T H E R E - I S - N O - D I A G N O S I S
There is a near infinite number of people that can suffer for my amusement. You know none of them, and neither do I.
The door into that hotel
suite finally swung open as several large-bodied individuals from undetermined
Asian origins, stormed in – yet all they found was little old me sitting
comfortably in a leather armchair. Smoke And Mirrors, from Puscifer,
was playing on the stereo as I looked up from the sticky blood covering both
my palms. Those men in tailored suits were dumbstruck for a moment as they
scanned the open space, looking for three other human specimens that were
currently absent from the picture.
A tiny chap then marched straight over. Grabbing my face, he squeezing my jaw like a furious dentist, and then snarled in Mandarin like those cunts still thought I understood what the fuck they were bitching about. He then slapped me across the face! I couldn't help but smirk with shock. That was when I noticed several old droplets of my piss on the floor below that two-foot-tall, ornamental black vase. That yapping little fuckhead went to strike my face again – my own hand however, rose and we high-fived against his best hostile intentions! He had an instant reaction to the blood that was smeared across his palm, and he screamed like a fucking lunatic at his personal security men. Suddenly I was dragged out of there by two pillars of muscle, while those who had been searching the other rooms in the suite came back empty handed.
Soon, upstairs, I was seated at a dining table in another suite. An older Asian guy with a cravat and a shit-load of gold rings came escorted by several girls and guards. And then one of the little Chinese runts that had sneaked me into this fun-house was forced next to me: it was little Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes himself, but he'd lost pretty much all of his cool demeanor as he twitched, glancing at everything below eye-level. Mr. Cravat whispered into the ear of some slick-looking guy. And in turn, this Mr. Intermediate then relayed the message to Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes who nodded incessantly at every word. Twisting toward me, Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes stuttering with his suddenly appalling English, "Where is everyone? What happened in the room? What the fuck did you do, man?!"
My cheek was still hot when I saw Mr. Slappy enter the room and linger near the doorway. Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes continued whining, while I focused on Mr. Slappy and how much I wanted to break a glass coffee table with his fucking face.
Impatient, Mr. Cravat thumped the tabletop and squawked viciously at Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes, thus provoking the wrath of one of those security pricks who smacked him across the back of the scalp! "For fuck's sake, man! What the fuck happened to the others! Speak! Tell them something! We're in some serious fucking shit right here, man!"
Sniffing at that repugnant tang of blood, I rubbed my dried finger tips together in front of my face as I frowned, "Nothing happened. They picked the fucking lock and left me there by myself."
Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes quickly rattled off a translation down the grape-vine, where it was immediately refuted by Mr. Slappy's sarcastic laughter.
Annoyed, Mr. Cravat half turned his snout toward that chuckling subordinate.
Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes then informed me of Mr. Slappy's repudiation, "That's impossible. You can't pick the lock. It's a key-card. There's no lock to pick!"
"I don't fucking know how they opened the fucking door, but they obviously fucking did something that fucking worked," I snarled at that skinny shit sitting on my left, when suddenly Mr. Slappy grabbed my right wrist, exposing the bloodstains to Mr. Cravat.
"Seriously, man," Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes pleaded in hushed tones. "You got to tell them something, or we're both seriously fucked!"
BOOM went the whole table, as Mr. Intermediate smashed a marble bust upon the fingers of Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes!
My smile stretched as I watched that little social-climber shriek while hunching over his busted hand. I couldn't help enjoying such a display of sadistic entertainment, yet Mr. Intermediate seemed professionally indifferent as he nodded. A security guard then came down like the restraints on a roller coaster and put the young business man in a crippling head-lock – yeah, as if Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes' well-being was any of my fucking concern. Bad call, for him at least. However, his horrid fucking voice was worse than feedback tinnitus, and his squealing was enough to get me talking, in order just to shut him the fuck up. "They've been eighty-sixed."
Everyone, including the tormented Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes, paused and squinted with their already squinty-chinky eyes. Is that racist, even when it's a genuine observation?
"When Mr. Fag-boy and Miss Resting-Bitch-Face weren't throwing hissy-fits at the locked door, they kept themselves busy by snorting copious amounts of cocaine," I slowly recalled. "And almost the whole time they were in there, Little Miss Shitty-Pants, ranted endlessly, like Roger from American Dad, while she finger-fucked her iPhone like a sweaty fucking rapist. It's a love affair: girl's and their fucking phones. Honestly, no man could ever compete against a girl's app-addiction."
Mr. Cravat sniggered as his head rose back. He seemed clearly capable of comprehending my recollections without translation.
The giant henchman clutching Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes had somewhat loosened his grip once I'd begun to appease his boss, but I scowled bitterly, "Hey, no slacking off on the fucking job! Why the fuck would I cooperate if you don't have some kind of fucking leverage over me?! Come on, guys. That's how this fucking dynamic works. You threaten him, and that's what makes me talk! So come on! Choke him! Jesus fuck!"
Mr. Cravat tilted his expression, and then finally took a seat opposite me. A servant from the shadows automatically stepped up and poured him an expected glass of Hendrick's gin.
Taking a stiff white napkin from the table arrangement, I wiped the residual filth from my palms, and stared at Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes' own blood now smeared over the glossy tabletop. "I never actually tried to open the door myself. The other three had all gone ape-shit at it with no success – while yelling in whatever fucking language they spoke. It wasn't German, could have been Swedish, but you know, it all sounded like fucking gibberish to me."
"Shit, what are you fucking talking about?" Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes muttered now with his old American accent.
"See, your English, it's a little too good. What ever happened to that stereotypical Asian voice that red-necks know and critique?"
Suddenly the security yanked harder on Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes' throat, and he gasped, "Come on! Get to the point! What the fuck!"
I sat for a moment, looking around the whole room with its wet black windows. "I flushed them down the toilet."
"Man, stop messing with these guys!"
"I. Flushed. Them. All. Down. The fucking toilet!"
Mr. Cravat glanced at nothing.
"There was this very nice blender in that suite. I blended all three of them. Literally liquidated them. And then I flushed them the fuck down the toilet like the worthless fucking shit that they all were."
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes mumbled. "Just tell them what they want to fucking hear! Tell them where the fuck the others are! Fuck!"
"You know, apparently, according to my therapist, there's absolutely nothing wrong with me. She told me that, "There is no diagnosis." That I have finely-tuned coping-mechanisms," I sneered, at that uncomfortable looking little shit-head. "My life has been validated. Now how about you shut your fucking hole and let me finish telling the fucking story."
