Runaway Warrior

He was sitting on the couch watching TV next to his mom when his phone beeped. He picked it up and clicked on the picture she sent and his body was engorged with blood. His cheeks felt warm. He had to go upstairs to his room before he embarrassed himself in front of his mother again.

He locked the bedroom door and looked at his phone again at her picture. He was rising slowly all the way up the stairs and was now fully erect. He had no idea how she did it but she did it every time. She was 23 and in blue flowery shorts and dark blue bra that barely concealed her secret charms. Her right hand was pulling one side of her shorts down, revealing a hint of what lay beneath, a black stripe of elastic that held his world up from prying eyes.

He gazed upon her toned, flat stomach. He couldn't look away and washed his vision upon the promise of her youth. It reminded him of a time when he was full of promise and his life lay in front of him untarnished by time just as her life lay in front of her in ways she could not realize.

She did not expect to see her that way so soon. He had not seen her in weeks and his loins remembered what they missed. He was filling up his dreams with her vision. It was easy to fall in love with health and beauty but easier still to be bedazzled by creativity. It was throwaway details like the arch of her hip and the twist of her neck and the way her hair fell to Earth. It was the way her watercolour paintings swirled on the canvas like ink blots swimming in a pond of goldfish.

She unfortunately grounded him. He was one whose head was too much in the clouds and her practicality was something he avoided as much as possible. He could not drive. He could not speak without profanity. He saw it as a point of pride that he was raw and unfiltered. It was the voice of the wild animal within him that roared through his lungs when words turned his fingers into vicious claws that destroyed his enemies mercilessly. His sheathed his fangs behind the mask of a jester. It afforded his identity protection and confused his enemies.

But looking at her unexpected gift of portraiture, the beast's voice grew silent within him and he felt himself entering the world of men. He would get an entry-level job. He'd learn to drive a stick shift at 32. He looked at a house to share with his private wingless angel of mercy. She forgave him his indiscretions because she saw in him something he forgot. His potential. His greatness. It was easy to try when you see the prize before your eyes.

He didn't know if he would make it through the week without her dropping him like a bad habit. If she did, it would be his mistake that unleashed the animal within to strike at point blank rage. He decimated his enemies with spiritual violence and slicing syllables the way a samurai polished his blade. He did not want to fight any more. The war is over. His name is a battlefield upon which the truth was discovered. What he discovered was that the true warrior did not need to raise his weapon.

Yukio Mishima said, "True beauty is something that attacks, overpowers, robs, and finally destroys." Her beauty was more than an attack, it was a relentless frontal assault against which he had no defence. He laid down his arms and surrendered. Within her submission lay his freedom.

"How strange man is! His touch defiles and yet he contains the source of miracles."--Mishima, Spring Snow.

Drive Me.

He looked at his note. It was one of many. He never knew which one would be his last. He lay in bed talking on the phone while he waited for his brother's painkillers to take effect. She told him to die, he took her advice. The closest weapon at his disposal were a bottle of blue pills his brother took for his slip disc surgery. Fortunately, he wasn't home.

He remembered the last time he lay in his brothers bed paralysed, the first time wasn't drug-induced, it was all natural. The serotonin levels in his brain went haywire because his brain's thoughts were trying to kill him and he was too weak to fight them off. The woman on the other end of the line was the trigger. She told him he should die and he told her it was good advice.

The last time he lay in his brother's bed unable to move, he thought it was time. So did his brother, not knowing he was asleep, the younger sibling snuck into his room and sat in a chair across from the dressing table mirror. He left the lights off. Both didn't want to know the other was wide awake and waiting for death.

His brother picked up the guitar that was on the floor. It was a cheap acoustic one with scratches all over the back of its brown heart. He strummed the first few chords of Only God Knows Why, more for the title than it's musical quality. It provided him with an answer that his mind could not. He didn't know why his older brother, the golden child, the life of the party, the dirty joker stopped speaking for months. All he could communicate was in gibberish and barely understandable snippets of song lyrics. He was like Rain Man, if Dustin Hoffman had a stroke instead of Tom Cruise for a wingman.

He saw the sillouhette of his large brother's body and didn't say a word. He couldn't if he wanted too. His brain's chemicals went haywire and didn't allow any communication. He often told those closest to him that he couldn't stop talking when he was happy. And if was quiet, they should call a doctor. They always laughed and thought he was kidding. And so did he, until the time came that he wasn't.

