The Murderous Implications of Being

The mere fact that we exist means in one form or another; something else does not. The moment you were conceived and the little egg in your momma’s belly started to grow, millions of other possibilities ceased to be and millions of others started.  All those sperm, vying to be King Fertilizer, and yet the ones that don’t make it die off and cease to be. So by our very creation we’ve murdered millions of possibilities.

When we are born we immediately become consumers. (Not that we weren’t consumers in the womb, but that was more mom anyway) Our immediate lust for milk, food or blankets results in the death of countless animals and plant life. Who knows how many young Indian or Chinese people were accidentally chopped up into little chunks when they fell into the weaving machine in their third rate factory that makes the blankets we were swaddled in at the hospital.

As we start to grow we learn the fine art of killing things with our own hands. The first dead bug, the first magnifying glass on the ant hill, the first cat in a sack in the river (C’mon, not really, just let go of your indignation for a second. Besides, you’re the murderer here). Soon we have a mastery over our domain and we consider ourselves the center of the universe and all that do not bow to our demands will be smote.

Of course then we go to school or maybe church and learn that we’re not the inventor of the cheese sandwich and that there’s someone who demands we bend to their will. We are of course already skilled at vending death with our every step so the end of our imaginary dominance of the world passes away with little notice.  We also hardly notice the kids that maybe didn’t make it into school because we got in before they did and due to classroom size restrictions they will not be able to attend, thus putting their lives on a collision course to oblivion. Not that you meant to do it, but you might as well have pulled the trigger yourself.

That person you saw recently who fed you the classic “all things happen for a reason” line (and you know you saw them recently, everybody knows that douchebag.) I’m so tired of that guy. Well, they’re wrong, everything happens because you like to murder things. Hopefully not intentionally, but you do enjoy it. Be it the strangulation of someone else’s dreams or the burial of someone’s ideals, it was the victim of a brutal crime. Every moment is a crime scene of murdered potential or vision.

We can’t help ourselves, as I said we start this murderous rampage the moment daddy didn’t put the rubber on. And don’t get me started on all his murdering. My goodness, with all the masturbation over the course of his lifetime, he’s worse than Hitler, Stalin and Kenny G put together. It’s our nature to either stop and smell the roses or trample them under our Doc Martens.

I think the Highlander was right, there can be only one. Now get back to murdering things.  

(Is hang-over writing the best writing? No. I murdered this)

Silent Assault

Hank thought it was odd to see a mime at the local convenience store. He’d been going to the same little quick stop place for 10 years to get his morning coffee and newspaper before heading to work. The mime was doing that “walking against the wind” thing and “guy tugging on an imaginary rope” gag. The mime was pretty good; obviously he’d been training for a while at some liberal arts college.

Hank made his was up to the train platform and walked toward his usual place. He liked to stand near the fence where the front train car often stopped. Plus in the winter time the area provided a little shelter from the howling winds. As he moved to his usual spot he saw another mime. This mime was across the train tracks and he was climbing an imaginary ladder to nowhere. Some other commuters were watching and seemed to be enjoying this little display of imaginary motion. Hank considered the whole thing a little strange but it was the big city and these things sometimes happened.

The train screeched into the station stop and Hank and the other commuters boarded. The train was unusually crowded this morning and he could barely find a seat. Hank sat next to an older man who grumbled a bit as Hank tried to get comfortable and open his paper. Hank always wondered why people took it so personally when someone sat next to them. I mean, if they wanted to sit in a single seat they should go upstairs where there are single seats available and not try to hog a two seater. It was called sharing. Hank opened his paper and started to scan the headlines. It was the usual murder and death and poverty.

The silence was what caught Hank’s attention. Usually there’s a little noise on the train car, people on their cell phones or talking to each other, but this morning there was nothing. It was like a tomb on the train car. Hank looked up from his paper and glanced at the seats across from him. More mimes. In fact there were four mimes sitting silently across from each other; all in their black and white striped shirts, black suspenders and black tight pants. They all had their faces painted in the customary white-face with the little black triangles under their eyes. Hank got the shivers.

He leaned over and looked back down the train car and mixed in among the regular commuters were six more mimes. Hank looked at a young woman he see’s regularly on the train and she just shrugged at him. Clearly she thought it was odd there were so many mimes about as well. Hank looked back to his newspaper and flipped through the pages to see if there were any articles about some mime fest or something going on downtown. He didn’t see anything, but then again, that wasn’t all that unusual.

