I have not heard from the Captain, and am concerned he may be lost to the streets. While I search, I have found someone else lost: Lost Male.
Too many nights and days wandering through thoughts of purposelessness had caused he who once was to tune out all that was around. He gave little thought to where he was, his surroundings, his presence, and pondered. So many nights had passed as he wandered his own mind, time had lost meaning and the routine of everyday living foreign.
Something out of place, almost sacred, yet natural and whole woke him for a moment. It was a tree, a lost tropical tree — a plumeria — standing tall and wide in full bloom pouring sweet jasminesque dreams into the night air and awoke the dead scent sense to the world around. It was stark contrast: the bright, beautiful tree in the barren, gray, grimy industrial neighborhood, but he saw no contrast, only the sight of blossoms in bloom and scent of sweetness. The tree brought him back to the realm of nuanced real, and he noticed he was hungry. The scent awoke the senses.
When a man is so out of touch with the physical realm that he wanders the streets without consciousness, he becomes thin, emaciated. The man who would be was hungry, thirsty, but, alas, he was empty of pocket as well as purpose. Fate, always the maniacal menace of the melancholy and morose had a plan — fate always has a plan, but it is never simple, or fully imagined when mindlessly meandering.
Awakened to the world, he heard his hunger growl. It was not to be taken lightly. He searched, looking for an opportunity to earn enough to eat, to seize a bite. He would not ask for a handout. He searched the bland bastion of horizon for a fruit tree, but most everything was dead or desperately dodging death’s sickle, except the red and white plumeria. Where to next? Where was he? He needed a live, vibrant city, but hunger has no boundaries, so the shell of fossilizing force continued his journey. Deeper and deeper into the dingy darkness of a dusk slamming shut the dream of another day.
The sounds were distant, nothing more than unidentifiable echoes, but they appeared to the instincts of he who was as a sign, an invitation to the possibility of food. The draw was followed, and the noises grew louder — the noises were jeers, taunts and condescension.
He who had been followed the echoes bouncing between the depreciated decay of gray and black grime buildings, knowing that as the volume increased possibility grew. He followed until the voices became audible, the words offering disturbing purpose.
“Fuck him up!”
“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Kick his ass!!!”
“Oooooh!”
“Ouch!”
“Shit, that’s gotta hurt!”
“Fuck!”
“”I think he’s out. He’s out cold!”
The words made no sense, but vanquished hunger for the moment. There was something wrong, and he who had been was brought to this position for a purpose, so he continued, standing taller with each quickened step. Eventually, he rounded a corner and saw the game creating an ugly soundtrack.
“Look, we got another one!” a young man shouted at the arrival of what once was. “Perfect timing,” he offered, pointing a video camera.
The scene was cold, dark. A few too many men, hungry and homeless — mostly drunk to inoculate themselves from pain — stood about. Some were standing over a giant steel drum, warming themselves over the smoky fire of waste burning toxically inside. Others were standing and sitting against the elevated platform of the loading dock, sharing bottles. All were dressed similar — layers of dark, dirty clothes and coats — staring toward two men, covered in blood. The two had clearly been in a violent, bloody embrace of desperation. On the outside of the scene were two who did not belong. A dog barked in the distance.
The two who did not belong were the instigators, the two that helped the homeless once men come to the bloody mess masquerading as meaning. They loved the senseless fury and were excited, shouting for more.
“Who’s next? A bottle to the winner and $50 for each of you still man enough to take up the challenge. Women too! As soon as you sign the release and fight. It’s yours, win or lose. Who’s next?”
He who had been was confused. These men were smashing each other into bloody burger messes for a few buck — more accurately, for a bottle of cheap gasoline tasting liquor. Was it the desire to be alive, to feel, or the desperate need to kill the senses and set their hands on another mind numbing bottle of booze?
“Who’s next?” the anorexic youth shouted, holding his video camera in one hand and a brown bagged booze bottle high in the air with the other. “Come on, who’s next?!”
Most of the men scattered around the camp, as well as a couple of women, sat in pain, bloodied pain, sharing the bottles the had deviantly deeded.
“Who’s next? How about you?” the youth who would never make man asked, putting the camera in the face of the Captain ex, taunting him with a bottle. The blood began to course the veins violently.
“Oh, so you’re a smart one, huh? You want the money, don’t you? Alright, we’ve got the money.”
Handing the bottle to his timid partner, he pulled $50 from his pocket, waving it from side-to-side, moving it closer and closer to the face of ex.
“Leave him alone. Let’s find someone else,” the timid partner of Cameracreep cajoled.
“No, we’re running out of takers. Let’s get this dude to fight that skank.”
The following partner saw the eyes and within, and tried to warn his camera caressing friend. “No, leave him alone. He’s not right. I’ll find someone else.”
“Don’t be such a pussy. He’s a fuckin’ drunk, dude.”
“You should just let him be.”
“Fuck you. He’ll fight, they always do,” he promised his timid friend, taking a step closer — a step too close.
The man who had been grabbed the camera and placed it in the dirty hands of a meansless man standing at the perimeter of the taunt. “Film this,” he ordered.
“What the fuck you doin’?! Give me my camera back, old fuck!”
“Let’s just go. Get the camera and go,” the friend pleaded, watching the life return to the once of excellence.
“I’m gonna kick this bum’s ass, first.”
“Piece-of-shit, I don’t know who you think you are, but I’m gonna kick your ass for touching my camera.”
“Film this, drunk. Get this fuckin’ ass-kickin’ on tape.”
“Let’s make an ass-kickin’ film, fuckhead.”
The youth started to bounce on his toes, getting ready for the kind of proper boxing match he had seen on television, forgetting the ruleless brawls he had filmed. He bounced on his toes and began to circle he who was becoming again.
The creation that was Captain returned. The instincts watched. As the youth circles, he crosses his legs, and again, and… The Captain knew this causes a moment where the youth was out of balance, so at the right moment he lunged forward and shoved the immature boy, breaking his world. The hardened wanderers of wretch all around began to laugh, and the dirty cameraman circled to film the laughter.
“Let’s get out of here, Drew,” timid tossed.
“Shut up! I’m gonna knock him out, first,” the dreamless director wished aloud.
The man who only existed as Captain smiled a knowing smile. He felt alive. He felt purpose. He felt presence. He felt. The long, lanky youth charged, like an anorexic, retarded bull. The Captain watched, knowing without thought what to do next.
As the rage and anger crashed into the contortion that is the Captain’s body, it did not harden but embraced the blow. He embraced the blow with one hand under one shoulder and one hand over the other boney shoulder, while turning to the side.
The youth was confused. He felt contact with the body. He felt the body go backward. He felt a slight twist as they headed as destined by design toward the dark, gouging, greased ground for impact, but how did the slight twist cause them to land on his back with an old homeless man on top of him?
The experienced sat upon the youth and smiled teeth much too nice to be those of a street ghost, then released his hold on the youth whose face bled in panic.
“I’m gonna fuck you up,” the belligerent buffoon as boy promised, undeterred.
He who could be nothing else smiled. The boy bounded on his toes, circling. He took a couple of swings, quick swings, grazing the head and arms of the Captain. The Captain felt pain. It felt beautiful, purposeful. The Captain felt. The Captain was alive.
“You gettin’ fucked up, old man,” the youth again promised, bouncing.
Again and again, the child chump swung, on occasion connecting with the dominate docile figure standing, smiling, seemingly willing to take any blow he could not duck. There were no return blows, just grins.
“You’re fuckin’ him up. You’ve fucked him up, Drew, let’s go. You’ve done enough. Let’s get the camera and go before the cops get here.”
The youngin’ stopped bouncing, feeling victorious.
“You’re right. Old fuck can’t even fight back. Get the camera, we’ve got enough footage. Let’s go.” As he prepared to leave, he was stunned by the response of the man who had been taking his limp blows: the man stood, shaking his head from side-to-side.
“Let’s go, Drew.”
“Dude, this fuck is shaking his head ‘no’.”
“Forget it, let’s go.”
“No way. I’m knocking him out.”
Again, the useless youth stepped toward the man past prime and began to swing, but before he could connect he felt a blow to the chin that sent him reeling up and back to the ground.
“Lucky shot,” he hoped aloud, head cloudy.
The useless youth stepped to the Captain again, quickly finding himself on the ground, blood in his mouth, with a no longer so old looking man on his chest. With every insult shouted, the Captain thrust a fist into his face, pausing long enough for the youth to catch a smile of Captainesque purpose.
“Get him the fuck off me!” faux shouted, calling his friend for help.
The Captain focused on his hamburger helper, tenderizing.
From nowhere noticed, a small reddish-brown dog flew by the Captain and began an attack of his own. This caused the Captain to turn, and recognize that the timid friend had been coming at him with a pipe piece, but his assault was tempered by a terrier terror. The terrier nipped, but sounded vicious. The Captain began to stand, muscles growing with purpose of protection, focused now on the coward of manlessness who wished to bludgeon with a pipe.
Just as suddenly as the sidekick of destiny had appeared, he was silenced, silenced by a blow from the pipe of forever.
“Oh shit! I didn’t mean…”
The Captain wanted to attack the now excusing timid pipe wielding perp, but instead went to the aid of his saviour mutt.
“I’m outta here, Drew!”
“Let’s go. Get the camera.”
“You get it, I’m outta here.”
The crushed crafted hamburger helper kiddy looked around for his camera and spotted a homeless cinematographer recording all, then looked to the Captain. With that one look, Dip Drew knew he was not leaving with the camera, and would be wise beyond his actions to take the opportunity to withdraw immediately. He ran.
The Captain dried empty tears and tried to revive his new loyal friend of trust and triumph. He tried CPR, placing his mouth over the bleeding snout of the terrific terrier. He compressed the small brave chest. He tried, but his sent saviour was gone. The Captain held the waning warmth of the small body close, weeping dry tears, suffering.
“Whose is this?” he shouted. No one answered. No one knew. These ghosts were not people who could claim possession of anything.
The Captain slumped in pain of being sensed again. His stomach growled, still hungry.
Where to bury? Where to pay respects? The Captain did not know where to respect in the concrete and asphalt playground of industrialization. The saviour was not going to be tossed into the trash, into a dumpster.
For those sober enough to know, it seemed horrific and harsh. For the rest, they had already numbed themselves to all, but they considered surprise at what they witnessed. Quickly, the Captain skewered his dead friend and began to roast him over the fire. At first, they thought he was giving the animal a cost effective cremation, but when they saw he was turning the best of beasts to slowly roast the animal, they were startled, for but a blink. When they watched him begin to eat the animal, they were aghast, until they felt their hunger and joined in the honoring.
“This animal is I,” were the only words said to the group. To the Captain, this was far more honorable than tossing the great saviour in a dumpster, or leaving his carcass out to rot, to become fly fumes. This was respect, an acknowledgement of the joining of spirits that were already one. In his mind, he wished that upon his death he could be so worthy of such honor, but expected to be tossed aside with the rest.
Something out of place, almost sacred, yet natural and whole woke him for a moment. It was a tree, a lost tropical tree — a plumeria — standing tall and wide in full bloom pouring sweet jasminesque dreams into the night air and awoke the dead scent sense to the world around. It was stark contrast: the bright, beautiful tree in the barren, gray, grimy industrial neighborhood, but he saw no contrast, only the sight of blossoms in bloom and scent of sweetness. The tree brought him back to the realm of nuanced real, and he noticed he was hungry. The scent awoke the senses.
When a man is so out of touch with the physical realm that he wanders the streets without consciousness, he becomes thin, emaciated. The man who would be was hungry, thirsty, but, alas, he was empty of pocket as well as purpose. Fate, always the maniacal menace of the melancholy and morose had a plan — fate always has a plan, but it is never simple, or fully imagined when mindlessly meandering.
Awakened to the world, he heard his hunger growl. It was not to be taken lightly. He searched, looking for an opportunity to earn enough to eat, to seize a bite. He would not ask for a handout. He searched the bland bastion of horizon for a fruit tree, but most everything was dead or desperately dodging death’s sickle, except the red and white plumeria. Where to next? Where was he? He needed a live, vibrant city, but hunger has no boundaries, so the shell of fossilizing force continued his journey. Deeper and deeper into the dingy darkness of a dusk slamming shut the dream of another day.
The sounds were distant, nothing more than unidentifiable echoes, but they appeared to the instincts of he who was as a sign, an invitation to the possibility of food. The draw was followed, and the noises grew louder — the noises were jeers, taunts and condescension.
He who had been followed the echoes bouncing between the depreciated decay of gray and black grime buildings, knowing that as the volume increased possibility grew. He followed until the voices became audible, the words offering disturbing purpose.
“Fuck him up!”
“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Kick his ass!!!”
“Oooooh!”
“Ouch!”
“Shit, that’s gotta hurt!”
“Fuck!”
“”I think he’s out. He’s out cold!”
The words made no sense, but vanquished hunger for the moment. There was something wrong, and he who had been was brought to this position for a purpose, so he continued, standing taller with each quickened step. Eventually, he rounded a corner and saw the game creating an ugly soundtrack.
“Look, we got another one!” a young man shouted at the arrival of what once was. “Perfect timing,” he offered, pointing a video camera.
The scene was cold, dark. A few too many men, hungry and homeless — mostly drunk to inoculate themselves from pain — stood about. Some were standing over a giant steel drum, warming themselves over the smoky fire of waste burning toxically inside. Others were standing and sitting against the elevated platform of the loading dock, sharing bottles. All were dressed similar — layers of dark, dirty clothes and coats — staring toward two men, covered in blood. The two had clearly been in a violent, bloody embrace of desperation. On the outside of the scene were two who did not belong. A dog barked in the distance.
The two who did not belong were the instigators, the two that helped the homeless once men come to the bloody mess masquerading as meaning. They loved the senseless fury and were excited, shouting for more.
“Who’s next? A bottle to the winner and $50 for each of you still man enough to take up the challenge. Women too! As soon as you sign the release and fight. It’s yours, win or lose. Who’s next?”
He who had been was confused. These men were smashing each other into bloody burger messes for a few buck — more accurately, for a bottle of cheap gasoline tasting liquor. Was it the desire to be alive, to feel, or the desperate need to kill the senses and set their hands on another mind numbing bottle of booze?
“Who’s next?” the anorexic youth shouted, holding his video camera in one hand and a brown bagged booze bottle high in the air with the other. “Come on, who’s next?!”
Most of the men scattered around the camp, as well as a couple of women, sat in pain, bloodied pain, sharing the bottles the had deviantly deeded.
“Who’s next? How about you?” the youth who would never make man asked, putting the camera in the face of the Captain ex, taunting him with a bottle. The blood began to course the veins violently.
“Oh, so you’re a smart one, huh? You want the money, don’t you? Alright, we’ve got the money.”
Handing the bottle to his timid partner, he pulled $50 from his pocket, waving it from side-to-side, moving it closer and closer to the face of ex.
“Leave him alone. Let’s find someone else,” the timid partner of Cameracreep cajoled.
“No, we’re running out of takers. Let’s get this dude to fight that skank.”
The following partner saw the eyes and within, and tried to warn his camera caressing friend. “No, leave him alone. He’s not right. I’ll find someone else.”
“Don’t be such a pussy. He’s a fuckin’ drunk, dude.”
“You should just let him be.”
“Fuck you. He’ll fight, they always do,” he promised his timid friend, taking a step closer — a step too close.
The man who had been grabbed the camera and placed it in the dirty hands of a meansless man standing at the perimeter of the taunt. “Film this,” he ordered.
“What the fuck you doin’?! Give me my camera back, old fuck!”
“Let’s just go. Get the camera and go,” the friend pleaded, watching the life return to the once of excellence.
“I’m gonna kick this bum’s ass, first.”
“Piece-of-shit, I don’t know who you think you are, but I’m gonna kick your ass for touching my camera.”
“Film this, drunk. Get this fuckin’ ass-kickin’ on tape.”
“Let’s make an ass-kickin’ film, fuckhead.”
The youth started to bounce on his toes, getting ready for the kind of proper boxing match he had seen on television, forgetting the ruleless brawls he had filmed. He bounced on his toes and began to circle he who was becoming again.
The creation that was Captain returned. The instincts watched. As the youth circles, he crosses his legs, and again, and… The Captain knew this causes a moment where the youth was out of balance, so at the right moment he lunged forward and shoved the immature boy, breaking his world. The hardened wanderers of wretch all around began to laugh, and the dirty cameraman circled to film the laughter.
“Let’s get out of here, Drew,” timid tossed.
“Shut up! I’m gonna knock him out, first,” the dreamless director wished aloud.
The man who only existed as Captain smiled a knowing smile. He felt alive. He felt purpose. He felt presence. He felt. The long, lanky youth charged, like an anorexic, retarded bull. The Captain watched, knowing without thought what to do next.
As the rage and anger crashed into the contortion that is the Captain’s body, it did not harden but embraced the blow. He embraced the blow with one hand under one shoulder and one hand over the other boney shoulder, while turning to the side.
The youth was confused. He felt contact with the body. He felt the body go backward. He felt a slight twist as they headed as destined by design toward the dark, gouging, greased ground for impact, but how did the slight twist cause them to land on his back with an old homeless man on top of him?
The experienced sat upon the youth and smiled teeth much too nice to be those of a street ghost, then released his hold on the youth whose face bled in panic.
“I’m gonna fuck you up,” the belligerent buffoon as boy promised, undeterred.
He who could be nothing else smiled. The boy bounded on his toes, circling. He took a couple of swings, quick swings, grazing the head and arms of the Captain. The Captain felt pain. It felt beautiful, purposeful. The Captain felt. The Captain was alive.
“You gettin’ fucked up, old man,” the youth again promised, bouncing.
Again and again, the child chump swung, on occasion connecting with the dominate docile figure standing, smiling, seemingly willing to take any blow he could not duck. There were no return blows, just grins.
“You’re fuckin’ him up. You’ve fucked him up, Drew, let’s go. You’ve done enough. Let’s get the camera and go before the cops get here.”
The youngin’ stopped bouncing, feeling victorious.
“You’re right. Old fuck can’t even fight back. Get the camera, we’ve got enough footage. Let’s go.” As he prepared to leave, he was stunned by the response of the man who had been taking his limp blows: the man stood, shaking his head from side-to-side.
“Let’s go, Drew.”
“Dude, this fuck is shaking his head ‘no’.”
“Forget it, let’s go.”
“No way. I’m knocking him out.”
Again, the useless youth stepped toward the man past prime and began to swing, but before he could connect he felt a blow to the chin that sent him reeling up and back to the ground.
“Lucky shot,” he hoped aloud, head cloudy.
The useless youth stepped to the Captain again, quickly finding himself on the ground, blood in his mouth, with a no longer so old looking man on his chest. With every insult shouted, the Captain thrust a fist into his face, pausing long enough for the youth to catch a smile of Captainesque purpose.
“Get him the fuck off me!” faux shouted, calling his friend for help.
The Captain focused on his hamburger helper, tenderizing.
From nowhere noticed, a small reddish-brown dog flew by the Captain and began an attack of his own. This caused the Captain to turn, and recognize that the timid friend had been coming at him with a pipe piece, but his assault was tempered by a terrier terror. The terrier nipped, but sounded vicious. The Captain began to stand, muscles growing with purpose of protection, focused now on the coward of manlessness who wished to bludgeon with a pipe.
Just as suddenly as the sidekick of destiny had appeared, he was silenced, silenced by a blow from the pipe of forever.
“Oh shit! I didn’t mean…”
The Captain wanted to attack the now excusing timid pipe wielding perp, but instead went to the aid of his saviour mutt.
“I’m outta here, Drew!”
“Let’s go. Get the camera.”
“You get it, I’m outta here.”
The crushed crafted hamburger helper kiddy looked around for his camera and spotted a homeless cinematographer recording all, then looked to the Captain. With that one look, Dip Drew knew he was not leaving with the camera, and would be wise beyond his actions to take the opportunity to withdraw immediately. He ran.
The Captain dried empty tears and tried to revive his new loyal friend of trust and triumph. He tried CPR, placing his mouth over the bleeding snout of the terrific terrier. He compressed the small brave chest. He tried, but his sent saviour was gone. The Captain held the waning warmth of the small body close, weeping dry tears, suffering.
“Whose is this?” he shouted. No one answered. No one knew. These ghosts were not people who could claim possession of anything.
The Captain slumped in pain of being sensed again. His stomach growled, still hungry.
Where to bury? Where to pay respects? The Captain did not know where to respect in the concrete and asphalt playground of industrialization. The saviour was not going to be tossed into the trash, into a dumpster.
For those sober enough to know, it seemed horrific and harsh. For the rest, they had already numbed themselves to all, but they considered surprise at what they witnessed. Quickly, the Captain skewered his dead friend and began to roast him over the fire. At first, they thought he was giving the animal a cost effective cremation, but when they saw he was turning the best of beasts to slowly roast the animal, they were startled, for but a blink. When they watched him begin to eat the animal, they were aghast, until they felt their hunger and joined in the honoring.
“This animal is I,” were the only words said to the group. To the Captain, this was far more honorable than tossing the great saviour in a dumpster, or leaving his carcass out to rot, to become fly fumes. This was respect, an acknowledgement of the joining of spirits that were already one. In his mind, he wished that upon his death he could be so worthy of such honor, but expected to be tossed aside with the rest.
Come on, snap out of it! Snap out of it! What are you doing, wandering aimlessly? Wake up! This isn’t you!
You knew who Occam was the moment you saw him, but you don’t know who you are? Look! Look within, deep! You’re there! Come out! Please come out. It’s not the same without you. Come out, you know who you are!
I don’t want to be alone.
You can never be anything but, even when you are not. Come out! Please come out. Please.
You knew who Occam was the moment you saw him, but you don’t know who you are? Look! Look within, deep! You’re there! Come out! Please come out. It’s not the same without you. Come out, you know who you are!
I don’t want to be alone.
You can never be anything but, even when you are not. Come out! Please come out. Please.
Crack! Crack! K-K-Krack! Krak!
The lightning strikes, again and again, so frequently the sky cannot go dark, no matter how deep into the night the slate of the imaginative mind has ventured. Under the eve of a dark shop, the fragile figure of possibility sat on a wooden bench, watching.
The wind screamed; the sky exploded; and, the man sat and watched, still. The elements of the storm trying to intimidate the planet assaulted, until the ground below trembled. The world above the world below roared for battle, trying to intimidate anything willing to come between their war. The man sat, watching, still.
The power surrounding his pliable presence was awesome. He wondered what his role could possibly be with all of the rage of unquestionable purpose pounding home loudly the insignificance of all between their ever-present significance.
Why the madness of the malleable mind meanders as it might is a monstrous mystery. Nonetheless, words come to life and bounce between the ears:
“I know what you should do; I have a way for you to make millions, easy. Maybe not easy, but you can do it.”
Was there a request for guidance counseling? Sure, the face behind the voice was successful, financially, but his path is not the path for he who was; his purpose is not the purpose of he who is; he is not thee. Yet the voice won’t quiet. There is a message.
“Have you thought about… Why don’t you… You should… You know what would work…” The voice of a drunk, a drunk whose fiscal policy is a success — though possibly improper — continues to bounce inside, guiding he who could be to a life of empty financial fanciness.
If only the mind would quiet. Listen to the roar, to the thunder, the crash of the lightning, the growl of the earth. Listen to the power. That is power, purpose, a path that calls. The path of wealth in envied objects does not call, and feels so weak, but it may be the path of influence, food and the retaking of the compound.
Listen. Look. There’s the answer. Who knows what it is, but there’s the answer. Listen.
Crack! Ruuumble! KRRack! KRAK! Crack! Crack! Roar!
Listen. It’s the answer.
Listen.
The lightning strikes, again and again, so frequently the sky cannot go dark, no matter how deep into the night the slate of the imaginative mind has ventured. Under the eve of a dark shop, the fragile figure of possibility sat on a wooden bench, watching.
The wind screamed; the sky exploded; and, the man sat and watched, still. The elements of the storm trying to intimidate the planet assaulted, until the ground below trembled. The world above the world below roared for battle, trying to intimidate anything willing to come between their war. The man sat, watching, still.
The power surrounding his pliable presence was awesome. He wondered what his role could possibly be with all of the rage of unquestionable purpose pounding home loudly the insignificance of all between their ever-present significance.
Why the madness of the malleable mind meanders as it might is a monstrous mystery. Nonetheless, words come to life and bounce between the ears:
“I know what you should do; I have a way for you to make millions, easy. Maybe not easy, but you can do it.”
Was there a request for guidance counseling? Sure, the face behind the voice was successful, financially, but his path is not the path for he who was; his purpose is not the purpose of he who is; he is not thee. Yet the voice won’t quiet. There is a message.
“Have you thought about… Why don’t you… You should… You know what would work…” The voice of a drunk, a drunk whose fiscal policy is a success — though possibly improper — continues to bounce inside, guiding he who could be to a life of empty financial fanciness.
If only the mind would quiet. Listen to the roar, to the thunder, the crash of the lightning, the growl of the earth. Listen to the power. That is power, purpose, a path that calls. The path of wealth in envied objects does not call, and feels so weak, but it may be the path of influence, food and the retaking of the compound.
Listen. Look. There’s the answer. Who knows what it is, but there’s the answer. Listen.
Crack! Ruuumble! KRRack! KRAK! Crack! Crack! Roar!