A miserable fucking wind had kept me company several hours earlier, while I stood in the middle of Mühlendamm bridge, staring down at the black waters of the Spree below the Berlin Dom's reflection. This year's winter felt exactly the fucking same as last year's clusterfuck. I was still here, despite my best efforts not to be. But the railing on the bridge was low and easy to climb over, and that alone gave me some reassurance that I didn't need to travel all the way back to Scotland in order to finish what I had so stupidly postponed. Those devils upon the summit of the Holy Mountain Of Pigs had been fucking right all along: I had been duped by the motherfucking oxytocin! However, out there on the bridge, the water was calling me again.
That was when I felt something watching me as surely as if a baseball bat had swung into my stooped fucking neck. Twisting to my left, I glanced across the two triple-lanes, toward the other side of the empty bridge. There, that old bearded man in black robes, with cavities for eyes, glared straight back at me. I hadn't seen him since that funeral in Potsdam. Turning toward that gloomy old fuck, I wasn't surprised that he urgently walked away, and then the rain began pelting down like a fat-ass son of a bitch. If I wanted a sign from the indifference of the hopeless fucking universe, then this was a good as any.
Following that tall stranger, I suddenly had more than a fistful of fucking questions for that whimsical motherfucker; but a few blocks toward Stadtmitte, he turned and entered an old building just moments before I could grab his fucking arm. A looming Asian bouncer in a tux slammed his palm against my chest and it felt like I had walked into a fucking telephone pole! Watching the old man slink up the tall front steps and into a what looked like a luxury hotel, I sneered at the bouncer before scanning over the wide building's brass fittings and nineteenth century facade. The old man disappeared into a sickly green light as the thick front doors closed behind him.
I had been led astray – AGAIN!
Straightening my soaked coat, I turned back the way I'd come – only to collide right into a swarm of pretty-faced assholes all hurriedly exiting from several taxis. Umbrellas popped open with the rush of bodies, and so I ducked under their blackened canopies that swept past the overwhelmed bouncer without delay.
Everyone in that group of about ten young Chinese business men, possessed an aggressive sense of expensive fucking style. In the narrow lobby they all shook off the rain and laughed about whatever the fuck twenty-something-year-old CEO's fucking laugh about. I was only interested in finding that enigmatic old prick, but the huge lounge in the front of the building was completely fucking deserted. Joining the youngsters, I dumped my coat at the front desk, before we all stumbled up the large marble staircase. The hysterics coming from those would-be acquaintances, looked exactly what you'd expect cocaine-on-an-empty-stomach to look like, while dressed in Canali, Brioni, and Zegna. Why had no one noticed my unwelcome appearance was anyone's fucking guess.
The top floor was a club, The Little China Embassy. An opium den that was as much a whore house by any other name. A friend had once described to me his experience at an exclusive strip-bar in Dubai, but as decadent as that had sounded, this was weirder. There was an open plan with multiple levels soaked in a murky atmosphere rich with opulent crimson and olive lighting. The clientele were all from the smug-faced-gentlemen portion of the gender-spectrum; while the staff ranged from every other inclination of humanity. However, my simplistic presumption about that place being merely a glorified opium den was quickly corrected once my retina sponged up the acts taking place at various tables, booths, and VIP conclaves. Bodily fluids were on the menu tonight! I was awe-struck. Was this the promised land, the sixth day's work? The closest customer was making a meal out of the snails that he was plucking with chopsticks off of the spread-eagle cunt of some flat-chested slut sprawled upon the table. Another horde of posh-nosed fuckheads were huddled around a bent over boy who released a Champagne-enema into the awaiting crystal glasses. Behind the cheers that ensued, two men in their fifties (who were probably good, upstanding egalitarian partisans by day), were using thick rubber tubing to castigate every orifice from a circle of several young girls that had all been bound together with bondage rope. This was a club for the elite iconoclast who had left their redundant notions of social norms at the front door, along with their spotless wedding rings of fidelity-deception. There wasn't a single moral compass to be found in anyone's vest pocket this evening. After all, why would a husband remain attracted to an aging wife, when he only desires the underage flesh of pristine little girls with perfect petite pink bits. Flesh ages – lust does not.
I was savoring the sight of a fecal discharge pouring from a slender lad into the cupped hands of some delighted grandpa, when I first met Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes as he slung his arm brotherly around my shoulder like we were best buddies from boarding school where we used to circle-jerk over our room-mate every other night. Like the rest of his executive friends, he was high as fuck and laughing at how subservient the cowering hostess presented herself as she led the group toward their booth. It was when he spontaneously spat upon the floor, that my eyes were directed toward his shoes. He wore designer dress shoes that reminded me of two black Lamborghini Huracán – hence his given designation. Twisting the fuck away from that Ricky-Martin-hair-styled Short-Round, I shed his arm like I was shaking off a used condom that had floated my way on a drunken breeze.
Loser, by Beck, then came over the loud sound system, just as my curiosity landed upon someone totally unexpected. For a moment I scowled at her from across that humid house of ill-repute, watching her through all that dignified indecency and exulted impropriety until that woman slowly looked directly back at my suspicious bewilderment. It was her, the Iranian woman from last year! She instantly rose from a crowd of black and white suits as a dozen horny hands pawed at her departing swagger. Her pupils not once shifting from mine. Sauntering across the club, her slick black ponytail swung to the rhythm of her provocative hips packed into an elegant black dress. She placed her crystal glass down on the nearest table as she approached, looking like she was getting ready to fucking rumble! Suddenly Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes danced limply in front of me. So the Iranian woman marched smoothly past, glaring condemnation at my presence as she grabbed my right hand. She would have dragged me after her without resistance – had I not spotted the old man. He was lurking in some secluded doorway like an anorexic vulture, where he watched me as if he was forbidden from blinking. In the past this dilemma might have easily been swayed and I would have unquestioningly gone after the drop-dead-gorgeous bombshell; but my tolerance toward female politics was at an all time low. For the quid pro quo of women gave me pretty faces and tight holes, and little more than easily forgotten idle talk. I know fewer persons than ever worth engaging in the reciprocation of decent conversation, not to mention that the most rewarding intellectual interactions have always been with men. So I ripped my wrist free from the Iranian and slammed my elbow into Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes, driving him clean out of my fucking way! But the second I approached that ancient bastard, he took a single step backward, and completely vanished into all those barricaded shadows. Quickening my pace, I strode right through another cluster of Asian-whatevers as I fought to catch a glimpse of that elusive character. However, my lack of manners clearly set off a few red flags, and that last group of assholes weren't about to let my indiscretions slide. Some little shit-head grabbed my left arm, but I tore myself loose without regard as I continued toward that doorway. Again I was latched onto as if by pathetic fucking mosquitoes. My response was that of fuming impatience. Yet when I wrenched my arm out of the grasp of those nagging fucks, I swung off balance and crashed flat into two chicks and a dick! The subsequent shrieking of indignation from those three was a declaration of fucking war. At that point though, I was blind with my priority. The atrocious overreaction of those drama-queens only exacerbated my frustration as I tried to move on. Those three lecherous little fucking cretins clung on like expert leeches and we all went down a second time, landing right in front of someone stepping out of the very doorway that I had endeavored to reach. Pinned under three bitches, my chin ground against the floorboards, where I saw three books THUD down inches in front of my face. I was held there for long enough to read the spine of each: The Storm Of Steel, by Ernst Jünger, Mysterium Coniunctionis, by Carl Jung, and The Magical Revival, by Kenneth Grant. A redwood of an old guy with pale blue eyes and wispy white hair, slowly knelt and collected his reading material without so much as a glance at my existence.
