Orchestrated Anticipation

upending what’s pending

Late tonight, after taking a seafaring vessel to the continent of Kalimdor, while roaming magical forests illuminated under indigo-tinted beams of alluring light, Thierry and I got sidetracked by another deep convo that lasted 3.5 hours, maybe 5.25. Whatever our very own little video game characters/avatars/heroes [“toons”] did once we fell headlong into this particular rabbit hole, they did through our collectively reactive subconscious oblivion. As our extraordinarily noteworthy chat winded down—which erupted after she just kinda casually (and unknowingly) helped me work out how precisely and why exactly dark orbs facilitate/handle the gravity-energy conversion; no big deal; worry about it later—I realized that I had been running/hopping{/randomly [satisfyingly] front-flipping} around the same gigantic tree for at least two hours straight; meanwhile, Thierry found her normally stalwart, crafty, axe-wielding dwarf dead [“defeated”] in a zone that reminds us of Salar de Uyuni.

Assuming you’ve made an accurate enough deduction that I haven’t been playing a video game from thirty feet high in a tree every night, let me gladly confirm your Sherlockian potential: yes, I have upgraded my position from sitting on my favorite branch of all time, if you can believe that, after acquiring a very cozy gaming chair through which I let Thierry derive enjoyment by her confident demonstration of capable assembly as I pretended to be bad at stuff like that. And should any unsavory suspicion exist surrounding the philosophically tactical change in my kidnapping-/murder-prevention strategy, make no mistake: I thought it through and made the best possible decision. And frankly, the view from Sam got boring; unbearably and (most critically) detrimentally so.

On my second to last night up there, I dozed off for at least 4 seconds and, as mortified as I am to admit this, possibly for up to 18 seconds. I know: I should literally fall on my own sword. But wait; it gets worse! On the last night upon my perch, I dropped Halcyon. Blech, I’m nauseated all over again. You with me? My sword “fell” out of my hand. Not on purpose! I control my hand and I lost control of it [my hand]! THIS IS NOT OKAY.

For me, that careless blunder, that inexplicable lapse in focus, that reckless moment of weakness, was a wake-up call I needed more than my vocabulary enables an explanation that does the lesson justice {unless it’s happening now}, so I won’t attempt to add further clarity. Luckily, no one noticed the heavily perfect, perfectly heavy weapon (which exemplifies elegantly masterful work in the tough art of smithing) as it plunged into the damp earthen soil before lodging firmly into one of Sam’s well-established roots.

Even Buddy, the middle-aged husband/prisoner directly across the street from from the house under our watchful eyes—yes, in an alternatively defined way, you are included in an implication suggested by the last three consecutive emboldened words [ones like these]—missed the flashing oddity of steel-reflected streetlight as he stumbled around (seemingly aimlessly) in his junk-cluttered garage, drunk as a skunk at 02:20 on a Saturday morning, throwing his dart and missing the board 93% of the time. He didn’t loaf/stumble inside until 23 minutes later following a pitifully speculative behind-the-back attempt that damned his pointy projectile to the far corner of the ceiling most difficult to access not only due to all the shoddy boxes and broken totes impeding his path, but also because of his especially diminished mental faculties at the time. For context, consider that Buddy’s as dumb as they come sober. He stared at his out-of-reach dart for every second of three minutes before opting (out of frustration [signified by punching his own right leg 4 times in a row in a furious fit that floored him]) against a recovery attempt that almost certainly might’ve resulted in (serious) injury {such as paraplegia}.

And if you’re wondering why Buddy only has one dart [still, to this day, whatever day this may be], in this case, my guess might be worse than yours. Seriously. You tell me. Get in Buddy’s head. Why has he chosen not to acquire more darts? Has it been his choice?