Listen. It’s the answer.
Listen.
“Great job trimming those trees. Would you like a job this evening?”
“Sure.”
He could not turn down the work. He needed cash, and it had to be cash because everything attached to his social security number was attached. There was no way out of the financial morass except for cash, and he had not yet figured out how to get large quantities of cash quickly.
“Do you have a suit, some nice clothes?”
“No. I have what I’m wearing. Everything is at my house, and I can’t…”
“Yeah, whatever. I’ve got something you can wear. I’m in a tight spot. I need help. I need a waiter, I’ve got a catering job tonight and I need a waiter.”
Looking the man up and down, the shell of a fighter knew the man’s clothing would be a bit short, but he was never too concerned about appearance. Cash was cash, and need was now.
“I can wait.”
“Good. Come in, take a shower and I’ll get you some clothes.”
It was relaxing and refreshing for the quiet ex of Captain to feel the warm water run over the thin skin masquerading as flesh of substance. It was so pleasant, the shower lasted until the hot water was spent.
He exited the shower, patted himself dry with a hand towel and walked — holding only the hand towel — into the hallway to find the promised clothes.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!!!! Dad! Dad! Naked guy!! Daaaaad!”
Instinctively, the man who once was turned and looked, but there was no one of suspicion.
“Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Here, put on these clothes,” the employer offered.
“Thank you.”
After dressing, he who was stood in front of a mirror. The clothes were too short, but they were clean, untattered. What had happened to the raging current of juicy justice that had been Captain, that had made this man a man of purpose? And where was the emaciated nothingness hidden under another man’s undergarments headed? Tears began to well, but the lost lover of lasting likeability swallowed hard, crushing the tears of weakness.
Late into the evening of serving subtext, the one who once was watched, nearly coming to the full of life, pulsing with purpose as he watched the evil of excess parade. Perhaps there was purpose to his happenstance placement.
Drinks were served. The words of good hiding evil began to deteriorate, as the noise, energy and aggression began to intensify. Out of the corner of his heavy eyes, the former noticed a young man circling a much younger beauty of innocence. Without thought, the pulsing of purpose began to purge the purposelessness from his body, and a vibrant flesh flashed and began to thicken. The eyes sharpened and watched.
Before long, the inebriated inbred birdbrain was thrusting himself upon the young beauty of virtue. The skin of who was thickened, body glowing with purpose. Balancing a tray of wine glasses, he made his way toward evil revealing. The taut fawn having pushed away the imbibed once, he forced a stumbled approach of demand as strengthening skeleton positioned. She shoved the drunkard hard. He stumbled back into the waiter waiting for purpose, causing him to drop the tray of wine glass in a moment silencing crash.
“Be careful, Waiter,” the pale drunkard demanded in tone of distain.
He who once was took note; stared intensely into the face and remembered the eyes of evil, adding to the database of destiny buried deep in the dark recesses of a closed catastrophe of consciousness. He said nothing.
“Don’t look at me like that, you’re a fuckin’ waiter! Get me a drink and clean up this mess.”
Yes, a waiter, waiting for his purpose, pondering his promise. Tonight, it was simple to serve and spill a tray of wine — and to see a lovely young luxurious lass of lasting goodness stand for what is rightly hers: her.
“Sure.”
He could not turn down the work. He needed cash, and it had to be cash because everything attached to his social security number was attached. There was no way out of the financial morass except for cash, and he had not yet figured out how to get large quantities of cash quickly.
“Do you have a suit, some nice clothes?”
“No. I have what I’m wearing. Everything is at my house, and I can’t…”
“Yeah, whatever. I’ve got something you can wear. I’m in a tight spot. I need help. I need a waiter, I’ve got a catering job tonight and I need a waiter.”
Looking the man up and down, the shell of a fighter knew the man’s clothing would be a bit short, but he was never too concerned about appearance. Cash was cash, and need was now.
“I can wait.”
“Good. Come in, take a shower and I’ll get you some clothes.”
It was relaxing and refreshing for the quiet ex of Captain to feel the warm water run over the thin skin masquerading as flesh of substance. It was so pleasant, the shower lasted until the hot water was spent.
He exited the shower, patted himself dry with a hand towel and walked — holding only the hand towel — into the hallway to find the promised clothes.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!!!! Dad! Dad! Naked guy!! Daaaaad!”
Instinctively, the man who once was turned and looked, but there was no one of suspicion.
“Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Here, put on these clothes,” the employer offered.
“Thank you.”
After dressing, he who was stood in front of a mirror. The clothes were too short, but they were clean, untattered. What had happened to the raging current of juicy justice that had been Captain, that had made this man a man of purpose? And where was the emaciated nothingness hidden under another man’s undergarments headed? Tears began to well, but the lost lover of lasting likeability swallowed hard, crushing the tears of weakness.
Late into the evening of serving subtext, the one who once was watched, nearly coming to the full of life, pulsing with purpose as he watched the evil of excess parade. Perhaps there was purpose to his happenstance placement.
Drinks were served. The words of good hiding evil began to deteriorate, as the noise, energy and aggression began to intensify. Out of the corner of his heavy eyes, the former noticed a young man circling a much younger beauty of innocence. Without thought, the pulsing of purpose began to purge the purposelessness from his body, and a vibrant flesh flashed and began to thicken. The eyes sharpened and watched.
Before long, the inebriated inbred birdbrain was thrusting himself upon the young beauty of virtue. The skin of who was thickened, body glowing with purpose. Balancing a tray of wine glasses, he made his way toward evil revealing. The taut fawn having pushed away the imbibed once, he forced a stumbled approach of demand as strengthening skeleton positioned. She shoved the drunkard hard. He stumbled back into the waiter waiting for purpose, causing him to drop the tray of wine glass in a moment silencing crash.
“Be careful, Waiter,” the pale drunkard demanded in tone of distain.
He who once was took note; stared intensely into the face and remembered the eyes of evil, adding to the database of destiny buried deep in the dark recesses of a closed catastrophe of consciousness. He said nothing.
“Don’t look at me like that, you’re a fuckin’ waiter! Get me a drink and clean up this mess.”
Yes, a waiter, waiting for his purpose, pondering his promise. Tonight, it was simple to serve and spill a tray of wine — and to see a lovely young luxurious lass of lasting goodness stand for what is rightly hers: her.
He’s disappeared. He’s not here anymore. Was he ever here? No one knows absolutely, except, perhaps, the aching bones that grind together that may or may not belong to he who is who was. He’s disappeared, yet there he sits on a park bench.
No one notices he who was, as he sits and takes detailed mental notes of all. Each day brings a different spot, a different view. His home is everywhere, and nowhere. He longs for the day he can return to the cavernous compound, but in order to keep it out of the greasy hands of the bankers and assessors, the land surrounding the main house has been leased to a builder as a storage yard — the house protected by the ignobility of a chain-link fence. As the weeds grow, the house blends into the surroundings just like its owner — what happens around appears to be of no consequence.
Occasionally, the skeleton that once held the Captain’s prestigious presence is spotted by a passerby, and the flesh tightens to live for a moment — a moment that cannot last long enough for the fabric of being to build complete. So he who once was watches, observes, learns and ponders. Sitting without purpose, without significance, without expectation, still too attached to his compound to understand his home has always been exactly where he is, never able to be elsewhere.
“Here, sir, I thought you might want a cup of coffee,” the young man offered.
The flesh flushed for a moment and he who was nodded, “thank you,” but spoke not.
“I’ve noticed you sitting here throughout the day, as I have gone from class to class.”
The flesh being so thin, the hot coffee cup warmed the bones quickly, bringing a smile and spark.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s you story. I mean, not to be intrusive, but will, you know, I was just curios, I mean…”
“No story,” the skeleton whispered.
“I’m just curious. My father became homeless, and I…”
“Homeless?”
“I’m not saying you’re homeless, it’s… I was just…”
“I have a home.”
“I’m sure you do. I was just wondering what it was like living outside the traditional society, the traditional home?”
“I have a beautiful home, on a large compound… where a bunch of equipment is now parked.”
“I’m sure it’s beautiful. Is it around here?”
“No.”
“Did you want a ride to it?”
“It’s not around here. Someone’s using it right now, so I can’t go back.”
“Then where are you living?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Where are you staying tonight?”
“I don’t know. You should see my home, though. A hundred citrus trees, a rose garden, it is beautiful.”
“I bet it is, but what about tonight?”
“I have this huge comfortable bed, for… for… for a… for… it’s a big bed, and sooooo comfortable.”
“Where’d you sleep last night?”
“Here, I think.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t know that I care to know, or that it really matters.”
“Have you always lived like this?”
“I told you, I have a home. I was living in it not too long ago.”
“What happened?”
“Bills. I was busy fighting the good fight, squeezing the juice of justice, while neglecting the financial tentacles of the modern monied octopus strangling our pockets and purpose while sucking a bit more out of everyday existence.”
“You lost everything?”
“Everything? No, I lost nothing, except my way.”
“But you lost your house?”
“Really, I was just fixture within, but no. No. No, I don’t think so.”
“Would you like to stay with me tonight?”
“It makes no difference, but I am always up for an adventure — at least I was.”
“The dorm room is kind of small, but my roommate is going home for the night, so you can sleep in his bed.”
The shell that once was warmed enough to trace the remnants of tone around the skeleton of forgotten pasts. Why? No, why not? There was nothing to lose, and perhaps this young man is the one who is supposed to receive… maybe he is the one who… maybe… Why not?
“Sure.”
“Would you like to get something to eat, my treat?”
“Thank you.”
The two ate, but talked little. The man who once was listened and watched the younger kind and generous soul. The youngster knew the shell had something to offer, something of value he could use, but it was not going to be given up by the tightlipped skeleton.
The evening progressed, with the younger still trying to uncover the might of meaning he presumed held by the thin skinned skeleton. Nothing was revealed, but he who was listened, learned and understood.
It took little for the warmth of bedding to wrap the bench sleeper and cause him to slumber. He slept, deep, but not for too long. Stirred by the restlessness he was living, he rose from bed in the dark of night and prepared to leave the room. On the back of the door he spotted a chalkboard used for notes. He had something to leave:
Thank you for your kindness. You do not know his, but I know you and who you will become. I have been you, and what you are to become is out of your hands.
The honor and burden is to be yours for only a short period, so make the best of your adventure. I have had the responsibility, and it changed me forever. Accept it. It is your destiny. You are simply the vessel that will be used, as you will not exist without the purpose. (Sound crazy? I’m sorry.)
Thank you again for your kindness. It is hard to accept that your destiny, who you are, is out of your hands, but it is the truth nonetheless. Accept the truth that is within and act, otherwise you are no more than a bookmark holding the page of purpose for another day until one in motion takes action. You must keep moving to meet your destiny prepared, and the movement, the journey is the true destiny. It is out of your hands. You are… You are.
For a period, your humble servant. Forever your friend in purpose.
-Captain Forehead
The guy from the park.
P.S. Thanks for the coffee, and the food, and the warm bed and the hope. – C
It helps to see who you once were.
No one notices he who was, as he sits and takes detailed mental notes of all. Each day brings a different spot, a different view. His home is everywhere, and nowhere. He longs for the day he can return to the cavernous compound, but in order to keep it out of the greasy hands of the bankers and assessors, the land surrounding the main house has been leased to a builder as a storage yard — the house protected by the ignobility of a chain-link fence. As the weeds grow, the house blends into the surroundings just like its owner — what happens around appears to be of no consequence.
Occasionally, the skeleton that once held the Captain’s prestigious presence is spotted by a passerby, and the flesh tightens to live for a moment — a moment that cannot last long enough for the fabric of being to build complete. So he who once was watches, observes, learns and ponders. Sitting without purpose, without significance, without expectation, still too attached to his compound to understand his home has always been exactly where he is, never able to be elsewhere.
“Here, sir, I thought you might want a cup of coffee,” the young man offered.
The flesh flushed for a moment and he who was nodded, “thank you,” but spoke not.
“I’ve noticed you sitting here throughout the day, as I have gone from class to class.”
The flesh being so thin, the hot coffee cup warmed the bones quickly, bringing a smile and spark.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s you story. I mean, not to be intrusive, but will, you know, I was just curios, I mean…”
“No story,” the skeleton whispered.
“I’m just curious. My father became homeless, and I…”
“Homeless?”
“I’m not saying you’re homeless, it’s… I was just…”
“I have a home.”
“I’m sure you do. I was just wondering what it was like living outside the traditional society, the traditional home?”
“I have a beautiful home, on a large compound… where a bunch of equipment is now parked.”
“I’m sure it’s beautiful. Is it around here?”
“No.”
“Did you want a ride to it?”
“It’s not around here. Someone’s using it right now, so I can’t go back.”
“Then where are you living?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Where are you staying tonight?”
