphalt, ending in your arms. Feel my hair, greasy and rough on your chest; feel my love, feel it course through your heart. Feel me rot in your arms, and you laugh while you have the brief chance, for I will be gone soon. Gone, oh, is she? Oxycodone fills my pockets, killing each cell like a man of shadow reigning over the forests. I reign over this world, I'm going to do it

I own

I play

I sink

But can I swim?

I shot a man in the stomach; He bled out in his bed as I smoked a cigarette in his car as his pillows shined red, a deep red, almost maroon. I often think about that look a man gives, existential, but somewhat caring.

"Why?" You tried to play nice, everybody took advantage

Good lyric.

I remember that bass as I started up your car.

I lost one earbud the winter before while skiing.

Crazy how you throw that shit at me God.

You're something else, you really are

It was only a few months later when I saw her for the last time

You're a funny guy

I want to kiss her on her beet red nose of which she has several, all bleeding together in a shrill symphony of nostril tubas. My mouth opens to inhale a tablespoon of nutmeg, shuts around the spoon, which is notably not a tablespoon, but a regular spoon containing a tablespoon of nutmeg, and I swallow the spice. Yum. It tastes like dirt, but sweet dirt. It’s probably my favourite spice of all, but spices like cinnamon really do make it for me. She does so much for me, so much to me. I love it when that stark pale figure stands nude in the doorway, waiting for my member, waiting to be fucked and used, waiting to be treated to a night out, waiting to be ready for tonight, when I’ll finally take her out to a nice dinner like the gentleman that my grandmother thinks I am. I’m such a sweet little boy, such a beautiful, kind, generous soul, always giving and sharing what’s mine. They must remember, what’s mine is mine. No doubt should EVER be raised about that. I keep what’s mine to myself.

I step into Walgreens with a smile to the cashier, followed by a mad dash towards the cooling cupboard. I slide it open and grab an energy drink, feeling the smooth and chilled can caress my hand like it’s Good Friday. Rapidly, I went down the grand mahogany staircase. It was old and often splintered when one walked down it. I knew this, but it did not stop me from moving down the stairs as fast as I did. It was to no one’s surprise when I fell to the floor, my sharp and masculine chin bashing against the old wooden stairs.

When I got up from the stairs, the splinters in my chin blended in with my beard, and I was unable to remove them properly and safely. I spat out profanities “Fuck, shit, cocksucker.” before laying my bruised and contorted back on the railing of the staircase. I hate Walgreens and I hate shopping in this town. The staircase was improperly placed in isle three, and looked absurd in the porcelain dream around it.

Looking around, I saw many people. Some were young, some were old. I liked to focus on younger women while I was looking around. Beauty enthralled me and kept my mind off the filth filling the street. There was one woman that I could not keep my dirty eyes off. She was a milky white-skinned woman, with deep brown hair, and a sharp nose. Her eyes were a cloudy blue. She dressed beautifully, in expensive and soft clothes, which were bright and gorgeous colours. I could not look away from her.

I stared forwards, before stomping over to the woman. I called out to her:

“Hello there young lady! I must say, you truly look exactly like my mother! And I do assure you, this is quite a good thing, as my dearest mother was quite beautiful. Quite beautiful indeed.” To which she replied:

“Why thank you, sir! Might I ask as to what your name might be? Or where you might come from? You come on to me quite strong for someone who has yet to introduce himself.”

“My apologies! My name is Jacob Elliot. I am but a poor boy, living on the streets, all alone. Might I ask what your name is, and where you come from?”

“My name is Christie Berber, and I come from the hills and farms west of here.”

“I see. What are you doing today my dear Christie?”

“I do not have plans, but I was thinking of going to the market, or perhaps some local shops.”

“Might I accompany you?”

“Sure, although we may have to walk for a while to get to any worthwhile shops.”

“Trust me, I am used to walking.”

I smiled, and we were on our way, a luscious pair. I could not keep his eyes off of her, and the same was true for her. We were a match made in heaven, despite knowing nothing about each other. Perhaps we were both too sociable, or perhaps we just felt comfortable with each other; either way, neither one of us cared why the other was alright with us being together.

After a few hours spent walking around through shops, down long and winding streets, and around the city, we sat down on a bench. Christie took a long sigh and moaned out to me:

“I really should be going now.”

Sick thoughts, hit thots, get got, Bitch what?

Burning, surfing. Tell me if you know what worth is

Tell me if you know that you ain't worth it, worth it, she ain't even worth shit.

Toys

Toys

Noise

Make me some noise, tell em that boys will be boys, tell em you don't need a Royce

Make me some noise

Noise noise noise

Shut it, cut it

Deep skin, looks like a wheat thin

Even though I'm weak thin, neet chin

Depends, eat them

Dress shitty, fuck shitty, fuck gritty, nitty gritty...

Grind through the city, grind through to titty

Push through, curfew, knew you

Coup, you saw it

Faggot ain't fought it, faggot I lost it

I used to got it,

Got it

I used to get it

You made sure that she got it

Made sure I'm not it, faggot just stop it

Isn't a groove, hid from the news

Hid in the grooves, hiding

Still you is hiding, soon I will fly in

No intention to hit it

Never get it

Never see it

Never again

Close to the end

Close to the end, watchin my sins, fuckin your friends, fuckin to Bends, inding the end.

End I’m gonna send it up

Better just get up

Gimmie a sit up

Gimmie a sit up, give me come hit up

She told you to hit up

Touch skin, deep skin

Looks like a wheat thin even though I'm weak thin

Neet chin, depends...

Eat them

Eat them

Chapter Three

It’s noon now. My eyes are dry and feel just like sandpaper as I look around. I can only tell the time because of a small plastic alarm clock to the left of my head, its red display leaving a permanent scar in my retinas. I can still see 12:08 when I close my eyes. It’ll fade after a few hours. Maybe it’s because I keep thinking about it; if I just forget that it’s there it’ll go. It takes me a while to get up, and I move onto my kit accidentally in the process of getting up. It’s a red, faux leather coin purse, but one could easily mistake it for a small purse. It was big enough to comfortably fit the hypos I used, and that’s all that mattered to me. It was a deep, dark red, and stunk of baking soda and acetone to such an extent that those around my backpack could smell it vividly. You never hear the word vivid applied to a scent. I wonder why.