Sidenote: I can’t tell if “Buddy” is his real name or his one and only “pet name”; either way, that’s the name I hear his old lady hollering [albeit politely {in a voice so shrill it belongs in a cartoon}] to summon him, her dutiful hubby, or her “buddy,” or Buddy, at least 15 (and occasionally upwards of 50) times per evening. Haven’t caught his wife’s name; I’ve heard him mumble it plenty of times but can never quite make it out; sounds something like “Amerphlsa.” I only catch a glimpse of the woman 2-3 times a week waddling from her front door to the 1993 Ford Taurus into which she more so “falls” than executes a controlled “sit” and from which she can barely climb [saw it happen once; third time was the charm]. She spends all her nights planted in a noisy faux-leather recliner, “watching her shows” [as Buddy mentions a few times weekly while leaving a voicemail for whomever declined his phonecall], loudly laughing her ass off until falling asleep halfway through the late local news.

So, anyhoo, yes, I have abandoned Sam, the faithful oak that always supported my weight without flinching, and as of no less than 259,200 seconds ago, I’m paying nonsensically cheap rent on another dump—though (apparently) I must confess that the place across the way at the bay is much less dumpy. But this older dump [the dwelling newer to me; the extra dumpy one] will allow me {if need be} to rush to Thierry’s side within 13 seconds on foot [if I jump through this dump’s dumpy bedroom window {which probably won’t be necessary}].

If you’re giving me a look, stop, okay? She knows only of the other place because that’s the one attached to the mailing address about which she needs to be aware. Know what I mean? She’s better off knowing simply that I live both locally and indoors. But this little secret shanty here (in her neck of the woods) presents an almost fatefully ideal position whereby I am able to fully monitor her neighborhood and immediate surroundings whilst hidden amidst a dense sea of boring sights and plain sounds.

Furthermore, and by my willful admission, I might add, I have elected to inform you, assumedly intelligent, understanding, reasonable reader, that I might’ve set up a few motion sensors and hidden cameras around/inside her house. I might also be planning to significantly expand her camouflaged security system and install additional safeguards {and (maybe) plant a few weapons} inside/around her abode later today without her blessing. I won’t even dignify your perverted thoughts (if you’re having them) with a direct disclaimer in needless defense of my pure intentions.

I am not trying to see a hot girl naked. That’s (one of the many reasons) why “God” invented the internet. What I’m trying to do is save the fucking world. Hey, while we’re on this subject, since I’m not confident that I’ve adequately emphasized the connected fact following the forthcoming colon: I can’t save the fucking world alone. I need your help. I need help from anyone who “needs” your help. In other words, unless enough people rally together (in amazingly strong numbers) and let me lead us toward our best shot at safety, then we’re probably all gonna get eaten alive.

How I wish that were a euphemism.

“An” euphemism? Fuck you, vowel/sound. I love you, English! I don’t know and I’m too intoxicated to care. Tahitian rum sucks, by the way, unless you enjoy the taste of black olives.

Getting back to the “hottie with a body,” merely imagining her naked, which I will freely admit has happened before [like right now, of course, but you’re right there with me, now aren’t ya], each and every occasion beyond my control [unarguably], and some unknown percentage of the time when it has happened, a vital resource in my body, the flowing liquid known (among other terms) as plasma, shifts into a southerly migration, preparing [again, beyond my control] for a very natural distribution that, as an unfortunate result at this pivotal time of ubiquitous tumult, diminishes the power of my mental processes. Choices that make themselves can’t be wrong. Or however she put it. Just do us a favor and don’t turn my uncontrollably physiological reactions and my thorough expertise in surveillance into something it’s not {in your head}. Again, this is very simple: for the time being, in a thoughtful effort to maximize our chances of avoiding cerebral/bodily death by vicious, voracious mangling, my consciously mindful brain needs my blood way, way more than my ignorantly eager reproductive organ.

I do hope, though, that it doesn’t always have to be this way. Surely, one day, if only in a distantly blissful future eked out only through a most miraculous, thirteenth-hour triumph, I will finally be able to kick back and relax.

I wish someone had heard the epic sigh that just escaped my lungs.

I also suddenly wish that I had gotten interested in creative writing at a much earlier age. I’ll bet that if I had, I’d be a lot better at it by now. But, by the laws of physics/motion, I’d have to be much worse at one of the unreasonably many things at which I excel—which, not to brag, but that (obviously) doesn’t really narrow it down much. Listen. Don’t project your emotions onto my written words. That’s why thoughts get misinterpreted. That’s how Facebook has devolved into a cyber-cesspool conducting the bafflingly inefficient political divide currently tearing The United States apart at the shredding seams. In other words, learn to read (objectively).

