31/12: Curious Conditions Cause
Posted by: Captain Forehead
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.
Mr.Twister wrote: