We go forward.
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XVII. The Ritual (11)
"The… ritual? Say, why do you keep on being at it, man? What ritual? Torture, rape, are they your rightful, and I guess in some rates, delightfully lawful definitions? Who are you fat fucks, really?"
"The ritual isn’t to be floundered with said criminal acts, you shouldn’t make that mistake again lest you want to survive among the incredible lights. The ritual, is acts of courageous decorations with spontaneous roots, whether the term is sat back in its sleepless days under conventional controls of plain editors, correctors, or traced back to its original usages being verbal abbreviations of phenomenally ancestral solemnities, dedicated for identifiable etiquettes holding historical significances. It’s the ritual, the familliar thing to immortals that is interminably renewed at the sights of incoming lustres thought to be scientifically falsified, it is the one thing that sets up solitaries and engraves cobblestoned streets with pieces and fragments of rocket bombs’ collisions against the contemporary civillizations, it entertains itself with thorough and brutal processes of taking body parts, it is colored with the sepia tone of drawn out massive plans portraited, or rather hung upon broken camels’ backs. It’s the great maintenances of these fuzzy biological concepts, the freedom in behaviours of ours on midnight streets, among midnight rushes, in pubs where we whisper to each other of foreknowledges’ decompositions, in underground squares where shouts are spitted in torsinal meetings of different languages under uprising colorless flags. The ritual, however, despite all of its glorious meanings and unfeigned pleasures upon the tips of mentionings, through the most authentic yet purest alleyways, stil mere ghast routines of the olds’ imperfect wishes and the copycatting rectifications of the new, I dare say. Yet, the beliefs and the importance of self-spawned asurrances when betting against—"
"Stop, let’s stop at that. Just fucking stop. What the fuck are you even saying, man? Who are you? Yes, I should have asked this repeatedly, who the fuck are you? How can anything that was just atomized through your freckled mouth be making even a slightest sense whatsoever? The ritual, if you seriously want to elaborate on it, I tell you, go read a fucking dictionary and let me - an obstacle - go home in peace of knowing this room will be finally filled with boredom and boring objects."
"You’re not in any way an obstacle."
"Why was my school closed?"
"Its reasonings are existing in the minds of the people who are behind it, and believing in their games of imaginations."
"The real question you should have asked instead, was that ‘Would you have gone home and picked up the wallet and came back to the coffee shop had you been given enough time to consider options?’ Something like that. I’d have a hard time answering it. Would you, though?"
"Wait, are you not going to tell me why my school was closed?"
"I knew the why, and I would explain it."
For your information, half a minute passed after it was outed.
"I’ve never said that the acts would be done through mere conversations. If that was the case, why did I lead you here?"
"Okay. Good. Cool, I guess. Okay. Remember not to reveal your names on any tombstones, I will want to discuss with you all on this matter again later on and figure them out myself. Okay. Good talk,—"
"But, would you?" Brian spitted. I noticed Bob folding his arms backwards, all the while seeming to making off a smile under his breather.
"Would I what?"
"Would you have gone home and picked up the wallet and came back to the coffee shop had you been given enough time to consider options?"
"No. I would have gone home, and smoked some weeds, drank a few pints. Don’t be a referencing smartass to clever-up yourself, I remember what I’ve read."
"Did you really? I know you can, that you are able to, but did you really? Did you really remember what you’ve read? Was it an act of remembering, of truly memorizing, and how did you come to the fact that it was? How many re-read had been made in order for it to be turned into official confirmations under your final careful glances? Or, have you considered, having closed the book and kept things in metaphoric salvers, that they were just plain features your brain made up to somehow force you into the obdurate belief that you’d just read something out of thin air, out of pages’ blanknesses, when in reality technically it isn’t possible despite the technological advances? In fact, mere covers ups for a glistening urge, a sinful desire for deliberate customizations of an alibi for a crime that was wanting to find out more, wanting to stay among this interior set of curious architecture?"
"Stop talking bullshits, of course it’s—"
"Without returning to the bookshelf, opening it up and reading it again, are you one hundred percentages sure that what was written was definitely written, and that you directly saw it with your own eyes, that the messages it delivered had been transfered to the graceful systemic headquarters of your body in full?"
"Yes. Now, excuse me while—"
"Let me tell you a story—"
I talked slowly, I couldn’t chase. I almost threw up at this point, to which and where I didn’t know, wasn’t sure, didn’t care. Something fishy and bitter were of definitive existences, erecting homes in my nostrils and my tongue. It was harder for me to interrupt him at this point, even if it had been the most depressing wish before my inevitable death. The blood in me boiled up, took streams for early minor Winters inside, I could feel it running through my fake tunnels with raging sinewinesses, artificial birthmarks of odd calibres, all seemingly to be just barely hidden under my pale skin, about to be popping out by themself. More and more goosebumps were called up for fearing duties along, making outer acknowledgements of surrounding owners of personal, primitive mysteries, reasonably making a blast of themselves, a reunion ceremony. This whole thing would and should be called a sudden headache, I thought with my right hand slightly moving in my jeans’ pocket to suppress an amiss boner in the middle of a fourteen-years development, as it was neither the start of a faint or a collapse, or the ongoing process of any kind of concussion, considering the mixture of endurance and immensity that was tarried. Well, maybe it was, maybe because I was an observer that my experience was different from most, but no one could be too sure about it, it was only me alone that was both the victim and the judge in the context. My eye sights kept on changing their targets, from Brian’s and Bob’s undercuts, one was expensive and one was evidently cheap, to the lights stuck up above my head. They were beautiful, I can’t say much more besides that overused word of poetry, stored up in separate circles that were most likely originally made of Mars’ diamonds, they blended their shares of hatreds for darknesses and presented attacks of a junction of rare fluorescent brights that were rather overhyped by my farraginous senses. I knew they were overhyped, for that was what would usually happen to the lights I saw during the high-as-a-fucking-kite manoeuvre. With a sigh - almost like a murmur - of regretting attributes for not recognizing and paying attention to them sooner - when I wasn’t so randomly fucked up - I tried, with extreme endeavour of marginal circumscriptions, and craned my neck, a tray for rigid vacillatory thoughts drawn up among sleepy flecks in both irises, and withheld an upright position. Sweats already started racing a few instants ago with great velocities, again with their familliar lulls, trying to mismatch me with the initial, previous patheticnesses yielded. My ears still worked fine till an eventual, complete faint, but luckily, if one calls that luck, they had enough time to caught the first part of what he was going to tell, before I was physically down on the ground, breaking a tooth.
"—, a story that was long time ago, before I was born, a story of our fathers, my real father. Real faher. His name is Bri—"
Oh yes, that was, right… It was this exact moment that spark the reason of why I named the guy, the so-far-known-as-Brian, as Brian in the first place. He himself mentioned it, I think I got vaguely sticky impressions from hearing it due to the attenuation of the mind, but one could bet quite fairly that notes had been taken and stored, though, thrown gormlessly somewhere uncategorized, an unused vault.
"—an, a veteran of the World War 3. The great war of the century, you know how it goes, the phrases and all. You see, he was a pretty big man, as you could have already guessed from observing me and my brothers. He was in his early 20s, an undercut he was sporting, already containing crackles of gray hair near the edges of the said style, reaching from the innate concavity at the back of his neck to the butts of his ears. Fractured things, one would usually say that it was a spectacular pleasure to be able to march behind and besides him, but it wasn’t the whole reason for it. He was famous before the war for another thing, an unexpected thing that seemed to be hold up among other formal virtues of mankinds."
He caught me loosened up. I almost drowned in my own vibrations, from having to stand there and hear him talk all the while with sudden bombs of exterior insecurities and disadvantages going off in my head, my body. He breathed out and in a quick one, at least that was what I acknowledged, then continued.
"Keep up, bear with me. He was a former Governors’ dog, definitely among the early generations of dogs that secretly controlled the Earth back when traditional governments were still active, though, being steadily metastasized into complete profit organizations of mere puppets. The policy back then was that the younger the better, so a lot of the dogs were recruited furtively at a very young age, through unexplainable ‘wireless waves’, or rather sensationally described by Brian, ‘the callings of Gods’, sometimes even so young as at the age of fourteen if required potentials were fully recognized, godly. Once escorted to one of the local academies of the scattered and crescent solidity of a periodical community that was, ones that had the looks of abandoned churches, he told proudly with a singing voice, they were given appointed rooms to themself, with double beds, clothes, computers, all things checked to make them feel at home. After a few more days of loosely locked up, or a period enough for one to develop Stockholm syndromes, though unlikely since the chosen were volunteers, in order to stay for more they would have to pass through several odd beginners’ tests, both on aspects of mental and physical hardnesses, to then get enlisted into some kinda even-more secret academies which were now located underground. Those who failed first-hand were forced to go back to their mainstream schools, though, my dad said that he rarely if ever had seen those guys anywhere again, or even heard of any kinds of announcements given for such fucks. Anyway, there at the secret-er academies, a group of certain people wearing beta versions of our breathers who called themself The Original Parents would teach them on further subjects covering from everything firearms-related to advanced scientific backgrounds and their branches, from DIY tips to living minimal lives, and after about several months depends the ones who were deemed ‘Positively 100%’ would be the ones who finished all the classes and courses, thus making it to the final stage, ‘bringing it to the streets’ they called. It was usually acting out a performance, a rudeless of such, and also an act of striking off the first line at the top of your coded and appointed adultery list of missions put on touchy tabs, furtively online and so forth. His was not out of ordinary whatsoever, an oldie goodie 2nd-rated class among difficulty levels, done under the disguise of mere civilians and stuffs. It wasn’t a full disguise though, left out one or two percents, as participants of the acts were forced to wear thermal spectacles… One might say they all looked the same like normal ones but if one looked real close, the differences were clear, particularly in this case, their rims, as they all pointed upwards instead of downwards to accost the back of each ear, with two small pins placed at the ends sticking into the middle of side-heads almost transparently, colors blending independently though it was encouraged for fuckers with hairs that they should dye instead. Those things were said to be acting as sub devices for transmitting information and details of the owners’ own conditions back and forth to the ‘Roundtable of Watchers and Supporters’ and let those unknown fuckers help you with their indirect sticks and buttons, for example, making it easier for those with color blindnesses to see things of multiple altitudes and heats by filtering one side of the glasses with suitable hues to accord. They caused some disadvantages though, as you had too take it off in order to define faces.
Anyway, there was finally this date of his first real test, when he was to be walking up to some civillians’ home with those things worn on and annihilating a middle-aged couple after having either or not been offered cups of tea, rebelling insolent damned and shits. He had hoped the couple weren’t his parents, however sooner or later he did kill them, or rather put it in the better terms, participate in the vanquisment of them. This house, there was an under-developed bubble den sat in front of, - dens of early kinds that were easily detected with the thermal spectacles - or rather, besides the doorway of it to the right, one which covered two or three people in its coarse techs, judging by their sizes, all little kids. They should cause no troubles, he thought. The group of dogs he went with consisted of three people, that was excluding him, with two seniors and one of his pals at the acad—
Hey, wake up! I haven’t even reached the middle of it!”
I woke up lying fittingly in a freaking dark and extremely narrow tunnel, a rocky one, with my two arms put up front and seeming barely able to be wrapped around behind my back. I couldn’t move my legs, once I did so I just constantly hit wrong, sticky and sharpy things of some sorts of solid predicates, thus making it impossible to move backwards. The only way I could do anything about this random situation was to crawl forward with my fingers and keep my head down to avoid hitting things, but it was useless to keep it up either way as I couldn’t see shit. The headache or whatever that feeling I felt was gone, same with one of my teeth upon a final glance up with Bob and another remote in one of his chubby palms touching, pointing with mettles of directing disparagements at that previously, disgustingly deluded and quarterly conscious head of mine. My teenage wrists were a bit itchy, a bit weird at the time considering under the skins were the artificial tendons’ tunnels of mine. At the time I couldn’t quite put my fingers on them and figure out what were the causes of it, even if the context was of physical attempts.
(to be continued)
- The Conquistador
Anonymous said: Do you like writing Ellie? How is the process?
Of course I love writing it, heck I would be lying if I said I wasn’t proud of it. It’s challenging to write of course, but after my prolonged experiments some time ago with ekphrases and the likes I got used to it, the process of writing lengthy things in general I mean. Of course the process is different with different people, who has different styles of their own, but I think there’s one thing we can agree on: Don’t take any fucking long breaks, write continuously instead! It will keep you on your feet and invariably inspired, attached with your own stories’ flows, while immersing yourself in the opposite act can possibly do some bad things to your current ideas as well as your urges of actually wanting to write anything for that matter, shortened as the interventions of laziness. Maybe it’s just me, but damn, I struggle with it from time to time ever since I started writing, I take breaks like a motherfucker… Getting back to the series after each part was finished has always been a difficult thing to do for me.
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XVI. The Ritual (10)
I felt as though my feet, specifically the right one, the involuntary volunteer, was being sucked up by a wet pile of new-fangled shit, whether it was of human’s or domestic fowls’. Bones, the wretched and the likely corrupted things of thin, cylindrical shapes were, a fact obviously known, swallowed up inside by these pliant rounds of organic compounds mixed up with sweats of piggy attributes, yet with firm hang-over, I swore I could hear the cracks of things popping up and down under my ancient shoes. The blackness of his shirt, the isochromatic one for a group of three fatties that was probably all a Brian’s idea, didn’t help much, it covered most of the systemic events of minor majorities happened at the outer and inner banks of his stupid whole. It must have been the first time I’d ever stepped on anyone’s back, and the rival situation might be constituted for our ol’ boy, knowing him and having witnessed his sight hardly could anyone agree that he was known for helping brothers touching skies, let alone the brothers in this context were principally his thinner subordinates who of course still were fat as fuck. The thought lead me curiously, left me wonder about, as my feet was still on the poor creature’s back, invested in me a sparkling question: “Have these guys always been this fat? If they weren’t works of some kinda ridiculous disease, how come they could achieve such oversizedly dull appearances, in this day and age of cranky food?” It was weird, really, even now when I go back to the vault. No, “food”, the contemporary thingy at any liberal rate you want and wanted to define, was not in any sort of shortage marathons, not at all, the thing that annoyed you was that the one exact thing coming out from eating them, one which was most likely in an impossibility, was the abundances of nutriments. Food, man, were in packages. Besides snacks and the miniature likes at the times, you didn’t get to choose much. What you did instead was, at the end at each month, sometimes the beginning, you were to be presented at a monthly comitia set at the headquarter of your carefully allocated local Union, for the casual countings of heads. Little boys, their grandpas, and their grandmas and grandmas’ litle girls who were in other zones, all must be in front of rightful spectacles, or at max, wheeled and exported to the places. There, you would voice your opinions and so forth, about the conditions of livings, about your jobs and your effects upon your companies, your percentages and statistics sprung out of your so well-calculated thoughts, etc… or at least those were the principles and the ideas through which you had to follow. The thing with this image was that what you said and reported to the local dogs would be tightly associated with what you would receive, and one of those things in associations, what do you know, packaged food. The most brilliant liars at such concentrations came out with the lengthiest grins almost successfully hidden by a big pile of seemingly smelly things in their hands. Dad #1, of course as an authentic and unequivocal presentation of loyalties to the Governors, before the time of making acquaintance with our usual friend called Alzheimer, always came out with good loads, and they indeed made up for dad #2’s invariably failed attempts at sounding firm and willingly corporative and mine at actually lying to my observing self with this selfish tongue, it was over the line to lie things to myself even though I can and could do it with ease if the subjects were the others. When we came home, well, almost came home, we would disembarrass whatever the items in dad #1’s packages onto the bank of ascending grasses in the yard fronting our house, as dad #2’s despites for having messes, even minor, on anything whatsoever inside that was nicely placed with immense integrities, were too strong and too large to overcome. Well, the items, they usually came in cans, sometimes boxes if the recipients behaved brilliantly, sometimes reusable plastic bags if they were the recognized products of no-brainers, dogs’ asses’ professional lickers. Now let me get it straighter for you, I’m not insulting my dad #1 whether he was actually my dad or not in this case, for dad #1, as I’ve told you, have an authentic love for the Governors’ dogs. Can’t blame him though, as… Oh wait, why am I talking about this? Hm. Oh yes, right, food was the main object of this controversy. Despite them coming in large packages, large sizes due to any amount of good lies outed of ignorances and carelessnesses, and our one-in-a-ten spoken-out loyalties, abundances in nutriments were the thing of our crooked dreams, merely fantasies. For the starter, you didn’t get to eat real chickens, according to many of the researches made after the rebllion, they were on the edges of extinction for many years leading up the 2064’s explosion, all of those shapy and hairy legs and wings were of a fact all known as artificially made, for they all smelt like burnt tires on the frying pans, and the said hairs when plucked all vaporized the same into the air. Of course the dogs told us that they were original products, and of course no one opposed, the things were digested and shat out quite fairly so why not. Same things happened to other kinds of food, sure. Fake shites with degraded patriarchies of senses. We learned in lazy textbooks that rarely if ever got updated about the tastes, we spitted and degusted with our lying tongues all the same. Yet, these three fat fuckers however, broke this line of thinking, the ideology that some people were fitted and some people were thin was because of the natural growths that were allowed by the unknown divines, mother nature’s ways. These three evidences, I guess, in the case of being published to the common masses, would most likely have to have been put into the usual uppity yippie talks, you know, how the old Sun was dying rapidly and that it needed to be renewed, and how just speaking of that, whispering of such quizzical heresy was a crime against podcast networks’ long-held reputation of being pretentiously seriousnesses and caring. Yet, it would be talked.
"Quickly and put your other feet onto my back." The dude couldn’t hold it much longer, I thought to myself. His voice was breaking, his breaths were heard collectively. He was swimming in a small pool of his own sweats, it was just ridiculous. I think he would have shouted at me, if he weren’t that exhausted.
I put my left foot onto it anyway, joining in full with the trend of exposing cracks. Cracks after cracks, kept on being heard and turned into percepts of the others. Bob’s supercilia shaped itself into inward pointers, making up a halfly sad facial, I bet he was made awkward and confused by the fact that his boss was acting dumbass like mere livestocks. Still, he won in the stare contest of two, dude was very consistent at it, trying hard to reveal nothing in his mind even though his mouth was oviously his unknown mom’s worse product. I diverged my glances, and quickly caught Bip, who was standing next to Bob, a bit loosened up and urging to be forced out of the useless surveillances of invisible ants. One eye he still left on the ground, while the other, with constant turnings of head that were most likely assumed to be unrecognizable by its owner, looking back and forth, switching from the said nonexistent scenes of mere insects’ preparations for rains and the scene of his superiority acting like some kinda in training pet. He must have been satisfied, I mean, dude was punched and pissed on for fucks’ sakes, he deserved some entertainments in returns, even if they weren’t equal in embarassing qualities. I staggered for a few seconds, both liberately and deliberately struggled to maintain a stance upon Brian, with his elbows almost crushing some filthy holes for small lakes of sweats, due to the combined weights. I wouldn’t want to go to hell altogether with this guy, falling to the Earth’s core and shites, if there were indeed a hell for sure. I rolled my eyes a good one, let out one lone sigh in an almost silenced room had there not been Brian’s forcedfully terrible movements, drew my arms out and put out an actual physical effort to stable myself, an impetuousity usually seen in that of a tightrope walkers back in the twentieth century when bounces weren’t developed enough to cover the hits and failures. I imagined I was walking on his backbone, supporting each other, I myself tried hard not to die and it tried hard to save a life, have something to do in its plain-sailing and mindless life. I tiptoed, and that was when two more cracks almost simultaneously spewed out from his backwards stomach. I feared for the lad, I actually did, that was why I quickly casted out my arms upon hearing the said undead screams and grabbed it splendidly, an athletic movement that should have been gilded and placed on costly shelves, no not the shelf we were talking about, not the shelf that once the deary, fluffy thing was on. I held it in my hands and stared for a while longer, maybe a few more seconds, just contriving on the fact that, first, I was faster than I thought, at least with my hands, and second, the thing’s eyes were huge. I mean, it was huge for a toy, much bigger than that of average humans’, more than blond Eporueans, or dark-haired ones like myself. I felt as though I was being watched, no matter where were the exact locations my head was placed it would just stare at me all the same. A mere blackness, the lacks of interventions from irises didn’t help. I was considering more outcomes and possibilities, when finally I reached a striking and overrated yet underrated happening that I was being recorded and these fatties were the dogs’ assasins or agents, and that I was about to be raped and killed, or reversed versions of that, or just merely raped, or just merely killed… Yes I know, I know I’m exagerated, still you had to give it thoughts. It dawned upon me that I did indeed do a considerable number of things worth being arrested for. For example, constantly littering stuffs at the cowards’ facilities, in front of the night cameras when I was high and drunk, at the same time. Hell, maybe being high and drunk was an illegal thing to do too. I once participated in the throwing of rocks and stones at a nameless or some-name-I-can’t-remember-for-the-life-of-me teacher’s hover car, smashing its windows and two of its air containers, just because he had given me bad grades thrice in a roll, and I wasn’t good at having bad grades, I was a freaking at-times-assiduously-brilliant-but-almost-always-lazily-good stud for fucks’ sakes, all the guys favoured my lines. Yeah I did it with one of the guys, he was what you would call friend when you didn’t have anyone close besides your relatives at all, you know, but I myself wouldn’t, even though he kept on shamelessly insisting that I was his best friend. Blake, I think. Well, it was pretty convenient that he was in the baseball team of the school too, his throws were amazing, transparent chips, debrises and flinders were everywhere after every goddamn whoosh and whips of arms. I only hit one window and the tires used for ground transportations and safe parkings. Having said that, I think it was still pretty guilty of me, as I was the one first suggesting the idea. Of course we abandoned the sight as soon as a third motherfucker saw us squatting with solid wastes in our palms facing the lamentable thing, and shouted to the surroundings with his objectionably high-pitched voice. Fucking cunt. Civilian disturbances would get 3 to 4 years, students disobeying and presenting impudences to his teachers would get one year in the local Amendment Camp, so basically I could have gotten a sentence maximum to 5 years in total no matter the kinds should it had been reported fully. Now one might say it was not much, but obviously no one wanted to have freedom taken away for 5 years ei? Let alone locked up by the dogs for the majority of the time, certainly they would get something out of me during that time, for example, from brainwashing me to sending me to the designated zones as an exceptionally specialized part of the ongoing murderous fornications, the sinister debaucheries, all happening on my birthday the Thirty of June.
So yeah, its eyes were big as hell itself, if the thing indeed did exist sure.
"You got it yet?" Brian shouted, without his head being turned back a bit to at least take a slight look. He tried, I guess, it just didn’t show much due to the obvious fatigues he was posessing. Now he just looked like a hippopotamus, not so much a pig of diseased breeds anymore.
"Yeah he got it man. Step off of him, you fucking piece of shit!" Bob, good ol’ loyal Bob stepped in with the line that was supposed to be spitted by me. His worrying face, I admit, was looking goddamn hilarious, as if he was having a dig at hermorrhoids and Brian was the innocent cause to which he couldn’t blame, but rather acted pitiful that it happened like so, and his aggressive shout at me was just a diversion of the fact. Usually the fattest not fastest fuck I’ve ever seen would defend me and give him a good shutting in returns, but this time all that responded were silences and his own oppressive and fixed airs, pointlessly lulling the sweats around to perpetual sleeps of evaporations. I figured I didn’t need to care for it all that much. I turned back and stepped off him like a king in medieval times, with the teddy bear in my left hand and my right hand reclining its palm on a floor of the bookshelf, which floor exactly I wasn’t sure, I wasn’t paying attention. A cosmic relief, in its glorious definitions, immersed itself onto my whole as soon as both my feet landed the gray-ish ground of this room, a naked cube of space that hadn’t been touched by Brian’s humiliating waters, undrinkable. The dude now lied face-down, opposite to, well, almost like an liberately indirect launch to the Jesus Christ’s fans who would take everything in the tangible runnings with pinches of salts and categorized as Gods’ plans. I mean, what plans exactly? Did Zeus and Ormazd and the Formless God or some more have a conference somewhere lately, and did one of your peeps get invited? Heh, still, I talk loud now, but I tell you man, passing the said folks on the daily streets wouldn’t be considered a merry thing, in fact, if went without shudders you wouldn’t be normal humans. There was something extraordinary about them, something unique and yet scentless, an air of creepy joylessness and sinful furtiveness, unlike the ghosted houses besides the inner land roads, the ghost blankets everything public on that day was wearing, no they wouldn’t be able to strain any sort of curiosities out of you even if one or two of those architectural objects disappeared before your freaking eyes. The feelings… I don’t know… Maybe one would both feel scared and curious. Yes, maybe that was the exact feeling, described so simply. Brian obviously wasn’t a religious dude, so one would be insane to say that he was doing it purposely, insane like the said folks. He was still breathing, though hard, what with his whole body pressing up, betraying against his heart and lungs. Bob rushed up forward, almost pushed the tank to the position of easy falling, and jostled me for the naked dried cube I was standing on. “Step out, boy!” he said, then turned back, downcasted with his ass either knowingly or unknowingly hitting a good one into my stomach, circumstantially had me out of the space and my feet onto sweats. I almost tripped by the happening, but again the bookshelf held me back, and again I didn’t know what floor I was holding to in order for that to happen. I almost about to spew out another filthy bunch of words as a revenge, until I calmed myself down and realized my situation, that Bob was too close for an insult at him to be effective, that the guy would beat me up with this favourable distance between him and me. So instead, what I did was that I moved back with a movement almost dedicated for a run, through the sweating seas and nearer to the tank, the broken Bip. He was mumbling, this time around I could only hear “dogs” repeatedly, and “childhoods” ones were no more. Still no ants came around, maybe after some careful realizations he thought it was best that he watched what was happening around instead, and he did, with glances that almost touched my fifteen degrees stance, counting from the theorized rightful placing of my head relatively to the straight walls wrapping the exit door not so far away. I could easily run through Bip, and peaced myself out with my middle fingers that were so, so beloved and overused by its owner. That was when I looked… I observed the teddy bear I was holding more carefully. Goddamn I must have been looking like a clown in the middle of a Lynchy scene.
Apart from the frantic eyes of I mentioned earlier, the teddy bear was dressed in pink, a dress with patterns containing some distant gnarls of a few indecipherable Ochnaceae. Yeah I get repetitive from time to time I admit, it was the only way to describe it however, even when you looked at it close you would still say as such, though it didn’t matter much whether you were lying or not. But I’m telling the truth, I couldn’t even figure the hell out of me what kinds of Ochnaceae were those on the dress, given the time and the circumstances I just couldn’t. Still, their shapes suggested likewise, particularly the gnarls’ shapes. The gnarls looked a bit burnt, they were brown-ish and looking scabrous, spinaled into homes of helices, leading up the flower buds through straightened up branchs paralelling each other, making imperfect patterns that were obliquely placed, as if the one who was wearing it had just got raked. Visually speaking, I gotta give it to the designer and their sewers, however, biologically speaking, the thing was all wrong. Though it didn’t take a genius to recognize the mistakes of placing gnarls and flower buds, I bet you do get a gist of this, that I was a pretty good student at my school for the majority of times, sometimes I was even a better one, and one of the subjects I was best at was biology, a thing that was mostly learned through some incredible libraries digs and the Interactivewebzay, still, the fact that what I learned did have some usage afterall was amazing to me at the time. I didn’t notice before, no not ever, as I’d never approached Ellie to see her dress clearer, I never had the chance to use my so-far knowledges of a common par on it. No one would approach her, in fact, no one wanted to be involved with an odd creature, and odd number among the evens, a little girl with merely just seven years behind her in a town, a separated zone for boys, man and grandpas, what came to be about her was never asked. Talking about sentences again, man, the rule was written that we must not have been seen making contacts with other the gender opposite of our own besides the Thirty, it was written just years after the creation of the Governors’ dogs and their governments, so at the very least, if broken, death was the only answer for the participants. No one reported her, though, they would rather keep their mouths shut to any kind of situations come about instead of making hassles and being irrelevantly questioned. We only knew each other through distant “conversations,” or rather, one-sided “conversations” from the distances, and she was always the starter. For example, that morning of that day of the explosion, she smiled at me first, and waved at me with her right arm, cutely. Or that specific Thirty of June day when she first came to that corner of the town in front of the yard fronting our house, spreading the first moments of her existence to minds with her waking up the neighbors at the edges of another seemingly depressed sunrise by a 6 years old girl’s constant knocks: “My name is Ellie. Please remember me.” I didn’t remember her facial, neither do any of us, we either liberately or deliberately forgot it, thought it was a joke to cheer people up for the day as no girls were allowed in the zone, but there you go. Since then no one stood near enough of her to actually have any sort of closures for even face paintings, but it was a common fact that she had brown hair and that dress on, almost every day for about one year leading up to that day. I don’t know if I was the one being chosen to know about her, though still ambiguously, or that I was just a dumb fuck with random luck, if you consider it as such, also happened to be an observer. All these times I keep on going on and on about the connections between Brian and his likely preceding knowledges of observers, maybe actioneers too, and whether Ellie had anything to do with anything whatsoever. Of course at the time of speaking, when I was holding the teddy bear, I just thought it was a coincidence that it was worn a dress with the same patterns like that of Ellie’s, and concluded that it probably was made by the same brand. I kept on looking, and about to turn the bear around and saw if there would be anything interesting—
"You okay there man, talk to me will ya?"
It seemed that Bob had dragged Brian to the right corner of the room, to the right of the bookshelf, away from his own pool of sweats. He was set up to recline against the walls, an act to ease the pain upon his back. Most will say it was nothing, yet upon this fat fuck the pain was immense, I could see it, judging from the way his eyeballs were up in the air and the space opened up between the upper and lower lips, his hard and inconsistent respirations and his legs being widened into that of a midnight whore. The pathetic messes upon his head didn’t help much, really made on feel sad for the lad. His expensive undercut was absolutely ruined - a result made from incessant contacts with the ground - after the draggings.
I looked back at the bear. Brian was yet to return from that contemporary coma, that was what I told myself, gave myself an obvious apologia to me being not fully interested in his fate at the time, as I was being so absorbed by my own thoughts and personally glorious discovery then. There was a small yellow note hanging on its neck, glued onto its collar to be truthful. It read:
“Your name is Ellie, honey. 66/2500, on Vacancy St. Numbered Two of Zone THREE. And I am sorry, honey.
* The girl’s name is Ellie. Please don’t hurt her, please don’t report her, if you are a kind and brave person, please return her to the said address after one year. Deserved remunerations, whatever objects and possessions you so desire will be there. I f I am nt the re b y t hen, I am s or r y hon n e—”
The last part was written scrawly, and interrupted by dried obscurations totaled up in one place after the letter “E”, which erased a few more words, most likely were made of liquid originally, tears, specifically.
"Ready for the ritual yet?" I looked up to see who just spitted that irrelevancy, and what do you know. Dude was a fucking human tank, a durable one at that, one minute ago he was sitting down pathetically and now his shadow was blocking me whole, the second time of the day.
(to be continued)
- The Conquistador
Read the series here:
XVI. The Ritual (9)
"Olivier Ravoire Gigondas". Sweet name, don’t you think? Frenchies and their speakers are annoying indeed, weirder thing is, as soon as they are turned mute the languages become instantly exquisite. Try one glass at least, you won’t find this extinct creature anywhere else after this ride.
Now I thought that Brian’s back would just be as pasty as the front, but it wasn’t, by the love of Einstein’s gravity all of the fats from the fattest fuck I’ve ever seen were racing towards the Earth’s core, leaving a larger and longer than the norms trail, a fine line of spine bulging out of the group’s isochromatic sweat shirt, spreading from just below his neck to the pointy border of his gigantic rack that was nicely mantled by an unhappy pant. Like a phenomena of some kinda allomorphism, I know, but that was what happened, observers don’t just lie. Hell, seeing the scene I was afraid of stepping up due to well-considered probabilities, though tiny, of breaking something almost humane up, and the two fatties left would be more than enough to fuck me up to no ends when that actually happened. To their glorious leader, for their glorious leader. An a bit funny and oddly consilient thing to me then really, while I was on that train of diverging and horrid and comical thoughts, I was somehow reminded of those classic paper-ed newspapers’ cutouts of the also fat and related and loud-mouth lads from North Korea in World War 3 dad #1 once showed me and my brother one night near the quiet Christmas holidays back when I was 6 or 7, and it was easy to mistake the two of them numbers for they were all quiet, all the holidays were quiet the same I meant. Ancestral and genetic shits were looming in the out with their blurry in-parts sepia faces and large bunches of American burgers, really said something about genocides and Westerners’ underratings. Though that was sarcasm, I was actually amazed looking at them emaciated classic photographs taken by guy called prickly Peter Shanks, not only because of their oversized appearances, but also because of their short biographies noted just millimetres under the sensationalized headlines. Gods were being compared all over, man, if indeed they exist for sure. Dad #1 actually had loads of those, traced back from ol’ boy Lincoln from the magnificent land of extremely violent and bloodthirsting tribes that were too egoistical to walking spaghetti monsters as the likes of national public figures named Hitler, Stalin, to sweaty Jackson with his dancing and utilising feet next to his daughters at every goddamn political conference, however, the said fat Asians were ones who left the most impressions on me either way, they were the most famous contemporaries who played roles in World War 3, with all the spares of pretentiousnesses and praises and authentic adorations and nicely worded lies after-the-facts placed inbetween quotation marks, contributing to the creations of insane mixtures of old colors and discrepant colorizations acting idle in two big fucking cases. Interesting times, indeed. Well, maybe not exactly, not to dad #1’s killed parents at least, as they were the inattentive sources of the happenings. Having said that, I still have yet to figure out, I don’t know how the guy could just mention them and the engagements of which he was part so freely in stories that were told to me and brother almost constantly like he did, let alone doing that while dressing freakly like a child rapist, a moron in the bushes for another guerilla… I blame Alzheimer’s for the most part, still, it was really the one thing that was, though seemed trivial, even more mysterious than what I heard from him on my 12th birthday, Thirty of June, 2062. I was telling you of it earlier, if I’m not mistaking. I don’t know, another explanation might be that World War 3 soldiers were trained for that? Or simply have a good brainwash job, some good fixings done on a few here and there specific nerves of the brains? After the rebellion, I discovered through the Governors’ dogs records that even with the time’s underdeveloped technological advancements some of their doctors could do that with bare hands, manually even, not charlatans but like real hypnotists, though the fact still has to be confirmed since we need more proofs, like a video or something. Right now it’s only merely known through the Governors’ dogs’ distinguishable seals. And yes, I’ll get back to that story soon, it’s not lunchtime yet so keep the saddles tight for me and the fatties. Maybe I will tell you the story of his parent being killed then, too.
"What the fuck. I’m not doing this, I want to go home." Welcome you to the endless episode of acting dramatic. I actually wanted to see what was and were on the fourth floor of the bookshelf, just to have a better confirmation of this room sucking a fuck. That’s right, my Donnie. On the other hand, a bit kinkily phobia-ish, that pulpy thing slightly tripping above his back’s skin looked extremely unsafe and unstable even for a thin fuck like me then to step on, a grown adult might just as well fell directly into his stomach along with scatters of collapsed backbones, a stomach that was having unfortunate full-on contacts with the magnetic ground. Yes I was conflicting myself, and that was when I thought about pots and weeds, and it wasn’t an act out of liberations. Those things were mindless experts at solving problems for the minds, like the famous they and my high me had always told, and a conscious teenager was the frequent listener.
"Well, suits yourself man." Brian was still lifting his fat ass up and leaning his palms against the now sweaty ground in an endeavour worth being turned into texts in whatever the hell platforms kids dig nowadays, and yes that is a reference to that job you have to do thereafter. He consequently breathed out a chunk of moments of selfish silences, not continuously but mildly infuriating, as if he could liberately control it, that small space, to his likings and suchs, what with his sighs and deplorable pantings and half try-hard on/off smiles miserably hidden under faint enlightening lights. No one else said a goddamn thing about it, I didn’t know what to comment, I hadn’t defined a special one to publish with my uncomfortable tongue yet as his conditions were too obvious for it, all madly mumbling senses into my ears and teasing my laughing tissues in first hands. Once energies were loaded fully, as I’d assumed and overrated the scene to that of another favourite fauvist painting, he outed another, still in the position for a negatively reviewed play of comedy in old Broadway, where I was a slaver and he was, of course, a slave, though I gotta say, a cheap one at this line of work.
"My brothers, see the gentleman out."
"Hah, gentleman. Now that was how to step over the line, man." Bob chuckled at the thought of me being more civilized and mature than him, a second-in-command role taker. Well he had his reasons I guess, thus I must oppose as a defier of douchebags. I’ll admit I was just a fourteen years old kid, but I think at least that kid was having a pretty appealing and growing sense of humour, with zero capabilities to be turned into a potential yes-dude anytime soon, let alone secretly being an observer of an unknowing world. Let me tell you that those were, heck, what do you know, amazing achievements under the ages and generations of ignorant billions in separated zones… Just counting those logics, at least he deserved some kinda superiority treatments and brands of the modern man, in some ways and aspects ei? That were some of my pompous thoughts, I didn’t spit them out for obviousnesses of course, neither did I look at him during the processes, because I wouldn’t know what kinds of facials would be suitable for the cases. I didn’t want to get punched, I didn’t want to… Well, mostly I just didn’t want to get punched. I wanted to go home and smoke and drink like a normal teenager I wanted to be, like I had always. So instead I turned my attention to the harmlessly right corner of my view, just stared at Bip who was blocking stuffs in stillness, who was watching invisible ants. Fucking lackadaisical weirdo. After a while, Bob was clearly confused by that act of mine, I could easily notice the changes in the tempoes of indiscernible flows going through his breather’s teething blinds, they were raised a bit higher, then a bit lower, suggested constant irrelevant realizations of a dumbass who tried too hard to figure shites out, shites beyond his level of existence. Yeah I stick to my promises like that, sorry, and I will keep on trashing the fuck. Predictable as such is a fat bastardized third wheeler, dude then, who must have been out of things to connect and analyse with his readable tiny archive of diaphanous imaginations stored in whatever under the garbages stuck on his purloined and bargained haircut, decided to act to his master’s order. Yeah, yippity surprise surprise. Bob moved back a few more steps and groped the air behind him with his chubby left hand, but nothing was in the grasp. He moved back a little more, about to pick on the receptacle just sitting fixedly behind him with his liberately supine movement, all the while still looking at me, presenting his facelessness at the corner of my unfocusing left iris. He didn’t want to go out of his self-proclaimed fat James Dean impersonation I must bet, so he kept on doing it for a few more seconds, even when fails after fails kept on being piled up. You know, sort of like the costumed old schools fuckers back in the day, those who dressed like superstars and class-A actors and actresses and useless, worthless comics’ superheroes in the days and slept on parks’ benches at nights. He would have been scorned to the sizes of little pussies like Bip, had Brian was up to see the scene, I thought to myself. To be think about it now, maybe that was exactly why he took his time doing it, he realized the circumstances were favourable to his coward kind then. These fuckers really were trained time wasting fuckers, and I’m not saying that just about Bob, I tell you man. Even when they didn’t know they were, they performed brilliantly all the same, with god knew what special abilities, different attributes and rounds of shites like that.