Moments later, an unknown number of SWAT-like security in Italian suits, carted away both the collateral-damage and myself. I went without a word, while those three loud mouth motherfuckers seemed determined to make a Jerry-Springer-scene and inconvenience everyone's mood.
We were soon locked in one of the hotel suites with nothing to do but wait for fuck knows what. Mr. Fag-boy was the first to busy himself by thumping his wrist against the door in a flaccid attempt to protest this Shakespearean injustice. He was just your typical Berlin douche with a rat-face below an overgrown porcupine of a fucking hairstyle. Miss Shitty-Pants was the spitting image of the 2015 Valentino Donna Fragrance model, and she immediately went on a mission looking for more booze to wallow in. While Miss Resting-Bitch-Face looked like Taylor Swift, who had always reminded me of the anal-porn-star Krystal Boyd, she also wasted no time pulling out her slender golden case of narcotics. No medieval torture had ever been so agonizing as having to endure their pitched and petulant fucking voices filling the suite with some alien language that made screaming babies sound soothing. I hated every fucking square inch of everyone of those nauseating fucks!
Moving straight to the bathroom, I had accepted that there was no possibility of finding the old man, so removed myself from the presence of those other three. A passage from Milton then crossed my predicament, "All is not lost; the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and courage never to submit or yield: and what is else not to be overcome? That glory never shall his wrath or might extort from me."
Hanging my jacket on the radiator, I rolled up my sleeves and then thoroughly scrubbed my hands clean before washing my face with excessive amounts of soap. After seeing how they'd served colonoscopies for appetizers in The Little China Embassy, I was without a single doubt that spillage happens – and my face had been pressed hard against that contaminated floor! Standing in the bathroom with water dripping from my hairy-chin-chin, I stared vacantly into the marble double basin. The chrome faucet was still gushing full throttle yet still it couldn't drown out those squealing voices in the other room. This was a classy joint. The fittings in the bathroom were all custom made. No expense spared. A fancy playground for the rich and perverse. Because after all, there's no degenerate act that money couldn't accommodate. If you could afford it, and of course, afford to cover it up. Yet no one, no matter whom or how cool, could afford to let the status quo fathom how despicable they really were behind closed doors. People are never as fucking understanding as guidance-councilors like to overestimate – unless you could afford it! That was the core principle in here (and beyond): anything goes – if you could afford it! The audacious claim that no grown adult was helpless, was only ever true if they could afford help. If they could afford justice. If they could afford hope. But if you couldn't, then buddy, get the fuck back down where you fucking belong! And I clearly wasn't part of this affluent world. I wasn't meant to be here. I was nothing but the son of man. Sir Francis Bacon then spoke up in the back of my head, "The mind is the man, and the knowledge of the mind. A man is but what he knoweth." However, this did little to outweigh my abysmal thoughts that ran violent at an accelerating rate, until a line from the new film of Macbeth became another ear-worm as I heard Michael Fassbender repeat again and again, "Full of scorpions is my mind."
The bathroom door then eased open, and Miss Resting-Bitch-Face leaned in with leering derision upon her vulgar eyelids.
Turning my back on her, she mutter something timid, as I slipped back into my black suit jacket – when she suddenly grabbed my left arm. Slowly facing that female, I could feel those scorpions stabbing at the insides of my claustrophobic fucking skull. She seemed fascinated with the snake skeleton tattoo on my arm that she yanked around for a better view as if I was a mute mannequin here for her entertainment. With a brutal twist of my arm, I once again tore myself clean out of the pathetic fucking grasp of just another arrogant slut!
"I didn't think you scat-munchers worried about washing your hands," Miss Resting-Bitch-Face spoke with a somewhat approachable smile. "I mean, why bother?"
"You know," I confessed, like a good small-talking son of a bitch, "I'd rather have shit on my dick from some super model like yourself, than have even a tiny smudge of my own crap under my fingernails."
"Are you actually admitting that your own shit doesn't smell like roses?"
"I've smelt a lot of various bodily functions, not once has any human fluid ever had a floral fragrance, including your breath."
"Don't be revolting!"
"Says the girl who's just been hanging out upstairs."
"Yeah, well, they canceled my contract this evening."
"You work here?"
"Huh. So are you going to miss filling martini glasses with your angry diarrhea hot like a latte and foaming as if your asshole's got rabies?"
"Get over it. It was just a fucking job!"
"And I'm sure you earned every cent, squatting and laying links of peanut-butter over the sweating bellies of billionaires."
"Don't talk about peanut-butter to me."
"Why not? Did you once make the mistake of using 'crunchy' instead of 'smooth' to irrigate your anus? I guess then you'd have no idea where the peanut-butter ends and the shit begins."
"It's all shit! Shit is shit! But at least it was my shit! So damn right, I earned my fucking tips!"
"You remind me of a story I once heard about a guy in Japan who would visit this one particular dominatrix. He was just your typical looking salary-man, and she was some Aphrodite-kind whore. Every weekday his guy would visit her on the way to work. See, he would present her with his lunchbox that had been meticulously prepared for him by his wife. The dominatrix would then routinely take her morning dump right on top of his guy's sushi while he watched mesmerized. He never touched her. Had no interest in fucking her. But instead, he believed that she was so fucking perfect that nothing, not even her shit could be bad. And so he ate her daily deposit every lunch as if every mouthful was pure ecstasy."
"I hope you're not going to call that some kind of idiotic, warped form of fucking love."
"Obsession, love, alligators, crocodiles; it's all the same shit. Surely you also had regulars who 'loved' your ass too."
"I hated every one of those sick fucks with their greasy fucking eyes. As if I was meant to fucking get off on them judging me. I fucking hated it when they tried cuddling up and pretended to fucking empathize with their desperate fucking voices. It's fucking insulting!"
"Yeah, there's nothing more suspicious then when someone says that they fucking understand you."
"None of those fucks even get it when I ignore their bullshit. They just keep on whimpering with those fucking baby voices, talking to me like I'm their fucking pet. But what the fuck, no one gets paid to like their fucking job, anyway."