Usually, I’m stating facts. Other times, I’m just fuckin’ with you. I can’t really help us if you can’t differentiate an apple from an orange.

Ah, well. These are my cards. Don’t have time to swap any out. Truthfully, my deck is stacked. I’m like a hidden superhero that you can unlock if you know the secret code. The pressure on my shoulders has made me weep over the years more times than I may care to admit; I lost count in the mid-eighties anyway. I’ve reached the edge of my defining crossroads—nothing left to do but play what I’m holding and hope for the best. I was born into this saga. I didn’t audition. I just woke up. Be glad that I’m not a homicidal tyrant. I’m glad. I could’ve turned out all kinds of ways that would probably be extra bad news for you and yours. I could have landed on their team. But that’s not where I belong because a bunch of shit happened a certain way and now I’ll be whoever I’m becoming. And I’m thankful, too, that I know (in my heart) that I only want what’s best for the whole of the human race. How could that ever be wrong?

Enough about me. You should make a few self-adjustments, shouldn’t you? Could you be less judgmental? Could you be more adventurous? Could you be braver?

You should know good and well that I’m neither a stalker nor a peeping tom. I’m a {life/body}guard. I’m also an opportunist, a logician, and an architect. I’m a scientist and a maker. I know what I’m doing and why I need to do it how it has to be done. You don’t. Or do you? Please, if you do, tell me. Tell anyone! In other words, do what makes the most sense at the time. Most decisions aren’t hard to make. Simple math is easy to interpret. But humans [“God” love ’em] can split hairs that I can’t even perceive. When it’s petty and/or small, by golly, you’re gonna sweat it. Enough about you all/us.

Newsflash for any/all g/b readers: I know you’re reading what I’m broadcasting despite your lack of knowledge in terms of knowing. Now imagine me winking at you and following it up with a kissy face. You dunno what to think, do ya? I’m aware of your confusion, and my advertisement of the fact that we’re going to use it against you{r kind} will not catalyze prevention of the outcome. No matter what you reckon, your victory is less guaranteed than you think. In other words, neener-neener, fuck-faces.

Since TNT doesn’t realize the agonizingly dreadful degree that would measure how badly her pursuers can (and assumedly intend to) hurt her [because Dick Purdy is the worst kind of “man”], what she doesn’t know about me (for now) won’t hurt her; too, keeping her (temporarily) “in the dark” also spares her from (presently) unnecessary, potentially unbearable, inescapable fright. In other words, I’ve got her best interests in mind. Yes, and mine, of course. Heck, yours, too. This is how “survival” works, people. Any individually irrelevant moral objections to my prevent(at)ive measures will be promptly disregarded if they are even registered; but, by all means, please, don’t let reality stop you from virtue-signalling if it cranks your trusty, rusty, crusty tractor—or, more simply, spewing a grammatical train-wreck of poorly thought-out, ignorantly informed distaste for my “spying” and/or “invasion of privacy”—in other words, if you find deluded value in wasting your time, then be your own goddamned guest. I am doing what I believe know must be done for the betterment of humanity. Can you claim the same truth? I’ve surely at least hinted at this before, and here I’m compelled to reiterate: when you read the word “you,” it doesn’t always refer to you.

Blatantly put, “you” only refers to you when you know it refers to you.

Bluntly put, you don’t know jack shit.

Broadly put, don’t take offense to any assessment unless it rings true, and then keep it to yourself because it’s your fault. And then fix it!

What’s happening behind the scenes {namely in global [but particularly in American] politics} is bigger than me, you, and Thierry, too. It’s bigger than anyone I (or you) have ever met/known. It’s bigger than any one person. But bigger than “We,” it is not. This is about us, our legacy, and the future we can’t/won’t forge/survive unless we learn to share in every applicable sense of the word. Despite your ignorance, or in spite of your awareness, you will play a part in this. You are already playing a part. Whether you grasp this “now” matters. I sincerely hope that sooner than later, you will find your role and embrace it. For now, my purpose becomes clearer by the day hour, ever-strengthening my once-deteriorating resolve. I know what I must do.