The train pulled into the next station and the doors opened. Hank looked out the window over the grumbling old man and saw at least eight more mimes. They were all getting on his train. Hank started to feel tightness in his chest. The mimes boarded the train and stood in the aisle, silent and stoic. Hank then realized he hadn’t seen a conductor come through the train car to collect tickets. The tightness in his chest got worse.

Hank looked back over his shoulder to the young woman but he couldn’t see her, too many mimes were now blocking his view. There were at least 18 now riding his car and he wondered how many more there might be. He had to find out what was going on. He looked at the mime nearest him.

“Excuse me, but what with all the mimes?”

The mime looked at Hank and made the “my lips are locked and I just threw away the key” motion. Hank didn’t know if that was a real answer and he didn’t like the way the mime had looked at him.

“I know you’re all doing some kind of bit but really, what’s with all the mimes? Is there a conference of mimes or something?”

The mime gestured like he couldn’t hear Hank and then looked away from him.

Now Hank felt panic starting to enter his mind.

The train conductor usually made an announcement as they pulled into the downtown station, but this morning there was silence. The train pulled in as usual and came to a stop. The train doors opened and all the mimes came streaming out of the cars. Hank stood up and tried to move his way through the throngs of mimes. The whole damn station was filled with them. Hank tried to find some of the other regular commuters but they were obscured in a sea of black and white striped shirts and guys pretend roller skating.

Hank was caught in a wave of the wave of mimes as they moved through the train station. He couldn’t see any single regular person anywhere. Mimes, mimes, mimes, were everywhere. Hank started to run through the silent crowd, even pushing some of those quiet bastards out of his way. He pushed his way down the escalator and ran out through the train station doors onto the street.

No horns honking, no sirens wailing in the distance, nothing, silence. The street was filled with mimes. Hank grabbed a white faced woman and shook her by the shoulders.

“What the hell is going on”, he yelled at her.

She looked at him and slowly lifted a white gloved hand to her throat and made the “slitting your throat from ear to ear”, gesture.

Hank let her shoulders go and stumbled backwards into the flailing arms of mimes trapped in glass boxes. He put his hands to his head and screamed; his voice the only sound echoing through the streets. He struggled to get to his feet but an imaginary rope had been thrown around his waist and he couldn’t seem to get away. The mimes enveloped Hank and his screams slowly faded into the silence.

Kamehameha!

I think I’m addicted to a children’s anime show. I have been watching Dragon Ball Z Kai and I can’t get enough. It’s incredibly silly but I find myself singing the theme song in my head at odd moments and I oft discover that I really need to find out what happens to Goku and his friends. It’s so silly.

I think I need a hobby. Or at least a girlfriend. A hobby girlfriend. Yes. Clearly I need someone in my life to keep me on the level and not be all consumed with the going ons between Goku, Vegeta and the other Sayians. I’m ridiculous.

It is a good cartoon though. Oh man, what am I saying, it’s a cartoon and I’m nearly 35 years old. I do need to know what happens though. I think those crafty Japanese made it like a drug and now I’m addicted. Hmm….

Okay, I’ve got two meetings today and I don’t have any more time to devote to this today. I’ll hopefully have more tomorrow.

A Pain

“Boy it’s gloomy out”, said Roger as he rubbed the long scar across his face.

Larry looked up from the wheelbarrow and up at the dark gray sky and shrugged.

“So what. It’s gray, big deal”, said Larry and he forced his heavy load along the rocky road.

“I’m just saying. I mean, it’s pretty gray for so early in the day. That’s all”, said Roger.

Roger looked back down at the pile of rocks he’d been banging away at with the sledgehammer. The same pile he’d been swinging at for the last 16 years. The pile seemed to be the same height it was when he first arrived at Stone Briar Prison. It didn’t seem to matter how hard he swung the hammer or what part of the pile he hit, the rocks just stayed unbroken.

In four years Roger would be released from prison having served his twenty years. He was lucky not to receive the death penalty for his part in the botched Chamberlain kidnapping.  It was all that idiot Sonny’s idea. He figured they’d snag the little brat, get some ransom and be on easy street for the rest of their days.

Normally it wouldn’t have been something Roger would have been involved with, but he’d lost his teaching job when the school closed, his wife had left him for some Tango instructor and frankly, drinking didn’t appear to be the most promising of careers. So he agreed to help Sonny.  

All Roger had to do was sit in the car and wait for Sonny to come out of the mansion with the little Chamberlain boy and then drive them to a cabin up near Pike’s Bay. Sonny said there was a hunting lodge up there where they could hide out for months if they had to. Roger convinced himself that he wouldn’t really be doing anything wrong necessarily; it was just a way to get back at those who had so much while he had so little. It wasn’t fair.  

Sonny blew it all though. He made it out of the mansion all right and Roger drove them up to the cabin. Sonny did have the cabin all set up as well. Unfortunately he didn’t know young master Steven Chamberlain was a diabetic and required a shot every day. So before long, young Chamberlain got sicker and sicker until he died.  Sonny went crazy and decided to cut the kid’s body up and mail it back the Chamberlain Estate. Roger tried to stop him. That’s how he got the long, jagged scar across his face. The reason none of the other prisoners really bothered him. It was a tough looking scar. But for Roger it was a painful reminder of how foolish he’d been and how everyday he regretted the poor young life lost. He wished he could take it all back.

Thankfully the jury took some pity on him and only gave him 20 years. Sonny wasn’t so lucky; he tried to escape and was gunned down in the prison courtyard ten years ago. He had a life sentence anyway.

Rain drops began to fall in the prison yard and one of the guards tapped Roger in the back.

“Keep digging, meat”, said the guard.

Roger lifted the sledgehammer over his shoulder and swung down on the never ending rock pile and felt the familiar ping in his hands. It was a penance never to be forgiven and Roger knew it. The rain fell harder and would never wash him clean of his sin.

No flowers

I haven’t bought a girl flowers in a very long time. I thought of it yesterday while I was at the grocery store. I used to pick up fresh flowers quite often when my previous girlfriend lived with me. It’s probably been at least two years since I bought a girl some flowers; or even just picked some up for myself just to change the smell in my apartment from a smoke filled den of boredom to a smoke filled den of boredom with flowers.

I know flowers can be kind of cheesy, but I do like putting together a nice bouquet and giving them to the girl that has become the center of my affection. It’s old fashioned and I appreciate it. I like to think the girls do too.

Sunday’s tend to have that effect on me. I find myself feeling a little overwhelmed with loneliness. Sunday’s are good days to spend a little quality time with your significant other. I know everyone has busy lives and if you have kids then it’s hard to make that time special, but I do think that a smile or a wink or a quick shoulder rub can relieve some of that loneliness.

Unless you live alone in a third floor apartment and you’re only real companion is a Muppet that looks down at you from his perch on the stereo; his mouth in a perpetual state of screaming. I kid, I love my Muppet. It was a wonderful gift and I’m happy to have it. And on occasion I only feel a little crazy when I talk to it. It sort of feels less like I’m talking to myself and… no, it feels exactly like I’m talking to myself. Myself personified in Muppet form.

So you can clearly see that I need a girlfriend. (A real girlfriend you smart asses. Not a Muppet girlfriend. You guys are sick) I’d like to buy flowers for someone with the capacity to smell them and tell me how happy they made her.

The only problem with having a girlfriend and feeling happy is that I tend not to have anything to write about. When I’m with a girl and she’s making me happy and I’m making her happy all my desire to gripe and complain seems to fade away and the only stories I can write are about sweet bunny rabbits getting ready for their annual snuggletime jamboree in Hug-a-bug county. It’s sweet and bright and not my usual fare. When I’m single things do take a darker twist.

It’s a hell of a bunny jamboree however, but for the last few years at least one lonely bunny has taken it upon himself to unleash some sort of disruptive element. Last year he let a lion loose right as Mayor McBunny was giving his famous, “love”, speech. It was horrible; white fur everywhere, a bloody bunny trail of carnage.

So take these flowers lady. Save the bunnies.

Rue the Woe - Alternate version

Justin opened the door to Jerry’s Honk and Drive and looked about the place. There were a few old hayseeds sitting at the counter, grumbling about the price of corn and Maggie the Waitress was pouring them some coffee. Justin realized that he didn’t know Maggie’s last name, he’d always known her as Maggie the Waitress. She smiled at him and he nodded a greeting. 

The old woman waved to Justin from one of the red vinyl booths at the back of the diner. She had already made herself comfortable. Her coat was off and hanging on one of the coat hooks near the jukebox. Her walker was placed next to the booth. Justin could see she was wearing a heavy knit sweater. It was quite colorful; almost too colorful for Justin’s comfort level.  It was vibrant and loud and it hurt Justin’s eyes a little. It also seemed a bit too warm for the day. It was chilly outside but it certainly wasn’t freezing.

He sat in the booth across from the old woman. She smiled at him as he tried to make himself comfortable. He wiped at his eyes quickly to make sure he wasn’t still tearing up.

“So what is this all about”, asked Justin.

“Do you want some coffee or anything dear? Maybe a hot chocolate?” said the old woman.

“No. I’m fine. Thank you. Where is Sally and what do you know about it?”

The woman took a tissue out from her sleeve and wiped at her nose. Justin noticed she was wearing lipstick and it must have been very old. It was slightly clumped on her bottom lip or maybe it was a wart, Justin couldn’t tell. His heart was beating so loudly in his chest with nervous syncopation.

“My name is Beatrice La Deveroux and I’m from New Orleans. I have been using that Greyhound bus for the last 35 years to get up to my sister’s place near Buckport. I’ve never gotten off that bus for any reason in all that time. I take it straight through. Today I broke that 35 year streak for you and Sally”.

Justin nodded. He couldn’t think of anything to say in response. Beatrice continued her story.

“Sally had the seat next to me on the bus. What struck me about her was how pretty she was. I’m not one to judge solely on a person’s looks. I take people as they come, but it’s been my experience that pretty people fly, ugly people ride the Greyhound.”

Beatrice chuckled to herself at what she seemed to think was something very witty. Justin was starting to lose his famous patience and calm.

“Please, where is Sally”, he asked.

“I’m getting there. Don’t worry my dear”, she smiled at him again.

Maggie the Waitress walked up to the table. She had given up wearing the waitress uniform years ago and was in an extra large Metallica tee-shirt and what looked like maternity jeans. She wasn’t pregnant.

“What can I get for you all”, she asked.

“Nothing, thanks”, said Justin.

“Oh my, I haven’t even looked at the menu yet. But you know what; I’ve been craving some apple pie. Do you have any apple pie”, asked Beatrice.

“We sure do. It’s not homemade but it’s pretty damn decent if you ask me”, said Maggie.

“If you can heat it up a little bit I’d love to try it”, smiled Beatrice.

Maggie nodded and stepped away from the table. Justin looked at this Beatrice with pleading eyes and she picked her story back up.

“Sally, you see, was just about the prettiest girl I’ve seen ever ride that bus and I couldn’t help but want to talk to her. I introduced myself to her and she politely shook my hand. It was a weak, half-hearted handshake as if all the strength she ever had was just gone. I sat next to her and I tried to engage her in conversation. I asked her why such a pretty young thing would be riding the bus so early on such a cold gray day. She told me she was riding to meet you.”

“She was on the bus”, said Justin, “Why didn’t she get off?”

“Patience dear, I’m getting there”, she said.

“She told me that she had been in rehab for a while; something to do with the drugs. I didn’t want to press her for more information on that. It didn’t seem like my place to do so. She said she’d made such a fool of herself and wasn’t sure anyone would ever accept her. She did tell me how she had you though; that you were sweet and kind and never judged her too harshly. I could tell in her voice that she really loved you. It was a sweet look in her eyes. She had kind of a dreamy quality when she spoke about you”.

“Where is she”, demanded Justin, his patience now at an end, “I want you to tell me where she is right now”.

Maggie came to the table and put the warm apple pie in front of Beatrice. She lowered her nose to the plate and inhaled the swirling aroma of apples. Justin could have sworn she was drooling a little out of the corner of her mouth. It was something old people seemed to do.

“Sally told me that she couldn’t face you. She couldn’t dare look you in the face ever again. Not after what she had done. She said she’d take it all back if she could but she knew that she couldn’t. She never meant to hurt you Justin but now, she has to”.

“She has to hurt me? I don’t understand”, said Justin.

“I told her I’d get off here in Anderton and tell you that she wasn’t going to meet you. She was going to ride that bus for as far as she could and she’d never look back. She took my hand as she said that and made me swear to do it. I am a woman of my word and so here I am telling you that she’s never going to see you again”.

Justin’s mind couldn’t make his mouth work. He couldn’t think of anything to say to this crazy old woman. Beatrice picked up her fork and took a bite of the apple pie.

“Definitely not homemade, but that waitress was right. It is pretty damn decent”, she said.

Justin stood up from the booth and looked at Beatrice.

“I appreciate what you’ve tried to do and I think you’re an amazing person to do it. But I love Sally and there’s no way on this Earth I’m going to let her go. She’s the reason I get up in the morning and the reason I want to dream at night. I’ll never stop loving her. I’m going to go now. I’m going to get her”.