My head ached with the strength of a two day hangover. I don’t drink. When I was fifteen and drank the way I did back then... That Johnny would be able to sympathize with me. He would understand this aching bullshit. Still, I stood up, my toes practically rolling up in shock as a delayed reaction hit and I realised how cold it was. Maybe twenty-degrees. I took a few steps towards the door before I noticed the girl lying next to me. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen. Thirteen years old. Young and perfect. I smiled. A mistake is a mistake, but fun is fun too. Her body looked broken. Her shoulders were bruised, and that carried down to her stomach on her left side. She had seen bad days, that was for sure. She was a gorgeous blond, flowing, sweet, golden, perfect blond. I don’t know what it was about her, but she just gave off this sweet energy. Guilt. There was a little bit of guilt in my system as I looked down at her. A mother cries and moans at the sight of her lost child, moaning and wailing. Moaning and wailing. Moaning and wailing. Too much, she says. She can’t take the pain any longer, and so she gives up. I look down at her tiny little nostrils. Flooded. Absolutely flooded.

It took me a moment, but I finally recognised the gravity of the current situation. She was dead. A fresh life, fresh little hatchling, dead in my arms. I know what I had done, as would anyone who found the corpse. My breath started to pick up. I’m not sure where I would either put the body, or what I would do to destroy it. It sure wasn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with matters of this sort, but this was the worst instance. They were usually twenty-somethings with pigtails, just like I like. My favourite, the ones with the golden smiles and crackless figures. The ones that shined bright in the moonlight, that left scratches on your arms, that screamed and put up a fight. Feisty twenty-nines. That’s what I like. Either way, the issue was the body. It was just a little fun, fun that got to be too much. Fun that went pop in the night. Fun when she went pop. My little golden girl. I pulled the sheet off of her battered body to see what I had to deal with, revealing an even more battered little sweet. I grinned at my work. She had black fingerprints going up her stomach and tits, ending on the bottom of her neck. Her chest was small and unformed, mostly fat tissue, but you could still see those little buds. Unfortunately for me, it would be obvious that it was my work, as my fingerprints were so deeply bruised into her flesh that there was no getting them out. No amount of massaging would help, nor would whatever snake-oil one might suggest.

What an action though. Robbing a young girl of her future so early on, as if stomping on fresh young sprouts. Sprouting trees. That’s what I consider them as they come to me. Nothing more, nothing less. The guilt is only really legal. Well... I hope it is. Weakness is what guilt really was. There’s nothing more to it, really. I try to be as strong as I can, to be what the media says I am, what fathers beat their children to protect against. I am me. I am myself, and there’s nothing else about it. I’m no monster. I’m a bored God, living my life as any other would. There are millions just like me. Millions of ripe things just like her.

Come with me and fight the endless fires. Come with me, near bright red briars. Come with me, come light a match. Come to me, the gaping hatch. Come, come soon my love. Let me see your hair. Your hair is such a sweet gold. Built perfectly, melded out of clay. Built perfectly, so that I can’t speak when I see those eyes, gorgeous while open, angelesque while shut. You are perfect. Perfect for me, and for anyone more than a fool, no, even a fool would see your grace; you are foolproof darling, always a shining example of what to be. And now, my crystalline beauty, you are a shining example of what we are all to be. I idolize you. I always will. Such a beautiful girl. Such a beautiful girl. I’m not sure what I’m to do now that you’re gone, but I know it might not be pretty. You sure were. Your breasts supple, barely protruding from your pale little chest. I love you.

I lunge for the door and slam it behind me. The house is a mess, crabs coating the floor and empty cans on top of the aforementioned crabs. I’m not entirely sure what to do with all of them, so I simply walk past them until I encounter Daniel, the King of Crabs.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just trying to get out the door after last night, I’ve got wandering to do.”

“Why must you cross through my domain?”

“It’s entirely necessary, there’s no other exit.”

“Understandable, but I would prefer it if you would exit your living space using another pathway, as not to disturb my brothers and sisters around us, those who you so generously allowed to stay here.”

“Why had I invited you to stay in the first place? I mean no harm in my asking, but I am just rather confused.”

“I love you.”

“And you as well sir.”

“You invited my company and myself to your humble abode as a reaction to this current oil trade nonsense. You yourself have admitted this. You are an anti-industrial freedom fighter. You are the one to save this monopoly on oil perpetrated by these United States.”

“I am an anti-industrial freedom fighter. I am the one to save this monopoly on oil perpetrated by these United States.”

“Now exit as you are brother.”

I left my home in a daze and wandered off towards the home of my dearest love Christie, my chest warm and lovely. One must crack eggs to make an omelette, and I am quite the cook. My feet click on the dirty and wet sidewalk, which somehow remains wet without rain. I’m exhausted from all of this nonsense the past few days. She never accepted my flowers. My girl. My girl never accepted the flowers. Rage built up over time, and now I was nearly done. Nearly postal, fed up with the nonsense that the world offered me, fed up with the whores and murderers, the bastard proletarians wasting their lives, unaware of the monopoly controlling them. Steel and pseudofed, all state managed in their sale, in their production, and in their consumption. Maintaining such deep control on us. Maintaining power, authority, respect. Maintaining

Downstairs in the street again. There aren’t as many people as there were yesterday, and it’s colder than usual. The train speeds up just as I approach it. The door was broken and didn’t shut immediately. Weird. I haven’t ever seen that happen, but I’m not surprised that it would with the lack of repair that occurs here. All of the city’s resources are spent on roadwork. It was always in the same spots too. Everyone knows that they were just working on the same areas to get money from the state. Disgusting.

Among flowers to left, to right and cerebral, to right, forwards rapidly, a pungent pancering down the pseudo futurist path of infernal succession. Down tracks, down racks, down tracks. Though “legitimacy” inflicted on proletarian workshops lacking funding. In dreams we thinklease, antithesis first in an endless wave of semi-socratic thought. We are valuable, we are tasteful, Victorian minds, opium, opium, opium. Babbldygook one and all, when raised by a centrifugal force. Jacob steps towards, Esau back, and protected resources. We will walk further, apartment is dirty, knock knock.

Not sure if it was knock or silence, silence or knocking, but door opens, water flowsno, flesh. Johnny enters in, comes in, wakes in, rushes in, floods, tears through cloth, best for the NATION OF ISRAEL. Sits breast open and visible to the streets out of the boards and blackoutdoorcurtains. The curtains are such a fine silk, but are curiously left out in the sun to experience the wear and tear of the world. The world was rough out in out in there. So much corruption, those around us raped by the fatherblood we call democracy. All he wants is a family, a son to teach, a wife to kiss, a picket fence to paint, a lawn to mow, and a car to drive. Fatherblood infect, injects, inbred, incest, ingest, in jest, in rest. Inner monologue, calling each other brothers, no child, no one left alone, no child drowned. Who can survive in this city? Who will last another day? He is an anti-industrial freedom fighter. He is the one to save this monopoly on oil perpetrated by these United States. He is the one who knocks. O death, where is thy sting? New York New York, where is thy victory? America the brave and beautiful, Guantanamo and Nam’, Nagasaki and internment, what Bush did to Haiti, what Nixon did to Cambodia. America the free and brave, America the beautiful.

Those who watch me have this certain bias, a certain care-free observance, a certain hatred due to my actions, my decisions, and my cognitive properties; the mind of a centurion, the soul of a bag of bones, nothing but flesh and bone. He was cold. I was warm. He was warm. I was warm. It took me a moment, but I pushed onwards with dearest Noel, a kindred soul in the brewery at home, a kindly man, industrialised and corrupted. The oil-monopoly got to him. The oil-monopoly got to him. He was black and red, red before black. Red. Bloody, crimson, daring, loving, caring, sharing, beating, crushing, beet, Pop Style, apple, cherry, blood red. Why are you watching me so contently sir? Why do you approach me with your fingers outstretched in this nuclear wasteland? Why do you paint your flesh with the paint of war? Why are you toned grey, just as the cement is? Where have you come from? Where have will you be next?

“Morning.”

“Morning.”
“I’ve been observing these actions of yours, undisputedly corrupt in their nature. You’ve got a lot to learn, a lot to learn indeed, and a lot more to learn that we haven’t learned yet.”

“Admittedly so sir, but you must be informed before you continue: I am an anti-industrial freedom fighter. I am the one to save this monopoly on oil perpetrated by these United States.”

“You have much to learn.”

Arms outstretched, fingers lengthening with every moment, flesh bubbling just as boiling water does when it first begins to boil. Bones play no part in his furious game, easily moved, bent, broken, contorted. Arms begin to form some form of blade, veins coverihng the marrow-filled piece. His arm got longer with each moment, inches a minute, slowly and surely pushing its way out in a nightmare only known by the Sikhs, or at least those in Northwood, a neighbourhood unusually drenched with crime. Skin began to bend and shape something... Something new. Hard to describe, but it surely was new, matters that no human would ever be exposed to again, matters that no human had ever seen. Eyes began to melt down, sockets stretching to fulfil their master’s needs, despicable. Pale old flesh grew new again before shedding, revealing a being inside only acknowledgeable by the brave, the silent minority. Bug. Bugging. Bugged. Bugger. Buggered.

Chapter Four

Executive production rights. That’s what Christie Berber chased. Every day, she would wake up, check the news, and search for job opportunities as a producer. This was all television. She loved television, and it loved her back, to be entirely frank. She got business offers often, and reception for her appearances on television was through the roof positive. It was comforting to her that so many individuals that she didn’t know, individuals who she would never know, knew her, and had a positive view as it relates to her and her talent. She certainly was a talented little one. She always kept up this fake smile, and that’s all she kept up ever. She was fake, a completely falsified memory based on other stars that she had seen. How humorous. What a silly young thing she was, faking her way to the top. But oh, was it worth it. The men. The attention. The men... Each one would treat her better than the last, with endless flowers, constant praise and attention, and endless purchases made for her, in the name of their Goddess, Christie Berber. What a pretty name. Beautiful young girl. She was kind and sweet almost always, unless she had made a mistake, whereas she would get quite angry and often throw things around and make a large mess. No one wanted to be around her during those times, but they were captivated by her performing. She was.... Perfect. Perfection was rare, and she was that shining light, that beacon that everyone needed. An all American girl.

What does it mean to be all American? What does it mean to be any form of national citizen? What does it mean to be? No, nevermind, that question is a bit too much. Perhaps tomorrow we’ll hang out, you and I.

It was a cold day on Johnny’s funeral, marked by God’s sweat and tears as the whole town watched his corpse get lowered down, as mangled and layered as it was. Sounds great sounding. The sky shined a bright neon green down ofn the sorrowful sediments of human collectivity, neon dreams, neon dreams, neon dreams. The sky was brown before black, and red too, with a certain brightness to it that left everyone anxious and trembling under the eggshell like objectivity of this world of theirs. Dreams of a sailor, a fish, a crab. They gave his eulogy, and it went a little something like this, that is, if it was delivered as it was written, as writers often improvise a tad in their speeches.

“Johnny Second, a frugal and base

Johnny Third, a son and a friend

Johnny Fourth, a diluted pollution of the self

Johnny was a good man, and always offered himself and

his skills up to anyone that needed them. He died as he came though,

in a pool of deep red. The ocean was cruel to her creatures,

and Johnny was no exception. I loved that one, and I will

indeed miss him and such, but there is a dialectical scream that

I hear every time the fool’s name is mentioned. Long will we live,

love shall we remember Sir Second, and long will the spirit of steamlove

rule this plane. He was an anti-industrial freedom fighter. He was the one to save this monopoly on oil perpetrated by these United States. Now he is gone.”

