Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Dear Curious Cattle-Monger

Just like you...

All strings, no control

The Dusty Emperor of Nothing

Saturday, January 23, 2010

The Crazy

I’ve either been here for several days or just a few minutes. Time has just stopped flowing like the smooth stream it was when I was growing up. It seems like now I can be yanked right out of the way of things and held up from the rest of the world. At first I couldn’t tell what was happening, the transition was quick and subtle. Now it’s blazingly apparent. Like right now, I’m standing in this phone booth. I came in to make a call to Gwendolyn when the stars started whizzing by. Whoosh. Whoosh. Then it was like they all went by at once. It looked like every star-tail strung through every moment it could experience in both directions. I was tempted to go ahead and make the phone call anyway, but I’ve tried to do that before. I called myself and left a forty-eight hour message once. When I came home later the machine had exploded.
There’s no accounting for the time. I’ll just get dropped back in right where I left off, but the time out in the cold keeps getting longer. I’ve talked to a few people about this and often it’s a mixture of confirmed disbelief with a skeptical line of questioning. The truth is I often don’t go anywhere when my record goes off the track. I’m never sure when I’m going to be dropped back in and there’s no telling what maniac on a bicycle or texting driver I’ll appear in front of. I prefer to stay in the general area where things started or, I suppose, where things stopped. Like this phone booth. It’s not great, but there are ads to read. One for some women who calls herself “Treat” and another for a business I can run out of my home. They both have the same hook. “Have you got some extra time on your hands?” It’s exactly like it sounds. My hands are grimy with time. I can also read the phone book, but I usually don’t get past—


Howard: Hel...Hello?
Mr. X: Hello, Howard.
Howard: Um…
Mr. X: I imagine this must be quite shocking, Howard. Take your time.
Howard: No, I mean, a bit surprising, yes, but what with the rest of my life I’m used to being disoriented
Mr. X: Good man. Well, let’s get to it then. Howard, you are going crazy.
Howard: Pardon?
Mr. X: Quite mad, in fact. In a few years, you won’t be able to get out of your own head.
Howard: What? That isn’t—
Mr. X: —quite fair, is it. No, it isn’t. But you’re about to be introduced into an entirely new world. Tell me, have you ever considered how crazy an average crazy person considers themselves?
Howard: Well, no.
Mr. X: No! And neither had I until I went to crackers, but it’s fairly simple. A crazy person never feels crazy. A rather important symptom, I’m afraid. Take me for example. I was a leading professor of eastern philosophy when I started to make my jumps into madness. I know what it’s like to feel the earth stop around you, only mine wasn’t so gradual as yours. I was lost in this world of lights rather fast.
Howard: Wait, what are you saying? This is crazy?
Mr. X: No, Howard, you are. You’ll see it soon enough, but I have other things to attend to now. I’m not the only one here though. We all come to the same place. A meeting of the maddest minds in the land of lights. You may even meet some, in time. But for now, this will have to suffice. Welcome to the crazy.


Sunday, January 10, 2010

Dear Callow Wastrel

Pick it up.

It's me on the other end. Telling you to go to hell.

~The Red-Haired Monk of Excess


They all assembled for practice. They were lined up like porcelain dolls, each one fairer than the last, and each one deadlier.

Their master watched them with a cold gaze that looked like he could freeze your very soul. No one knew much of anything about him other than that he was the best of his kind: merciless, calculating, and efficient. They say he came from Russia sometime in the 70's. That he killed 5 men on his way out of the iron curtain and over the wall. They are probably underestimating him. No one knows what happened to the girls he trained in the USSR, as they were never heard from again, but watching him rap one of the girls knees with his cane for imperfect posture, I think it's clear that he took care of them in a very permanent way.

Ugh, how long is this going to be?

The girls here are nonetheless up to the challenge. Tanya wears a red bow that she is said to have used strangling a general of a Middle Eastern military regime. A kick from her tiny feet could break any bone she wished, and she has the precision to choose exactly witch vertebrae she wanted to crush. Her parents were murdered by KGB spies, so now she stays at the school, training night and day to be the perfect killer.

I can't believe they're still stretching.

Though looking at her one would find it hard to believe, but Megan was born to a very rich railroad family out of Northern California. The lap of luxury and the rigors of polite behavior bothered her so much that she ran away at the age of 13 hoping for a less extravagant life. What she found were the means to be one of the top 10 weapons experts in the world. She can make a bomb from household items. She can shoot the wings of a fly at 500 yards without a scope. She can assemble and disassemble a hand gun upside down and blindfolded in under a minute. She has killed over a hundred men in the last year.

Christ this sucks.

Joanna simply showed up at the school one day alone with 2 suitcases and a murderous look. It was never known where she came from, if her parents were alive, or anything else for that matter. The master took her in immediately and began her training. She is the most graceful in the school. Her dance is a dance of blood and carnage, and she tiptoes and pirouettes through it, causing it, without getting a single drop on her. The twin blades, two curved short swords from Japan, have cleaved through countless of her enemies, and have never once chipped. She knows how to slice between neck bones, through ligament and never hitting the hard stuff.

Certainly there were others, a whole school, but these three were the deadliest, the most skilled, the cleverest, the most like the master as he modeled them in his image. The school was a decent enough front, and the rigors of ballet training certainly aided them in their assassinations, but these three showed up to learn to kill, and they have become masters in that field. Together they have ended the lives of over a thousand men without batting an eye. They are cruel, they are unforgiving...

Hello? Jesus Christ mom this is so boring! When are you going to come and get me from Janet's ballet practice? What? Another hour? Ugh. This sucks. Yeah, sorry, language, right. Listen, can we at least stop at Wendy's or something on the way back? I want a Frosty.