Beatrice scooped up more of the apple pie and paused.

“I hoped you’d say that”, she said, “Good luck my dear”.

Justin ran from the diner and back to his Chevy. He jumped inside, gunned the engine and roared down the road after the bus.

Rue the Woe Part II - Sally

Sally covered her face as the bus pulled away from the stop near Jerry’s Honk and Drive. She saw Justin running along the side, calling after her. She stifled the deep sobs she could feel in her chest. The old woman would tell him. She promised.

Rehab had gone about as well as could be expected. She went crazy and screamed and yelled and cried and threw up. She threw up a lot. She probably lost 20 pounds in vomit. Her throat was still sore from it. Her voice had a raspy quality now. The rehab counselor thought she sounded like Lauren Bacall. It was a nice complement but she could tell he wanted to get in her pants.  He was such a nerd too.

All the guys at rehab tried to smooth talk her. Even while she was in the throes of withdrawal guys were still hitting on her. She hated it. Being pretty was fine but it was somehow a terrible burden. It wasn’t the attention she wanted. She did discover that it was probably why she started using in the first place. She wanted to be ugly.

It was something the old woman had said to her when she sat down next to her. That old lady, Beatrice was her name, said Sally was probably the prettiest girl she’d ever seen riding the Greyhound. She told her she was surprised because pretty people flew on airplanes while ugly people rode the Greyhound. That old lady, Beatrice, was crazy, but she was kind. She had chuckled at her own joke in a cute, old lady way. Like she had seen it all and knew what it all meant and was in on the joke of it all.

Sally had been feeling sick on the bus since leaving rehab. It wasn’t from withdrawal. It was a sickness in her heart and every beat seemed to make it worse. She couldn’t bear to face Justin.  She loved him too much but she knew that every time he looked at her with his big brown eyes she’d remember how awful she was to him. She’d remember the fire. She’d remember how he dragged her from the house into the yard and cried and screamed at her to wake up.

Sally told Beatrice everything. It just poured out of her. She told Beatrice more than she ever spilled to the counselors or in group. It was a flood of things. It was the first time she had been completely honest with anyone. There was something comforting in the eyes of a stranger. Beatrice had held her hand and listened quietly and patiently. Sally told her she just didn’t think she could get off the bus in Anderton. Beatrice told her not to worry. She would take care of it.

Sally looked out the window at the empty farm fields flying by as 60 miles an hour. She’d seen those same wretched fields her entire life. She lost her virginity in one of those damn fields with that jerk Kenny Richards. That was really the first time she understood the curse of beauty.  She looked away from the fields and picked up one of the magazines she had brought with her. The model on the cover of the magazine made her feel sicker and she dropped it in the empty seat next to her.

Her mind went back to Justin. He always told her not to pay attention to those magazines because they were designed to make people feel bad about themselves. She thought he was being silly at the time. She needed those beauty tips in those magazines if she was going to get an A in Mr. Foster’s chemistry class. All those short skirts and tight tops were her weapons. That Mr. Foster was a sucker for any female attention. He actually sent Sally a card on Valentine’s Day. He didn’t sign it but she knew it was from him. What a dirty old perv.

Justin wanted to report him to the dean but Sally told him not to. She had already started using by then and she didn’t really care if dirty old Mr. Foster wanted to stare at her breasts all day. As long as she got an A she didn’t care.

Sally brushed her hair off her face and looked out the window again. She wished Justin had gotten on the bus and was sitting next to her now. They could start a new life together wherever this bus stopped. They could get jobs and a home, get married and have kids and no one would have to know anything about them. She imagined Justin and her, sitting on a couch together cuddling under a blanket because they didn’t have enough money to pay for heat but not caring because they had each other.

Sally heard the honking just then. It was loud and blaring and constant. She tried to look back behind her but couldn’t really see what was going on. She looked up at the bus driver and she could see he was watching something in his rearview mirror. The honking got louder and she heard the roar of a V8 eight pull alongside the bus. The bus driver hit the brakes and the bus came to a long hard stop. She heard the squeal of another vehicle’s brakes.

“What the shit is going on”, cursed the bus driver and he opened the bus door and stepped out. He barely got to the road when Justin pushed up past him onto the bus. He was panting and sweating and was wild eyed. Sally stood up and everything she was so worried about melted away.

Justin put out his hand to her.

“C’mon baby. We’re getting off this bus”, he said and smiled at her.