My Jehovah's witness friend, Nate, spoke. "If you can write about anything then why don't you write about this - two guys going to a bar?" Nate has no problem being friends with me even though my rejection of the teachings of Jehovah makes me ineligible for eternal life and other valuable cash prizes. Anyway, my point is that if this drought of writing material continues don't be surprised if you see an update about two guys going to a bar.
"What are you doing down here in the basement?" C said.
"Surprise!" I said. "I spent the last three days painting this elaborate mural depicting the combine's glorious victory over the forces of earth."
"You did all this in just three days? Are you on speed?"
"No. Unless the green stuff seeping out of the cracks in the basement floor is speed because I've been eating a lot of that."
"Hey, you know how the other night we were accosted by those two muggers in the park and all of a sudden you flew ten feet into the air and as if on cue the full moon emerged from the clouds and cast a glowing blue nimbus on you as you produced a single black rose and blew on it, creating a maelstrom of razor-sharp petals that fended off the muggers? I was just wondering, were you ever planning on explaining that to me?"
"I think I might be a goth."
Goth is a beautiful song playing over the speakers at the mall food court. I'm fucked if I ever get into a car accident because my spiked dog collar will puncture the airbag.
I remember C and I's first kiss. We got awesome that night. For those of you who aren't familiar with the phrase, getting awesome is what would happen if you took the best thing ever and somehow made it better. An example would be flashing someone the sign of the devil as you ride past them on a motorcycle dressed like Axl Rose. And I don't mean the early pseudo-biker Axl Rose. I'm talking about 90s era Axl Rose with the kilt and everything.
"I can't believe you're satisfied with your entry level position as a combine soldier." C said. "You obviously have the intelligence and motivation to be a combine assassin."
"Well, combine assassins do make more money but it's also more hours and more responsibility." I said. "This job is just a temporary thing until my goth metal band, Silent Cemetarium, makes it big. I'm not a very good singer but I know how to play my strengths."
"Uh, being able to sound like Stevie Nicks vomiting into a metal coffee can isn't a strength."
Somewhere a lone vortigon was discovering he could produce a variety of notes by blowing into the hollow stalk of a plant native to xen.
C and I watched Demonic Toys. Watching a movie while jacked up on valkyr often yields startling insights into the filmmaker's vision. Suddenly I was there at the production meeting listening to the director say "What can we add to our movie to make it even edgier? Well, we've already got an evil jack-in-the-box so it must be a doll that uses the word "fuck"."
C and I went christmas shopping. If anyone reading this would like to help me with my christmas shopping I'm willing to pay $50 for a demonic Art Carney doll mint in box. It doesn't have to be the original box, just a box. Preferably one it can't escape from.
"You take the blue pill, the story ends." C said. "You wake up in your bed and you believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill, you stay in wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes."
"Oh sure, pop a pill. That's our generation's answer to everything, isn't it? We've got instant coffee, instant news, and now we've got commercials telling us we can have instant happiness through pharmaceuticals."
C and I surveyed the urban sprawl of Loudon road. I refused to believe this was the same land that the ancients once gave up their immortality to tread upon. It was another frigid New Hampshire winter. At absolute zero any piece of matter becomes a superconductor. Not that I minded the weather. I was a man-who-wished-he-was-a-woman for all seasons. Someday I would leave this place. Watch me fly above Concord like a shadow on the sky.
"Well, you and your car both survived the accident." the tow truck driver said. "Although I can understand if you're a little shaken up."
"All the fear is gone." I said. "In its place is a sublime comfort that tantalizes the nightmaren who speak its name. Also, during those few seconds where I stared death straight in the eye I realized something: I want to have larvae."
C and I watched The Red Green Show. As a slight aside, here is a hilarious comedy sketch I've written that Red Green may use free of charge:
I'm telling you, men and women are so different. Now if a man had a vagina he'd find a more practical use for it. He'd get a bottle opener installed in it because you can never find a bottle opener when you need one, am I right?
"The scientists have it all wrong." C said. "It isn't an airborne virus that's reanimating the corpses. It's radioactive earthworms burrowing into their spinal cords. That's why headshots have been so ineffective. They have to aim for the spine. Oh, and I threw out that rotting tree branch in the closet that had all those Derek Walcott poems taped to it."
Now I'm 50 years old. All the rock stars I idolized in my youth are dead, although part of me would like to believe that their brains live on in metal cylinders on their way to the home planet of a Lovecraftian crab people. The last time I saw C she was at Cafe Eclipse surrounded by government officials. I recognized the look in her eyes. It was the look of a S.T.A.R.S. member preparing for what they knew would be their final assignment.