I started to walk up, to the right and avoid hitting the mustard-covering breathing hot dog of a humanity below, and took another right turn one more time to avoid the round tank, and the scabby Bob. I wanted an easier path, as passing through a broken Bip would be like simply piercing my hands into my pants’ pockets. Boy, was I wrong. After having not so successfully escaped the tank’s inanimate stance, with Sonic’s palm sweeping a short smeared streak on the said translucency whole, I finally reached the fucker. Damn, he still stinked as hell, mixed with this room obvious strangeness I thought I was stuck in one of those fishy, smelly Cronenberg’s overhyped classics. As my head was sort of parallel to his left shoulder at the middle of my hobbit journey, I swore I heard he was mumbling something like: “Childhoods. Childhoods. Childhoods. Dogs. Dogs. Dogs.” If he was standing before me now, doing exorcism shit like that right now, I would shake the fucker like an out of shape Governors’ dog and ask him sharply to the root, maybe put him on the freaking Ideological Mind Floor if must. We need evidences, now than ever, and memories, though intangible, really speak the loudest in the squads. Of course, not without an expensive and colorful carpet placing as road cones for the likelihoods of some kind of childish depressions sparking possibly everywhere and anytime.
"What are you doing?" Bob asked. He’d been watching me doing things, no shit.
"I think you’re having multiple troubles seeing me the gentleman out, or rather, turning your head back, fattie. I myself witnessed the inner door knob, so-"
"What the fuck did you just say to me, boy?" After the spit, Bob turned his head some fives degrees to the left, looking straight at me. He did the impossible, a thing I just mocked him for, and now I couldn’t avoid him anymore, the stare looked a bit too deathly to simply ignore physically. Bip was pretty angry with me pre-dumped earlier too, but he didn’t look as angry as this junior, this fucking son of a bitch. You should see his half face man, inner stuffs were racing and bracing under his cheeky convexes and a red forehead, as if in preparations and evacuations for some kinda incoming storm. Two feet then eventually joined the direction, and surprisingly quick for the fucker of his integrities and surplus loved parts, he gradually pulled his body around and started to go straight at me on a path drawn in front of the brain-fried Bip, unknowingly stepped and trashed the poor ritual thingies on the floor one by miniature one with his tons of meats. I was thinking of the initial point I saw and met the fatties, especially Brian, the minor fears and moments of confusions I was having. He looked fucking pissed… well if I say it that way, the contemporary Bip did have something in common to the situation of Bob’s mood, lingually. Haha. Back to it though, the guy looked fucking pissed, yes indeed, but he didn’t actually run towards me like a goddamn 20th century Bazuka or something out of Alienated-A’s drainers, so I gathered all of my imperturbabilities left and started thinking of an exit, soon I figured I could simply and easily duck one out with this velocity of his, either a punch or a sudden kick or a classic bulldozing for shits and gigs and good laughs, go round both the two dumbshit fatties and opened the door, walked out among audiences’ claps. Then what I would do next, would be turning back while holding the outer knob with my right hand, raising two of my precious middle fingers that were overused up to the fuckers’ patheticnesses, spitted on that edgy perron lining the room and the ascending bank of grasses like a rude Augustan redneck in an odd-one-outed Ed Hopper’s oiled canvas, then slammed the fucking Uno’s thing back to its sticky neighboring walls like kids winning against their parents in huffs and sulkinesses competitions, when they finally brought dinners straight to their rooms. Hm. Those were some badly stated comparisons and metaphors on my ends… Nevertherless, I mean that was what I planned to do, what I was set to do, to see "myself" out. Planned. Afterall, plans are what relevant ei? They are talked and discussed on artificial trees and papers, some are in better tiers, some in worse ones. Rules of the ignorant life all the same. Still should’ve read that next part about solipsism, even when it might be just another buncha bullshit.
"Hey now, he’s got a mother somewhere, lay up the words, brother." Said, Brian on the ground, who was sweating like a pig. Maybe pigs don’t sweat, but… you get the point. Damn, it should have been near lunch time now.
He captured my attention, like he had used to a few times before the point. I thought about my mother for a split second, until I looked up above and saw a teddy bear just sitting so proudly on the fourth floor, leaning against the wall. The fourth floor of the bookshelf. Not sure why I didn’t notice it sooner, I mean it was pretty big for a teddy bear, and… cutely dressed in pink for fucks’ sake. A goddamn dress with patterns containing some distant gnarls of a few indecipherable Ochnaceae. Like Ellie’s, only differences were that this one was pink-ish, and of course, much much smaller, though still enough to recognize the similarities. Its legs were intact, if you want to know.
(to be continued)
- The Conquistador
Read the series here:
XV. The Ritual (8)
I looked around one more to time ascertain the situation precisely. Okay, odd sharp shites on the ground, checked. The “cage”… I mean the tank, it was still in front of me, with its two shitty layers of salvers, so checked. Nothing exciting however. Ritual stuffs from weirdoes. Seeing the scene, the only thoughts that were loitering my mind were of me being forced to join as their fourth member and eat trememdous amounts of canned food to be legitimized, or simply being raped. With those odd sharp shites as talkless assistants. Yeah even though I kept on saying Brian didn’t have anything on me except some kinda immoderate respect, it was still a plausible argument to consider, good rapists always are good actors, always have their own favourite places for the final swabbings, afterall. Always.
"Behind you." Brian slightly turned his face upward then necked it down quickly, an unnecessary demeanour, as if I didn’t already know what kinda directions were considered to be "behind me". Fucking donnish fat prick.
But I turned around. Before me was a pretty big, or rather a high bookshelf, maybe a bit higher than the fatties’ average heights, as the top floor, the fourth floor of it was one head above me. There was a larger than the standards rectangular sticker that said “The End of A Calender” pasted on the upper wall, one of those deep things the at-present untreatable cancer patients’ parents had. Shame there was a grammar mistake, which produced even more cringes urges. I squatted down to examine the whole thing from the up top, I was thin so the jeans was easy on me. On the bottom floor, there were a compass, a telescope and a binocular, placed in that same order spoken. The compass might seem a bit irrelevant, but I thought them three were probably used for stalking missions of some kind set up by the fat freaks, although I doubted they were using it on me. It just seemed so random and out of place you know, I only started to capture Brian’s solicitous attention once he knew I was a student of my school, and I didn’t know why, before that I was busy getting ready for a fine beating because of my supple tongue. On the other hand, there’s another conclusion in existence that was that he realized I was different from normal victims, an observer, though I don’t know how that could have been the case since the term wasn’t even released then yet and the special abilities certainly weren’t that recognizable, not to outsiders. Unless he was also an observer, an experienced and knowing one at that, which would make it explanable, yet, this kind of conjecture will still be left unconfirmed for a pretty long time to come, after all the current observers and actioneers’ deaths and stuffs. Damn I seriously hope our broods do something worthwhile. Anyway, I glanced further up. The second floor was empty, filled with thin and miniature storeys of dusts, scattered into separated piles. I whiffled my lungs’ hoarded air into those to find out if there were any sneaky things hidden beneath, even when I knew the probability would be less than ten percentages since it’d be way too low of an act for the fatties, and what do you know, there weren’t. Boring floor. I looked back at the fatties and asked useless shites about it, but no answers. A boring floor remained, without any context. For the third floor, I had to stand up entirely, since as you know, the thing was big and all that. There were three books put on top of each other, all stuck to the right side, near two poles acting as hold-ups. I picked up the first one. Yeah, dusts, made me cough a little. After they had been flicked off, the title was revealed: “IGNORANCES IN SOLIPSISM”. This one looked pretty thick, with expensive cover and designs on it, yet all in classic forms, printed paper and all that, unlike the one-long-page Bible at the time read by the scrollings of fingertips. If you haven’t already known, “Solipsism” is one of those useless philosophical things, it talks about how this world is created by one’s own mind only, other things including other humans and their toilets, creatures and beings from Africa to the arctic are all made up by its picky and oddly careless imaginations. Basically each of us is a God should we take the thing seriously. Hell, maybe me telling this story and agreeing to meet you are just according to your ironically unknowing order, a God. And maybe your top boss is instead. Heck maybe I am, and with you a popular magazine’s employee having heard this story, soon some kinda impacts would be made to this world like I subconsciously planned. If I did do that, of course, only that I know I didn’t because I am a freaking observer who constantly flies controllably in sleeps, which leads to the old situation is that I was mindlessly puppetted ironically by a God somewhere, you or your top boss or someone in Japan, to try and make things right to the way they were strewn on. I bet you don’t know what I’m talking about, and you have the right to do that, because they are indeed some bullshits. I knew exactly what it was right then, I read about it in one of the books Sarah gave me, only difference that it said nothing about “ignorances”, one the book I was holding with my two hands seemed to also talk about. I opened it, and read the first page:
CHAPTER 1: The Overrated Things
"Ignorance"? What is "ignorance", you would ask? Is it a word we made up, to describe a state of our own kind, our lack of knowledges in certain subjects when put in mouthing situations? Is is a state given a deserved term? Do they exist in plural forms, if we were to want them as suchs?
Now, don’t get off your high horses so soon and point your litle fingers at me with your tongues out, for what it’s worth “ignorance” isn’t to be floundered with “stupidity” and its neighboring friends, no, not at all. There are no greater dangers than mistaking the two of them, for if realized and caught, you would be branded with the opposite. Last week, I saw a couple walking into the coffee shop I was in, a Starbucks, and they decided to sit at the table just before me, second in place looking to the exit from where I and my face was slightly immobilized just above the quiet bread and the hot brown liquid on the table. The girl’s back was facing me, nice bra strap and tan concomitants. She was taller than the guy, so I couldn’t see the lad clearly, and same went to him. Tall girl. She started to talk things, and he talked things in returns, all the things I couldn’t hear blurrier. I finished halfway to my abstemious breakfast and called the waiter. She is a nice waiter. I asked how much I owned her. She corrected me with “owed”, so she is a nice waiter with good ears. I talked loudly anyway, you know these things, they are all the more recognizable when voiced with high volumes, it explained why the tall girl before me turned back and shh… me, and while she was at it she gave off a glance into my half-eaten quiet bread and dregs of my formerly hot brown coffee. I don’t eat much. I looked at her a bit, then I turned to the female waiter and said “that too”, and she smiled. We joked back and forth, exchanging small one-liners until we both felt it was overdone. I proceeded to pretend to look at my watch and told her that I was “officially” in a hurry. She smiled again, such a cute smile. I ran off. I knew I hadn’t paid for my cheap meal yet, I wasn’t too sure if she acknowledged the same thing. I like her, I don’t want to be seen as rushing things with seeming tricks and the likes. She seemed, or seems to like me too.
So I went back to the place the day after’s morning, and asked her first-hand without even choosing one table to sit, “How much did I owe you?” I knew how much I owed, like I’d always, still, I asked. To my surprise, she answered, “Hi! I don’t know, zero?”
There was one table empty, and the table before it was occupied by the same couple, a contemporarily faceless guy and a tall girl. The tall girl was staring at me. When I said, “Okay.” and went to the direction of that empty table behind her, she looked to be almost screaming, I could feel and see her two sets of teeths that were hidden under her lips grinding against each other like images of players in an American football match shot by satellites. I said “Okay.” because I was only about to give her the unpaid debt and ran off, because I was too excited to meet her I pulled out the exact amount of money from my wallet, without even bringing it, and now that she didn’t remember it, with my hungry stomach and hungover self I had a new plan, I couldn’t just leave the breakfast eating place without eating a thing, or at least drinking something to re-freshen up. So I ordered coffee, no quiet breads, with the plan of telling her again about the accident the day before’s morning when I finished it and saying I’d pay her back later. The waiter girl still seemed clueless, now was she still waiting for me to speak up clearer or she just simply forgot it? Was she pretending, one of those “how to draw guys’ attention” guide printed in paper magazines? A less likely thing, I thought to myself, and I think I was right about that. I was sitting cluelessly, it was when I noticed the tall girl were starting to talk louder. She said to the guy, “I hate those who lies and steals, but I hate those who half-heartedly tells truths and THEN steals even more.”
I ran off home straightaway, picked up my wallet and came back to the coffee shop, the Starbucks shop. The waiter girl looked a bit upset, she was standing near the tall girl. Magazines’ guides conspiracies dismissed then. I entered the shop, went straight to her and gave her the money I owed. I sat back to my old table, with the new cup of coffee she brought before I ran off, behind the tall girl. I finished my abstemious breakfast, paid for it, then went to work. No jokes were exchanged.
The real question I wanted to ask you readers, having told you the said ordinary story, is this: Would I have gone home and picked up my wallet and came back to the coffee shop had I been given enough time to consider options? Was I ignorant? I will state it clearer, had I been an ignorant asshole until being indirectly talked about by the tall girl, or had I been simply misjudged since I was going to initialize the acts anyway (I did think about it)? Is “ignorance” rated by outsiders with qualifications being the choices we make, or are them our authentic thoughts, since it’s merely just a state of our own being uninformed? If it was the latter, then I am innocent, but why was I deemed an ignorant asshole by the involved plural then? Why do I feel like deeming myself as one? Don’t worry, precisely 485 pages more are waiting for you. First, we talked OVERRATINGS.
I thought it sounded like a bunch of bullshits, and I still do every time I visit the vault, just much, much less after each. Since the rebellion ended I have been trying and finding it, the book I mean, but no digging quests made were successful. The next page of it probably told another story, but this time most likely stuffs solipsism-related. Another bunch of bullshit, one I should have read and found out the whatthefucks instead of leaving my curiosity alone for mere acting coolness before the irrelevant fatties.
"How was it?" Brian asked.
I turned around and answered with a straight face. I will admit I did get excited and try to hold off a smile, even though it was just a bunch of bullshits. Yes indeed, curiosities work great when you don’t want it, really. Win-win for me either way. “Shitty. Who is the author?”
The cover, though well done and adorned with painted, watercolor flowers and insipid flashing hues of pretentious hipsters, it didn’t have many texts, besides the title no publishers’ branded names or their information were given, or even more outrageous, the author’s name. Didn’t look like someone was peeling the name off either, everything was amazingly connected to make up into a seemingly expensive synchronization presented, except the one or two most important things left untreated and unrecognized under amateur eyes. Maybe it was self-published, and the author just simply forgot he had a name, or that he thought it was lame as hell after the fact? I do, I did give a shit about it.
"Of what book?" His eyes widened.
"Ignorances in Solipsism?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Will you tell me or what?"
"Answer why and I will tell you. Fair trade."
"Okay… Hey, did you happen to know why the chicken crossed the road in the story?"
"In the story."
"I don’t remember having…"
"It wanted to get to the other side and tell a sadly proud and posing fat fuck to stay put."
"What?" Bob captured my left eye almost instantly, not much sooner than my right eye. He looked extremely focused, creases on foreheads shaping eyebrows and all that, as if he was trying to figure out what the hell I was talking about in that line. Maybe he was. Maybe he thought that I insulted Brian, which I did, but just couldn’t figure out the living hell what the insult was exactly, with his tiny brain antagonistically deposited at the top of a fat meatball. And if he were to figure out, I deduced dude would just jump up to a one fourth rage, what would happen next was that his superior would tell him to shut his pie hole, and then he would. I was glad the guy was a dumbass… I mean I’m not trying to carp you or something like that, not ever, it’s fine if you don’t get it, it’s just so not acceptable for a fat coward. A fat coward is a double coward, and I must take every chance to degrade the fucker, even this many years after his death.
"That was good." Brian, the possible observer, all high and mighty with his comment. Like I’ve said, fucking donnish fat prick. I sarcastically thanked him.
I put the book back, but onto the left side of the floor. Somehow I thought it would make the fatties mad to my likings, well Bob at least since he was most likely still stuck in that messy bandwagon he made up about my previous spit and would understandably want to have something in returns, but unfortunately nothing happened, no words pulled out of the breathers. I heard mumbles behind me, but that was it. Goddamn the dusts man, they were a must on that long list of killers of lungs, especially in that summer. Not enough to be blocking my views of the second book, though, they wouldn’t even be considered infants of what sandstorms casually put out that specific summer. I picked it up, and yes, I had to do another flicking dust job in order to see the title. “ThE ApPoInTeD LiGhT”. A black text, printed in that oldie goodie The World United font I think, with one letter in caps and the next one in lower cases. Teenie weenie tiny moe shites. I opened it, and there was nothing. Absolutely nothing was in it, all blank pages, even though it looked just as thick as the first one. Well, there was a line on the first page that followed the cover: “To the future Me’s—”
"What is this?" I asked.
"What is what?"
"Why all the blank pages?"
"They are to be filled."
"What is that even supposed to mean?"
"That means you are too dumb to—" Bob chimed in, and got interrupted halfway through. I heard cracks, I also saw Brian’s right hand’s fingers shrinking back to its palm almost too quick. Everyone heard it, even Bip, for it reminded him. Oh yes Bip, the then sore loser, he did notice it, as the dude decided to drop his ongoing observing experiments given for invisible ants on the ground, and finally looked up to get a closure of what was going on. He looked at me first as a humane object, an easy target, and I looked at Brian’s fist. I didn’t know if he could see the reflections in my eyes, what I saw standing, but he kept on looking at me. Fucking drama queens. Somehow I didn’t want to continue this, I seriously was a hater of repetitions. I didn’t even bother to pick up the third one, and I should have, like how I should have read the first one’s second page. To be honest with you this all had been pretty time wasting to my version of a young and wild and active fourteen years old boy, I basically just didn’t know that kind of toadying curiosity could exist in me. Then I thought about pots and weeds, then I imagined online 4D gifs of smokey shits, unicorns and colorful clouds. Back then colorful clouds could be created easily with salts and some other shites I couldn’t remember being named in textbooks, but still, I was indirectly lusting for them anyway. Authentic pleasures are always the bests.
"Well okay, whatever then. So you won’t tell me anything, let alone shits related to my school, fine. Can I go now? Don’t rape me."
"Have you observed the fourth floor yet?"
"Too high. Sorry, too busy thinking of going instead of getting taller."
"Let me help you."
Brian came forward, towards me. Such a fat fuck, the fattiest fucker I have ever seen, his feet were indeed looking real heavy, and since the room was gas-proof they made up into some really bad and lasting vibrations, not “bold and vigorous and fearsome” like ones from those unoriginal giants in fantasy novels, just merely and nakedly phlegmatic sounds that refused to be more quiet and fitting with others’ heartbeats. Yeah, “annoying” and “lame” would be a great mixture if you were to be in a process of word makings for the phenomenon. He chose to go to the right of the tank to avoid it, and even though I could tell that he was trying his best, his left arm still made a good line of spotty sweats, an imperfect slide. I couldn’t stand it, I just wanted to come and had a cleaning with my Sonic shirt real quick like one of those repairing assholes during a F1 car race dad #1 taped. I liked the sport however, though I didn’t know what F1 stood for. Well back to it, one good thing during the moving process of that douchie piece of humanity was that nothing on the ground was messed up by him and out-of-location thereafter. I’m not sure why I think that was a good thing, since I wanted the fucker to perform real-life ridiculousnesses right then, maybe it was just because I wanted to speed up things so bad. Up to the point, nothing had really caught my attention, nothing, not even that Ignorances in Bullshits book, I would usually call from time to time. I was looking at my watch, and it said 10:30AM. Only 30 minutes so far since I entered, and half the time it felt like an eternity for me, what were with the discoveries of stuffs with absolutely zero contexts or explanations. Well except the ones on the ground, which might serve for my possible death, or a final humilliation, I thought to myself. It did serve for something though, the ritual later on… Oops, spoiler. That means I didn’t leave the room afterall, right? No shit. I was still waiting for one last thing to rate and stamp UNINTERESTING, and I was being very, very patient. After Gods knew how long, Brian finally reached my eyesight in full and stood before me, with his shadow must have been shading my whole body. If there were indeed Gods, sure. He lied back down to the ground before my feet into a push up posture, and that surprised me, not just because the act itself was so sudden, but also because I knew the dude didn’t do that regularly, if ever at all. Pushing ups and the likes, I mean. His fat back started to shape itself into a plank, his two arms were making into two 90 degrees angles of imperfect triangles to hold up his own weight. Now let me remind you that Brian was also a pretty strong dude, hell he had Bip on the ground so quick I didn’t even have time to look and measure speeds and strengths, but I swore I saw him shaking his arms either way, I saw him struggling in the fight with gravity and his fatness. Some weird thoughts were going through my mind, they were about worlds where I and Brian were friends, and I would usually tell him that he was too fat, that he should lose tons of meats to live a bit longer, and he then would proceed to eat that gigantic can of starches he just bought from a favourite outlet the size of my head, and answered “Okay.” In some worlds I imagined me and him being buddies in a TV series based on the classic The Truman Show. No homo thoughts, I swear to you. Looking down and seeing the scene under my virgin “beard” actually made me both confuse and unease, and I couldn’t just tell him something like “lose weights, fat fuck” because that subject would also touch Bob and Bip, who were obviously there watching. I hadn’t noticed one chuckle from them, such loyal fucks. Well, justified for Bip of course.
"You okay there, bro?" I asked him, a question added with the word "bro", spoken the first time in that day by me. I actually called many of my "friends" as "broes" a lot in my school, and at the time I think I mistook "feeling sorry" for "unrequited friendship". Then again, that doesn’t say much, if this is transcribed and printed out please consider putting "friends" inbetween quotation marks. I didn’t know why really, I just felt sorry for the guy, the thoughts of him and me in other parallel planets and shites discussing weights like real-life partnering comedians. No homo, again. I just didn’t know why… Maybe some kinda observers’ connections?
"Sure. No problem. Step up." He answered, with a robotic voice that was shaking and in short hiatuses there and back again. Dude was trying real hard.
(to be continued)
- The Conquistador
Read the series here:
XIV. The Ritual (7)
Talk about fetuses and stuffs again. I do remember the automatic round tank I was in, what I saw from the inside. I’m an observer afterall, though it’s still a scary thing, a fetus knowing what was going on, but I did remember it, well a few times, you know, but still counted. I felt the movements, man, the wrong bumps, as my head hit back and forth to the many directions transparently blocked by the circular borders of it, in slow motion of course, all due to the fluids that were keeping me alive till a suitable birthday, which was the odd Thirty of June, as it constrained whatever the kinetic energy’s doings. I saw big people, gigantic people, gigantic shiny thingies handling me and my tank, I saw more of them circulate both of us one place after another, put us in massive trays with cyclic holes along neighboring tanks and tiny humans swallowed inside the things, quiet fellows like me. I bet most of them were still in their deep sleeps of pre-catalogued beauties. Then I think I was being transferred, piled up onto the backs of pyrochemical buses, or hover trucks, or even soundless planes. They were all the same, what were with their fucking engines and artificial noises coming at you everywhere and every time. They were long journeys, darknesses were all I saw days in and nights out with my underdeveloped irises, not just when I was subconsciously asleep. Then after quite a while, maybe something happened inbetween the before and after but nothing I remember, some of the first sighs I’ve ever heard woke me up. Followed by first coughs. I witnessed lines and patterns of cigarettes’ smokes. I saw people going at me, picking me up and dropping me down with their annoying laughters, I was playing ridiculous in a fucking ball for fucks’ sake. Now that I think of it, the fuckers must have been my neighbors. A neighbor’s kid, a male kid, a boy, about 7 or 8, was observing me, inquiring me things I didn’t fully understand, which was understandable. I listened to the bips of my “cage” carefully, and one by one it was screaming out loud: “Bip! Bip! Bip! Bip! Bip! Bip! Bip!…” A door I didn’t know exist opened up, shaped into a pretty big circle, enough to fit my whole body through. People surrounded me, looked at me. I also looked back at myself, or at least I put a little effort into doing it, voila and voiceless wows, legs, arms, stomach, torso and all that. I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve these unknown things, but I was quite proud of it. I didn’t know why either. Two hands that were double my height suddenly crawled inside the tank, perfunctorily touched me all over, trying to grasp a decisive corner of my outside skins for whatevers. The fluids that were about as old as my contemporary me started to drop down almost instantly faster, overflowing through the hole, and what do you know, I didn’t have to wait for too long for them to go below my persisting young eyes and my miniature nose, had me make contacts with what was later known for me as gravity, for the first time. My respirations were still the same, the process I mean. I didn’t feel anything excitingly new about it, if that’s what you want to know. However, I couldn’t really comprehend all the physics and how my feets work yet, so I lied myself on my back, or rather, fell. Those two big hands, a bit hairy I think, were still there, and they slightly choked up my couple of still-scentless armpits, and soon enough I was in the air again. I was slowly moving away, out of the door, or at least doing it in… passive forms. I keep telling myself that to this day, old habit. I don’t know why. I also don’t know why the natural air was such a glorious thing to me, from the first time I was swimming in it to this day, that’s why I’m opposing strongly against the idea of activating artificial sun rays. Dad #1 looked quite young then, he captured my attention back. He was 44 years old, so quite young in general for a 44 years old man. Dude was sporting a Dali-ish mustache. I knew I should do something about it, so as soon as he drew me up closer to his face to do some cutey shites for him and irrelevant peeps, I used all of my strength, all of my infantile focuses and ordered my arms and my dainty fingers so precisely that the act resulted from it made a well-grown adult both angry and surprise. Laughs were vomitted anyway. He didn’t have that mustache anymore.
Holy shit, I should clone myself and force me to hear how I am digressing. Sorry, I know there is indeed a deadline waiting for you.
Basically, before me was also a round tank, to be honest it could have been the same one the dogs at the pregnancy center used, ones we fetuses were in. Ones I just told you about. The room was pretty small so it was easily the first thing I notice as soon as the lights had my eyesight’s back. When I asked Brian of its origin, he said he “picked it up somewhere”, thought it was cool so he brought it back here. A fucking lie, obviously. The thing was seemingly really old, but not old enough to have scars, cracks on it or anything like that, it was really one of those things that survived amargeddons and shites. Looked real dusty, dirty and snotty as fuck, as I didn’t even see my reflections on the thing. Maybe this one was used for older guys than me? I knew I wouldn’t get any kinds of benefits whatsoever from it, but I asked either way.
"Is this the same thing fetuses were in?", cracked.
"Why should it be? Should it be?" Brian answered. He held his "mask", his dearing breather, he corrected the thing as he was spitting them adjacent questions, and he had not done that in this story so far. He didn’t need to correct it as far as I was concerned, thus naturally, I felt that he was still hiding something from me, regarding this specific tank. Naturally.
"I don’t know, you tell me."
We then stood there like idiots in really dread silences for nearly a minute. The atmosphere added it up. I for one didn’t move or wave arms around, which I usually did when things got boring or drearily blue, instead I just rightfully calmed myself down lower one level and enjoyed our own humane stillnesses instead, wrapped up in the accumulated rounds of hot air that had been spewing and half-assedly stared back at Brian, and the two fuckers behind him. They looked clueless as fuck, to the point that I almost chuckled. I mean, the bastards must have been there already many times, but I imagined them bringing their dumbshit half-covered faces back every time all the same, and the stable metrological lights’ irradiations from whatever kinds of powers left abandoned certainly didn’t help much. About Brian, I did expect better from him, much, much better than merely just another shitty irrelevantly relevant shite with attributes of tempo changes, attitude or subject changes from him. I grew bored of them I guess, as I was actually wanting him to really come forward and tell me straight that exact moment, or simply have me walk away out of those nonsensical bummers if the answers didn’t fit in with my ear holes, or plainly not interesting, or nonexistent… And yes that was naive of me to think of such blasphemous thing. For a short while, the dude had me and my beliefs, with his newly implanted dormancies being repressed into a shaping tongue hidden, a reply voiced at my possessive and suggestive line, but honestly, it was just his observing brain thinking of new random things to spit at my try-hard classic mafia-mode face. Into the selecting processm, goddamn that fuck if he were alive, such a predictably unpredictable fucker. Nothing to be surprised, to be flipping my shit however, to think about it now I didn’t have anything else remotely cool to do anyway, unless you consider smoking cheap pots at cowards’ facilities cool. It might be cool back then, but now it wouldn’t be, we have the Mind Floors for them already, those high quality high-faluting somnolences.
"Go and have a look around." Upon hearing that, I turned back, not my back, but my whole up-front gears including this dumbass face’s earlier version, the pieces of shits of a chest and a stomach, and the at-present second longest dick in the room that was going along and hidden under the snaky shapes of my jeans’ zip, all corners pointing straight opposite to Brian in full, having swiveled one hundred and eighty degrees to the right, as if I was anticipating for more of the vomits outed through the shitty blinds of his Lecter-ish toy. Our eyes almost made contacts in an odd instant of limbo, a gay one erected in hopefully and possibly one-sided deliberations, ones which would be from me. I basically was just playing, and hoping for some slightly altered reactions from him thereafter by doing so, for I already knew that it was useless to depend on that fattie for actual truths. Still, it really should be considered a classic case of infuriating things, right? Not being able to know the shites when you want to know about the shites? Directly, I mean.
"Well, you want me to tell you the story behind this shithole or what?" Brian asked, with his fucking sarcastic tone. He thought he was funny, a funny boy with the urges of joining the circlejerks, as everybody excluding me was a comedian that day.
"Yeah. Yeah, yeah! Tell me. I don’t want to touch something I don’t know the origins of."
"You will find out sooner or later, I don’t need to feed it to you. Have you known this room is Uno’s yet?"
"No I haven’t."
Yes I lied. I didn’t want to appear all the more apparent as a prick who shroffs and sifts everything, throws glances and places my mistrusts at every inanimate object with swithers about their links to dull fucks, even though I am and was one, both the former or the latter kind of homo sapiens. It might not have been so successful though, as I could see in Brian’s eyes that he knew I was lying. Dude knew everything, and right now after what seemed like an eternity, I don’t even know if he was an observer or not, jeez. The repetitions made for irrelevancies costed him good minuses in my mind, but still, he was a probable candidate for the said clandestine gift, one resulting from seemingly neoteric natural selections imposed on this sad planet by no one other than our ancestors. Pretty ironic when you consider the current histories that are being carved and stored at the Center of Vaults, such laughing stocks. Back to ”that’s okay” one, good thing he didn’t come forward and attack me further and back with a stronger dosage, though I was pretty sure that oldie goodie fucker wouldn’t dare splatting even a verbally harmful thing to me, the pretty boy he was in love with so tsundere-ly. Haha, just joking, just kidding. Well, the small conversation stopped itself from potentially being lead to corny sections like that, and it was agreed on consensual senses by both of us, even though we didn’t discuss anything to follow. I turned back again and finally moved further to the “cage”… oh sorry, the round tank I mean. It was held tightly over four small flexible pins, modeled a few years back I thought to myself, another thing to suggest that the room was of some kinda Uno’s usages. Yeah I had my own suspicions at that moment too, but afterall they didn’t have much weights added to themselves and I really didn’t believe them fully, even though Brian did kinda confirm the thing. I needed an event, a spectacular and odd one, of course I didn’t know what I needed for the fact to be made clearer to me then, because this room and this warehouse could have been of any kinds of private corporations for all I knew. I leaned forward, and looked a bit closer. I used my Sonic shirt to sweat off its smudgy protections, made a big hole cleared to see what was going inside the thingy. It didn’t hold any kinds of fluids I was swimming in back then, when I was naked with a minikin in the tween of legs, they were probably all subduced out by either the fatties or their original owners, which were most likely the dogs. Nothing was in it, except two small layers of salvers put up in the center of the glassy ball and on the top of each other, held in a steady congency by four small and thin poles that looked like classic Chinese or Vietnamese chopsticks. What I meant was that it looked shitty in terms of chopsticks in general, like if someone were to hold a summit about it, or just an Interactivewebzay’s landlining online discussion, all members and participants would be in for a South America-ish tomatoes feast with their whole faces, and inbred grown ones at that, all fresh and fruity with meaty stuffs. I went around it in a circle, and noticed something indifferent, an old and familliar thing, just as soon as my right foot hit something on the floor below: A circular hole, almost undetectable as its erroneously orbicular and edgeless content was fitting into the transparencies of the total unit, obviously all seated fixedly next to a round door, the same one that unknowingly released me to a more appropriate breathing environment, a general metastasis that turned a fetus into a child through the then uncouth ticks. I wished, and I still do, I wished that I could hear those sounds once again. I didn’t and I don’t know why I wanted and want to send my hearings to those, maybe I was influenced by one of those old times’ sakes, noble bullshits Japaneses usually did, as a few weeks before the point I wrote a pretty related thesis about the Japanese and Chinese political relations in the twentieth century, where I mentioned peddling things regarding customs of both sides. Professors and the motherfuckers that went along loved that, oh yes they did. I remember that I was very proud of it, got pretty decent receptions later on a specific Monday too. I remember that we had to switch on sheltering mode for the whole classroom, as a pretty freakishly big sandstorm was coming to our teenage and obsolette butts. Now about the thick fucking essay that had been sitting up nicely in my backpack, yes I know it’s odd that I don’t have a single clue of what was in it, being an observer and all, not a single one about what I fucking single handedly wrote during a whole weekend. I’m still holding all of my tickets on it being about cannibalism, one way or the other, though. I don’t even know why, man, I just am. Maybe that memories vault is in a maintenance of some shit.
"Hurry up, cowboy!" Shouted out by one of the fuckers at the back. Now may I remind you, in this group of three fatties, there were two that had freckles on their half visible faces, Brian and Bip. I looked up above the tank, Brian still stood there with his favourite cross-armed stance like a ridiculous frat boy wannabe, and our depressed Bip was examining ants’ movements, if there were any at all. So, whose was it? Yeah I didn’t give a shit, I didn’t need going looking to be able to tell the exact location of the guy, which was obviously to the left of Bip. After having given ol’ boy Bob my middle finger, I thought it was handy to ask away. Damn, I asked a lot in that segment.
"Why is this door open?"
"Why you little piece of…"
"Calm yourself, brother. Why is THE door open, you ask? It’s only one door, there’s only ever been one door on the tank."
"Yeah, whatever. Why is the door open?"
"Make things easier. We are gonna perform a ritual today."
"Have you even taken a serious look at the formations of things you messed up with your chance-medley feet yet?"
I did indeed hit quite a few things with my feet. I didn’t know what, because there was apparently nothing on the ground then.
"Take a serious look."
I took a “serious look” like he said. Nothing happened.
"A serious look usually means a 10 minutes long stare around here."
He said “around here”. What “around here”? Jeez, that guy.
But I did that anyway, staring at the ground for 10 minutes straight. I mean I actually felt the things as they hit their contemporarily invisible bodies against my feet, so it was pretty fair I did what I did, for the sakes of my own curiosity. I didn’t regret doing it, I was all ears for whatever the methods to get anything from Brian, even when only 4 minutes into it, Bob, who had probably been compressing his mouth’s widening stimulus beneath the breather, shouted, again:
"Haha look at that dumbass! He really believed you, man!"
"Why? Why what? Stop calling me observer or some shit."
"Why did you believe me?"
"I didn’t believe you. I just wanted to accelerate things up."
"Accelerate? That’s paradoxical."
"What do you suggest then? Depending on you, a time wasting fuck with scripted loads of irrelevant lines for actual answers? I might as well figure out how to enter myself into this tank for fetuses again instead."
"You piece of shit, if you dare…"
"Shut the fuck up, brother. Do you want to be as pathetic as your fellow?"
That was the first time he’d ever said anything about Bip’s traumatic “condition”. I did notice a short-lived death stare Bip gave to the back of Brian’s head right after what he said, the goddamn behind of an undercut, nothing scary afterall but it indeed looked like he was pretty damn angry. As if he was about to punch a good one onto the fucker, you know, and then keep on with the kickings. And Bob would join him, a coward he was. Yeah seemed unlikely since they both were actually pretty loyal to their “superior” from the start almost up to the point, but that was what I got from witnessing the said minor event.
Brian drew out something from the sole pocket of his pant. A physical, a tangible remote, I thought. He pushed buttons here and there. Funny how those stuffs had been used for such a long time really.
Things started to appear slowly from the nonexistent mists, be freed from the off stages of the arts. The floor became a bit more colorful, contributions adding up to their fellows, the usual cemented whitey greys. Finally, sharp sights. There were these first appeareances of an obsidian-looking blade, and a stingray spine next to it I think, with two pre-Victorian peferators placed at the front of those just opposite of Brian, both tightened up loosely with a thin, small knotted rope. Some hospital tubes were scattered around near them, but all in good shapes and nicely arranged. Near the exit, the room’s only door, there was a small basket of copal incenses on the right, and on the left of it, placed a bit disconnecting and out of formation unlike the rest of the stuffs, possibly because I stumbled on it, a basketry receptacle. There was an additional bag of small pins placed on its cap, most likely also flexible, and a small porcelainous bowl.
"I was just playing you, man. These things are covered up by camouflaging resinaceous rolls we gathered from the abandoned army base near here, the things aren’t being produced anymore due to it not being too effective on the battlefield, you know, as they usually disappear for a while whenever there is a sudden temperature change. The remote was for the Uno’s air conditioners above your head, placed all four corners. They came with this room when we found it."
I looked up, and yes there were four small artificial eyes looking at me from top corners of this small room, since I was in the center of it. To be honest with you, I actually did not realize that the room went from fucking hot to fucking cold suddenly, I tell you man. Those shites were just too attractive to simply give my eyes to sourceless charities.
(to be continued)
- The Conquistador
XIII. The Ritual (6)
My hands started to get slippery due to constant minor sweatings, dithering all over the small spaces. I pushed it forth towards the wall on the right, lead with my trigger finger, and slid it through the old hat spiders’ webs in palindrome orientations as if I was doing funny business with a hardcore girl with good fetishes. Reminded me of that time when I fucked a chick in that group of wannabes with Swastikas tattoos who called themself “The Teenagers”. Did I mention them? Yeah I did. Man, it was weird, definitely in ranks with some of the weirdest sex of my life so far, but I loved fucking her, I just loved it. Pulled me to the moments, man, made me feel like I was living it, surrounded with pounds of orgasms, you know. That chick was freaking hot for a thirteen years old. And I was at the same age when that happened too, consensual and shites, so don’t you start creating shitty scandals surrounding this one spinoff. She wasn’t around after The Appointed Light Rebellion though. Understandable.