And so was the speech that was delivered by Buck David, another streetside companion rejected by Johnny’s quick tempered nature. It is a mourning. Morning. Subjective aristocracy from a forceful Jesuit forcing himself upon us, Sharon Tate. Amateurs, Camelton threatens to dive into the casket. Faced with hell itself, they fight for their boy. Their boy is dead, so they fight for their boy. The streets are quiet like Vegas stripped of its sinners. Every man, woman, and child flocks to the television for a performance, all but those following Johnny, which would account for exactly fifty individuals. Stacks of cats. The news starts off with the same introductory space-age jingle that all news stations use, followed by the words of the newscaster sitting in his black leather chair (not surprising considering the identity of the newscaster, which would be that of a lazy know-nothing with exaggerated eyebrows, likely only a physical presence as to attract potential audiences, as the style was popular at the time. Society has always been fond of this form of influence.

“Good evening, this is Jorrow, Jared, Jarl Third with your evening report.”

JJJ was a brick of a man, a house, a truck, simply a large man. His body was so large, in fact, that he, could not board most cars, and he often made other passengers anxious on commercial aircraft due to the concept that he may fall through the plane, the air below them sucking out every passenger like Lewinski.

“We’ve got a special story for you tonight folks; east of our offices here in Pacewood, there have been spotting of UFOs circling around buildings. Although many have dismissed this phenomenon as an incident of mass hysteria, others aren’t so sure.”

The screen flashes onto a still image of an extremely light skinned woman in a bright red dress, although the image only reveals her shoulders and above. Under this image, the woman’s name is written in large, bold letters. JANE MURDOCH-DAVIS. A pretty name, somehow maintaining a certain... Southern? Southern hilt, I suppose.

“I was just walkin’ down the street tryin’ to get to work and I tell you I’ve never seen anythin’ like it, it was like a dream, this flyin’ disk followin’ down the road, oh Lord...” She spat out in a clearly non-rehersed string of works.

“We’re all interested in your story Ma’am, perhaps you could explain to us, had anything of note happened that morning?”

“Not at all, I just got up like I do ev’ry day, fresh’n’clean and all before eatin’ breakfast. I ate quick and then packed and headed out for work, it’s crazy.”

“Now, Mrs. Murdoch, do you believe in aliens?”

“I might as well now.”

“And alien spacecraft?”

“Think I’ve answered you.”

“Perhaps.”

The pair continued on in the background as Johnny lit a cigarette in his living room. Daniel and the others were still in the other room, likely asleep at the time, two AM. Time ticking, and Johnny as well. Where? Anti-industrial saviour, where does your mind lie? Perhaps in the sewer, or at the park where you spend much of your time playing basketball, your true intentions only shown by brief looks across the park at the playground, various families dotting it with their easily noticeable presence.

I was just sitting on the couch minding my own fucking business when Danny burst into the room, his legs outstretched further than I’d ever seen. Clearly something was wrong. If that wasn’t the case, he would look... Normal...

“There’s been a break-in next door.”

“And?”

“I got kicked around.”

“The hell were you doing next door?”

“I heard some noises that disturbed my slumber and went to give our neighbours a piece of my mind.”

“Look how that turned out.”

“Where’s the advil?”

Johnny stretched his arm out, handing off a large bottle of advil liquid-capsules. “Here.”

“No issue.”

“Why do you say that instead of no problem?”

“It just... Works.”

“Weird. You speak weirdly.”

“We are not of the same blood sir.”

“I suppose you are correct.”

“Indeed.”

Sunk, stunk, gunk. A silver eagle shines bright in the mood, its centre beaming off the walls in a stream of consistent reflected light. Water. Waves crash down, pouring, moist apperceptions of a human-like stem. Dripping down, each droplet like an earthquake, the work shaken and crushed by an endless stream of self-consciousness. A torrential downpour, a bold move, a splash. The calm after the storm. It’s peaceful now.. The sky is bright, shining hot, shining, burning it up, moist and cool. It pools out, finally removed by a platinum octopus, a pale and slender figure, a shadow, a demon, a root. Burning, surfing. Balling. Twisting, turning. The Watcher is gone, left to wallow in a pool of his own misery. Finally, I was free. It was hard to believe. Floating. The sky is so warm. So warm. So blue. That great wide open expanse stretching out over all that I can see. All that I can see. So much. So beautiful. She was so beautiful. I look to the side at her, propped up against a bookshelf containing the works on all of those historical authors: Joyce, Melville, Dickens, Dante, and whatever else. Typical Western Canon shit. The moon was so bright. Sun and moon, together in the sky. The dance of time, how beautiful it was. We take it all for granted. We take it all for granted. Yeah. Severing seepledrops slip from my eyes and I laugh, explicitly revealing the pure ecstasy filling my body. Everything was so... good... A thousand orgasms graced my spine.

Idealist strength of Jacob. Sane fool and wise schizo alike. Wrists rot while caught between plastic barbed wire. Toy-like. The soul, the soil around him is dry, a constant reminder of what not to be. Arms bend and break, a claymated memory of modern industrial dreams of a neon octopus. A long lasting example of nightmare culture. It takes time for the transcendentally young to crash and burn, but nevertheless, it occurs, as evident within our pale and slender companion, a man who possesses the beautiful qualities of a saint, no, a wizard of sadism, his reign of torturous hedonism nearly everlasting, that it, until the worm falls onto our dearest Earth.

The worm, a clear extension of the Seven Deadly Sins (Freedom, drink, homosexuality, hope, peace, the thousand loves, and the laughable spirit of disassociated skinheads) that plague our society today. His skin is thick and pale, a discoloured, spacebleached purple, mouldy and noisy. The pale black and blue, the lining of teeth, the tongue stretching out a painful fifty feet, a whore’s dream, a tail blue, dark blue, just like the deep ocean is blue. He lies down to die on the street. is feet are black with rot.

“I went over to Noel’s place.”

“And?”

“I found him in the bath...” Johnny began to swell up, his eyes watering (rare for him, a man composed of pure fortitude) as he peeked around the room to assure the absence of some nonsensical Watcher.