"Whatever pays the bills."
"Exactly! Just give me your fucking cash so I can get back to work, and just shut the fuck up!"
I leaned back against the sink after that girl's last sentence. Her impertinence seemed personally directed toward me. "Yeah, you're a real professional."
"Girl's got to do what a girl's got to do."
"And a pervert's got to go when he's got to go."
She smirked sourly, "Better the devil you know."
"Why'd they fire your ass, then?"
"Definitely wasn't your personality, was it."
"Everyone's got a limit."
"Only so much literal shit you can put up with?"
"Pretty much. But most of those wrinkly old fucks have the lamest fantasies, its all some variation of the same anal-sadism."
"Sounds like a fun party."
"Seriously, it's not."
"So what's the straw that broke the camel's back?"
"The exact opposite of what you said before."
"These old creeps love shoving toys, bottles, whatever up my booty; but when this one guy suggested I fist his fat ass, that was it, I had e-fucking-nough! That's just vile! At least I know where the fuck my shit's been. But who the fuck has any idea what's been up his disgusting crack! No thanks! Fuck that!"
"And I thought you were about to say that some guy wanted to sit on your face, rest his balls on your eyes, piss down your scalp, while he squeezed a hefty shit directly into your nostrils. Could you imagine that? Human feces filling your nasal cavity till you're deep-throating a whole fucking log."
"You've done than to one of the girls here, haven't you, you twisted fuck!"
"It's still easier that trying to take a shit into a condom. I don't understand how that's even possible without some chronic finger-dipping."
"Why would you even want to shit into a fucking condom in the first place?"
"I heard it's a thing. You fill a condom with a cable, tie up the condom, and leave it in the fridge. Once it's frozen hard, you shove it up someone's asshole, if not your own. It's science!"
"Fuck off! Don't waste my time with this idiot bullshit!"
I paused, glaring back at her, while the muffled voices of the other two continued scratching at the walls.
"God, I can't stand these bitches working here, like those two shit-heads. I hate their constant fronting. They're only looking for the next drink and the next dumbfuck to score their drugs from. It's such a fucking joke. These sluts all dress up, sexualize themselves, dripping with war-paint to attract the eye of some big-spender or whatever; but the fucking moment they get the attention of some loser, these same cunts scream 'rape'! Fuck them! They're totally fucking asking for it. It's fucking pathetic!"
"As long as your vagina's saying that, then you're right."
"Kid, I've heard men with penises say the exact same thing, only to find themselves instantly crucified for supporting the 'patriarchy's rape-culture'. Their argument is always automatically tossed out, regardless of merit. But you have a cunt, so you can preach."
"Whatever. You don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Get your head out of your ass, you fucking retard. I know plenty of male feminists!"
Again, I shut my mouth and stared back at that nasty little whore until the silence made her skin itch.
"But, god, I fucking hate it when those gross old creepers come into the club wearing my favorite brands, like Cartier, it's offensive to my sense of taste! They have no fucking style!"
"How's that offensive?"
"They just ruin it for people like me with some class."
"How are they ruining anything?"
"God! I can't be bothered talking about it. I know what I mean. If you don't get it, then that's your fucking problem."
"You're the one who brought it up! And you're the one having a fucking problem with all the clients and crew here."
"Not anymore! Fuck this place!"
"Amen to that."
"Bitch please, god has left the building."
"Preaching to the choir, sister."
"I'm not fucking preaching, you stupid fuck!"
This third time of silence, I just smiled.
"I don't know why the fuck I'm even talking to you. You're no different to the rest of these fucking perverts!" She then slid her back down the wall and sat on the floor with her knees below her chin. There she abruptly whispered something right out of left-field, "Everyone's a victim on a hierarchy of abuse. There is always a bigger fish shitting on everyone else. All this shit proves god doesn't exist."
"That's a leap."
"Don't give me this Gnostic bullshit! No god made this world of shit!"
"Suffering is necessary."
"What the fuck for?!"
"An ordeal creates value from an achievement."
"Whatever, asshole! After Paris, anything to do with religion is downright fucking psychotic! And I don't give a fuck if extremists or anybody's feelings get fucking hurt! Fuck them! Fuck their god and fuck their feelings!"
"Whenever I hear atheists use that so-what-if-you're-offended line, I always wonder if they also have that same attitude toward other issues where other people get deeply offended, like racism."
"Hey, you can't compare–"
"Can't compare one group's sensibility of a personal injustice to another? Why not?"
"These religious assholes are doing this to people just because they aren't one of them!"
"That still sounds like racism, sexism, whatever-ism."
"Are you defending those murdering fucks?!"
"Why are you so pissed off about the death of strangers a million fucking miles away?"
"Because it matters, you fucking jerk!"
"Yeah, it's easy to sympathize with people you have absolute no responsibility for."
"Well, I may be a fucking atheist but that doesn't mean I'm a heartless cunt! What the fuck are you exactly?!"
"I'm a fucking artist! I believe in symbolism!"
"Pff, what's that supposed to mean?"
"In a universe ruled by atrophy, creating anything is an act of sacrilege against nature."
"Yeah, blah, blah. Whatever, douche-bag. Just because you can't relate to a tragedy doesn't mean the rest of us don't understand what's going on. I'm tired of hearing how every day we get closer to the end of the fucking world. Fucking Facebook is revolting, it's just full of trolls and negativity. I can't get away from it. I wish I could tell every single asshole on social media to go fuck themselves!"
"I always thought it would be funny if Facebook had an IQ button instead of LIKE. Then we could really destroy everyone's fragile self-esteem."
"Yeah, all these shit-heads think their insignificant opinions are as valid as Trump's. God, I fucking hate Americans. They're going to destroy the whole fucking world! Fucking Trump! Fucking Americans!"
"You know, I did this little Facebook experiment for a couple of weeks, where I hid all my American friends and American LIKED pages. And guess what. Suddenly all that negativity instantaneously vanished from my time-line. Turns out that it's all just a product of the American-psyche."
"Oh my god! I knew it! I fucking hate Americans!"
"No you don't, and no I didn't."
"You fucking love America and everything it stands for! You're a complete product of the American-psyche, baby. And no, all the negativity in the world won't disappear the day America sinks into the fucking ocean. Israeli's are still getting stabbed by Palestinians. Russian's are still dying in mass from excessive vodka consumption. Unemployment is still strife in Greece, and Spain looks no better. The fucking Irish are still the fucking Irish. Syrians are still fleeing their homeland. And Germans are still complaining about Mein Kampf's copyright expiring in December. The whole wide world is still, as it has always been, a fucking shit place, regardless of your cognitive-American-bias!"
