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The guns are drawn on me.
They want me dead, or at least, indecisive.
Come to think of it, they would much rather the second than the first.
F**k death.
The real death is when you realize you are hanging on to the back of a jet during takeoff, but the f*****g thing never leaves the runway. It just fires around the pavement at ungodly speeds dragging you screaming and pissing yourself. You keep complaining that you are stuck and just want to pull off the ol’ duck and roll, lick your wounds clean and move on to greener pastures, or someone else’s backyard.
The funny thing about someone else’s backyard is it has all the same s**t yours does; you just like it more because you don’t live there.
So, f**k backyards too.
“BY ZUES! I’m not stuck! Why is my hand in this horrible hate fist, balled around the flap of the wing?!”
Because I am a f*****g idiot, and love to complain that I am trapped in these ugly situations. None of us are stuck, we just haven’t found a way to kick the door closed on these swinish brutes from selling us this insanity.
“No thank you. All stocked up here.”
There are a many that perpetuate this nonsense, the peddlers of s**t and we are the consumers.
Boy, I hate the term “they.” I sound like a 16 year old emo shitstain
who blames this mysterious “they” for all his problems but will not and
can not put a name or a face to these freakish douchebags. My “they”
has a name. It’s not the media, it’s not the government or this idea of
a wicked administration.
The cause of all my problems stem
from the Pushers of the Delirium. These Deliriatics cause all the same
brain functional breakdown as common dementia. When, in your lives,
have you ever not been victim to some hothead freak causing you the
following:
1. Brain damage not caused by age.
2. Affects memory, attention to detail, language, and problem solving.
3. The results are sudden, and have a steady and rapid decline as the days and years go on.
F*****g A. And while we’re at it, B and C too.
Ho Ho. Sounds familiar eh, Jack?
All we are left to wonder is this: Who is worse, the pushers or the
takers? Unfortunately with any drug, you don’t realize you’re addicted
until it’s too late. We spit gems like “Golly! Am I a magnet for
a******s, depression and getting tricked!?”
Well, yes. Yes we are. When someone else is pulling the strings you take on all aspects of a puppet and lose all self preservation skills.
The late hours bought a new journey. The Ragu rang late and my eyes were teared and burning. I had spent 30 hours straight in the writing lab without food, water or clean undies. Some shmuck sent me an envelope filled with powder as a practical joke, so I beat his dog, fucked his
girlfriend and subscribed him to the Jonas Brother's blog page. The
first two are wrong, but the last one is sucking off the devil. Almost
as bad as that Monroe cat, just more mature.
Anyway...
The cold front has yet to snap. The rage fills most nights as now
getting mad at the snow and cursing in your car while it warms is the
only sensible solution. "Mother f*****g" mother nature is never a wise
choice, for she plays no games and awaits with heavy hands and a tepid
case of the herp. Gathering my wits and papers I made the long,
stinging walk through the New Jersey tundra and onto the path that
leads to the abode of the Ragu.
Suddenly his door busted open
and a raven haired beauty, half dressed, with furry boots on hand,
spilled out on the porch and rolled into the snow and grass.
"What the f**k!? What the s**t?!" I yelled, finding it hard to capture
the moment with anything else but brutal rhetorical profanity. I didn't
want to touch this scene. It was already on fire and it had jail
sentence all over it. I was a viewed accessory. This trash set me up. I
backed off a few paces and made myself ready for a speedy egress, tying my scarf around my face as to hide my identity.
She gasped for air and rolled onto her back, tears in her eyes and a a frantic look on her face as she stared at the open door, then at me, then back to the door.
The Ragu appeared like a savage Caesar, wrapped in a sheet
that draped off his form like a toga. He was saturated with sweat so
that the hot steam rose from his body. He resembled a Phoenix about to
be reborn from trash and violence. He looked at me, then her. It was a
triangle of horror. I stood in a half stance backwards, waiting for a
chance to move. The neighbor’s lights didn't stir. The air became toxic
with evil. I found it hard to breathe in this environment.
"Is...Is everyone..."
From behind his back the Ragu pulled forth a medium sized pulverizing hammer and leapt from the steps. The wind hit his toga and in one instant he looked like a bird taking flight off of a mountaintop. In
slow motion, I could hear the undertones of fury, a squaking of a
native greatness, of memories, hunters and prey, animals and victims.
He knees pulled up in the pouncing position, he began to bellow out
chants of doom. I watched him cascade out of the air and make contact
with the ground and instantly going into a full speed tear in her
direction, brandishing this hammer wildly over his head. I was frozen
in time. I was just about to watch another human being get bludgeoned
to death, while freezing to death, and then sit in jail for the rest of
my life the whole time in awe of what the f**k happened. The girl
rolled, weaved and dove over a nearby fence, the entire time Bizarro Thor only
steps behind her, black smoke dripping from his nose, and death in his
eyes. She didn't scream, just took off like a fiend into the night, the
trail sound of clicking boot heels becoming faint and empty in the
night, echoing the remaining visions of an assault that never was.