“I don’t know. You should see my home, though. A hundred citrus trees, a rose garden, it is beautiful.”
“I bet it is, but what about tonight?”
“I have this huge comfortable bed, for… for… for a… for… it’s a big bed, and sooooo comfortable.”
“Where’d you sleep last night?”
“Here, I think.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t know that I care to know, or that it really matters.”
“Have you always lived like this?”
“I told you, I have a home. I was living in it not too long ago.”
“What happened?”
“Bills. I was busy fighting the good fight, squeezing the juice of justice, while neglecting the financial tentacles of the modern monied octopus strangling our pockets and purpose while sucking a bit more out of everyday existence.”
“You lost everything?”
“Everything? No, I lost nothing, except my way.”
“But you lost your house?”
“Really, I was just fixture within, but no. No. No, I don’t think so.”
“Would you like to stay with me tonight?”
“It makes no difference, but I am always up for an adventure — at least I was.”
“The dorm room is kind of small, but my roommate is going home for the night, so you can sleep in his bed.”
The shell that once was warmed enough to trace the remnants of tone around the skeleton of forgotten pasts. Why? No, why not? There was nothing to lose, and perhaps this young man is the one who is supposed to receive… maybe he is the one who… maybe… Why not?
“Sure.”
“Would you like to get something to eat, my treat?”
“Thank you.”
The two ate, but talked little. The man who once was listened and watched the younger kind and generous soul. The youngster knew the shell had something to offer, something of value he could use, but it was not going to be given up by the tightlipped skeleton.
The evening progressed, with the younger still trying to uncover the might of meaning he presumed held by the thin skinned skeleton. Nothing was revealed, but he who was listened, learned and understood.
It took little for the warmth of bedding to wrap the bench sleeper and cause him to slumber. He slept, deep, but not for too long. Stirred by the restlessness he was living, he rose from bed in the dark of night and prepared to leave the room. On the back of the door he spotted a chalkboard used for notes. He had something to leave:
Thank you for your kindness. You do not know his, but I know you and who you will become. I have been you, and what you are to become is out of your hands.
The honor and burden is to be yours for only a short period, so make the best of your adventure. I have had the responsibility, and it changed me forever. Accept it. It is your destiny. You are simply the vessel that will be used, as you will not exist without the purpose. (Sound crazy? I’m sorry.)
Thank you again for your kindness. It is hard to accept that your destiny, who you are, is out of your hands, but it is the truth nonetheless. Accept the truth that is within and act, otherwise you are no more than a bookmark holding the page of purpose for another day until one in motion takes action. You must keep moving to meet your destiny prepared, and the movement, the journey is the true destiny. It is out of your hands. You are… You are.
For a period, your humble servant. Forever your friend in purpose.
-
The guy from the park.
P.S. Thanks for the coffee, and the food, and the warm bed and the hope. – C
It helps to see who you once were.
The frame that once held the Captainesque figure of goodness and all that is juicy about justiceness rests warily on the concrete pad used to post the illumination of a billion tacos served fast food franchise. The skeleton unwilling to carry the weight of the Captain watched, wondering what the strangers surrounding the emptiness were doing with the meaning of their meaninglessness.
The figure watched as the citizenry looked through the nothingness of what was, ignoring the invisibility that could be theirs. The truth can often be seen in the eyes of the young, and a boy of about 11 stood on the sidewalk outside the glass box structure and stared at what once was — he, too, wondering.
Tires screeched. The loose skeleton turned towed the noise, instinctively. It was nothing — a failing feminine driver. The invisible turned back toward the child who watched.
Behind, a shout boomed.
“What the fuck you looking at, fucking faggot!!!!!?”
Scanning the asphalt of cars awaiting bean breeze basting drivers, there was only the kid and the invisible, but the invisible began to pulse, to flash a flesh of possibility over the skeleton of indefinability. What was invisible began to show, as the shout was heard again. Clearly, evil was present, and it was giving birth to its foe.
Unless the child was named “Fucking Faggot,” the pulsing possibility was being insulted, or propositioned. The flash of flesh thickened. An arm extended and gestured to the threatening tattooed beast — curling the fingers back toward the palm, simply offering the shouter an invitation. What was once good offered evil the opportunity to visit justice up close. The shouting repeated.
The boy watched. He saw the invisible man everyone else ignored get brighter. He saw the shouter feign jumping from the car. He saw what was once the Captain, and he pondered. The 11 year old pondered, and the glow, the pulse, the thickening of the flesh began to fade. The car burned rubber and sped away in an angry rage. The invisible man disappeared to all again, except the boy.
Against the post, the skeleton that once held the martyred mask of justice leaned once more. He pondered, motionless. What did he have to prove? Those were the harshest works evil cold muster? And when, in the history of conflict, were the loud worthy of battle, as their boisterous noise is nothing more than a desire to appear larger and more frightening than they really are in the hopes of frightening off another defeat. And what of the boy? What message is sent to one who is willing to watch when battle is worthy because of a few poorly strung words? Battles must be worthy for the good to fight.
Invisible. Watching. The skeleton sat, wondering how to set forth for another day, the day that would follow the quickly cooling night. Right here, right now, the skeleton pondered purpose, and worried. Some truths are too powerful: Even in invisibility, he who was once the grandness of the Captain is far too good looking, if he can attract and spark the homosexual desires of a raging homophobe.
The figure watched as the citizenry looked through the nothingness of what was, ignoring the invisibility that could be theirs. The truth can often be seen in the eyes of the young, and a boy of about 11 stood on the sidewalk outside the glass box structure and stared at what once was — he, too, wondering.
Tires screeched. The loose skeleton turned towed the noise, instinctively. It was nothing — a failing feminine driver. The invisible turned back toward the child who watched.
Behind, a shout boomed.
“What the fuck you looking at, fucking faggot!!!!!?”
Scanning the asphalt of cars awaiting bean breeze basting drivers, there was only the kid and the invisible, but the invisible began to pulse, to flash a flesh of possibility over the skeleton of indefinability. What was invisible began to show, as the shout was heard again. Clearly, evil was present, and it was giving birth to its foe.
Unless the child was named “Fucking Faggot,” the pulsing possibility was being insulted, or propositioned. The flash of flesh thickened. An arm extended and gestured to the threatening tattooed beast — curling the fingers back toward the palm, simply offering the shouter an invitation. What was once good offered evil the opportunity to visit justice up close. The shouting repeated.
The boy watched. He saw the invisible man everyone else ignored get brighter. He saw the shouter feign jumping from the car. He saw what was once the Captain, and he pondered. The 11 year old pondered, and the glow, the pulse, the thickening of the flesh began to fade. The car burned rubber and sped away in an angry rage. The invisible man disappeared to all again, except the boy.
Against the post, the skeleton that once held the martyred mask of justice leaned once more. He pondered, motionless. What did he have to prove? Those were the harshest works evil cold muster? And when, in the history of conflict, were the loud worthy of battle, as their boisterous noise is nothing more than a desire to appear larger and more frightening than they really are in the hopes of frightening off another defeat. And what of the boy? What message is sent to one who is willing to watch when battle is worthy because of a few poorly strung words? Battles must be worthy for the good to fight.
Invisible. Watching. The skeleton sat, wondering how to set forth for another day, the day that would follow the quickly cooling night. Right here, right now, the skeleton pondered purpose, and worried. Some truths are too powerful: Even in invisibility, he who was once the grandness of the Captain is far too good looking, if he can attract and spark the homosexual desires of a raging homophobe.
As the Captain was pondering the plan for Seven Stepping, he was assaulted into the realm of real: negativity and nothingness.
The physical; the mental; the battle of brutal can be won, but when you have the breath knocked out of you by pieces of paper, what can be done to take stand in defense? A blow has been delivered, and the Captain can no longer breathe. The Captain no longer has the courage to be the Captain. And why? A simple stack of papers that say the Captain has nothing left to purchase the time required to embrace the battle brought by belittling evil.
The statements still stall the breath with betrayal:
Liabilities twice assets. Cash-flow unsustainable. Insolvency expected.
The analysis was short, sweetless, and honest. The Captain cannot lose the compound, but he has been put on notice. The Captain will not lose the compound — though it is simply a place. The time and effort spent fighting evil has netted much in the cache of karma, but nothing in the way of cash.
The Captain has had the privilege of knowing too intimately a mind of unknown meandering filled with brilliance and potholes. It is from him, and a book now read a dozen plus times — The Last Old Man — that the Captain has gathered strength. As the pages turn, words are pondered, simply, and without exception, every time the Captain encounters a certain section, the Captain knows he must persist. There is no other way than moving forward; there is no other way than continuing. You just cannot stop and freeze in fear, in the face of adversity, nor in the comfort of safety. Motion is a must.
It is from the words found wandering the pages of this simple book that the Captain knows he will continue. The Captain may have nothing of material value; the Captain may have no understanding of what direction to proceed; the Captain may have no idea as to what to do next, or even if the Captain will survive, but for this moment, the Captain has the time to reflect upon some words of significance in a compound treasured that has yet to be claimed. Perhaps the world will be Captainless as the feared forehead delivers pizza to pedestrians, while monitoring the madness of the massive citizenry, of course. Perhaps… perhaps the shell that is the Captain will have to impale himself to stand erect, stand proud, but one thing is for sure: the motion will not stop. The simple words of a small book lets the Captain know, the journey will continue in the face of daunting adversity and poverty. The Journey will continue — period.
It would be nice to take a copy of that simple book and leave it with every man encountered, but today food must be placed on the table. Or…? I’ll eat tomorrow. Today, I’ll forge ahead, unsure of where I am going, knowing the words of The Last Old Man, my guide, will keep me moving. My breath may have been stolen, but not my motion.
Tomorrow, the Captain’s shell will try to earn one dollar more than he earned today. The battle will have to wait. Until then, I’ll read the simple words that remind me not to freeze, and that my actions will outlive imbalance. Motion is all that is required to do battle, and the battle of another day is a battle of good.
The physical; the mental; the battle of brutal can be won, but when you have the breath knocked out of you by pieces of paper, what can be done to take stand in defense? A blow has been delivered, and the Captain can no longer breathe. The Captain no longer has the courage to be the Captain. And why? A simple stack of papers that say the Captain has nothing left to purchase the time required to embrace the battle brought by belittling evil.
The statements still stall the breath with betrayal:
Liabilities twice assets. Cash-flow unsustainable. Insolvency expected.
The analysis was short, sweetless, and honest. The Captain cannot lose the compound, but he has been put on notice. The Captain will not lose the compound — though it is simply a place. The time and effort spent fighting evil has netted much in the cache of karma, but nothing in the way of cash.
The Captain has had the privilege of knowing too intimately a mind of unknown meandering filled with brilliance and potholes. It is from him, and a book now read a dozen plus times — The Last Old Man — that the Captain has gathered strength. As the pages turn, words are pondered, simply, and without exception, every time the Captain encounters a certain section, the Captain knows he must persist. There is no other way than moving forward; there is no other way than continuing. You just cannot stop and freeze in fear, in the face of adversity, nor in the comfort of safety. Motion is a must.
It is from the words found wandering the pages of this simple book that the Captain knows he will continue. The Captain may have nothing of material value; the Captain may have no understanding of what direction to proceed; the Captain may have no idea as to what to do next, or even if the Captain will survive, but for this moment, the Captain has the time to reflect upon some words of significance in a compound treasured that has yet to be claimed. Perhaps the world will be Captainless as the feared forehead delivers pizza to pedestrians, while monitoring the madness of the massive citizenry, of course. Perhaps… perhaps the shell that is the Captain will have to impale himself to stand erect, stand proud, but one thing is for sure: the motion will not stop. The simple words of a small book lets the Captain know, the journey will continue in the face of daunting adversity and poverty. The Journey will continue — period.
It would be nice to take a copy of that simple book and leave it with every man encountered, but today food must be placed on the table. Or…? I’ll eat tomorrow. Today, I’ll forge ahead, unsure of where I am going, knowing the words of The Last Old Man, my guide, will keep me moving. My breath may have been stolen, but not my motion.
Tomorrow, the Captain’s shell will try to earn one dollar more than he earned today. The battle will have to wait. Until then, I’ll read the simple words that remind me not to freeze, and that my actions will outlive imbalance. Motion is all that is required to do battle, and the battle of another day is a battle of good.
Today, yesterday, last month—there is no distinction in purpose—the Captain encountered in the gray of his matter a mirage of a man who caused him to question right, wrong, good, bad, just, unjust and the myriad of descriptors used to paint the steamy picture of runny black and white. Whenever it occurred, the question the apparition proffered lingers behind the fearsome forehead of festivities, but does not vacillate the vane of righteousness enough to cause change of course. Good, as good is, will continue to be the Captain’s primary pursuit of correction, with even less apology and less question as to the understanding of the interpretation of what is observed. But, then again, that is change, and one thing the lessons of Captains throughout time has proved: people tend not to change, or was that people do not change.