Either I am going to save her/Her life, or I will die trying.

Let’s back up several days. Think what you want; any number between 6 and 22 works. Regarding the morning of note, the mental picture from which you presently piggyback off my fond reminiscence, achieved early significance when Thierry’s car wouldn’t start around 10:20. In her case, car trouble happens frequently enough to be a predictable annoyance {as I’ve been told and since witnessed} because she drives a piece of junk. I think it was born as a Saab but has morphed into more of a Volvo if not a dangerous European Frankenstein’s monster. 4 outta 5 times it gets her from A to B without incident; her commute spans 1.6 miles. I’ve ridden in her metal beast only once and my pits sweated profusely {which is highly unusual} because I was 33.3% sure I might get electrocuted by one of the exposed wires lunging out at me like blind snakes from the broken glove compartment. On my first day of work, she arrived half an hour late on a “beach cruiser” [basic fat-tired bicycle] that she borrowed from a kid in her neighborhood.

Today, Thierry arrives 2 minutes late {at 10:32}, sweating and panting, on that same cruiser, tires half flat. Bad mood voice: engaged. Sad face: made. She’s scheduled to work what many service industry professionals sullenly call “a double”; I get off at 14:00 (if not sooner). By 10:33, we’d put our heads together and decided that I will go examine her sick wheels promptly following my scheduled shift’s conclusion.

And, yes, I’ll do the other thing I mentioned. Only now, since my visit has been officially sanctioned by the property’s rightful tenant, I won’t need to be so sneaky. Yay!

All the neighbors are nosy, you see. Being curious is part of being human. It’s pretty damn dumb to blame any creature for acting like itself.

By far the least nosy neighbor is also the one who dwells closest (to me): a petite, sweet, elderly lady named Annette. She resides alone happily and humbly in a two-room house. Plays a lot of solitaire using an actual deck of cards. Her four teenage grandchildren visit often because they enjoy spending time with her. Motivational perfection. To me, in this day and age, their relationship seems highly unusual; thus, it takes the edge off my overall cynicism. Adolescent kids who genuinely want to hang out with Grandmama? Is that normal? I wouldn’t assume so, but I guess we’ve encountered a rare occasion when I don’t know an answer. In any case, casually watching from afar damn near warms my black heart and refreshes the hope which slowly leaks from a tiny hole in my spiny soul.

I don’t know whether Annette’s grandchildren realize that she doesn’t have long left on this earth. She hasn’t touched a cigarette in years, but the effects of smoking nicotine through a breathing flame’s heat, especially as a lifelong habit, can be nothing short of terribly devastating. Based on the way she struggles to get around while toting her oxygen tank, her (be)labored breathing, and the gut-wrenching sound of her permanent cough, I predict that in a handful of years—and, with any luck, after a great day with her loving family—out of the blue, she’ll suffer a massive stroke or two, resulting in a quick, merciful death that could’ve otherwise been drawn-out and cripplingly painful for all involved.

In case you haven’t picked up on this point of fact, I’m an observer.

And I wish nothing but good fortune for all people, especially the best of you/us.

Oh, and by the way, if you do smoke (cigarettes), kindly skip or ignore the nearby image. But since we both know you’re gonna look at it if you haven’t already—I mean, of course you have {if only peripherally}; there it is; right there—do your best to imagine the worst opposite of this vibrant graphic and apply it to your future self in a way that hurts (a lot), and not just you. Plus it kills you slowly. Trust me here: there are less awful ways to expire from the physical plane of existence than by cigarette-smoking yourself to death. To all the nonsmokers out there, thumbs up! To everybody else, get better at decisions, for fuck’s fucking sake.