The Ragu hung his hands and hammer over the waist height fence and
watched as she became a silhouette against the white street lights. I
stared at his back which was razored with nail scratches and bite
marks. He reached into the form of his toga and pulled out a cigarette
and a lighter. He turned from the fence and blew coiled smoke o's into
the air.
"Chicken Wrap?" he asked, while slinging the hammer into his toga.
I couldn't answer. I just picked up the few stray papers that didn't
spray into the Hudson river and followed him into the house.
I got halfway up the stairs.
"What..what the F**K was that? Are you insane? This place will be
crawling with cops in SECONDS! WHat the f**k am I doing here?! I'm a pillar of the community! You..You are some sort of mythological
nightmare!"
He appeared at the top of the staircase.
"...Stop yelling. Cheese?"
My brain began to melt. Had I just witnessed that? Had it been a
hallucination caused by duress and no sleep? Did I even leave my house?
"...Wait..."
"Cheese?"
"...yeah...sure."
After settling in, he broke the weird silence and explained.
"She wants me to do it," he said between bites, "She requests I chase her, push her down the stairs and chase her around with an object..like a hammer, or club, table stand, etc after sex."
I stopped chewing.
"What the f**k....Why?!"
"Don't know. She wants to feel like her life is being threatened. It's sick. Sex is fine...kinda violent, but then she gives me a look when we are done and I have to spring into action like Jack Torrance from the Shining. That's a sick b***h."
"That's sick? Who is sicker? Her for wanting it, or you for doing it?"
He stopped and wiped his mouth. He screwed his eyes up toward the light as if the answer was going to beam into his head. He brushed off his hands and cleared his throat.
"I'm just providing a service.
It's like cleaning someone's house, or doing charity work. Who am I to deny her what she wants."
"You brute. It's pigs like you that. . .you can't just ..."
I was stuck. Who was I to tell him to not do something that someone else requested? If she asked for flowers afterward, would that be as weird? Some women like to cuddle, she wants to run for her life. After contemplating it, I understood.
"That...is the dumbest thing I ever heard in my life."
"Why?"
"Because its true and I can't explain it."
I came to the conclusion that this is where we are headed. We are in a tire rolling backwards downhill to the early ages of man. Being a connoisseur of smut, I have seen my fair share of beatings for pleasure. I have even engaged in such acts, but I have never been the initial aggressor.
"Slap me.."
"Choke me..."
"Tell me I'm a piece of s**t..."
"Chase me around in the snow with a hammer post coitus."
All the veins run to the same heart and the arteries are clogging fast. We are not far from ritual beatings in public for sexual stimulation. We will be rolling out the nooses and stocks, it will be televised for 49.95 on pay per view and the great American past time will go from baseball to group masterbation sessions. Gitmo has closed, soon we will just slap our enemies and get them to vomit on us while in mid fellatio. We will drown in blood, tears and semen in 2012.
"No one loves for love anymore," I said, while picturing the closing of football franchises and reopening as hardcore sex coliseums, where a handful of tissues and a bottle of lube are given away free for ever overpriced ticket. "It’s all about the challenge that goes along with it. The opposite of love is indifference."
"If you don't give a s**t, they love you for it. The harder you push away, the closer they come. "
The Ragu got up and swung his hammer from side to side.
"Why not roll with the tide?"
The ride home was surreal. The hammer incident made sense and so did the talk afterward. Yr. Buddy Monroe is 30, which in the new language of horror, is half dead. I'm melting away at the end of each day and there is no cure for "the alones." The tap is running out and no one is refilling the scum beer that no one likes. At this point, my friends, I will have to deal in the dreaded art of convenience. Find another winded, dreadful, weather beaten mess in the same age who cashes in her card for kids and a minivan.
Smile during the holidays for that annoying family photo, with you, the ball and chain, the kid who has no idea that mommy and daddy hate each other and the dog who won't stop pissing on the floor.
Love is dead, and the game of cat and mouse has killed it.
We run the challenge as long as we can and then accept defeat and
settle for the highest bidder with the least amount of wrinkles and the
least amount of gravitational pull on the tatas.
Oh whoa is we!
Sentimental gifts have laid down and died to the drill. The worse I treat you the more you love me. If I don't call you, you WILL call me. If I kick you out of my car, like an animal, you will follow me home.
It's not love.
It's hunter and prey.
And when the hunt is over, you look back, and wished you made the call on that one person who loved you from afar, gave you the world, and built you up, without ever asking for anything in return.
And you wonder why I can't sleep at night.
Hopefully, now, you can't either.
Enjoy the emotional scars and bruises, as well as the real ones.
I will enjoy the Masterbatorium Arena though. See you at Caligula Fest 2012. Make sure you get splatter section season tickets for the New Jersey Jizzbombs.
Covered in slime,
E.H. Monroe
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