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

Johnny took a moment to absorb the situation as he began to shake in a fit of rage and despair, the pressure too much for any man, but especially such a shattered one, far too great to cope with. His eyes grew puffy in moments, and he quickly let out a sniffling wail. Noel. What a man. Gone. So, so young.

“He was so young.”

“I know, but there’s nothing you can do now.”

“I could have done something before.”

“No you couldn’t have, you’re always preoccupied.”

“Fuck off, he’s-”

“No, don’t tell me to fuck off, it’s true. He’s gone now. I know it might hurt to recognise, but you need to accept it and do your best to move forwards. Noel. Is. Dead.”

Johnny, recognising that his companion was correct, let out a long sigh and screamed into his hands. Balding and young. Why now? Why someone like him? A man never relaxed, never calm, constantly on his feet, constantly pushing forwards going two-hundred. He never got that peace that he wanted.

“I’m sorry.” Johnny coughed out, his chest feeling like it was about to burst due to the substances he had absorbed, forcing himself into a state of eternal overdose.

“I’ve been in this state before, I understand.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“I’ll be better.”

“Just listen to me, you don’t need to be.”

“Still.”

“It is what it is.”

Johnny took two steps, finally arriving at the doorway in a few liquid leaps towards the old wooden slab. Two more steps out the door. Two more down the steps. Slowly, calmly, collected, hidden. He knew what was to come if he didn’t take action, and he was wary of the legal repercussions. Noel, that beautiful bastard, that was his fault. There was a direct path ready to expose his treacherous workings and dealings, every bath prepped, cooked, produced, and sold. Two more steps towards the car, where a junkie’s pride was hidden away in the trunk of a broken down Ford Focus. Breathe in, and out. Feel the noise, come on, feel it. Feel the love, and feel the noise. You’re stronger than them now. You’re better than their tomfoolery, their verbal poison and endangerment. You’re a God, a bloody portrait, a sheet of black tar. Boiling up, rising. Dab down, feel your fingers, how rough they have become under the strain. Feel my love. Feel my weight press onto you. Feel the love. Take another steep, go in, I dare you.

“Yeah. I just know too much.”

Chapter Five

Corporate conventionality stripping the streets of New York city, Detroit, and Chicago. All of them are raped by the freedom demon, all pillaged to their very bare-bones limit. A train travels between all three and shows us the light, transports, cares for us, and we rely on the trains. Mussolini kept the trains on time. What a kind man. They shot him. Beat his fucking head in. His body, and especially his face, was disfigured beyond recognition. It was likely a show of strength, but I wouldn’t know about these things. It’s hard to gauge emotions that you yourself don’t experience, or at least have a history of understanding with. That’s what happens when you don’t conform. Behave. Appeal to heaven. Whatever they say you do. Label you something if they don’t. Burn your future if they don’t. Burn your lover if you don’t. Say something if you won’t. We are who we are who we are, except when we aren’t, in which case we aren’t.

He took two steps, two consecutive steps forwards, directly onto the train station. Two more down a few seats, two more back, followed by another two into the seat. Rows of two. That’s how I like it. I sat down, looking across the aisle at the “virtuous” Jehovah’s Witness sitting with his legs crossed like every pussy upper-class white man you’ve ever seen. He had this stupid little grin on his face showing that he felt this certain moral superiority only matched by Babel itself. I looked at him, straight in the eyes, and he looked back, a cold shell of a man. His eyes were wet and cold, left out to starve in a spiritual void. No one, absolutely no one gave this man any respect, and maybe that’s for the best. Those things claim faith when they fuck up the lives of everyone around them, an endless downpour of spiritual sodomisation. His grin faded in a delayed reaction to my very appearance, no, my very presence frightened this clean-cut, desperation-filled, longing for acceptance, poor old-soul. What a sad sight.

“Good morning.” I coughed out, eager to play the role he had assigned to me.

“Good... Good morning sir...” He let the words slip out of his mouth.

“Where are you off to?”

The Witness, eager to prove the content of his character (that is to say, his idea of Christian values, whatever that means), let his grin fade back in, and squealed out “I am off on a missionary trip to Mexico! With all of the crime in that area, it is only moral that I might provide some aid to the poor people down there, enlightening as I go! It is of the utmost importance that I satisfy the urges that God has implanted within me, and I suppose these urges are to-”

I interrupted his ramblings with my own. “Oh, I know a lot about urges. I’ve been moving around a lot since I was young in a desperate grab for power, usually revolving around the domination and using of girls, and let me just say, most of them are into that kind of thing, the S&M shit, especially the brunettes with the golden smiles, not so innocent once you get a good look, are they?” I grinned, revealing blackened teeth and gingivitis stricken gums.

“You know, I’ve got a lot of stories about this shit, old pals I’ve had and people I’ve been around. It’s crazy. This guy Jacob Bruno, he was your typical pale skinned toothpick, barely any meat on him, and he faded into the junk system with relative ease, probably due to his fucked up life. I remember when he told me this story about his life, shit was crazy. We were hanging out, pushing through the streets without care, jumping cruisers and making names for ourselves, but Jacob told me we needed to go on account of his worrying about the cops, so me and Jacob went back to the house he was staying at. It belonged to a family friend when he was younger, and it comforted him to stay there. He had lived there for four months, after two and a half months homeless after being kicked out of his father’s house.”

It was a quiet Spring day when I finally left my father’s house, or rather, when I was removed from my father’s house. It was an old red colonial home, with a small grey chimney sticking out of the roof like a turtle peeking out of its shell.

On the final day that I saw that old crimson beast, it was a cold and foggy morning. I had fallen asleep late the night before and had slept remarkably poorly. The basement where I slept was cold and damp, and this did not combine well with the freezing temperatures of early Spring.

As I fell out of my hypnagogic state, I blinked my eyes a few times and threw my hand over to my night-stand to grab my bottle of Advil. I took four, and downed them fast and hard, as my throat was extremely dry, and the pills were rough. The sensation of the pills hurt, but I knew that they would ease my pain in the long run.