Wanna know what’s happening now? Regardless, I’m telling you: I am struggling to make sense of my current emotional cocktail having just watched The Budster water the same shrub for ten straight minutes as he ogled Thierry, who obliviously demonstrated practiced flexibility wearing skimpy [but practically designed] workout clothes while tending to her modest herb and petunia garden. Meanwhile, in starkly gross contrast, there was Buddy, the squirting statue of daydreaming perversion. It wasn’t his brazenly creepy gaze that nearly provoked my intervention; it was the wasted water. No doubt he’d have kept enjoying the show had he not slipped into a slow transition from drowning an innocent bush to soaking his sidewalk and splashing his stupid sandals, bringing him out of a long, longing trance. He’s lucky, because I had begun a determined search for an appropriately sized pecan to throw at him, and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have tried to miss.

Duh: I don’t trust Buddy. If you were considering a stupid thought, please abort and be smarter. I have yet to encounter a reason to believe that jealousy is included in my emotional registry, so you should just assume I’m incapable of experiencing it. It doesn’t take a wizard of deduction to realize Buddy harbors a belief that when he wears sunglasses, no one can determine whichever sight [female] has captured his unwavering gaze. And what can I say? I don’t like it!

To round out the context of the household (presently {and pointlessly, possibly} under our microscope) to its nth degree, I’ve gathered that their only child moved away to college a few months ago. Far away. Oregon, I think. That’s a gap of roughly 2,500 miles. And s/he left early, I’ve inferred; before mid June, probably. Anyway, Buddy stays outside unless he’s at work or asleep. He plays Cornhole against himself virtually every night. When it rains, he piddles in his garage, and he leaves the door open. Sometimes he just sits in a ratty lawn chair (next to an empty, overpriced, official piece of Auburn Football merchandise in the form of an oversize collapsible chair with built-in cup-holders) drinking canned Miller Lites out of an expensive cooler—his “big present” from last Christmas, I’m betting.

The price tag still hangs from the Auburn chair.

While Amerphsla seems happier than a pig in slop, Buddy looks miserable and lonely, and I’m seriously afraid he’s trending toward “snapping,” and that could trigger any number of events on a rather wide spectrum of bodily harmful possibility. I’m monitoring the situation as best I can, but I kind of have my hands full, ya know? Outta nowhere, I’m convinced that their only child is female.

There. You’re up to speed on the Experts. Yep, that is the last name which appears on their mailbox. (I just now used one of my drones to check.)

Notably, Thierry is a tremendously capable, impressive runner, enormously flexible as a fleet-footed sprinter as well as an accomplished half-marathoner. In other words, girl can fly, and she can run at a really, really brisk pace for an extended period of time without stopping.

(Co)incidentally also, I’ve accidentally discovered {thanks to my “illegal” surveillance} that she’s secretly a singer with remarkable range and control. I can only surmise that she keeps her vocal talents private because she (correctly) suspects she’s good enough to attract a following which could logically lead to unwanted exposure and untimely death by grisly murder. Yet again, I guess that’s another story, too.

Officially, the neighborhood’s [that is to say, Thierry’s] secret (and overly high-tech, to be honest) defensive surveillance setup might be about as “wired to the teeth” as it’s gonna be.

I am ready to get this show on the road.

Having admitted that, I’m quite unexpectedly enjoying my simple life right now; consequently, I don’t want it to end. Getting to know a human being fairly well (for the first time in 99 years [remember: none of my Bessi “Family” were full-blooded Homo sapiens]) has proven to be a useful (and emotionally pleasant) experience. At the same time, I’m itching to cut off my poor mom’s asshole-brother’s fat fucking head already. In other words, I’m on edge.

It’s as if I can feel the years being shaved off my physical existence, and yet I find myself {more and more} appreciating every little moment of poignantly trivial simplicity found innately in this straightforward version of an uneventful life, living lazy days that breeze by one mundane minute at a time, all the while savoring the calm before the mother (and the granddaddy) of all storms.

EVER.

You have been warned.

I don’t know how else to warn you.

The end of an era approaches more rapidly than you know. Batten down the hatches, and then board them up using the biggest nails in conjunction with the strongest material(s) you can find.

Twice.

From here on out, second chances are astronomically unlikely.