The course must be corrected, even if the correction is not a course. Right must squeeze the last bit of sweetness out of a dried navel of rotting citrus once good.
The path of right is not always on course, but is it ever wrong? Then what path could the Captain pursue? The path is the way, and the Captain will straighten the road… as long as the road can be seen… and understood… and not questioned… taken, just taken… but what about forks, about forks in the road… if we can’t change, is it impossible to take the fork other than that assigned by destiny… could we have taken the fork… could the Captain have been a vehicle for the unjust as easily as he has become the awesome force of justice… there was no choice… there is no choice… there is nothing to question…
The course must be corrected, even if the correction is not a course. Right must squeeze the last bit of sweetness out of a dried navel of rotting citrus once good.
The path of right is not always on course, but is it ever wrong? Then what path could the Captain pursue? The path is the way, and the Captain will straighten the road… as long as the road can be seen… and understood… and not questioned… taken, just taken… but what about forks, about forks in the road… if we can’t change, is it impossible to take the fork other than that assigned by destiny… could we have taken the fork… could the Captain have been a vehicle for the unjust as easily as he has become the awesome force of justice… there was no choice… there is no choice… there is nothing to question…
The Captain found himself behind the wheel of a rattling rusty pick-up, wandering between families of the moment. Meandering the relentless road, long before any moment members expected the arrival of the fantastic forehead, a treat was offered, at least that was the candy dancing trough the Captain’s mind.
Sitting at a traffic signal under the dusk of a long day, waiting for the red light’s distain to dissipate and approve his progress, the Captain watched a flowing sweetness exit a postal station with her mail and cross the street in front of his crumbling cab. The candy was packaged sweet, the kind that can be inhaled and held. Her eyes captured the Captain’s and locked their purpose.
Taking a detour of destination, the candy veered midstream and headed toward the door opposite the Captain’s. Smiling unknowingly, the Captain watched the sweet treat open the door.
Metal etching metal sung as the door was pulled ajar and she slid halfway into the car, asking, “I haven’t done this before, but it’s so hot outside. Do you mind giving me a ride home? I’m just around the corner?”
Struggling for words, while wrestling with the hope the sweet treat sitting on the seat next to the Captain presented, the Captain answered firmly, “Uhhhhhhh, sure,” and pushed the papers and stale clothes on the seat between them to the floor in quick, chivalrous fashion.
Concerned about where the conversation might lead, what words might reveal, the Captain hesitated long enough for the simple beauty to ramble. The Captain needed to reveal nothing, as Her Sweetness went on and on and on and on and… Her voice was the sound of syrup raining down upon a well buttered stack of pancakes. The Captain wanted a bite of the warm goodness.
Minutes passed into more minutes, which passed into additional minutes, and then seconds upon minutes. The sun set and the Captain sat in his comfortless cab with the hope that he may lay stuck to the stickiness dripping syrup. The Captain waited, patiently, hoping for an invite to unwrap the candy. The invitation arrived.
“You’re so nice. Quiet, but nice. I like quiet. Would you like to come in?”
The Captain knew what he wanted. “Yeah,” he answered, boldly.
Watching the wrapper cling and caress, the Captain followed promise into her apartment. This was the moment, the time in transit when the Captain would capture in coup the cream of cumly custard extraction.
Dreams are too often short lived, especially dreams of a simple moment’s seizure.
“What the fuck are you doing here?!” the Captain heard shouted behind his taste anticipating head, after walking no more than a few feet into possibility.
Mouth formed, prepared to respond to the threat of the eliminatable evil, the Captain spun to spew, but the shine of highly polished steel — a glistening snub-nosed gun — greeted the Captain’s glare.
“What the fuck are you doin’ here!?” the diminutive despot demanded.
The Captain offered a heads-up, “Hey?” stalling, while the souring sweetness jumped in to defend the gesturing greatness.
“Leave him alone, Tray. He just gave me a ride home. You aren’t supposed to be here! Get out! He’s just a friend. I just met him! Leave!!!” she pleaded, hoping to demand.
“What do you want me to do?” the Captain asked askew, watching the twitching Tray and his plight partner, who found laughter, guttural laughter, in the deadly drama.
“Get the fuck out of here, bald pussy! Just get your fuckin’ ass out of here, before you pee your diapers!”
The Captain moved toward the door, hands in the air. Moving slowly, deliberately, so as to not start the tweaker, who pushed the gun closer to the Captain’s cind face of frustration, the Captain exited.
Returning to the truck in defiance of the souring sweetness’ demand to stay as her guest, the Captain sat and caught his breath. In the mirrors of the pick-up, he caught the past of possibility arguing. The Captain was at a loss. He put the vehicle in gear, backed away from the perfect centering of his parking space and began to exit.
“What to do?” the Captain pondered.
“No! Don’t leave! Please, don’t go! You’re a good man! You’re a decent man. Please!!!!” she shouted as the Captain drove away from the pistol packing punk.
Driving around the far side of the building, the Captain paused his vehicle of vigor. He could not leave without cause, and fate of purpose always presents a plan. Calling a friend in the department of crime chronicling, the Captain looked at the mail the creamy chewtoy left behind and gave the fearless friend as officer the information he needed if it became necessary to clean-up the affair upon the Captain’s demise or destruction.
The friend promised immediate aid, but the Captain is never patient for a cleaning crew. Exiting the vessel virile, the Captain went to work.
As purpose of fate’s fickleless hand, in the back, in the bed of the truck, the Captain was fortunate enough to have a can of gas that was to be used to fuel the compound’s whirling weed eater and a single wide-mouthed empty bottle that once held fuel for the Captain’s thirst demand, and was being saved for its many cent return deposit possibility. The fuel was poured into the bottle, and a sock that had been pushed to the floor to make room for possibility was dipped in gas and stuffed into the bottle of justice juice.
To fight the good fight and the fight of good in the clean underwear of another day, the Captain had to survive the small pieces of lead loaded into tweaker Tray’s polished pistol. He considered a drive-by toss, but decided it was too dangerous to the young citizenry that played about the apartment building’s perimeter. The Captain walked his way through the maze of parked cars, hoping the opportunity to serve a cocktail would arise before badged clean-up crews of blue arrived.
After a bit of screaming, her sweetness slammed the door and the pistol packing plumage returned to his car with his feckless friend. The Captain found his moment. Lighting the sock, the Captain tossed the bottle of bitter blazing justice gently into the back of their banged and bruised white sedan. Somehow, someway, the high hooligans did not see the flame. The Captain scratched his head, confounded and confused by their absurd non-observance.
Not waiting for the proper papered cleansing crew of policing, the Captain turned his back on the car that was about to be engulfed in flames, flames that would chase and chastise the tweak freaks.
The Captain left, limping out of the parking lot, knowing only that he would not taste the taffy he tried to take as treat. As strong as his sweet-tooth may be, he knows his flesh is still made of the mortal material that is prone to tear when pierced by the punch of hot lost lead.
Another evening of promise punctuated by the purposelessness of punks, but the Captain cannot give up hope that his sweet-tooth will be satisfied soon, perhaps even by a postal patron who left her mail in the cab of justice’s junk journeyer — this time, the detour would have to be destined to the compound of the curtailed Captain.
To suck on the syrup of existence, the Captain must wait. The battle of righteous goodiness can strain the good, who on occasion just needs a piece of candy! The Captain needs a taste! A piece of dark chocolate drawn across the tongue… Just a taste. Just a taste will sustain. To place the pliable lips of good on the…
Justice needs the juice of joy to find purpose in its actions, or at least the promise of possibility.
Just a nibble…
Sitting at a traffic signal under the dusk of a long day, waiting for the red light’s distain to dissipate and approve his progress, the Captain watched a flowing sweetness exit a postal station with her mail and cross the street in front of his crumbling cab. The candy was packaged sweet, the kind that can be inhaled and held. Her eyes captured the Captain’s and locked their purpose.
Taking a detour of destination, the candy veered midstream and headed toward the door opposite the Captain’s. Smiling unknowingly, the Captain watched the sweet treat open the door.
Metal etching metal sung as the door was pulled ajar and she slid halfway into the car, asking, “I haven’t done this before, but it’s so hot outside. Do you mind giving me a ride home? I’m just around the corner?”
Struggling for words, while wrestling with the hope the sweet treat sitting on the seat next to the Captain presented, the Captain answered firmly, “Uhhhhhhh, sure,” and pushed the papers and stale clothes on the seat between them to the floor in quick, chivalrous fashion.
Concerned about where the conversation might lead, what words might reveal, the Captain hesitated long enough for the simple beauty to ramble. The Captain needed to reveal nothing, as Her Sweetness went on and on and on and on and… Her voice was the sound of syrup raining down upon a well buttered stack of pancakes. The Captain wanted a bite of the warm goodness.
Minutes passed into more minutes, which passed into additional minutes, and then seconds upon minutes. The sun set and the Captain sat in his comfortless cab with the hope that he may lay stuck to the stickiness dripping syrup. The Captain waited, patiently, hoping for an invite to unwrap the candy. The invitation arrived.
“You’re so nice. Quiet, but nice. I like quiet. Would you like to come in?”
The Captain knew what he wanted. “Yeah,” he answered, boldly.
Watching the wrapper cling and caress, the Captain followed promise into her apartment. This was the moment, the time in transit when the Captain would capture in coup the cream of cumly custard extraction.
Dreams are too often short lived, especially dreams of a simple moment’s seizure.
“What the fuck are you doing here?!” the Captain heard shouted behind his taste anticipating head, after walking no more than a few feet into possibility.
Mouth formed, prepared to respond to the threat of the eliminatable evil, the Captain spun to spew, but the shine of highly polished steel — a glistening snub-nosed gun — greeted the Captain’s glare.
“What the fuck are you doin’ here!?” the diminutive despot demanded.
The Captain offered a heads-up, “Hey?” stalling, while the souring sweetness jumped in to defend the gesturing greatness.
“Leave him alone, Tray. He just gave me a ride home. You aren’t supposed to be here! Get out! He’s just a friend. I just met him! Leave!!!” she pleaded, hoping to demand.
“What do you want me to do?” the Captain asked askew, watching the twitching Tray and his plight partner, who found laughter, guttural laughter, in the deadly drama.
“Get the fuck out of here, bald pussy! Just get your fuckin’ ass out of here, before you pee your diapers!”
The Captain moved toward the door, hands in the air. Moving slowly, deliberately, so as to not start the tweaker, who pushed the gun closer to the Captain’s cind face of frustration, the Captain exited.
Returning to the truck in defiance of the souring sweetness’ demand to stay as her guest, the Captain sat and caught his breath. In the mirrors of the pick-up, he caught the past of possibility arguing. The Captain was at a loss. He put the vehicle in gear, backed away from the perfect centering of his parking space and began to exit.
“What to do?” the Captain pondered.
“No! Don’t leave! Please, don’t go! You’re a good man! You’re a decent man. Please!!!!” she shouted as the Captain drove away from the pistol packing punk.
Driving around the far side of the building, the Captain paused his vehicle of vigor. He could not leave without cause, and fate of purpose always presents a plan. Calling a friend in the department of crime chronicling, the Captain looked at the mail the creamy chewtoy left behind and gave the fearless friend as officer the information he needed if it became necessary to clean-up the affair upon the Captain’s demise or destruction.
The friend promised immediate aid, but the Captain is never patient for a cleaning crew. Exiting the vessel virile, the Captain went to work.
As purpose of fate’s fickleless hand, in the back, in the bed of the truck, the Captain was fortunate enough to have a can of gas that was to be used to fuel the compound’s whirling weed eater and a single wide-mouthed empty bottle that once held fuel for the Captain’s thirst demand, and was being saved for its many cent return deposit possibility. The fuel was poured into the bottle, and a sock that had been pushed to the floor to make room for possibility was dipped in gas and stuffed into the bottle of justice juice.
To fight the good fight and the fight of good in the clean underwear of another day, the Captain had to survive the small pieces of lead loaded into tweaker Tray’s polished pistol. He considered a drive-by toss, but decided it was too dangerous to the young citizenry that played about the apartment building’s perimeter. The Captain walked his way through the maze of parked cars, hoping the opportunity to serve a cocktail would arise before badged clean-up crews of blue arrived.
After a bit of screaming, her sweetness slammed the door and the pistol packing plumage returned to his car with his feckless friend. The Captain found his moment. Lighting the sock, the Captain tossed the bottle of bitter blazing justice gently into the back of their banged and bruised white sedan. Somehow, someway, the high hooligans did not see the flame. The Captain scratched his head, confounded and confused by their absurd non-observance.