"Why are you fucking with me?"
"Why not? We all get a kick out of making enemies. It's in our DNA to judge and gossip and shame others."
"No, we don't, you short-sighted little man!"
"I heard that kindness is what most people find universally admirable. However, it's also hardwired into us to feel attraction toward strong egos. Whether someone is right or wrong means absolutely nothing, as long as you're emotionally compromised."
"I don't give a shit what you think!"
"And yet we're all thinking the same thing. We're all the same obfuscated shit!"
"We're nothing alike!"
"´Look right now and you can find a multitude of fat girls on Youtube posting impassioned vlogs complaining that only fat girls get picked on simply for being fat. And yet there's also a shit-load of pretty girls streaming endless pod-casts complaining that only pretty girls get picked on simply for being pretty. Fat or thin, it's all the exact same victim-thinking. We're all the fucking same!"
"That's an absurd assessment!"
"If we weren't all so easily categorized, then there wouldn't be a whole mental health industry making a quick buck from applying the same fucking formula to our standardized thinking."
"My depression wasn't caused by the same reason as anyone else, and how I fucking feel is not for a cunt like you to minimize into some assumed fucking pigeon hole!"
"Given enough questionnaires, any doctor can reduce your insanity down to a little one-line definition, and yet they still reassure you by localizing you affliction somewhere within a comfortable gray zone. Every good doctor knows that patients need to make-believe that you really do have a say in what ultimately fucking controls you. It's a lie. Your pain is not unique, and neither is your medication."
"People are infinitely complex! Too complex for your ridiculous generalization. We are not just stereotypes!"
"Yeah, right. And I'm not a racist, even though I racial-profile everyone I see. Yeah, and there's no stereotypes, no acceptable behaviors, no common factors in the human condition at all. Everyone's so vastly individualized that there's no grounds for any kind of basic fucking communication, and so anarchy rules this crumbling Tower Of Babel!"
"You're just being a fucking dick! Just like the rest of the fucking clientele in this place. I'm fucking over it! I just want to be a kid again, when I was treated decent, without all this fucking negativity constantly in my face. It's fucking exhausting! I'm sick of being surrounded by abusive friends trying to use me for whatever they want. Fuck all this shit! I remember being happier when I had nothing to my name."
"Have you ever been starving? 'Cause being unable to feed yourself, ain't nobody's fucking idea of a good fucking time! So princess, spare me this money-can't-buy-you-happiness fucking bullshit!"
That was the first time she actually seemed to acknowledge anything, until she opened her mouth again, "It's just that, in a perfect world, I might be–"
"In a perfect fucking world none of us would even fucking exist, so don't even fucking–" But I couldn't be fucked finishing my sentence as I fermented on my own inadequacies.
"Why are you such a spiteful son of a bitch?"
"I had a dream recently. I found a bag on the street. Inside was an eight-year-old boy. His legs had been cut off and one of his eyes removed, but he was still alive, though barely. I yelled out for someone to help, for someone to call an ambulance. The crowd that gathered merely surrounded with their phones in hand, all of them feverishly taking photos and making videos. Not one of them did a fucking thing to help me stop the bleeding. I was screaming at the top of my fucking lungs but no one even once looked up from their fucking detached voyeurism. But that had nothing to do with technology, it's human fucking nature to observe and never interact. The dream reminded me of my first trip to Paris. When we were heading back to the airport, I was waiting on the bus for my girlfriend, when suddenly the bus took off without her. I screamed as loud as fuck, but the driver just drove the fuck off regardless. And now just look where all this fucking talking has gotten us..."
"God, you're such a fucking drag."
And as the conversation continued, I became consciously aware of stepping outside of myself, where I had the realization that all our spoken words in that bathroom were little more than our egos clashing in a vain attempt to outsmart each other. But why was I even engaged in disagreement with this female. A heated debate could become desirable if there was a lesson to learn – or if I was aiming to seduce her; but I was too fucking disgusted by that female to want anything to do with her fucking triviality. I hadn't spoken in several minutes, when I suddenly considered pissing right on her face. Spraying hot gold all over her Playboy eyes, I would love to watch my torrent gush down her infuriated expression like a melting acrylic portrait in a car-wash. But then an even better idea became food for the bowels of my mind to digest and then shit out into the dysentery-narrative of some kind of fatuous conspiracy. A vision that painted my retina as clearly as I could see her ranting gestures upon the bathroom floor. I saw her bricked-up alive within a stone wall in my basement, only her pretty fucking mouth was left exposed. There I could cut her tongue off, rip out every tooth, and tear apart her lips with a broken bottle of Dom fucking Pérignon –
"Hey!" And her hand slapped the floor where the Bvlgari jewelry on her wrist clattered irritatingly! She was expecting a response to something I hadn't been listening to."Jesus, you're such a useless fuck!"
The conversation had ended a while ago, for like all conflicts of interest that reach an impasse, there comes a point where talking ultimately solves nothing – action must be taken.
She had this look of desperate longing in her eyes as she sat in her skimpy Dior dress, clutching her Bottega purse. She seemed to be expecting some great resolution, as if we would finally agree that everything would work out in the end –
When in lurched Mr. Fag-boy around the bathroom door, and so Miss Resting-Bitch-Face instinctively burst into obnoxious fucking laughter right on cue. My loathing toward those meat-insects began swelling within my veins with every cackling giggle vomiting forth from their privileged fucking holes. But turning, I pulled on my jacket. After all, who the fuck was I to look down on their existence? I then remembered how I'd once held the firm belief that people with money were smarter than those without – until a friend refuted my opinion with the simple logic that those kids born into money hadn't earned it. Ergo: there was no correlation between intelligence and the size of a person's bank account. Some are just luckier than others. Some have earned it. And some are just resentful.
So why had luck brought me to this esteemed establishment this miserable fucking evening? What the fuck was I doing here?
Keeping my head down, I returned to the main room in that suite and gave the coffee-machine a go. Miss Shitty-Pants however, coincidentally decided that she was suddenly an expert fucking barista, and of course, everything I was doing was ever so melodramatically fucking wrong. The other two also had to interfere like know-it-all cunts had to do. Miss Shitty-Pants was whining in her mother-tongue when she then elbowed me in the ribs, and snorted like a rutting pig as she began pulling the coffee-machine apart. Gripping the edge of the counter top, I could physically feel my body temperature boil. The crack-head queer joined in and started berating me like I understood whatever the fuck his foreign fake lisp was insinuating. But it was when the other slut started kicking at the locked door that a transcendent calm welled up inside my chest and permeated throughout my thoughts: either no one was standing guard, or no one gave a fuck what we did with ourselves in here. An empty bottle of whiskey then shattered against the door, and irrevocable silence answered. It was confirmed. We were locked in and left to our-fucking-selves. So if I was trapped (in every possible sense), then surely this was the ideal opportunity that I had been looking for. All I had to do was trust my unconscious. For I am whatever I am. As little or as great as I may be in the scheme of the universe, I will be all I will be.