After a few seconds I finally touched something. With that finger. Something artificial, I thought to myself. I considered the many possibilities real hard, like if I were to touch it with my whole palm what would happen to me and all that, would I faint, fall down, twitch and die? The juncture happened for a few more instants, then it extended, dragged on to nearly half a minute long. Imagine the scene of me, a fourteen years old fucker, standing there in his dumbshit stillness just blocking a round door like a dumbass hugging his unrest cowardice. Ruined all the big words I spitted earlier at the fat fucks’ stupid faces. I know I’ve bashed the cowards at their specific facilities a lot so far in this telling, but to be honest with you I guess going there to smoke and bluff around did influence me in a few aspects here and there back then. I could hear low-volumed giggles that were robotical just spawned out so naturally straight behind me from third-wheeler Bob, surprisingly understandable, at those said objectionable acts, but however now that I think of it, it most likely directed at my swayings of the other hand before them three fat faces more, for a possible exit as I’ve told you. A stupid and redudant contribution in the name of my own sake, fucks’ sake. What made this image all the more embarassing and cringey upon me was that Brian, who constantly defended me with his pisses and flexible tongue hidden beneath a pyrochemical breather’s front, didn’t say anything about that voiced would-be blasphemous arbitrariness, even though I bet on my life that the fat fucker did hear and notice it being given to me. He must have thought I was sucking balls as well, not that I cared much for a possible-observer’s thinking processes, let alone I didn’t even know what the fuck observers were in the first place. Yeah unlike actioneers, our “kinds” hid it pretty well, from ourself and from others, unless a random blood test just happened to come to our asses or a bloody mnemonic examination, which was theotical, a memories test that confirmed two or three, maybe even ten top players’ existences. About the former, I received one myself, but my having artificial blood and blood tunnels certainly helped me pass through the grasps of Governors’ dogs like a badass motherfucker. Heh, but I’m over-exaggerating. I didn’t even care for the blood test that was taking place, because I figured, well, I’d always believed I was just a normal kid, like all other kids, so there was nothing to be worried about. I didn’t feel hurt, but I was sure I was just a normal kid. Things were deemed wrong later on, of course. Back to the main point now, I mean, I’m not trying to defend that just because I didn’t care, thus the act was to be justified. Not at all, not one bit. However, though I admit it was extremely dull and lame of me, still, man you never knew what you would be in for in that frigid world of dogs, with the shites corporations spitted everywhere they invaded and all that, with Nevo being the leader of environments’ demolishments. And even though this was a Uno’s warehouse, the one global company I liked the most, and this room of theirs were probably created to store something up, experimental products and stuffs, you still had to be careful anytime and anywhere. The door was made by a Uno brand, obviously, but I wouldn’t say that was enough to prove this warehouse was of Uno. It would need an event for me to really confirm the slight realization as a fact, and there was certainly one later on. Hours later, in this reality told. I will get to that soon, plus you don’t want to break the flows and mess up this beautiful thing we have going on right? Great, I’m on the same page.
"Hurry up and get it done with.", said Brian. I imagined him with a cross-armed stance.
I heard it obviously, what he said I mean, but I still didn’t move, not even one bit. Yep. I wasn’t scared of him, but even if I was, I calculated that there were no reasons for me to do otherwise. Yep yep, still deciding on whether I should open my whole palm to feel that thing, or just barely do it in slow motion one finger after another like the crippled girl in One Litre of Tears, taste the could-be poison for the kings with tips of the freaking tongue and all that. I knew I was being fulsume and shit, but I just couldn’t stop the many flows of assays that were flooding my mind at the moment, not when before me and surrounding me up front and above was this plain nothingness covered in full by a blanketting blackness, containing visible shapes of worms, or spermatozoa, ones held captive by my eyes, seemingly floating so freely. You usually only see the miniature fuckers when your whole is wrapped up nicely in a total darkness, maybe a great percentage of the tangible you, and that stuff doesn’t happen on a daily basis, not now, not then. Unless the powers are out and all of the lights around you shut themselves to wonderlands, light pollutions leaving ways, stuffs like that… Which were rare considering it was already 2064 for fucks sakes. But there were indeed two or three occasions either way, at least during the time frame of my childhood, and maybe there was once more before I was born? I guess things did decline mildly for the dogs huh? Well you know, they set the mood. Real good. Keep your eyes peeled until those events happen these days, it’s a much harder mission to complete for you now but the records we put out certainly aren’t perfect, as they are made by groups consisting of mixtures between both actioneers and observers, I mean observers would be fine for the job but… Anyway, do keep your eyes peeled until the events, and when you start the sleepings, you would feel like you’re already onto the smallish jobs of capturing the facile bastards’ shapes, way ahead of seconds, minutes.
So yeah, I neither answered nor did anything about it, not even tried to pretend. Heh, I’d be great on the fields, handling football matches.
"Hey! You heard me, man?"
Damn Brian sounded angry as fuck with this one. Not as if I was having goosebumping sensations for my life or something, but I thought it was sounding angry as fuck. Totally different when you heard these tempo changes directing straight at you, before that I just laughed them off in my head. I figured that if I just turned back right then, I would probably witness the initial moments before the biggest volcano explosion ever, or a comrade of the happening, fellow nuclear bombings of some modern kinds manufactured in the cold half of Russia, and there would be nothing Bob could do with those unfunny jokes of his, absolutely nothing in existence to stop himself from being turned into a badly erected dummy just for master Brian to punch senselessly with his magmata fists, because the guy just loved me too much to even take chances and time doing anything considerably harmful to me instead. Haha. And yeah let’s not forget about Bip. Hell I think I haven’t been mentioning him for quite a while now, and that was a pretty odd and unusual thing. Yeah I would notice Bip, all things detailed and zoomed, him a former talkative fat fuck being too sad and confused about stuffs and fixed adorations in literal senses, meanings, and about that impertinent shirt of his, one that was so, so not isochromatic. Now that I think of it, the roles between Bip and Bob were indeed switched gormlessly after that pissing party, and Bip then gradually went on to become a third wheeler in place, only that this time the holder was in worse forms. Trashed. Hated. Loyalties questioned, even when it shouldn’t have been. A third fucker inbetween spits, being awkward and forcefully playful in quietnesses with a shitty shirt that was out of the time’s fashions. Its “fragrances” certainly didn’t help I bet, heck, in the same situation I’d pretty much feel like a fucking joke too, even if I were just casually deciphering new formulae that would have Einstein crawl up above his nonexistent grave, go to my house with zombies’ thrilling backwards dances and then oddly choke me to an eventual death before I got the chance to be famous for the said unclosings. Not with those kinds of odors sticking up to my body and shredded guitar riffs for bad facials hanging around in my own nostrils… My freaking nostrils! Sure scientists are and were infamous for their dirtinesses, well at least some of them, still the said hypothetical thing was way more serious than that to merely just be deemed as slightly cutting through the social standards, its content was way too pathetically written to even worth being talked about at the end of the day in beds of lame couples, to the point that it might even deny you, might cause you a few pinkily promised Nobels’ prizes. No I’m being totally honest, the smells were horrible catching them up in person, having been initialized from the skins of his shirt they were dragging off in multitudinous favorable directions, there was nothing them three fatties, especially Bip, or I, could do to change, alter such madnesses, and just simply taking it off throwing it away was totally not an option. We didn’t want to make this scene become all the more comical and ridiculous, what was with a half-naked fat fuck standing among us. We didn’t want us being some kinda cutouts in awful segments during pre-overtures for upcoming 4D comediettaIs hidden just behind red curtains of la-de patterns, until tickets were paid in full of course, with full seats’ information pressurized and sent as the systemic countings of heads for the Governors’ dogs. Hm. Well I guess that was enough of Bip and mildly relevant backstories to cover for this whole damn thing. I for one, still stood there like a dumbass upon my own molds of imaginations, witnessing the passings of thinking trains and trying to run just as fast, maybe even faster to catch it up and shame it up. I loved myself too much sometimes, at least one part at the top of my physical manifestation, that I did at times become an ignorant narcissist, close cousins to bigots during times of the Black Deaths some hundreds of years ago. After that seemingly maddenning question of the fattest fucker I’ve ever met so far, fattest not fastest, I was still able to create things in my digressing head, push them over the standardized lines of argumentative realisms, all about standing there in complete silences and motionlessness, similar to acts of deaf and dumb and blind motherfuckers begging for coins with their dilatorily shaking hands and receiving intangible pities instead. Not druggies, no that would be an insult, just 2064’s versions of beggars that’s all, updated with random malformations, gifts from the perfect Gods. gods, I mean. Or their dogs. I don’t know, I didn’t know much then about the phenomenon involving those poor fucks to even make any kinds of legit scrutinies for it, even though I did acknowledge the existences of underground tortures and experiments, ones I’ve told you about. Those are merely just analyses done and 86% confirmed through readings of carefully selected and confiscated documents I gathered during and after the rebellion. Basically I was just thinking about things besetting my physical self, nothing more beyond that, into politics and shites. The next round of clatterrings of his teeths did break it up however, I admit.
"Did you hear me, man? You have to control them, so best you start doing it right fucking now!"
"You heard me. Control your thoughts and analyses, choose the best ones and stick with them. We aren’t experienced fuckers since birth."
"We", he said "we". That line was another proof of Brian being an observer, just like me, like us. I don’t know how he realized I was just like him, knew that I was having lots of thoughts and all that… if he was indeed just like me. Damn this explanation sucks. Let’s move back further and calculate a little. The World War 3 started in 2029, and it ended it 2037, nearly 8 years long. I said nearly because it wasn’t exactly 8 years long, summer and winter, seasonal shites you know. "The Zoning" law was enacted a few years after that, probably five or six, maybe even eight years, so possibly around 2042 - 2045, and around that time the phenomenon of Thirty of June would appear. For a while nobody, not one of us knew the whys after all the happenings, the rebellion, the excavations of dogs’ stuffs, we kept on extracting pieces here and there about that period but almost all the time came up undone. There was this one lucky observer though, one of my nucleate coffee friends, he did stand up and present his interpretation during this one conference. He said that his main subject to be defended involved "The Zoning" being enacted and "our own originalities", and after serious diggings, fortunately his group of juniors had found this specific, gigantic propagandic note, seemed a decade older than me, though originally shredded to square pieces they had successfully glued all of them back. Showed with hologram, it started first with these big fucking headlines and underlinings, all hitting our attentions: "THIRTY OF JUNE is COMING, the CHOSEN ONES, come to the DESIGNATED ZONE, and meet your OPPOSITE SEXES. HOMOSEXUALITIES ACTS will be EXTERMINATED, and the PARTICIPANTS will be CONCENTRATED. Have a nice day.” Apparently this was the first moment of discovery given for that spinoff law’s existence, one I’ve also told you about earlier. “Designated zones” and shites. Below the texts, there were information of those who were selected and useless suicide hotlines, pyrochemical buses’ numbers, Union caps giving locations et cetera… My friend turned the note around with his hand moves, on the back it revealed: “Those who DON’T COME, RELATIVES will be EXECUTED. Those who COME and HAVE UNPROTECTED SEX, stay AT LEAST 3 DAYS and go to THE PREGNANCY CENTER IN THE ZONE. We will decide YOUR FETUSES' DESERVED LIVING PLACES and ZONES based on their genders, and whom they BELONG TO. Thank you.” Then he explained more, basically told backstories one after another to lead up to his main points about the average pregnancy lengths and stuffs, and that it was possible that actioneers and observers were “late boomers”, born exactly on the same day one year after their parents did funny businesses unprotectedly, longer than the norms. Somehow I took it, and many of us in the conference did the same too, it seemed at least legit and well-backed, as obviously there would need something special happened to us to make us… special. Sounded lame as fuck, but think about it, it sparked your mind right? So yeah, say we were special products coming out of that day, but before being in our “deserved parents”s hands we were taken through gender determinations machines first, no harm created, just a lot of scannings. Unlike blood tests, ones fetuses were too weak for, hence any kinds of sparkling observers or actioneers passed well and with eases. I for one however, had a little trouble with breathings and almost died on the table, so I had my hearts and tendons’ tunnels replaced with new ones, artificial ones. It was a quick operation as the technology back then allowed, so no scars or anything, hell I think if I had been fully conscious at that process I wouldn’t have felt anything either. Paradoxical I admit, since fetuses couldn’t take blood tests, because we still used the old-fashioned way of drawing blood. Now I’m not so sure about my mother’s fate, I don’t know her name… or her appearance. Even if she was alive, she would be in a different zone, because I was a boy. I’d always ask dad #1 about it, but nothing came up. Maybe he didn’t know because he wasn’t my real dad, or maybe just because he didn’t want to talk about it. Nothing to upset me though. Anyway, well at least you get a gist of what I want to talk about, Thirty-of-June kids were born since that day, between 2042 and 2045, and the events only stopped at the rebellion’s explosion. Hence the oldest observer now would be… hm let’s see… It’s 2100 now, right? Then the oldest observer would be, dead or alive, 58 years old! Damn. So when I was fourteen, 2064, the oldest observer would be, dead or alive, 22 years old. Now Brian was pretty big, sure. He also sounded mature enough for the age, maybe a bit younger but still older than me. He said stuffs that might relate to observers. He got twenty two fucking years or a bit less to figure things out. Was he one? No one knows. I for one, didn’t know what the heck he was talking about, “experienced fuckers” and “we” stuffs. Just a bit surprised that he knew I was having some kinda trouble with my thoughts, analyses and the likes.
I turned my head back a bit and said okay in a retarded, cracked voice. I didn’t know why I did it, I mean I should have just ignored it and continued the tradition of being a temporary sloth, right? Hah, just kidding. I didn’t understand most of the what the fucks he just spitted, but I figured he was trying pretty hard on being pretty nice to me, and I wouldn’t want to stand there once the tempo changed again. I mean I wouldn’t worry for my life or anything as Bob, and maybe even Bip, would receive his rages instead, but I kept telling myself to do something fast. I wanted people to be nice. My finger was onto that thing, the possibly artificial thing. It was round, I figured as I was drawing a circle around it. A bit sticky, gross as fuck. I decided to push it forward with my whole palm to see if it would do anything, as you know, round things and pushings ups do usually connect, even nearly 50 fucking years after the rebellion.