Not waiting for the proper papered cleansing crew of policing, the Captain turned his back on the car that was about to be engulfed in flames, flames that would chase and chastise the tweak freaks.
The Captain left, limping out of the parking lot, knowing only that he would not taste the taffy he tried to take as treat. As strong as his sweet-tooth may be, he knows his flesh is still made of the mortal material that is prone to tear when pierced by the punch of hot lost lead.
Another evening of promise punctuated by the purposelessness of punks, but the Captain cannot give up hope that his sweet-tooth will be satisfied soon, perhaps even by a postal patron who left her mail in the cab of justice’s junk journeyer — this time, the detour would have to be destined to the compound of the curtailed Captain.
To suck on the syrup of existence, the Captain must wait. The battle of righteous goodiness can strain the good, who on occasion just needs a piece of candy! The Captain needs a taste! A piece of dark chocolate drawn across the tongue… Just a taste. Just a taste will sustain. To place the pliable lips of good on the…
Justice needs the juice of joy to find purpose in its actions, or at least the promise of possibility.
Just a nibble…
It was a walk, a simple walk of distance to keep the Captain’s svelte pushing profile pressing the promise of perfect pretense. The joints, the lungs, the heart, the muscle, the brain all seemed to be working at the Captain’s par of superior performance. The Captain was ready to smell the next family of fondness.
Hours of long-legged treading took the Captain down the cluttered road of an aged neighborhood. The Captain always fits, as he is everyman at any moment. Spotted pruning roses was a tired sweetness whose perfectly proportioned face shown empty — the life drained of its former flashy glory. The Captain could assist, and perhaps return some energy and sweetness to a twisting citrus that was primed for juicing.
Casually, the Captain began to assist in the pruning of the roses. The welcoming smiled; the Captain knew he was going to be a hit again.
“Thank you,” she offered in a sweet comely voice that belied her tired face.
“Anytime,” the Captain countered.
Dreams of possibility danced behind the Captain’s freakishly fine forehead. He knew a sweet and tender touch hid under the thick leather of the gloves. The Captain had sweet-tooth craving dreams dancing — he allowed the thought of chocolate filled fantastic fondles dreams.
“No, Danny!” the new undercover spouse spouted.
The Captain turned, awkwardly, and saw a young man charging. The Captain would normally have struck the young bull hard, but hesitated at the desperation that was his mother’s voice. The Captain was tackled into a couple of well prickled rose bushes.
The unrelenting scent of alcohol rose from the rushing youth. The Captain pushed him aside to regain a solid stance on firm soil.
“Don’t hurt him. He didn’t mean it,” she pleaded.
The Captain turned to her deceptively cind voice and smiled, missing another charge, which returned the Captain to the ground, smashing the glimmering forehead of justice on a stone upon impact. The pain was real, and the hesitation the noggin knock caused was enough for the teen bull to climb atop the Captain and start pummeling away.
“Don’t hurt my baby,” the wanton woman cried to the Captain, who was taking abuse under the fists of fury.
The pain and suffering endured. The Captain was pinned and taking poorly thrown blows from the drunken youth. As the Captain prepared to muster his manly strength and throw the mini-man to the side, he hesitated when he noticed the beaten, batter, swollen face of the feckless foe. Damage had already been inflicted, and the Captain had not yet sent a blow of reeling righteousness.
The Captain knew he could not take a role in this family, as too much was already destroyed. The Captain could not beat the child. The Captain could not ignore the ignoring of the mother. The Captain could not play patriarch of such a troubled house. Before the Captain could exert the effort needed to evacuate the pugilistic puncher from his chest, the child slumped upon the Captain’s swollen, prickled body — lifeless.
The swollen, black-and-blue boy had passed out. From his drinking or the beating he had received at the hands of another, the Captain did not know, but with the depth of mental darkness he had dove into deeply, the Captain knew the limp boy was on the brink of a permanent farewell.
“You need to get him to a hospital,” the Captain commanded, quietly.
“My boy! Look at my boy! What did you do to my boy?!”
“Me?” the Captain queried, looking at the embrace of a mother and lifeless littleun.
“Please, help my boy. Look what you’ve done!”
The Captain listened, now knowing that he had walked into an always waiting trap. The Captain could not help this drunken attempt at manhood and unseeing mother, but to do nothing was not in the Captain’s nature — thought perhaps it should be a larger part of the repertoire.
The Captain entered the house, dialed 911 on the phone and left the line open, saying nothing. This, the Captain knew, would bring the police quickly to a clean-up of necessity — a temporary cleaning, as the child and mother had embarked on a path of misery too long ago to be detoured by the cindness of the Captain.
“They’re on the way,” the Captain offered in passing as he headed toward the street to regain his long stride and quickly put distance between himself and permanent misery.
The Captain knows he cannot save what is determined to fail. Somewhere, another family of cover whose services are available and susceptible to the Captain’s cind courageous influence is unknowingly waiting. The Captain continues his cruise, glistening forehead lumpy, swollen and aching. The throbbing pain a reminder of purpose, for the citizenry are who they are: Good. Evil. Bounty. Discard. Citizens living within the injustice of a just tickling domain.
NOTE: When hearing after the fact that the young man had enough alcohol to kill him pumped from his stomach, can the Captain take credit for a ruse of rescue? Of course not, as the course of collision for the self-destruction of the youth is still on track, and thanks to his mother’s embrace, not something even the crucial Captain could quash.
Hours of long-legged treading took the Captain down the cluttered road of an aged neighborhood. The Captain always fits, as he is everyman at any moment. Spotted pruning roses was a tired sweetness whose perfectly proportioned face shown empty — the life drained of its former flashy glory. The Captain could assist, and perhaps return some energy and sweetness to a twisting citrus that was primed for juicing.
Casually, the Captain began to assist in the pruning of the roses. The welcoming smiled; the Captain knew he was going to be a hit again.
“Thank you,” she offered in a sweet comely voice that belied her tired face.
“Anytime,” the Captain countered.
Dreams of possibility danced behind the Captain’s freakishly fine forehead. He knew a sweet and tender touch hid under the thick leather of the gloves. The Captain had sweet-tooth craving dreams dancing — he allowed the thought of chocolate filled fantastic fondles dreams.
“No, Danny!” the new undercover spouse spouted.
The Captain turned, awkwardly, and saw a young man charging. The Captain would normally have struck the young bull hard, but hesitated at the desperation that was his mother’s voice. The Captain was tackled into a couple of well prickled rose bushes.
The unrelenting scent of alcohol rose from the rushing youth. The Captain pushed him aside to regain a solid stance on firm soil.
“Don’t hurt him. He didn’t mean it,” she pleaded.
The Captain turned to her deceptively cind voice and smiled, missing another charge, which returned the Captain to the ground, smashing the glimmering forehead of justice on a stone upon impact. The pain was real, and the hesitation the noggin knock caused was enough for the teen bull to climb atop the Captain and start pummeling away.
“Don’t hurt my baby,” the wanton woman cried to the Captain, who was taking abuse under the fists of fury.
The pain and suffering endured. The Captain was pinned and taking poorly thrown blows from the drunken youth. As the Captain prepared to muster his manly strength and throw the mini-man to the side, he hesitated when he noticed the beaten, batter, swollen face of the feckless foe. Damage had already been inflicted, and the Captain had not yet sent a blow of reeling righteousness.
The Captain knew he could not take a role in this family, as too much was already destroyed. The Captain could not beat the child. The Captain could not ignore the ignoring of the mother. The Captain could not play patriarch of such a troubled house. Before the Captain could exert the effort needed to evacuate the pugilistic puncher from his chest, the child slumped upon the Captain’s swollen, prickled body — lifeless.
The swollen, black-and-blue boy had passed out. From his drinking or the beating he had received at the hands of another, the Captain did not know, but with the depth of mental darkness he had dove into deeply, the Captain knew the limp boy was on the brink of a permanent farewell.
“You need to get him to a hospital,” the Captain commanded, quietly.
“My boy! Look at my boy! What did you do to my boy?!”
“Me?” the Captain queried, looking at the embrace of a mother and lifeless littleun.
“Please, help my boy. Look what you’ve done!”
The Captain listened, now knowing that he had walked into an always waiting trap. The Captain could not help this drunken attempt at manhood and unseeing mother, but to do nothing was not in the Captain’s nature — thought perhaps it should be a larger part of the repertoire.
The Captain entered the house, dialed 911 on the phone and left the line open, saying nothing. This, the Captain knew, would bring the police quickly to a clean-up of necessity — a temporary cleaning, as the child and mother had embarked on a path of misery too long ago to be detoured by the cindness of the Captain.
“They’re on the way,” the Captain offered in passing as he headed toward the street to regain his long stride and quickly put distance between himself and permanent misery.
The Captain knows he cannot save what is determined to fail. Somewhere, another family of cover whose services are available and susceptible to the Captain’s cind courageous influence is unknowingly waiting. The Captain continues his cruise, glistening forehead lumpy, swollen and aching. The throbbing pain a reminder of purpose, for the citizenry are who they are: Good. Evil. Bounty. Discard. Citizens living within the injustice of a just tickling domain.
NOTE: When hearing after the fact that the young man had enough alcohol to kill him pumped from his stomach, can the Captain take credit for a ruse of rescue? Of course not, as the course of collision for the self-destruction of the youth is still on track, and thanks to his mother’s embrace, not something even the crucial Captain could quash.
Who is Russell Croak? The Captain prides himself on his ability to care for the citizenry at largess, especially when so many of the sweet citizenesess are known by the Captain. A population precariously populated by the transient smell of perfumed temporary transplants keeps the tide of good and evil in constant ebb and flow, but who are these perfumed punks of prejudiced pussness.
In the lobby of a grandly priced hotel in the central hotspot of an honorable community, the Captain sat in an overstuffed throne of just cradling comfiness, watching the voyeurs come and go. It was an unusual station from which the Captain perched, but a day’s wandering of pranceopod exercise brought good to the throne of necessity. From the perch, the Captain saved the citizenry from the evil of ego.
Apparently, the unloading of the loafers lasted longer than anticipated. The Captain was awoken by the scream of a scofflaw echoing in the large foyer.
“I told you to get this goddamned phone working, and it’s still not working, you stupid sonofabitch. Do you know who I am? I know you know who I am. You’d better get this fucking phone working, now! You’re a goddamned desk clerk and you can’t handle that! Fix the fucking phone, now!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Croak, but there is no one here at this hour to fix your phone,” the fragile man replied politely.
“Fix my goddamned phone, now!”
The captain managed to meander unnoticed to the front desk. He stood within reach of temp-citizen Croak.
“What the fuck are you doing here? What the fuck are you looking at? This is no business of yours!”
“I would tend to agree, but as your screeching like a little girl echoed in this fine lobby of sweet luxury, I could not help but notice the well worn trademarks of evil masquerading as a mound of stale manure. So I thought I might see if the brown bag of justice and a pooper scooper of good were necessary.”
“Huh? What the fuck are you talking about? Do you know who I am old fuck? I am Russel Cro…”
The Captain looked around, wondering to whom the confused compact was speaking, but saw no old men anywhere.
“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do at this hour, sir. We’ll get on it first thing in the morning,” the overly scent clerk offered in effeminate interruption.
“You piece-of…” the rustling evil began, as he lifted the old-fashion phone he had brought from his room and prepared to throw.
“Sir,” the Captain demanded, but not fast enough, as the phone was flying toward the head of the clerk. In the moment of definition, the Captain caught the trailing cord and detoured the assault weapon, causing the behemoth of an antiquated communication device grazes the clerk’s carefully created façade of friendliness, instead of catching the objet d'evil with the full of his face.
“You sonofabitch! Do you know who I am?”
“Well. I’ve learned that your name is Russell Croak, and you’re a bit of a small sweet-cheeks to be writing checks with such deficient funds.”
“No, my name is… You know who I am…Checks with deficient funds? I’m a fucking millionaire! You sonofabitch! I’m gonna beat the shit out of you!”
The Captain bent down — way down — and came within a quarter inch of the little sweet-cheeks’ face.
“Are you saying you want to dance?” the Captain asked with an enthusiastic grin and began to laugh.
“You sonofabitch!” the tiny sweet-cheeks screamed in high-pitch.
“Let’s dance, little girl,” the Captain whispered in hope.
The Captain, well aware of the self-destructive nature of evil, stood, taking no action to defend himself as the picayune pugilist sucker-punched him in the glorious gut of good.
“You can’t dance any better than that?” the Captain queried.
As the malevolent munchkin prepared to take another limp swing, the Captain quickly reached down to the dwarf and grabbed the smooth silky hair attached to each side of his hollow head of hate and began to stretch his scandalous scalp.
“Ouuuuch!” sweet-cheeks squealed.
“Thought you wanted to dance?”