Stepping over to the dub-step rumbling stereo, my fingertips gently tapped the power display. The abrupt dead-air was instantly met by outrageous cries of what-the-fuck from all three of those riled up cunts. Turning toward the bar, I found Miss Shitty-Pants marching toward me. I grabbed a brass vase, walked straight for her, and swung that heavy object directly into her fucking head, knocking her right the fuck out! She dropped like a duck that had just flown head-first into the windscreen of a fucking 747. Mr. Fag-boy's mouth yapped but I heard nothing after I punched him directly in his fucking windpipe! He fell like a screwed up paper towel in a public fucking toilet, discarded upon the floor. Moving into the kitchen area behind the bar, I found Miss Resting-Bitch-Face taking a step backward – so I helped her: clamping my hand over her face, I slammed her skull back down against the fucking edge of the sink! The impact of bone against marble transformed her bitch-face into one of absolutely no difference. Dead or alive, those meat-insects looked just as unappetizing as ever. Returning to the squirming male, I witnessed his eyes bulge one final time before his balled-up body shuddered into complete asphyxiation. Miss Shitty-Pants however, was still muttering something as she got on all fours like a stunned sack of shit. My foot then filled her gut! She crashed onto her back and the sole of my polished shoe continued stomping her snobbish features into the uncooked pulp of a bloody fucking human-omelet!
I sighed at last, hearing what was as close to silence as inner city buildings could muffle. Plugging my MP3 player into the stereo, the opening track to the album, Advaitic Songs, by Om, soon consumed the entire suite. I stood listening to that female's esoteric voice, while staring out a window at the rain. I missed real hard-core storms like the cyclones that had torn at the house of my childhood. Finally, I tilted my head quietly toward that unaffected locked door. No one had come. No one had stopped me. No one knew what I'd just done. And if no one ever found out what had happened here tonight then there would be no consequences of consequence.
Moving into the bathroom, I dragged that dead meat behind, one by one. Wasting no time, I stripped the bodies naked. Casually folding the perfume-drenched clothes into irrelevant piles, I left the belongings neatly in the bedroom drawers. The kitchen was fully equipped to host a fucking banquet if need be, and I found it supplied with all the appropriate cutting utensils. Some kind of standard chef's instrument was required, so I plucked your everyday carving knife that was normally used to distribute the dismemberment of a bloated turkey on a night just like this (it was Thanksgiving after all). Positioning all three bodies bent over that huge bathtub with the chastised heads downward, I peacefully proceeded to slice open the throats. My left hand firmly grasped the scalps while my left knee pressed in between the shoulder-blades. The heads were held above the bath as the knife confidently split the necks down to the bone. One by one. With the power-supply already switched off, there was little arterial spray from the exposed jugulars. Parting skin like rubber, cutting into the cartilage like thicker plastic, I severed arteries like hydraulic cabling. What are human bodies but: "an apparatus consisting of interrelated parts with separate functions, used in the performance of some kind of work:" the exact definition of a machine – made of meat. Once all three had huge gaping holes in those slender white throats, I placed the carcasses upside-down in the tub, and I watched gravity empty the warm juices down the drain. I then remembered a discussion between Richard Dawkins and some other philosopher which involved a minor disagreement about the analogy of referring to the human body as a 'machine'. For a machine has a set of designed plans in which they are built from, where as a human body has evolved and adapts. But staring at the wounds in those human duplicates, for all intents and purposes, the analogy still worked just fine for me.
After the first body had emptied, my blade sawed around its entire neck, dragging down and over the spine. My knee crushed the last air out the dead lungs with bubbles of oily blood dripping into the tub. The bones in the neck were tricky, but honestly no more of a task than breaking off chicken wings with your bare hands while you enjoy your meal. The third body however, was being a bitch right to the end. The spinal cord wouldn't break, the vertebrae were too tight. So I had to twist and wrench the whole fucking head 360° twice before the last tether cracked. Slipping in the blade with one movement, the decapitation was consummated. The head of I-didn't-notice-who landed in the bathtub with the others, and then I turned on the faucet and rinsed my hands over that ordinary butchery. Those three individual carcasses no long held any identity. They were just chores that needed to be cleaned up.
Looking through the kitchen again, I found a brand new pair of scissors. I used it cut off all of that product-clogged hair. Filling a frying pan with the locks of brown and bleach, I soaked the hair in cooking oil and then set it on fire under the stove's sturdy smoke-extractor. It stunk of barbequed dog.
That was when I unplugged the blender and carried it to the bathroom. I've seen people blending an iPhone on Youtube, so why not blend a few human carcasses! Of course this took preparation. A blender isn't like your average wood-chipper, you can't just shove in a whole arm or leg. First, I took my time disarticulating every body. 'Disarticulate', I love that word. It rolls off the tongue like a hot clitoris on a summer's afternoon. And those bodies swooned like lovers that I had absolutely no affinity toward. Male or female, they meant no more than meat, not even meat I wanted a bite out of. I didn't desire to fuck any of it, I just needed to erase those burdensome remains. This was about redefining my environment in order to suit myself. Mold the world with my own two hands. Perhaps this was that quintessential form of power which enables the true-will.
With the bath water constantly flowing down the plughole, most of the blood from those three had drained out, leaving little-to-no mess despite the tub being full of disjointed limbs and unremarkable torsos. Arms were severed through the shoulders, elbows, and wrists. Legs chopped at the hips, knees, and defiant fucking ankles. All I saw was a bath full of pulpy fucking kindling.
Taking the first forearm over to the bathroom sink, the carving knife split the radius and ulna apart, before I stripped lengths of muscle from the bone. With a dash of water here and there, the blender made mince meat of those healthy slithers of flesh in practically no fucking time! Into the toilet I poured out that fucking slop and flushed it all away. My work space was clean, but the two bones from the unidentified forearm were still rugged with clumps of residual meat. So in the kitchen, I stuffed the bare bones into the oven so that they could slowly bake at a low temperature.
This procedure continued for the better part of an hour. Naturally with each limb my skill improved and I worked ever more efficiently between the sink, toilet, and stove. The remaining hands and feet though, proved to be tough little bastards. So I decided to boil them first in a big stainless steel pot. The hot water should loosen up those congested carpal and tarsal bones, respectively. However, I quickly learned that I could simply ignore the blender with those extremities, and just flush an entire human hand directly down the shitter once it had been roughly cut into quarters. One set of fingernails resembled the aerodynamic fenders from a row of Ducatis as they raced down that porcelain throne. The feet took a bit more encouragement, but the kitchen's mallet helped bash my fucking way through any resistant ligaments.