The last time he jokingly told someone they should call a doctor if he was silent was right after he ended an fast-talking barrage of random information, recollections of passages from books that touched him and half-sung song lyrics. He wasn't sure if they noticed or were too occupied by the traffic they were cursing. After a while, he stopped talking and looked out the car window.

They passed by tropical green bushes than flashed by as if the air itself held up invisible green crayons. An hour ago he walked by the train station and noticed the wet grass next to a full river and saw the roots of trees drinking fluids from the Earth. Whenever he saw a large tree's outline, it always caught him by surprise because it seemed like they were always there but he couldn't see the forest for the trees. They reminded him of his brother in his room in that chair, a large round living object that provided him with breath.

Walking past the wet grass, he stopped for a moment and looked at the sky and remembered something Camus said. "In the depths of winter, I discovered in me an invincible summer." He felt lucky to be alive in the wet rain on the way to see someone he loved. When she ignored his voice in favour of oncoming traffic, his lips fell silent and the song in the car reminded him of the last time he stopped eating.

His guidance counsellor didn't recognize him when she saw him in her office. His cheeks were sunk in and his pants lay low over his waist. He lost several inches and forgot what hunger felt like. He was hungry but the pain in his stomach had grown into a comfortable numbness, like an old relative that simply didn't leave after Thanksgiving. It was a nuisance he tolerated, even if it was slowly killing him with his own acid. If he could hasten the pace, he would have, but good things come to those who wait and death comes for us all.

He remembered that time when the song played in the car and his mind grew silent. Before his brain chemistry started to silence kill him, he remembered the wet grass and trees he saw earlier that day and the prayer he spoke out  to the sky like crazy person. "Thank you God for bringing me here." He smiled to himself glad that despite his best efforts, the pills did not work for some unfathomable reason and he woke up simply sleepier and drowsier than before.

The next day he went about the day as if nothing happened and was smiled inside his face whenever he remembered than everyone he saw that day had no clue that the day before he thought he would never see them again.

For some reason, he was still alive and in the passenger seat while an impatient driver was complaining about punctuality and traffic. Maybe someday they'll know. Maybe they never will. He hoped they never have to find their summer because not every heart survives the winter. But his did and it beat strong inside his chest. For what, he knew not why, but looking at the angry driver, he was glad that it did.

Afternoon delight.

We live in a Hell we create. We populate it with our own personal Jesus and Satan. Lincoln hoped the better angels of our nature won. I can only pray.

The room in Benghazi was empty, except for Tom. The whores left their red lingerie on the floor where he had taken them both from behind the night before. One wanted to get handcuffed. The other wanted to watch her gag. They did, and then had some wine and watched Conan while the cab came.



He felt less alone now. There was something about the sight of a woman's lips on another woman that melted his sorrows away. He looked at his camera. The pictures were reminiscent of a Roman orgy. He must've been a good emperor in a past life. Now it was his time to be evil.

He could not kill unless he fucked two women the night before. It calmed him down. It was a carnal meditation for this warrior of fortune. He lit a cigarette with a silver Zippo lighter. It flickered twice. Can't start a fire without a spark. He inhaled deeply and blew out the smoke into the ceiling fan. The grey vapours disappeared like vampires at sunrise.

Cut to.

The helicopter blades in close up. Over a suburban area. Night.

Day Two. 3.30am

His collar was too tight. He unbuttoned it. He never got over how the sound of gunfire sounded exactly like the firecrackers he heard as a child every Chinese New Year. They afforded him clarity. In the situation room, he knew Obama and Hillary were watching, and he didn't care.

For him it was simple, follow the directions and ask no questions. Obeying the chain of command was a critical failsafe. All he could see was the dark night and the Pakistani compound where his target lay. It might as well have been a snatch thief, he didn't care. For him, it was just a job like any other. It was the only way he could do it.

Day One. 10.35am

"If no one needs you, why are you here?" He thought to himself, "You're only as valuable as what you can do for others." That can't be true. Some people like you for who you are, not what you can do for them, certainly.

"Well then, where are these people, Personal Jesus?" The demon asked, sitting in the edge of the couch. "Look around, my prince! Where are your loyal subjects?" He looked around his room. There wasn't anyone there. There hadn't been anyone there for months. He has no record of human existence besides fallen strands of hair on the carpet and specks of dandruff on the floor masquerading as dust.

"Who loves you more than me?" asked the demon while putting tobacco in his pipe. "God? Your mother? Your friends and lovers?" The Beast laughed the roar of a lion. "What fools these mortals be." He shook his head. "My dear, sweet child, the kindness in your heart is your weakness. Vultures feast on your carcass while you live and you're thanking them. I must be in Canada."

The room smelled like wet towels and unwashed underwear infected with fungus. His gastric juices were eating the insides of his growling stomach. He hadn't showered, shaved, or seen another human being in months. "Where did they go?" He asked the demon, who was having a glass of whiskey on the rocks. "They didn't go anywhere. They're still at the center of their universe," he said shaking his glass while the ice cubes clinked. "They will do as they please regardless of your painful objections but wherever they are, I haven't seen anyone's face but mine pop up here whenever you're on your knees."

"What is this? Some kind of test?" He asked the demon in the purple suit. "What the fuck do I look like? God? Surely, I have more faith in you than that. You need to relax, my child," said the demon as he poured himself another drink. 

"I remember a secret I told John the last time he was here, "said the demon while putting his arm around my shoulder. "The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."  

When no one is around you, my darkness will keep you company. "It's for selfish reasons that I'm watching over you," said the Beast. "My star needs someone to follow. It shines brightest during the darkest of nights." The morning star destroys all shadows.

Chesty

Day Two. 8.27am.

His chest hurt when he inhaled. "Must be the smoking." He couldn't take too much of a deep breath without wanting to cough. "Must be pulling all the filters out." He'd bend his cigarette filters and tear them out of his smokes so he inhaled unfiltered carcinogens and tobacco. "Why kid yourself?" He figured if they were killing him, he'd give them a head start.

It was his birthday tomorrow. When he was a kid, he'd be surrounded by friends and family, cakes and jokes, gifts and hugs and nice clothes. He was a star. A three feet tall star with endless potential and a love for fantasy. He'd tell jokes about golf and lightning and God and it made lawyers laugh.

He doubts that he will even see anyone tomorrow. He doesn't see too many people these days and spends most of his time in his room in hiding. A few times a week Sally might call him for lunch and it gave him an excuse to wash his face and brush his teeth and eat. If she didn't drag him out of the house to whine about her boyfriends while they ate, he would probably eat nothing.

She has no idea that all her complaining was inadvertently keeping him alive. He wasn't sure how much more weight he'd lose once she leaves the country next month. Probably all of it. Again. It wasn't the first time he's been neglected, but hopefully, it will be his last.  

Day Three. 1pm.

What would you do if you had three days to live?

Would it make a difference to anyone around you?

Would they know you were gone?

Would they know you were around in the first place?

Would they know you were there?

I don't know if it would make a difference to the lives of those around you.

If they didn't notice where you were when you were around, why would they pretend to notice after you've gone and can't come back?

I don't know. I think meditating on death gives whatever days of life leftover a brighter resonance.
Maybe life and death mean nothing if no one notices. But even if there's no one around, I have my books and music. Whatever plain of existence I end up on up, or if I just turn into worm food and fertilizer, at least my departure would bring some oxygen into the world when I breathe no more.

It would be nice if someone could push a button on their iPhones and hear your voice. If someone knew you were here, maybe you wouldn't have to go. It's not that hard to stay alive, But sometimes, people think you being in their iPhone book is a waste of their time. I'll save your batteries and turn into one. I'll turn into petroleum in a million years and be used in some vehicle of the future for some yet unborn kid to get to school, whoever that kid is, it won't be mine. I've gone the way of the dinosaurs. It's a countdown to extinction. What did the Brontosaurus think when it saw the meteor fly across the sky? Nothing.

Her Vomit Is Worth More Than Your Life.

She sent him a picture of her friend throwing up into a toilet when he told him he thought about killing himself.

"This is what I have to deal with. Sort yourself out," was the accompanying text-message.

Thinking about that picture makes him wonder why he didn't hang himself that day. A drunk friend with her cheek on a cold toilet seat was more worthy of her time than the ending of his life that day. He imagined that if she did get a picture of his lifeless body, she would not as much as change weekend dinner plans. His life had value if it was useful in her fictional idealized future. If it didn't, his life was insignificant.

It had been raining all day and he hadn't left his room. "What's the point?" He wondered. He saw a CD by the Beatles on his couch, Help. He got it a two years ago when he was editing The Village Voice. It had come in the mail. He loved it. It was broken in two on his couch now. It was her favorite band.

"Who gives a shit, John? No one cared while you're here and everyone loves you when you are dead."

Happy Thanksgiving.