“Do you know who I am? I’m…”
“Yeah, I know you. You’re pathetic traipsing as evil, and until I say otherwise, you’ll be the sweet love muffin dancing with this fine young clerk here.”
“Ooooo, thank you,” the clerk cooed.
“No problem, overtly friendly fellow citizen,” the Captain cared.
“Let go! You let go….” The miniature mauler began, but the Captain pulled the scalp further apart to change the tune of his new instrument. “Ooooo, ouuuu, awwww…”
“That’s it, sweet-cheeks, sing for me and the other good citizens of this kind cosmopolitan community.”
“The police are here, sir. I guess you’ll be checking out?” the clerk chuckled to his to be ex-guest.
Police? The Ccaptain does not enjoy being interviewed by the janitorial staff, and quickly let go of the gasping girly guy and made a quick withdrawal through the dark tunnel in the rear.
The Captain still doesn’t know who Russell Croak is, but he knows a little tyke named sweet-cheeks who will cherish the Captain’s cute cuddliness forever.
In the lobby of a grandly priced hotel in the central hotspot of an honorable community, the Captain sat in an overstuffed throne of just cradling comfiness, watching the voyeurs come and go. It was an unusual station from which the Captain perched, but a day’s wandering of pranceopod exercise brought good to the throne of necessity. From the perch, the Captain saved the citizenry from the evil of ego.
Apparently, the unloading of the loafers lasted longer than anticipated. The Captain was awoken by the scream of a scofflaw echoing in the large foyer.
“I told you to get this goddamned phone working, and it’s still not working, you stupid sonofabitch. Do you know who I am? I know you know who I am. You’d better get this fucking phone working, now! You’re a goddamned desk clerk and you can’t handle that! Fix the fucking phone, now!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Croak, but there is no one here at this hour to fix your phone,” the fragile man replied politely.
“Fix my goddamned phone, now!”
The captain managed to meander unnoticed to the front desk. He stood within reach of temp-citizen Croak.
“What the fuck are you doing here? What the fuck are you looking at? This is no business of yours!”
“I would tend to agree, but as your screeching like a little girl echoed in this fine lobby of sweet luxury, I could not help but notice the well worn trademarks of evil masquerading as a mound of stale manure. So I thought I might see if the brown bag of justice and a pooper scooper of good were necessary.”
“Huh? What the fuck are you talking about? Do you know who I am old fuck? I am Russel Cro…”
The Captain looked around, wondering to whom the confused compact was speaking, but saw no old men anywhere.
“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do at this hour, sir. We’ll get on it first thing in the morning,” the overly scent clerk offered in effeminate interruption.
“You piece-of…” the rustling evil began, as he lifted the old-fashion phone he had brought from his room and prepared to throw.
“Sir,” the Captain demanded, but not fast enough, as the phone was flying toward the head of the clerk. In the moment of definition, the Captain caught the trailing cord and detoured the assault weapon, causing the behemoth of an antiquated communication device grazes the clerk’s carefully created façade of friendliness, instead of catching the objet d'evil with the full of his face.
“You sonofabitch! Do you know who I am?”
“Well. I’ve learned that your name is Russell Croak, and you’re a bit of a small sweet-cheeks to be writing checks with such deficient funds.”
“No, my name is… You know who I am…Checks with deficient funds? I’m a fucking millionaire! You sonofabitch! I’m gonna beat the shit out of you!”
The Captain bent down — way down — and came within a quarter inch of the little sweet-cheeks’ face.
“Are you saying you want to dance?” the Captain asked with an enthusiastic grin and began to laugh.
“You sonofabitch!” the tiny sweet-cheeks screamed in high-pitch.
“Let’s dance, little girl,” the Captain whispered in hope.
The Captain, well aware of the self-destructive nature of evil, stood, taking no action to defend himself as the picayune pugilist sucker-punched him in the glorious gut of good.
“You can’t dance any better than that?” the Captain queried.
As the malevolent munchkin prepared to take another limp swing, the Captain quickly reached down to the dwarf and grabbed the smooth silky hair attached to each side of his hollow head of hate and began to stretch his scandalous scalp.
“Ouuuuch!” sweet-cheeks squealed.
“Thought you wanted to dance?”
“Do you know who I am? I’m…”
“Yeah, I know you. You’re pathetic traipsing as evil, and until I say otherwise, you’ll be the sweet love muffin dancing with this fine young clerk here.”
“Ooooo, thank you,” the clerk cooed.
“No problem, overtly friendly fellow citizen,” the Captain cared.
“Let go! You let go….” The miniature mauler began, but the Captain pulled the scalp further apart to change the tune of his new instrument. “Ooooo, ouuuu, awwww…”
“That’s it, sweet-cheeks, sing for me and the other good citizens of this kind cosmopolitan community.”
“The police are here, sir. I guess you’ll be checking out?” the clerk chuckled to his to be ex-guest.
Police? The Ccaptain does not enjoy being interviewed by the janitorial staff, and quickly let go of the gasping girly guy and made a quick withdrawal through the dark tunnel in the rear.
The Captain still doesn’t know who Russell Croak is, but he knows a little tyke named sweet-cheeks who will cherish the Captain’s cute cuddliness forever.
Hack! Ack! Aaaack! No matter how hard the Captain tries, the throwing throat of sweetness seductions cannot be cleared. The phlegm has a grip on the raspy ravaged runway of respiratory tracking as strong as the thick forehead’s plastered bond on the Captain. All thanks to the young infected friends of the family of the moment. The Captain must be incognito among the throes of the massive mases as he fights the evil mucousy grip inside. Then, the citizenry will again be protected.
After too many days of sprawl across the compounds massive bed of unfortunately unsoiledness, the Captain had to venture into the citizenry to find purpose of sweet existence.
Walking about 25 minutes at a gluttonous pace, due to immune concerns regarding breathing difficulty, the Captain came across a pickup truck. This was no ordinary pickup truck, but one owned by a citizen who did not measure his stature well — it was lifted twice as high as a normal pickup. The truck was running, blocking the entrance to the local convenient fuel and soda dispensing depot. Yes, it was a bit inconsiderate, but the Captain had sufficient energy to assist, and entered the truck to move it to a respectfully polite parking position. 45 minutes later, the Captain found a perfect spot in a quaint quiet neighborhood. The truck was parked, keys left, not running, appropriately placed.
Wandering the neighborhood of well-heeled citizenry, the sanitized pleasantry of the over-manicured was painfully, monotonously boring. The one thing you learn from the coifed façade is that the outside will clearly hid what is not to be revealed in the homogenized home. The Captain had to escape. A trail behind the homes leading around the nude hill was the quickest release.
The path meandered. The Captain tired. It was going to be a long walk back to the compound. Life’s loose underpinnings promised the Captain a curve of curiosity when the bend was rounded fully. A chain-link fence surrounded a man-made lake, a lakette.
Hidden by a hill, surrounded by a chain-link fence, engulfed by the lakette, sat a very, very small island — barely large enough to accommodate the dilapidated bungalow that rested safely upon its short shore. The Captain’s curiosity was caressed, especially when spotted bobbing within the foamy water were the undeniable fins of “The Mediocre White Shark,” (known by their French name of origin: shirks). The question is: Who is hiding in such secluded security, good or evil?
Curiosity captured the callused craw of the Captain. Mustering strength, the fence was scaled. The breath had to be recaptured, so the Captain stood tall on the shore and watched the bobbing fins of the shirks.
The shirks were acting strange. Known for their docile, wandering, timid,almost cowardly behavior, these Mediocre White Sharks seemed to be nipping at one another. Swimming to the island was a given, once the shirks were identified, but in the foamy water with aggressive shirks, it was an absolute must.
After stripping down to the gray tighty-whities the Captain used to keep the sac of sweet basting comfortable, a strand of razor wire was pulled from atop the fence and wrapped around the fists of righteous refuse removal. The short trip across the mini-man-made lakette may be filled with peril, but not of Captainesque proportions.
As warm as the sweaty smooth underbelly of bulbous candy wrapped by a sweet-tooth crazed chocolate diving clown, the water was. The foam, though, would not normally have caused the Captain to scratch the fearsome forehead of plenty, except for concern regarding the gleaming foreskins’ ability to withstand the coarseness of the razor wire righteous wraps. The swim began.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. The mysterious menace of the Mediocre White Shark began to circle. Stroke. Stroke, Stroke. Stroke. Croissantly cowardice was their true nature, but things seemed to be out of touch with their inner-timidity. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. The foam, it seemed to be coming from their smirking gnash. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. A brush against the leg. The circle is shrinking. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Almost there. Bump. Stroke. Keep. Swimming. Stroke. Brush. They aren’t going to let the Captain walk out of this lakette unchallenged. Water is not he Captain’s domain of dominance. Stroke. Tread.
Sharks? Even though they were shirks, they were not the Forehead’s forte. Bump. They’ve tested enough. The move is coming.
Tread. They are foaming at the mouth, shrieking aggressively against their mediocre nature of timidity. The eyes rolled back in protection as the attack began. The Captain knew the effectiveness of punching the snout, so the snout was struck with a razored fist of aqua-freedom. The message was sent. The circle around the floating forehead of flashy flotsam grew, as the shirks withdrew.
There is always one in the group who want so push, even though they know through denying the truth of defeat does not change the inevitability of their impossibility. It is no different with shirks, but laggard learners are the easiest to defeat. As he approached, the Captain snarled, grabbed the top fin and pulled his infected body of beauty on to the back of the Mediocre White Shark. Placing the arches of his soulful soles against the back fins for use as a cavitation plate and holding the joystick of the top fin to steer, the Captain had commandeered a cowardly vehicle of frothing foam, driving it aggressively toward the beach. In short order, the shirk was beached and the Captain dismounted.
“I’ll be back shortly. Wait here,” the Captain ordered the frothy foe.
The islandette was tiny, even for an islandette, and the bungalow was smaller up close than it appeared from across the water. It was to take no more than a couple hundred small steps to circumcise the small island, so the Captain began his quick stroll.
“Oongh. Ploooaagh.”
The Captain was not alone. Standing stately with razored fists in his seat sagging, tight fitting gray garment, he moved forward cautiously. A somewhat human sound was coming from the far side of the tiny bungalow.
“Aahl. Sblabah.”
It doesn’t sound evil, but caution is always a good cause.
“Fugggka. Buuhboag.”
There, on the other side of the square 20x20 bungalow, sat a man in mangled state, drooling helplessly.
“Bllluffah.”
“Who is here to care for you?”
“Lllaahhuub.”
“Ye… well… uh…”
The Captain was not sure how to respond. He stood and watched the man sketch on a pad before him. The motor-skillless master of the sketchpad was some kind of isolated artist of the slowest kind. There, another jab at the pad with the charcoal pencil stuck between the largest two toes of the only part of his body he seemed able to control. The Captain coughed, still recovering.
“Gulvavaahvahava.”
The twisted twinkle-toe of the island was angry, but why the captain would never know, as he did not speak motor-skillless.
“Blvanga.”
“Yes, I will go inside and make sure your house is secure.”
“Naaaj.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
The Captain entered the abode. Unsure of how the knot of note could maneuver the mess by manipulating a tube in his mouth, the Captain spotted the pièce de résistance in the corner of the room. It was a sketch of a monocled puppeteer dangling the stings of good and evil as he sat on the shell of the marble called earth.
Making his way through the mess and the stench of stale adult diapering, the Captain took the sketch from its prominent display and left the ignoble abode.
“Bahgaawala!”
“Yes, I will take this and protect it, for you clearly know the master of this dangling madness.”
“Fugaaawalya!”
“Anytime. No need to thank me, for I am Captain Fo… your friend.”
“Ahhhva!”
“Don’t exert yourself. Your thanks is more than enough, and completely unnecessary.”
The Captain knew he had to leave, to remove himself from the fawning gratitude of a greasy grateful graspless citizen.
Returning to the beach not far away — really close, just on the other side of the tiny bungalowette — the Captain’s shark or mediocratic merit was waiting. With a quick flick from the back of the hand, the Captain showed the beast who was master of his foaming faux furiosity.
“I’m not interested in turning you into a new pair of skivvies, but if you take the course of evil and wet the sketched map of mastery manipulated by the man-motored, you will become the sac carrying smoothness caressing jock of jostling justice. That’s right, you’ll be my new sagless skivvies.”
The bested beast seemed to understand, as the Captain crossed the wee-water on a path paved by rabid formed foam of a just carrying shark protecting mangled artisan art.
“Thanks. Behave, I know where you live.”
With that, the smooth beast bucked and snapped at the hacking Captain.
SLAP!
“Behave. Ack! Aaaack!”
The Captain scaled the fence with raspy burdened breath, art under the armor of arms, and returned to an abode that is not as humble as the abodes of some — the Captain’s curious compound of carousing circuitous chivalry.