The room was enlightened. Wait, was that the right word? “Enlightened”?
(to be continued)
- The Conquistador
“How’d you like to fuck my dog?”
Is that an opening sentence or what? I believe in grabbing your attention right from the beginning. Starting things off with a bang. No pun intended. This opening is either going to go down in history with, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” or it’s going to land me in one of those compilations of the worst writing of the year. It’s 2013, by the way. In case you’re wondering which “worst of” volume this story may have wound up in.
He’ll, maybe I’m being just a bit grandiose. That’s one of my faults, you know. Grandiosity. I can’t just do anything simply…like tell this story. I have to think of it as either the most staggering work of genius or the lowest, most worthless example of masterbatory word vomit the world has ever seen. No in between. No middle ground. Maybe I should just cut the crap and tell what is, after all, a very simple story. A very simple story about dog fucking.
Read the series here:
XII. The Ritual (5)
It was an abandoned warehouse, most likely, or at least looked like ones I usually saw at the cinema. You know, places where blacks and hot chicks died stupidly. I’m glad I’m neither of the things, else things could have happened differently. The walls’ outside packs were originally painted pink I think, as there were these liquid drifts still racing to the grass covered land surrounding the whole thing, mixing into scattered and ductile beds of light brown hues, a bit grey-ish due to the prolonged dustings. Yet, as I’ve said, the colorful drifts were racing against each other to their deaths, which suggested me that the paint jobs that were done went expired into the decay just not so long ago, and that the house weren’t so old itself. Built by whom, I had no idea, but I’m pretty sure they were lazy bums with very fews prismatic clacks and clicks of coins. There was one window on each side, about 3 meters above my head, possibly stationed homes on the second or third floor of the warehouse. They had wooden doors, accompanied with cracks here and there, all things punk-ish. It was nearly 10AM, I was just waiting for the oldie goodie beeps of my watch while our lovely contemporary Sun was still sharing its weakly pretentious smiles onto creatures and their objects, and through them cracks the things made up into great rectangular disco balls. Fun things about nature #101. Not sure if that made sense, let alone funny, but fuck it. And yes, the time was exact as I’ve told you, nearly 10AM. Write that down. I wasn’t a good model for kids that day. Not sure why I was still wearing my backpack then… Probably because the thing was holding in its mouth a fucking 1500-paged essay, the one I metaphorically squeezed my brain and ideas for through the whole weekend before, and indeed the acts gave me quite a good beating of interrupted headaches. Even for an observer, that thing does and did happen from time to time. I wasn’t ready to just leave it, throw it somewhere in the middle of the fucking nowhere yet, even though the thing had no use then considering it was too late for me to even go to school on time, and I hated going to school late… Let alone if it was actually closed. It was about… Hm. Let me remember. This reality of mine was taken from the time of too long ago, you know, 36 years now. The vault is being precipitated. I can sure remember the frustrations and the sweats that went along my forehead’s edges while writing it, and yeah what this “it” I’m not even sure. Something about cannibalism, maybe? I think it’s a pretty cliche assumption considering the events followed after, but I keep on going back on it and defend, like I actually believe the body of it was all about that bodily phenomenon. Hah, whatever you want to call the fucker, but basically I didn’t want to just throw it away, and I didn’t.
The path we were walking on lead us to an eventual hole just below the feet the house, earthed with a round door, also wooden. No it wasn’t at Hobbits’ sizes. With no staircases leading up and down, the thing was swallowed through a plain, raw, declivous open-air-without-ceilings bank of more grasses, one that to be able to walk through, you have to be more careful with your head as it might hit the residual meat of the accompanying wall just above the said path. Oh wait. This one was different, it was covered in well-cut buncha grasses, not just normal and natural ones. And unlike the windows’ ones, this wooden thingy seemed rather expensive, you know, clean and shit, crackless and flatty, all containing attributes of Uno’s raging and hard-earned urges for the tributes of classic 1920s. I liked and like Uno, they weren’t as shitty as Nevo, they didn’t have as many political connections with the Governors’ dogs and it was a glorious thing for me to acknowledge. I mean, a global corporation that didn’t control or wasn’t controlled greatly by the dogs? Beat me, it was glorious. Then again, whatever floated the boat I guess, having said all those I actually didn’t give many damns to be truthful, it was just an acknowledgement for shits and gigs. Back to it, there was another thing I thought to be pretty interesting, stuck on the door with some kinda thermomagnetic glue: A boned human fist that was inanimately clenching into the shape of a knob. I don’t know where the hell did they get that fucking thing, or whether it was stolen or… holy, godly stolen. Nothing to trigger my astonishment senses though, hell I’d been and seen through many weird shits at the cowards’ facilities even before that day of meeting them three fat fuckers. Even when Brian forwarded his hand to it dried and opened the door for me to go into the then “whatever it was” first, like a fucking gentleman he was. As if I was a chick and we were going on a date in a Halloweeny restaurant. Again, no surprises shredded, but I hated that shit to death, man, the kinds of affable stuffs he did and spitted with his literal pie hole. What confused me the most was that the dude wasn’t gay or anything, at least that was my firmest assumption after careful scrutinies created for the happenings. Probably it was more because he deemed me as some kinda high priest, a goddamn saviour for the freaking ritual of his or something, all dressed up spookily. Yeah it seemed reasonable enough.
"What’s wrong, man? Go in."
"Nah, too dark for me."
"There’s a light switch near you, once you entered the room you will find it easily yourself."
"Why don’t you go in first?"
"You see, I opened the door already, so your job is to go in."
"That’s some quality bullshit of the day if I ever heard one. Nope, not gonna do that. How about this guy? He is stinky, so he’s good for it." I was talking about good old Bip. Good old Bip, damn that sounds so funny and cute as fuck. Sorry. Yeah the fucker sure did convince me to go through the process of questionings and denials with the shout earlier in this story, what were with his determinations and odd loyalties dedicated to Brian. Took great amounts of efforts to do it I bet, spitting loudly at the top of his lung while taking pounds of embarassments caused by the same motherfucker he adored, obeyed with eases just standing with his back facing against the bastard’s face in disdain. Not to mention dude even called me "man" during the sentence, comparing to the usually repetitive "boy", which I guess sounded more like insults to him the speaker, as I myself didn’t care much for them, you have known that through my tellings, I was smaller, shorter than the fuckers, and they were most likely older than me. But it was unanticipated, and I will admit that I was pretty surprised. Neutrally surprised, meaning I wasn’t even sure if I was feeling good or bad about it. I was startled by the whole line, and wanna know more about his relationship, in fact, them all three fatties’ relationships with any kind of ghost stories whatsoever. And why was Bip going over the line just to convince me act to Brian’s will? Of course he was pretty loyal and all that, but obviously he wasn’t one who followed masters’ orders, else nothing would have happened, no dramatic shits involving pisses and stuffs. Yes that was a paradoxical thing to recognize. My curiosity was enhanced short instants after the thing was outed in total, and eventually there were these great needs for unnecessary discoveries appearing in my mind and blending into my ongoing trains of personal analyses and thoughts, again and again pushing me to further up to the digging progressions in searches for the true reason behind my school being closed, and I couldn’t have done that if I had just gone home straightaway before the fact. Again, if it was really a fact of course. Anyway, Bip then proceeded to stand up, by himself, then he flicked off the dusts sticking up on his fat ass and decided to just walk off. Yep, let the smells and the stains dry themself out. It wasn’t such a successful plan, but right then at that moment, the said action made him look cool enough. Made him look like some kinda a true leader, or well, a member with great enough regards for dignities and solid rules. Also a pardoxical thing. Some could say that sound pretentious and corny as fuck, but I guess you wouldn’t really know shit if you weren’t the one witnessing it first-hand. He started off first out of the three and on to the path, as third-wheeler Bob followed him after, all laughs-shutting and back-patting, unlikely to contain sorries. Such a smooth fucker, professional yes-man. I and Brian eventually followed them, finally, after all the shits and surplus conversations. I didn’t know why I did that, you know, wasting time for the currently unsolved things I didn’t usually give a two shits for, but I did. Walking along with me, Brian did try and tell me one ghost story on the way reaching the warehouse, which to me then had zero appearances considering I didn’t even know where we were heading until seeing the place directly. Yeah, only one ghost story, not in plural forms like he’d promised, though dude did say that there would be more "later on". Well, he fucking lied, there was and had ever been only one ghost story, that truth was all the more clearer with his disappearence during the rebellion, but I somehow believed the guy at that moment. I don’t know, I guess I was having too many things going on in my head that I just had to do one of those "fuck it n’ let’s roll" acts sometimes. I’m not sure if I remember the exact story, or the way Brian was telling it, but I’ll try… Let’s see. Ugh, maybe later, I can’t come up with anything. These memories concatenate and I can’t do anything about it… Your magazine’s peeps know the whys, right? Sure observers have some massive advantages, but are no superheroes’ ones, they should and would be saved for our fellows actioneers. Oh well.
"Nah he’s way too tired now. He lead us up to this, remember? Aren’t you tired, man?" Brian asked Bip, without even turning his head back to look. It was followed with an exhausted "Yeah" by the recipient. The guy knew he was still being belittled, I bet. He also knew that Brian was mad at him for acting up like a freaking go-getter, killing for the first prices, judging from the sarcastic tones the line was swimming in. Hell anybody could have recognized it. These things were pretty big deals to them, ranks and shits, and they must act in accordance with them, else all hell would break loose. Though in seriousness, all hell did break loose that day.
"That, is fucked up." I said it out loud, with the pride of knowing I was in the upper hand to judge them both two fuckers, as I was the outsider. The punctuations did help, I’m not joking, literary touche at its finest hour indeed. I knew what they were doing, they just merely compromised to the situations of their likings for fucks’ sakes. The said caustic sally was also performing as a distraction of me to avoid having to go in first. I don’t know, the dark and round image before me was looking eery as fuck. I swear I heard sounds coming out of it, you know, like the badly erected dragon’s breathings’ in early centuri-ed video games dad #1 had. Hell, the thought that the room was a place served up just for tortures alone did cross my mind a few times fast. I knew I couldn’t run away anymore, I’d come with them that far, so it was the only way I could be able to escape from the situation, by stimulating their dignities with that single spit and hoping for the best. As we were all in unified silences for a few more ticks, there was this unexpected robotic voice coming from a new-yet-old saviour in town, well, at least the dude must have believed himself as such. We all recognized whose it was, judging from the blankets of childish excitements put as bodyguards for the saying, the one from our greatly humorless sidekick, our ol’ boy Bob:
"I will do it. It’s just a room guys, we’d taken steps in it many times before!"
"No, shut the fuck up. He must be the one stepping in."
Yeah, but that shut the intentions good. There ya go, them usually quick changes in Brian’s attitudes were back, as gorgeously, ridiculously extreme as ever. I didn’t know what else to do as a reply for this grounded and comical scene the fuckers made, I didn’t want to be in on it, so again, the second “fuck it n’ let’s roll” of the day was enacted. Into the darkness I went, and I didn’t even know why the fuck I was even making considerations in the first place. It was inevitable at the point.
At first it was horrid. I don’t know what to describe it, but it was like the darkness made a massive hit at my eyes actively and I merely just stood there still to absorb the whole thing. Caught me loosened up to be honest, quite an overwhelming “sight” to perceive. As soon as I landed my lonely feet that’d been in the air for longer than the norms due to understandable hesitations, the right one, onto the said domain, the ongoing noises basically just stopped all at once. Yes they were unknown, unrecognized noises, but legit nonetheless and could have come from nowhere else other than the room itself. The natural Sun rays didn’t help much, as I’ve said it they weren’t strong, at least not even enough to shed any kind of lights into the said events. I feel my ancient shoes touching things lying on the ground. I was reaching my hands back, one to mindlessly locate the escape route, but basically I was merely only giving it a job to do, as it was really a redundant act considering that the exit was just right behind me, and that I couldn’t really touch the thing. The other one, I put it onto the walls on the right, just swaying slowly in hope for an indirect aesthesia of some kinda pyrochemical switch, or just switches in general. Man, spiders’ webs were sticky as hell.
My watch started beeping. 10AM, at last. I set it for twenty seconds, so twenty awkward seconds for me. I turned my head back to ask Brian if he would actually explain why my school was closed, if he actually knew why, and he said yeah for both.
(to be continued)
- The Conquistador
Flamingo Flamenco Watching
Squawk! Turkey à la foxtrot/ Charleston waving/
Rumba ass quaking/ what’s shaking, Bacon? Sizzling hi-hat,
breakfast jazz carousal, dreaming of China &/or India—
how much for bazinga! Get in the ring—tip-toed
tango via tarantismo, do-si-do a little bit of
some four square (a royal flush—Sultans of Swing)
struting, jutting, fussing footwork, doing jerks, serving drinks,
blinking winks [as Cabaret show girls swoon & sink] with
diamond eyes, befriending kinks: ooh, the peacock-throated
gloats & showboats, toting thick smoke in the path—everybody
holy-rolling in the aftermath. Stop telling me I’ve the neck
of a giraffe. I’m a flamingo. Here’s my flamenco.