That left the dismembered torsos next. With a smaller fruit knife, I sliced open the first belly with a shallow cut, from below the sternum to the pubis. Using both hands, I pried open that great laceration, like spreading the curtain toward visions of Unit 731. I paused at that sight of shiny membranes and discolored organs. Grays and purples, pinks and scarlets. Intricate tissues meshed with hairline veins. All those crucial lumps of doe-like flesh clung to their designated seating and were there to fulfill an exclusive and vital occupation. These were components in a holistic system where every part was reliant on one another to sustain an operative homeostasis. Gradually I became aware of the fact that I had no clue as to which body this was. So I grabbed the second torso and immediately sliced it open. And then the third. As I peeled apart that long labia of an incision, I leaned back, comparing all three insides. They were utterly indistinguishable! It was even harder to tell the difference when comparing the external features: the subjects were all pale and skinny, the females had no mammary glands, and the genitals were waxed down to the nub. Apart from a miniscule limp dick in the mix, those carcasses were identical. Regardless of race, gender, or age, we all required the same fundamental items that made up our alimentary-canal. We're glorified worms that can tap-dance.
Using the scissors, I extracted the small and large intestine of the first carcasse. Snipping the connective tissue and spilling the stringy conduits across another body, I dug in deep, finding where the colon reached the anus. Carefully severing the orifice, I pinched off the valve to the stomach. Bundling up that serpent of entrails, I stepped over to the toilet, and inch by inch, I proceeded cutting off lengths of bowels into the bowl. Shit happened – I flushed it away.
Once all three piles of guts were disposed of, I thoroughly washed my hands and scissors clean of all that dealt with excrement. At that point I knew the remaining torsos were free to hack up without concern for tainting the meat. But then I shook my head – I had no fucking intention of frying up any of that raw material. I guess it was just a force of habit. However, I had to admit, those mutilated meat-puppets had become infinitely more attractive since my slaughterhouse modifications. Flipping over one of the females, I yanked its rump up over the edge of the bath and examined its pasty but perfect ass and hole. Immediately, I grabbed its hip with one hand as my other drove two fingers knuckle-deep into its accepting rectum. My digits popped out into the gutted gut, and so I rolled the body over, spreading its lacerated belly. Admiring my two fingers waving back at me within the hollow, I put some serious thought into sodomizing that meat. But my loathing soon reminded me of my simple objective.
I moved quickly with the scissors from then on. Ripping out chunks of random organs with no discerning. Hand over fist, I threw those diced-up internal systems into the toilet and sent them rushing into the city's sewers, never to be seen again.
After the abdomens had been scooped out and all three rib cages had been eviscerated, I had a moment of wondering if anyone was ever really going to fucking check up on my imprisonment. If someone might walk into the suite and find me there in the bathroom with that pair of meat-wet scissors in my hand while hunched over three mangled bodies, I would have been beyond all plausible excuse. Caught red-handed. But I wasn't. No one came. No one walked in. Just as nothing had stopped me. Nothing ever stops me from my desecration... Yet Mara had stopped me last year. And therein lies the root value of my love for her. With a little perspective, it was clear that she was the defining difference between last year and this. Unfortunately though, she was all too aware that too much time spent with my company brought out the worst in me. Looking back into the bath, I found it inevitable that this would happen, especially considering that I didn't even like those three carcasses.
With the mallet and steak knife, I chopped up ribs and shattered spinal columns. Shredding the skin and muscle fibers, I returned to the blender and flushed the last traces away.
Eventually, I was left with an elaborate collection of ugly baked bones. While I waited for the sticky leftovers of the skeletal ruins to dry up, I turned to the three hairless heads. The two females now looked like twins, the male was as forgettable as ever. I skinned their faces, scalped them, and then blessed the blender one last time. After rummaging through the bedroom closet, I found an old dry-cleaning clothes hanger. Straightening the cheap wire, I stabbed it into the cavity behind those empty eye-sockets, scrambled the brains like stirring a pot of paint – that's what I call a frontal-lobe-abortion! Replacing another load of bones in the oven, I then bashed out each and every last tooth from all three tattered skulls. There would be no identifying anyone here tonight!
"Seriously, man, what the fuck are you talking about!?" Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes whispered, slowly shaking his head as he leaned as far away from me as his chair would physically allow. "None of that fucking happened!"
Smiling sickly, I glanced at that shriveled Chinese shit, and then looked back at Mr. Cravat. "He's right. None of that happened at all."
"Then how did you get the blood on your hands?" Mr. Intermediate hissed, now smoking a cigarette in his chair.
I twisted slowly around, and while eyeballing that demented-looking cunt, I bitterly shrugged in an exaggerated slow-motion. "I told you, they picked the lock and left me there by myself."
"You're lying," Mr. Slappy sneered.
"What did you do with the bones?" Mr. Cravat spoke up in a creaky old tone as he shifted in his seat. "Where did you put the skulls?"
"I gave it a try, but the blender was just too fucking exhausted to crunch any bone after everything else," I quietly confessed. "There's a tall black vase in the lounge of the suite. The heads are all stacked inside – soaking in my piss. The rest of the bones, they're in two plastic bags under the kitchen sink. They would've been easily disposed of – if I was able to have exited the room and dump them individually in random public trashcans."
A stale silence lingered. Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes sat, constantly shaking his head as he stared at the table top.
"Bullshit," Mr. Slappy scoffed.
"Go have a look!" I stated, daring that fuck to punch me right in the face. "See for your-fucking-self!"
"Yes. Go look again," Mr. Cravat croaked. "Take him with you."
And that was when Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes lunged away screaming, denying that he had ever fucking known me before this evening! Good for him.
On the way down the corridor toward the elevator, my mind strayed and I dwelt on a letter that Mara had sent me after one of our many break ups:
"I despise every thing you believe in. I despise your deceptive and treacherous nature.
I despise you for not being honest with me, knowing full well that this is the one and only thing important to me.
I despise you for not respecting me enough to be honest with me, and trusting that I will find the solution for both of us.
I despise you for shitting all over me and my heart despite everything I've done for you and held and helped you through.
I despise the fact that you're a selfish ungrateful cunt!
Most of all I despise you for being my one and only weakness and that I love you so much."
As the Chinese and I filled the lift, I glanced at how Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes was held in an arm-lock by security, and yet I was free-standing. Was I to blame for taking anyone for a ride if they willingly came along? I guess a crime was still a crime, even if they let me get away with it. That old Italian proverb then reminded me that there were worse people than me, good people, "So good that he is good for nothing." Naturally, naysayers insist that there's something deeply wrong with you, me, and everyone. Of course our logic is flawed, biased, and egotistical; no one is impartial to their own personally relevant dilemmas. But confessions of the heart did little for solving the cause of the effect. And, if only the self can enlighten the self, then sharing is a distraction, so bottle it up and transmute the self by yourself. Bottle it up like the ashes of the sigil magic that I had begun filling glass jars with. The greater truth of your own agenda must be kept to yourself like all core matters of fundamental significance. And as Burroughs had said, "Avoid fools at any cost."
The elevator doors opened, and I glared down that dark corridor toward the distant suite – when, for no apparent reason, the fire alarm rang out like a piercing fucking school bell! Other doors tore open, pouring out dozens of half-naked girls and old men. Much like the turd in the toilet, I had no choice but to go with the flow. Reaching a turn in the corridor, I scanned back down the surging human-stampede, and spotted Mr. Intermediate and Mr. Slappy fighting through the crowd and after my inexplicable escape.
The mob burst into an emergancy stairwell, and once I reached the next level down, a weird little hand grabbed my elbow and yanked me through a door with an heroic strength. More Asian men with pink eyes and unbuttoned pants came stumbling out of other rooms, as some skinny little kid led me against the grain. I whipped my arm loose, and that small Indian boy immediately spun, bleating at me while he pointed wildly at another door just beyond that herd of whores. The impatient Iranian woman stood there with her arms crossed. This time, I swam like a sewer-rat up the s-bend toward the light coming from behind her impeccable figure. That clandestine woman said nothing, her sour expression making her exquisite face even more delicious as she locked the door behind me, leaving the boy in the corridor to fend for himself. Glancing across that very different hotel suite, I saw two stern old gentlemen in electric wheelchairs glide around the corner from the kitchen. They were both in their seventies (at least), and not one of those identical twins had a single leg amongst them. Then, to my left, a blind man in a Yves Saint-Laurent tailored suit shuffled into the lounge from the bedroom, but instead of your typical German-Shepherd seeing-eye-dog, he had a huge fucking hyena on a leash. This blind guy's entire face was so viciously scared that it appeared as if he had once slipped while trying to shave with a fucking chainsaw. The woman had walked over to a door on the far side of the suite, and after an extended moment of who-the-hell, one of the pompous Stumpy-Twins raised a frail hand and gestured that I might kindly get the fuck out of there. Cautious of Mr. Salami's surly-looking pet, I noticed a gold brooch pinned to his lapel. Pointy like a Doré halo and resembling masonic imagery, the ornament seemed somewhat familiar, though I couldn't recall why – probably because I was too disturbed by the insane gurgling noises that that fucking hyena had started making toward me.
The Iranian woman wrapped a black shawl over her shoulders, collected her Chanel purse, and then led me into a new series of corridors completely separate from the first. We seemed to have entered the neighboring building, yet the fire alarm persisted wherever we hurried. Soon we descended a smaller, vacant stairwell to the basement parking lot where that fucking alarm echoed even louder. I had made it all the way to exit ramp before my strange guide actually noticed that I was no longer following her.
"That vase was empty!"
It wasn't her voice that stopped me, but the freezing fucking breeze, especially due to the fact that I had just remembered that my coat was still in the lobby.
"What became of those three?" The Iranian's accusing tone felt like I was inhaling ammonia. "What witchcraft have you commit now?"
Turning, I smiled as I spoke, "Witchcraft? Are you fucking high?"
"I will not be intimidated!"
"You sure about that, Mrs. Akrasia?"
"You can't trick me, devil! I see the curses you have sent sniffing at my doorstep. I see them every day since your insolence at the lake."
"Please, it's a 'loch'," I winced, while staring toward the exit ramp.
"Every night that I open my front door, they're waiting outside," she snarled. "I can see their wet eyes in the dark. I recognize distinctive spirits. They climb the walls, hang from the ceiling, but I can still see them watching me."
"But the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is," I said curiously. "Have they started singing you lullabies in your bed yet?"
"Their kind has no power to speak to the likes of me!" the woman snarled. "We are superior to the banality of your toying! So why do you insist on shirking amongst such puerile infatuations?!"
I was suddenly aroused by her unshaken confidence. There was an innate pride to her voice that smelt like royalty, and I finally wanted a taste of this ostentatious meat. However, I had another priority, "Who's the old guy? That Mr. Rabbi?"
"Call off your dogs!" she demanded.
We both stood in vicious contempt for a moment – when the fire alarm abruptly quit. The echo throbbed within those caverns of the parking lot, as I smirked. "You never looked in that vase, did you."
She was a stone.
"I tell you what, cutie pie. If you get my coat back from the front desk, then we'll call it even."
A double BEEP BEEP then drew my eyes to a silver Lexus RC 350.
Fire trucks and ambulances with all their epileptic indigo sirens filled the adjacent streets to The Little China Embassy; while Helena Winkelman’s deranged string quartet, Quadriga, filled the Iranian's automobile as we quietly drove away.
"Why did you lie to them? Why create such elaborate misdirection that no one would ever believe?" Her voice seemed softer, genuinely perplexed. "Your Asian friend, the one that you abandoned back there, they will find him personally responsible for inviting you in. They won't be forgiving about it."
"You know, a little while ago, I took my girlfriend to a session with my new psychologist. During which she cried – a lot. Soon my therapist politely informed me that it wasn't 'normal' to feel 'fine' about watching my girlfriend cry," I recalled, staring out the window at the sodden city as we headed west. "And yet, after every-fucking-thing, the official diagnosis is in: just because I think this way doesn't make me sick in the slightest! So if I make my own home be my gallows, then what the fuck do I care about some nobody taking the fall?"
"You should have died," the Iranian murmured. "You do realize that! Explain your actions!"
"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO ME?! I DON'T FUCKING OWE ANYONE ANY FUCKING EXPLANATIONS!"
The Lexus swerved down a side street and suddenly came to a standstill at the corner of nowhere and consequence – that's my exit, thanks.
I definitely wasn't wearing enough as I glanced around the empty streets, about to slam the passenger’s side door shut, when that woman spoke up, "There is a man in Moldova, pray you meet him before those from the Tigris banish you."
Listening to The Cutthroats 9, Can't Do A Thing, I was done with all this cryptic fucking talk. Yet as the Lexus sped away, that sentiment from Genghis Khan rang true throughout my vindictive little head, "The greatest happiness is to scatter your enemy, to drive him before you, to see his cities reduced to ashes, to see those who love him shrouded in tears, and to gather into your bosom his wives and daughters."
© 2015 BRUCE STIRLING JOHN KNOX