After too many days of sprawl across the compounds massive bed of unfortunately unsoiledness, the Captain had to venture into the citizenry to find purpose of sweet existence.
Walking about 25 minutes at a gluttonous pace, due to immune concerns regarding breathing difficulty, the Captain came across a pickup truck. This was no ordinary pickup truck, but one owned by a citizen who did not measure his stature well — it was lifted twice as high as a normal pickup. The truck was running, blocking the entrance to the local convenient fuel and soda dispensing depot. Yes, it was a bit inconsiderate, but the Captain had sufficient energy to assist, and entered the truck to move it to a respectfully polite parking position. 45 minutes later, the Captain found a perfect spot in a quaint quiet neighborhood. The truck was parked, keys left, not running, appropriately placed.
Wandering the neighborhood of well-heeled citizenry, the sanitized pleasantry of the over-manicured was painfully, monotonously boring. The one thing you learn from the coifed façade is that the outside will clearly hid what is not to be revealed in the homogenized home. The Captain had to escape. A trail behind the homes leading around the nude hill was the quickest release.
The path meandered. The Captain tired. It was going to be a long walk back to the compound. Life’s loose underpinnings promised the Captain a curve of curiosity when the bend was rounded fully. A chain-link fence surrounded a man-made lake, a lakette.
Hidden by a hill, surrounded by a chain-link fence, engulfed by the lakette, sat a very, very small island — barely large enough to accommodate the dilapidated bungalow that rested safely upon its short shore. The Captain’s curiosity was caressed, especially when spotted bobbing within the foamy water were the undeniable fins of “The Mediocre White Shark,” (known by their French name of origin: shirks). The question is: Who is hiding in such secluded security, good or evil?
Curiosity captured the callused craw of the Captain. Mustering strength, the fence was scaled. The breath had to be recaptured, so the Captain stood tall on the shore and watched the bobbing fins of the shirks.
The shirks were acting strange. Known for their docile, wandering, timid,
After stripping down to the gray tighty-whities the Captain used to keep the sac of sweet basting comfortable, a strand of razor wire was pulled from atop the fence and wrapped around the fists of righteous refuse removal. The short trip across the mini-man-made lakette may be filled with peril, but not of Captainesque proportions.
As warm as the sweaty smooth underbelly of bulbous candy wrapped by a sweet-tooth crazed chocolate diving clown, the water was. The foam, though, would not normally have caused the Captain to scratch the fearsome forehead of plenty, except for concern regarding the gleaming foreskins’ ability to withstand the coarseness of the razor wire righteous wraps. The swim began.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. The mysterious menace of the Mediocre White Shark began to circle. Stroke. Stroke, Stroke. Stroke. Croissantly cowardice was their true nature, but things seemed to be out of touch with their inner-timidity. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. The foam, it seemed to be coming from their smirking gnash. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. A brush against the leg. The circle is shrinking. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Almost there. Bump. Stroke. Keep. Swimming. Stroke. Brush. They aren’t going to let the Captain walk out of this lakette unchallenged. Water is not he Captain’s domain of dominance. Stroke. Tread.
Sharks? Even though they were shirks, they were not the Forehead’s forte. Bump. They’ve tested enough. The move is coming.
Tread. They are foaming at the mouth, shrieking aggressively against their mediocre nature of timidity. The eyes rolled back in protection as the attack began. The Captain knew the effectiveness of punching the snout, so the snout was struck with a razored fist of aqua-freedom. The message was sent. The circle around the floating forehead of flashy flotsam grew, as the shirks withdrew.
There is always one in the group who want so push, even though they know through denying the truth of defeat does not change the inevitability of their impossibility. It is no different with shirks, but laggard learners are the easiest to defeat. As he approached, the Captain snarled, grabbed the top fin and pulled his infected body of beauty on to the back of the Mediocre White Shark. Placing the arches of his soulful soles against the back fins for use as a cavitation plate and holding the joystick of the top fin to steer, the Captain had commandeered a cowardly vehicle of frothing foam, driving it aggressively toward the beach. In short order, the shirk was beached and the Captain dismounted.
“I’ll be back shortly. Wait here,” the Captain ordered the frothy foe.
The islandette was tiny, even for an islandette, and the bungalow was smaller up close than it appeared from across the water. It was to take no more than a couple hundred small steps to circumcise the small island, so the Captain began his quick stroll.
“Oongh. Ploooaagh.”
The Captain was not alone. Standing stately with razored fists in his seat sagging, tight fitting gray garment, he moved forward cautiously. A somewhat human sound was coming from the far side of the tiny bungalow.
“Aahl. Sblabah.”
It doesn’t sound evil, but caution is always a good cause.
“Fugggka. Buuhboag.”
There, on the other side of the square 20x20 bungalow, sat a man in mangled state, drooling helplessly.
“Bllluffah.”
“Who is here to care for you?”
“Lllaahhuub.”
“Ye… well… uh…”
The Captain was not sure how to respond. He stood and watched the man sketch on a pad before him. The motor-skillless master of the sketchpad was some kind of isolated artist of the slowest kind. There, another jab at the pad with the charcoal pencil stuck between the largest two toes of the only part of his body he seemed able to control. The Captain coughed, still recovering.
“Gulvavaahvahava.”
The twisted twinkle-toe of the island was angry, but why the captain would never know, as he did not speak motor-skillless.
“Blvanga.”
“Yes, I will go inside and make sure your house is secure.”
“Naaaj.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
The Captain entered the abode. Unsure of how the knot of note could maneuver the mess by manipulating a tube in his mouth, the Captain spotted the pièce de résistance in the corner of the room. It was a sketch of a monocled puppeteer dangling the stings of good and evil as he sat on the shell of the marble called earth.
Making his way through the mess and the stench of stale adult diapering, the Captain took the sketch from its prominent display and left the ignoble abode.
“Bahgaawala!”
“Yes, I will take this and protect it, for you clearly know the master of this dangling madness.”
“Fugaaawalya!”
“Anytime. No need to thank me, for I am Captain Fo… your friend.”
“Ahhhva!”
“Don’t exert yourself. Your thanks is more than enough, and completely unnecessary.”
The Captain knew he had to leave, to remove himself from the fawning gratitude of a greasy grateful graspless citizen.
Returning to the beach not far away — really close, just on the other side of the tiny bungalowette — the Captain’s shark or mediocratic merit was waiting. With a quick flick from the back of the hand, the Captain showed the beast who was master of his foaming faux furiosity.
“I’m not interested in turning you into a new pair of skivvies, but if you take the course of evil and wet the sketched map of mastery manipulated by the man-motored, you will become the sac carrying smoothness caressing jock of jostling justice. That’s right, you’ll be my new sagless skivvies.”
The bested beast seemed to understand, as the Captain crossed the wee-water on a path paved by rabid formed foam of a just carrying shark protecting mangled artisan art.
“Thanks. Behave, I know where you live.”
With that, the smooth beast bucked and snapped at the hacking Captain.
SLAP!
“Behave. Ack! Aaaack!”
The Captain scaled the fence with raspy burdened breath, art under the armor of arms, and returned to an abode that is not as humble as the abodes of some — the Captain’s curious compound of carousing circuitous chivalry.
Like the underbelly of a large sweat lathered lass from the local lap dance parlor, righteous wrong rectification in the name of good is a dirty detail. The Captain, on occasion, needs to touch the sweet beauty that gives the beast its purpose. The Captain needs to feel flesh in the turmoil of frayed fornication.
Where does good go to find sweet desires designed to give purpose? Where does good go to gorge on sweets in a raw uninhibited cornucopia of carnal connection uncommitted? Where does the Captain go to satisfy his engorged sweet enslavement?
The Captain has needs. The Captain needs sweetness, or it’s all for naught. The Captain needs to touch the beauty of purpose. The Captain needs comfort. The Captain needs a change. The Captain needs…
There’s a nice looking family. Yes, that mom looks distraught, alone. She needs some support, some just juiciness served by…
Where does good go to find sweet desires designed to give purpose? Where does good go to gorge on sweets in a raw uninhibited cornucopia of carnal connection uncommitted? Where does the Captain go to satisfy his engorged sweet enslavement?
The Captain has needs. The Captain needs sweetness, or it’s all for naught. The Captain needs to touch the beauty of purpose. The Captain needs comfort. The Captain needs a change. The Captain needs…
There’s a nice looking family. Yes, that mom looks distraught, alone. She needs some support, some just juiciness served by…
“Do you know who I am!?” the angry man screamed in the round woman’s face. “Do you?”
“Uh…” she hesitated. She had just finished complaining about how he had overlooked her son. She had accused the angry simp of racism. He was fired up, and she was now afraid, not the usual state for the rotund shebull.
The Captain knew the evil before the professionally victimized woman, and knew the bitterness that filled his otherwise empty soul. He was not much of a man, but demands desperately that he be seen as such without ever putting more than his raised voice in harms way — usually to older women and young children. The bitterness made him uncomfortable in his own skin. He didn’t meet his standards, nor did his kids, or his students, or his wife, yet he protested angrily that they all exceeded the standard of the sub-beings surrounding his life. A coward evil, he.
“I’m a high school teacher! I can’t be racist!”
The rant continued. Of course he was a high school teacher—it is the breeding ground of miniscule minded male evil proving desperately their prickles purpose. This was an evil the Captain craved.
Quickly walking up behind the evilocity ranting at full speed, the Captain whispered, “I’ll be your huckleberry,” only a few centimeters from his ear.
The Captain was full of hope, when the startled lumpy loon launched to look at the glossy forehead forwarding promises of promiscuous play.
“You’re interrupting a conversation. Please, just excuse us.”
Taking the opportunity to push another button, the Captain remembered what the wife of the moment had whispered: “He’s giving me the creeps. He keeps leering at me.”
“My wife says you were ogling her in a very lecherous way. You made her quite uncomfortable,” the Captain offered in a low voice, close, smiling.
Unfortunately, the coward cringed and acted as expected. Since the Captain was not an old woman or a young child, and anxious to feel flesh clashing, motor-mouth backed away. He babbled as he walked, but the Captain knew there was no button to push to get the cowardly cretin to focus his bitterness where its energy might be returned.
“Remember, anytime, anyplace, I’ll be your huckleberry.”
The desiring evil left, promising to destroy the regal righteous justice junky.
“Promises, promises, promises,” the Captain chuckled, causing the head of the feckless foe to drop further.
They are everywhere, those voices and nasty nightmares of evil, but sometimes they get the rush of passing a stone while nude in the frozen tundra. The gleaming forehead of justice will politely plea the prickless preaching to engage in the ongoing battle of good and evil.
“I know who you are. I’ll be your huckleberry.”
“Uh…” she hesitated. She had just finished complaining about how he had overlooked her son. She had accused the angry simp of racism. He was fired up, and she was now afraid, not the usual state for the rotund shebull.
The Captain knew the evil before the professionally victimized woman, and knew the bitterness that filled his otherwise empty soul. He was not much of a man, but demands desperately that he be seen as such without ever putting more than his raised voice in harms way — usually to older women and young children. The bitterness made him uncomfortable in his own skin. He didn’t meet his standards, nor did his kids, or his students, or his wife, yet he protested angrily that they all exceeded the standard of the sub-beings surrounding his life. A coward evil, he.
“I’m a high school teacher! I can’t be racist!”
The rant continued. Of course he was a high school teacher—it is the breeding ground of miniscule minded male evil proving desperately their prickles purpose. This was an evil the Captain craved.
Quickly walking up behind the evilocity ranting at full speed, the Captain whispered, “I’ll be your huckleberry,” only a few centimeters from his ear.
The Captain was full of hope, when the startled lumpy loon launched to look at the glossy forehead forwarding promises of promiscuous play.
“You’re interrupting a conversation. Please, just excuse us.”
Taking the opportunity to push another button, the Captain remembered what the wife of the moment had whispered: “He’s giving me the creeps. He keeps leering at me.”
“My wife says you were ogling her in a very lecherous way. You made her quite uncomfortable,” the Captain offered in a low voice, close, smiling.
Unfortunately, the coward cringed and acted as expected. Since the Captain was not an old woman or a young child, and anxious to feel flesh clashing, motor-mouth backed away. He babbled as he walked, but the Captain knew there was no button to push to get the cowardly cretin to focus his bitterness where its energy might be returned.
“Remember, anytime, anyplace, I’ll be your huckleberry.”
The desiring evil left, promising to destroy the regal righteous justice junky.
“Promises, promises, promises,” the Captain chuckled, causing the head of the feckless foe to drop further.
They are everywhere, those voices and nasty nightmares of evil, but sometimes they get the rush of passing a stone while nude in the frozen tundra. The gleaming forehead of justice will politely plea the prickless preaching to engage in the ongoing battle of good and evil.
“I know who you are. I’ll be your huckleberry.”
