Hong Kong Phooey Will Have His Revenge On Chicago

April 1, 2011 - Leave a Response

The short, fat one is clearly the ring leader. Even in retreat, the larger ones rarely stray far from his side. He’s a mouthy bastard, too. He seems affronted that I expect respect in my own front yard. It takes the gunshot-loud crack of a screwdriver against the metal screen door to finally send him scurrying back home.

The next morning, as I feed our wood burning stove, the bastard appears once again. The backyard is a bit more ambiguous. It isn’t entirely clear where the two properties divide. It doesn’t matter because nobody mows the middle section anyway. The grass grows tall all summer and then another neighbor bales it into hay, splitting the profit with whoever lives in the two houses.

In the ten years we’ve been here, we’ve went through half-a-dozen neighbors. Either they don’t like the country as much as they had expected, can’t keep up with the mortgage or can’t hold their marriage together. But no matter who lives next door, they always have dogs. Most of them have horses, too. And whatever other country cliches they can muster. Nobody seems to move out here for the peace and quiet.

The bastard is mouthing off again. I grab a chunk of wood and fling it at him. My weak arm has no chance of hitting him, but a couple of lucky bounces bring it within a foot of his snout, sending him scurrying closer to home once more. His flunkies aren’t around to back him up this time.

I consider putting out a bowl of anti-freeze, maybe with a chocolate bar on the side. If the neighbors say anything, I’ll invite them in for a bit of chocolate and a cup of Drano. It’s not that I hate animals, I just want them to leave me alone. Ever since being attacked in second grade, all I’ve wanted was to be left alone.

Stove fed, I head back into the house. I glance at the girl lying asleep on one of the two twin beds. I go over to one of the pieces of luggage, open it, and from under a pile of shorts and undershirts I take out an Ortgies calibre 7.65 automatic. I release the magazine, look at it, then reinsert it. I cock the piece. Then I go over and sit down on the unoccupied twin bed, look at the girl, aim the pistol, and fire a bullet through my right temple.


Bleed For Me

January 1, 2010 - Leave a Response

I shouldn’t have told you that I wanted someone to bleed for me. I knew you wouldn’t understand, I don’t really understand it myself.

“So, like, you want me to take a razor blade and slit my wrists?”

But I tell you no, that would be manufactured, it needs to be organic. And besides, wrists and razors are cliché, too passé to be beautiful.

“Like… stigmata?”

No, I insist. Nothing so dramatic. There is nothing organic about a miracle, I say.

“So… what, then? What exactly is it that you want?”

And I say I don’t know, that it’s not a concrete thought, that it’s just a vague notion. It would be nice to have someone bleed for me. It is a passing but recurring thought like the red line that suggests you’ve misspelled a word before you’ve finished typing. There is no before that leads up to the event and no indication as to what might occur after. It is simply a single moment of meaning.

“Do you want to see me suffer?”

Again I tell you no. Suffering would be the journey and the journey is irrelevant. Only the destination matters.

“So then what do you want from me?”

Nothing, I say. It isn’t important. It doesn’t even have to be you. I immediately sense that this pisses you off.

“I don’t get it.”

I didn’t expect that you would. I can tell this pisses you off even more but I don’t care. You never will get it. If ever someone bleeds for me, it won’t be you.