Slowly, I dragged myself out of my dirty, unmade bed. The bed was wet with my stale sweat, and when I sat up, the sheet stuck to my upper thigh like glue on wood. I stared down at my thigh in utter disgust. “I need to wash my sheets.” I thought to myself.

When I was finally sitting up, I moved over to the edge of my bed, where the bed frame stuck out, and pushed into my tail bone. It hurt, but it was a passive hurt, and I enjoyed sitting on the edge of the bed. I do not know what it was, but almost every morning, before getting up, I would sit on the edge of the bed and stare off into space.

Almost an hour after I had already woken up, I finally stood up and removed my boxers. I slept in my boxers, to minimize the laundry that I had to do later. I did the laundry in the house, for both my father and I. Then, I brought my hands to my back and pushed as I leaned back, cracking my spine.

Quickly, I got dressed. I tried to get dressed as fast as possible, as it was freezing, and it certainly did not help that the basement was as dank and damp as it was. I had put on a pair of jeans that went down to my ankles with a loose fit and a white under-shirt that clung to my body.

Once I was dressed, I threw on an old bomber of mine. I had owned it since I was six years of age, after buying it at a thrift store with my father’s money. It was bigger than my entire body, and until I was seventeen, I used it as a blanket. The inside was soft and warm, whereas the outside was rough and faded. When I bought the coat, it was a deep navy blue. Through the years, it had faded to the point that one might think that it was white.

Immediately after my coat was on, I ran up the steep stairs that led to the hellish, damp, dank, ammonia smelling basement that I called my bedroom. As I entered the parlour, which led into the basement on one end, and the dining room on the other, I noticed that all of the lights were off, and the house seemed to have been vacated rather quickly. There were plates on the counter-tops, dirt on the floor, and overall, everything seemed empty and off. It was hard to describe. “Where has everyone gone?” I remember thinking to myself.

I exited the parlour slowly, looking around as I went. It was only when I arrived in the dining room that I noticed a small white envelope on the table. It was addressed to me, but it used my full name, Jacob George Elliot. I only heard my full name used when those around me were angry at me. It was usually my father or a senior official. My mind was beginning to race; what was in the envelope? What had happened? Where was my father? Was everything ok?

I stepped closer to the table and picked up the envelope. I opened it slowly, tearing the top side of it open with my sharp nails. I slid out the contents. It was a handwritten note, folded in half, with my full name once again written formally on the side. It read:

“Jacob George Elliot, enough is enough. You do nothing in this house but eat my food and wear the clothes that I provide you with. By tomorrow, you and the belongings that I bought for you will be out of my house, or I will take legal action against you.

- Your Father, Johnathan Robert Elliot II”

“And so were the beginnings of Jacob Elliot’s life, a sad reflection of the sorrows of parenting, and the loss of a parent, all of the typical poetic licences that we use to sound big and important, although we all maintain common ground in our humanity. An interesting life indeed.”

“I...”

“I’m not sure where he is currently, his life is quite the mess, even compared to my own.”

“I can... See that...”

“It’s pretty obvious for anyone that sees you that you’re not the most put together man.”

“You’re a perfect judge of character.”

“Only the Lord is sir.”

“And are you your God? Does the world exists to serve the desires of some halfwit Witness?”

“No, but-”

“But nothing. You’ll be quiet now, at least I hope.”

The Witness stopped responding after that. Our conversation was over, and I had done a good job of proving his point, the posh coated twat, that I was that self-titled man of mystery and despair, an example of what not to be, and a no-good bastard. That’s all I would be, all I ever was. I’m a monster. I’m a monster. No point in this, continuing on, O’ death, where is thy sting? My dear friend found dead, involvement on my end, destruction of the self, impossible inserts in the mind of populist scum, always surfing on a wave of their own infinite idealism, always perceiving the world as is, always changing the world, always melting hopes and dreams, always committing these atrocities, Nanking, Hiroshima, Saddam shot. It was nearly time to get off. Off. I need to get off the ride. Get off. What am I to do now? What is a boy to do? The ride slows down, revealing the tears of a scared sweetie.

Chapter Six

It was Friday night, and Jacob and Christie’s date was in a few hours. Christie was heading to the spot where they met, as she realized that neither of them had given the other their address. Jacob had a fine suit in his suitcase, but it was dirty, so he took it to get dry-cleaned. Because of this, he was late to meet her and felt quite bad about the entire thing.

Jacob was five minutes late when he arrived. He looked into Christie’s big, blue, beautiful eyes, and he felt happy. She grabbed his hand, which was much larger than her own, and they walked together to a restaurant that Christie had heard of years ago. It was not too far away, but the walk to the restaurant was long. It was likely that the path was chosen by Christie herself; the pair took their time, as they enjoyed each other’s company. Walking together was one of the few things that they both enjoyed and were able to do often.

After forty-five minutes of walking, the pair arrived at the restaurant, prestigiously named and designed. Jacob hated places like that, but he had indulged in this bourgeoisie dining to please Christie. He would do anything for her. Anything that she wanted. He was her puppet in a way. Her hand was always guiding his actions, and his life was in her hands. It was not a stable relationship, but it worked at the moment, and they were pleased with how it was working out.

The moment that the pair arrived inside; they were seated at a large table in the corner of the restaurant. Christie was facing the rest of the room, while Jacob only had his eyes on her. He was quite transfixed, and the waiter took him off guard when he finally arrived. He had only been there for a moment when Christie began to order two glasses of red wine. Jacob had never experienced respectable alcohol before, but Christie had clearly decided that it was time for him to try it. Christie leaned across the table to tell Jacob:

“This is my favourite type of wine. I know you haven’t tried any wine, but I am quite sure that you will enjoy it.”

Jacob giggled to himself before responding giddily. “I am excited to try it. It is important to try new things. My mother used to tell me that.”

Christie paused and scratched her chin before she responded. “You have mentioned your mother many times. Might you tell me about her?”

“Sure, I can. I must tell you though, it is a long and painful story. Are you sure that you would like to hear it?”

