Not much of this is new. I don't really know what direction to take this. Comments would be most appreciated. Let me know what you want to see and I'll see what I can do. And now, without further delay...
The sun was shining. It was Tuesday. I went to the coffee shop and got 8 shots of espresso over ice. I drank it down fast and headed back into the sun. No day like tomorrow: to begin the show.
There are times when I think a great deal of myself. Then there are the other times. My father was not a drinking man. So it seemed very out of character when he remarked to me that day, “Here’s to life. Let’s fuck it up.” That was the end of the beginning.
I had never killed a man.
I don’t know whether that should surprise you or not. I mean, killing isn’t really something most people do a lot of nowadays. I am not and have never been a soldier. Or a communist. I’m not really much of a fighter in general. It is only by coincidence that my father was named Mersault. We are not French. And I will hear no insinuations to the contrary. And as for me, I am no Mersault. I am the Prophet. But that is beside the point. It wasn’t the sun. I think. Drinking beer in the hot sun is fun and all, but it has never made me want to kill a fucker. I wasn’t drunk either. Just to clear that up.
I’m not a violent person. In general. I mean, there have been times. Everyone has times. Not in years though. I don’t know how to release the rage anymore. It just simmers now. Don’t get the wrong idea. It isn’t going to boil over or anything. I’m not a threat. That’s not what this is about. It isn’t about me. Strike that. Reverse it. It is about me. It’s all about me. But it isn’t about my problems or my rage issues. I don’t have any. I don’t. It’s about reality, life in general. And why it doesn’t work. It doesn’t. Especially life in the suburbs. But that’s also a digression. I have a difficult time staying on topic. It happens. Deal. I have to.
But there was something about that day.
It's not that I believe in fate; or Fate, or however you want to parse it. As if this was something that I had to do and couldn’t have done otherwise, blah blah blah. I don't. It wasn’t. I could have done otherwise. We could have gone anywhere other than the park that night. But we didn’t. And that is that. I’m not in the mood to argue philosophy at this point. This is not that kind of story. Not yet anyway. It’s just that there was something, I don’t really know how to put it, something wrong with the day. It was almost as if Reality itself had changed. I know that sounds ridiculous, but still. We had urges to do things that well, were wrong. Immoral things, despicable things, things you don’t write home about. I don’t know how else to put it. It was as if reality wasn’t Reality anymore. It was something more; something different. And well, we followed through on some of them. We are a people that follow our whims, like a leaf upon the wind, &c. Laugh if you will. Scoff if you must. You weren’t there. You don’t know what it was like. How it felt. What it made you feel like doing. What it made you do. No, that’s not right. It didn’t “make” us do anything. That was our choice too. I don’t feel the need to apologize for my behavior. I am what I am. It is what it is. What happened happened. So it goes.
Everything was so much more … fluid?
At least he was a bum. A lush we found in the park wrapped in newspaper and dog shit. We had paid him earlier in the day to dance for us. It was hilarious. Or at least we thought so. We got a few dirty looks from passersby (not that any of them made a move to stop us. So few people willing to back up their beliefs these days. No wonder I lost hope.). I don’t know that that makes the situation any better. He was still a person. Most of a person. And if you believe in basic human rights, then what we did would still be considered wrong. As to the rest of it … ? … Fuck it. I make no apologies for my behavior. Not anymore. Not after that day.
I can't say that it was planned. Honestly, no sane person would plan shit this fucked up. And yes, we are sane. Or, we were. As far as sane goes these days, anyway. And no, we weren't on drugs. We weren't. We weren't drunk or high. We weren’t the ones that were altered. Reality had altered. Things weren't what they were. They were ... who knows. Who knows what the fuck they were.
It was night. Of that much I am certain. There are many things that I cannot discern anymore. But night and day are … actually … It was dark. I know it was dark. I am certain that it was dark. It might not have been night, but it was dark. Which was important. He was asleep. Which was also important. Or rather, it would be, later on.
I broke his kneecap with a hammer. We wanted to hear him scream. And did he ever. For a junk sick black-livered shitheap, the man had lungs. We danced in his screams; drank in his agony. In his eyes we saw the truest knowledge Man can posses: certainty of impending death. The bum had an epiphany; we had brought him the light. Then we pummelled him until he bled out. Then… Then I can’t say what. Having never killed a man before I couldn’t have known what to really “expect” … but when you kill a man, he doesn’t die as someone else. That, I know, doesn’t happen. Except…
When we looked at the body, it wasn’t him. It had been him. But it wasn’t now…
She was a bag lady … now, at least. Why I wasn’t disturbed by the quantum flux, why we didn’t lose a step, why any of this had happened to begin with, I couldn’t say. We scattered her cans all over the place. We were drunk on rage and glory and madness bled through our souls.
His name was Napoleon V. He was a midget. Every good story needs one.
Napoleon V painted his face blue. He felt it better expressed his personality. You see, Napoleon V hated himself, life, the universe and everything. And it wasn’t just his diminutive size that caused Napoleon V to grow so miserable with the world. Things never seemed to go his way. Until he started taking shit into his own hands.
Napoleon V wanted to piss on the body. But I told him that was a bad idea. You never leave DNA behind. Reality was shifting, but there are some rules you never break if you don’t want to get caught.
I let Napoleon V go two days ago. He was becoming too unreliable. He was starting to enjoy it too much. He was going out on his own. And his thirst was growing. He was fucking up Bateman style. Besides, a sadist is grounded in reality. A twisted reality. A violent reality. But a firm reality. And I was beyond that. He was becoming an anchor weighing me down. I don’t know where he is now. Or if he is. Still.
They came looking for Napoleon V yesterday. They had traced him back to the scene of one of his “walks in the park”. I sent them on something of a goose chase. I needed a change of scenery. And fast.
I got married yesterday. My fair Ophelia. Nymph. In her orisons, be all my sins remembered. My ex, Allison, was quite upset. To say the least. Allison is a one-legged golddigging stripper. I told her that I had money back at the club, flashed a fat roll of fake cash, and she danced her way into my drunken heart. I paid my way into her soulless cunt. Nothing but funny money. Ophelia is different. She is straight up fucking crazy. Off my kind of deep-end. Drowing in our collective unconscionable.
Honeymoon on a private island. Margaritas in the hot sun. Salt on the rim. Life slowed. Stopped. Freedom. Sweet blissful freedom. Nothing happened. Nothing needed to happen. Everything was still.
I woke up on my couch this morning. I don't remember how I got here. There was a hammock. And the sun. And the ocean; so blue, so perfect. But ... I don't ... remember ...