Before answering, Christie pretended to think about whether she would like to hear about his mother. If she was entirely honest, she held no interest in his mother. She was more interested in him. It was clear that the situation he had experienced with his family was rough, but she only cared about how he was currently doing. That was the only thing that she cared about at that moment. She recognized that she was controlling him, and acting in a manipulative way, but she only wanted the best for him and knew that she was able to offer up that self-reformation that he required to become happier and a better man, not only for her but for himself.

Christie finally answered with a loving grin. “Of course! I would love to hear about your history. If you could begin with your mother, I would appreciate it, as I am confused as to her importance in your life. I mean no offence by this; I only wish to recognize how important she is.”

“It was a cold evening on the night of my birth. My mother was in second stage labour for almost three hours. Regrettably, I put her through an immense amount of pain during my birth. As you can see, I have a large head and struggled to come out of her. When I finally came out, the doctors noticed that my mother was bleeding. They attempted to save her but were ultimately unsuccessful in their efforts. I remember my birth well. I have always had an amazing memory. I remember my mother screaming in agony, and the doctors rushing around, and above all, the blood. I was covered in my mother’s warm, crimson blood, from heel to crown.”

Jacob paused for a moment and looked down at the wooden tabletop solemnly. He never got to know his mother. “What a horrible thing,” he thought to himself. “To be taken from one’s mother so soon”. Christie saw the pain in his eyes, and grabbed his hand, rubbing her thumb across his knuckles. It was comforting to feel her touch him.

Just at that moment, the waiter returned with the glasses of wine that Christie had ordered for them. She paused and mumbled under her breath “Thank you, sir…”.

The waiter smiled at her in response and asked in a cocky, but pleasant manner. “Is there anything else I might get for you two?”

Christie scowled at him and responded with a sharp and stern “No.”

The waiter gave her a dirty look in response and walked away from their table. He was a bold looking man, hair black as the night and skin a beautiful earthy brown. He was short, but the way he presented himself made up for it. He was intimidating, but no one wanted to admit it.

Jesuit dealt with, peel, peel, heel. Lips wrap around something bulbous and pointed, and I smile, knowing everything will be alright. Flying home with a migrating bird, born to die. I look both ways before I cross the street, I look both ways now. Is this velvet aisle not some form of street? The carpet is beautiful and fiery, pleasing to witness. I look to my right and see the Witness, in front of him a mother with two children, a little boy around seven, and a girl likely three or four. In front of them was an older man who wheezed every five seconds, unable to breathe consistently on account of his age. In front of him sat a middle aged woman sitting alone, likely some form of lovelorn widow. The fight is my only hope. I turn back and see a man sitting alone behind the Witness, his clothing ragged, but his briefcase fine and shining. One would think that he had stolen it, but I knew better. I know a junkie when I see one.

“Hello sir.” I called out to the man, who didn’t notice for a moment, but quickly realized that I was speaking to him.

“Hm?” He responded glibly.

“How are you?”

“Decent, and yourself?”

“Good enough. I love your case.”

“It’s... A nice briefcase.”

“Ahh-”

“You can’t say otherwise sir, that’s what it is.”

“Your kit?”

“Clothing.” He opened his briefcase to reveal a single needle, as well as a fortune worth of heroin. He let me see it in a brief flash, but I know what I saw.

“Ah.”

I stood up and approached the man slowly, as to note promote suspicion. I was the furthest thing from an authority possible. Three steps is all it took, and I was standing over the man in a rather uncomfortable fashion, causing him to crane his neck up towards me.

“I’m an innocent man, no reason to bother me.”

“Yeah yeah, heard it, said it, no point.”

The man looked up at me, surprised at what I had said, his mouth gaping like in a children’s cartoon. It wasn’t anything special in my eyes, but nevertheless, he was stunned.

“I’m an innocent man...”

“I feel you, just...” I sat down next to him quickly, stunning the man further. This is what you get for engaging with junkies. You get junkie behaviour, the jackasses hardly able to understand words or talk to you.

“I’m... I’m Norman...” The man stuttered out.

“Johnny.” I asked, wondering why names were important. This was a man who sold, no doubt about it, but he was anxious, likely out of lack of experience. Forty-five years on this planet and I’ve seen it all. Forty-five years is all it took for me to know my rounds, exactly what to do, when to do it, all of that. I was a regular outposted Centurion, cutting and grinding, grinding and cutting. Anyway, let me move on.

“Are you...”

“Yes.”

“And I...”
“Mhm.”

“I suppose we should... Get it on at the stop...”

Chapter Seven

There’s a little negro boy standing on the platform when I step off. Stealing likely. He has that niggardly look in his eye, that one that all of his kind had. They were a measly, pathetic, saucy breed. I hated every single one, and the little fucking negro children with their poison grins and their shifty eyes, they really fucked me up. My eyes widened and I looked straight into those brown eyes of his, and good God, I swear I saw evil. There was something unusual about them, as if they weren’t really his eyes in the first place. Weird.

Walking, walking, walking towards the check off. Checking off at the station, waiting for the man to come and confirm my travels were “Of the highest possible quality that I.M Tech has to offer!”. Asshole. I took a step towards the little negro boy and stared into his eyes again, making sure to get his attention. He stared back, and that evil was magnified by ten-thousand. It may have been his race, but I knew something was off about the little runt. The man finally arrived to confirm the quality of my travels, just in time to distract me from that little demon.

“Good evening sir! How have your travels been?” Thomas, carefully marked on his nametag in big, bold letters, spat out with a grin.

“Fine. Lot of disturbed people on board.” I looked behind me at the Witness carefully eyeing me.

Thomas laughed. “Of c-course sir! That always seems to be the case on transportation services here in Wyoming.”

“Lot of crazies.”

“There sure are.”

“See em every ride?”

“Most, but not all.”

“I can see why, it’s like the Wild West out here in Wyoming.”

“Beautiful skies, sulfurous as they may be.”

“Always have been as fogged up as they are, not really sure what you mean.” I paused for a moment and lit a cigarette.

“I’ve lived here twenty years out of my thirty-five, I’d know.”

“Not if you didn’t pay attention.” I took a long drag and blew the smoke into Thomas’ face.

I walked away straight after that, my surplus coat swinging along my pale and dried up husk of a body as I went onwards. I only went about thirty feet away, mostly in order to watch the Witness get checked, but partially so that Norman would find me easily. He was built like a weasel, and just like every junkie I’ve met, he acted like it. Weaseling scum. Not sure where from, but I could probably guess it was close to here, wherever it was. No sane man would take a case like he had cross-country, junkie or not. That was a simple reality, no questioning it.

Come on Norman. Come on. It was almost thirty more minutes before the bastard finally got off of the train. The Witness took twenty minutes babbling on about Christ and the end-times, and Norman was no better, trying to explain his ragged appearance by claiming he was jumped during the trip, causing the manager to slip out of his den, step down two flights of stair, and into the train. After five minutes of looking he decided that there was nothing there, so he laughed it off and told Thomas not to listen to crazies.

“I’m here!” He called out to me when he was finished, oblivious as to how disturbed he looked, shouting at a place as quiet as a train-station.

Instead of shouting back, I beckoned for him to come see me, hoping that I would ignite some sanity in the man. I was able to round some up in a roundabout way. But that was nothing compared to the dignity that had already been lost. What a prick. What a stupid prick.

As Norman came closer, my fourth cigarette was blown out of my fingers by the cold wind. Letting out a brief stream of profanity, I sighed and let it go rather quickly. No, that’s not right. I let out my anger, grabbing a man passing me and shoving him at the train. Although it wasn’t moving, he had slipped and hit his head on the track. Several nearby looked at me with surprise and fear, but I blew it off relatively quickly. They didn’t matter anyway.

Norman’s teeth were nearly black with plaque. What a disgusting sight.

The city is rotting. Apples oxidise. Man falls. The world never changes. The segue to failure always leads to the same God damned spot. Buildings lie on the ground. An overdosed mass of concrete. My teeth chatter in the tar wind. The streets are coated in oil. I am an anti-industrial freedom fighter. I am the one to save this monopoly on oil perpetrated by these United States. I pause and look into a window-box. I see myself. The most disturbing sight of all. Trains whistle in the distance and I light a cigarette. Nicotine gets me through this God-forsaken place. I walk out into the rubble. A junkie’s dropper lies at my feet. I step on it. It cracks under my feet. The pavement has not been restored in years, and it shows. I will not push forwards. I sit down on the ground. The ground is cold and the taste of hell is like a piece of pizza one might purchase at the gas station. Deep breaths. My chest hurts like a punch in the ribs. Pain is a pretty thing. It’s lovely to see the collapse of man. Buildings filled with dust, collecting it as the city decays. Every day, a new layer. Ash. So much ash.

The government is corrupt, but I’m too high to notice it through grey lenses. Every year a new senior official is elected, acting as some form of president or king. Their position is never disputed, for the city’s elective process is the only thing tying it to the reasonable world. I feel like God. The senior official maintains an almost possessive control over the city’s infrastructure, but pockets are filled every month while children go untaught. Druggies fill the street, and Officer Mac’s grand plans fail every time he attempts to slow the drug production process, let alone stop the flow all together.

National, nation, rebirth, all reasonable assumptions unders this beautiful, crystalline kleptocracy. Psychedelic psyops, unable adventures, and jailings without parole. Ingest, invest in the greener pastures where flowers grow out of the breast of Lady Wisdom. Parks established, giovinezza, Gigli kisses my wrist, as dirty and flowering as they may be.

Impressed, no less, trains always on time. We run, play, dash, all of these backed up under the guise of eternal youth.

Drunkards sleep in, sleep in, sleep in. I don’t want to drop your friends off, I only want you my love. Sweets. Naming of our vehicles. It all represents consumerist desperation. Lord and SAVIOUR.

An infrastructural issue, symmetry unmatched by any other, symmetry within the face of Lady Liberty; Gaza, Saddam, Adolf, Iraq, Haiti, Rwanda, all of them “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa” by her might, her glory, her eternal presence, her rings, rings of Saturn, rings on the fist of a coward.

I intend to travel north into the empire in about a month, as it is no longer safe for me to reside in the states. The travel would be long and tiring, likely due to the Cerevates on patrol at Northwood’s southern border, but if Ulysses made his escape, so could we. It would be about four months until we finally left for the border, but we all knew that it wouldn’t be easy, and it would be one of the most tiring experiences we would ever go through, and so we postponed it every day we were considering taking our flight.

Two minutes, three minutes, four minutes, five minutes. Time passing. Every moment time was passing. It was an odd feeling. It slipped through my fingers in a crystalline dream of a leather belt. The reckoning would be soon.

My eyes hurt they’re heavy I don’t like the smell of musty air. It tastes bad. I don’t want to be here. I’m not here. I’m not here. I’m not here. I’m somewhere better. The movements of fairies.

Smelling of fairies and
Pubic so hairy and
Five thousand wishes
The one where you marry
I'll stick by your side like a thin needled scrub
My eyes rolling back and I rub and I rub
My thoughts growing shaky
I'll never give up
I know she's buried in
Laconian streets ago
And wish I could savour her
Some sort of Disney ice
Packed up, she's very nice
The angelesque figure
Of bright golden shades
Just scrapes on the muskrat with
Six golden wings
I'm waiting my darling
For word from another
Waiting my darling
The death of your brother and
Though I wait endlessly
You are my mother and
Though I drag endlessly
Skin getting smothered
And though I can't savour it
Some form of lover
I wish I could savour it
Some form of brother
Hoods watching my windows
No steps will be found
THe traces of endlessness
Raping the Southern
Ers made every day with a white stretched out rubber
I fear for the day when I meet myself finally
Maker of all the one
Topping with symmetry
We're not in love, but I make love to you
Hit it from the back so you never have to see my face
And when I meet the thin man
Constantly lapping at the hairs on my neck
I will tell him
My darling
You're all I had left

The End