the world’s own, Atlas!

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.

Lost in Foundation

a first, the one, and an only

The prismatic variables in our cosmic equation change continuously, continually altering the balance of factors affecting our collective trajectory. Stuff shifts around {un}reliably by the predictable nature of vibrational interference. And things are starting to heat up on all fronts.

On that note, a low-pressure system approaches the Gulf Coast, raising the stakes of my mission to EXTREMELY HIGH. One plus one definitely equals something more {usually}, right? The temperature down here is about to dip. “Attempts” loom; I’m sure of it. Understand? The monsters are about to come out, and they’ll not be prone to play nice.

Meh, and I suppose I ought not make you think I’m a filthy liar given that we must have established some degree of trust by now; so, as promised, this was my delayed response (to T. Tuck’s late-night text) the next morning (at 11:11):

At least your middle name wasn’t almost Boone. And at least your first name isn’t Benda.

™Ess Kay

That’s what she named me in her phone. You figure it out; at least half of it’s not even hard. My best only remotely plausible guess is “The Mysterious S.K.” That can’t be right. Ahhh! I can’t think straight. This 27-year-old human female is a beautiful fruitcake. And I’m a nervous wreck, okay!? About two things, no less! MAJOR THINGS. EVENTS. This is incredibly bizarre. Can you imagine? Try. Hell, advise me. Yes, you. Comment. Consider yourself dared. Truly, I’m not sure which nerve-wracking situation I’m more anxious about:

1. the absurdly potent spell she seems to be able to cast on me and the increasingly confounding physiological effects with which I can’t even deal
2. assassinating Severus Rex and, in so doing, knocking over the domino that leads to the explosive onset of Earth War I

Sometimes I think the ratio surely must be 90% option #2. I mean, really, that’s gonna be difficult. He might kill me. In fact, the smart money’s probably on him. But other times, like when I’m within 10 feet of Thierry and no one else is around, the ratio seems to swing in the other direction. Is she making me (falsely) believe that I’m [we’re] gonna triumph? Ugh!

This just hit me: I’ve never been more confused that I am right now. Yep, I’m positive. Not upon my irritating introduction [at age 5, by the way] to organic chemistry. Not the time I lost a sparring round to Conrad. Not even the first time I ingested edible cannabis and couldn’t figure out how to escape Bessi’s wide-open and symmetrically/intuitively designed bottom floor layout. Never have I been this confused.

So the ratio probably rocks back and forth by no more than 1 digit on either side of the 50/50 mark.

I am terrified of failure, but I’m not afraid to try.

Fear presents opportunities to be bold and brave.

Surely somebody somewhere said that once. There’s no way I just made it up. I’ll probably forget that I said it and say it again in the future with slightly tweaked verbiage.

On top of all that shit, I’ve never soloed a covert protection detail. Have you?? Plus, I know not how to interact (like a “guy”) with girls/ladies/women, let alone how to “get in good with” a well-rounded specimen of the uniquely brilliant (squared) variety on display through T. Nova’s capable body {of work}. Anyhow, I might’ve vomited had she not responded (in the nick of time) favorably to my goofy response, the further details of which are none of your beeswax. I am not trying to play any “games” with her outside the game we recently started playing together.

Fact: I’ve puked on two separate occasions in the last couple weeks.
Fun: I hadn’t puked once in almost 60 years.

See, we’ve been playing a massively multiplayer online role-playing game [MMORPG] together. In this digital world which, incidentally, feels fascinatingly alive—and I wish I had time to conduct a sociological study of the wildly varying types of interactions between participants of all ages/backgrounds from around the world whilst they “live” (essentially) in relative anonymity inside an unreal fantasy-land—Thierry’s a short stocky male dwarf and I’m tall slender female elf. Naturally.

Shut up. It’s not weird.

And this was all her idea. She posed a question, the phrasing {and even the contents} of which couldn’t be more irrelevant in this sentence, and, that (honestly) elicited the following (dishonest) response from me: “I played for maybe six months back in the day.” The fib was spontaneous, I swear, and I still couldn’t tell you why it materialized, but when her genuine reaction caused her already piercing eyes to light up and glow, I was glad that my instinct was to tell a little white lie.

Sometimes the truth isn’t good enough.

One of the Nolans, I’m assuming.

“Really?!” she squealed. “When??” This moment may have marked the first time I’d ever legitimately felt a human’s honest feeling of excitement. Empathy, I think it’s called sometimes (maybe).

“Umm, late 2009, I think.” I knew I could continue to fabricate my way through this exchange because the video game in question had been an industry-influencing, pop-culture phenomenon, and I have long found value in keeping up with such info. What the masses consume can offer clues about what’s been transpiring, for example, during secret political meetings.

In other words, if enough people know about it, then I gotta know about it, too.

Also, not that it’s knowable, but by now I can name but one living being who has read more writing than I’ve encountered, and it’s only because she has lived longer.

“Ahh, so you were a Wrath baby,” Thierry easily concluded, flexing her formidable knowledge of the associated lingo. Assuredly, I nodded, utterly unsure. It worked; she continued her investigation: “What class?”

“Paladin.” It was the first answer that popped into my head, and I didn’t want to invite suspicion to my evolving web of lies by hesitating to answer what had to be a no-brainer for anyone who had actually played.

Wait, why are we all up in the past tense? We should be present.

“Hmm.” She squints as if telepathically probing me for weaknesses.

Thierry has this mysterious way of bringing out the “blurter” in me. What do you reckon I did at this point? Did “you blurted” spring to mind? If so, then congrats, because you’re right as rain. I blurted, “Which one did you play, class-wise?” One of my more embarrassing assembly of words in recent memory. I couldn’t have waited half a second to let that response evolve? “What class did you play?” That’s what I should’ve said. Mercifully, however, before I even finished mumble-blurting the ass-end of the hyphenated mess at the deformed tail of my question, she plowed ahead by requesting that I:

“Guess.”

Thierry has an uncanny knack for never missing/skipping a beat.

Also, shit. I walked right into this trap. She’s quick. I don’t even have to fake the facial expression that should buy me enough time to dig up a guess as I scour the dusty recesses of my brain’s useless {until now} collection of nerdy knowledge. My mouth opens with the intention of wildly guessing, “Priest,” but for some reason, I stop myself. I gotta get the blurting under control.

Look at her. She radiates subtle waves of raw emotion, unadulterated intrigue on display, a palpable sense of authentic wonder. With bated breath, she awaits my best guess, which, by the way, carries more weight than you may realize as it could will afford her an insight regarding how well I really (don’t) know her at this point in time. I won’t lose many points if I’m wrong, but I’ll gain a shit-ton if when I’m right.

Finally, involuntarily pausing my respiratory functions, I calmly enter my decently confident submission after peering briefly into her very essence and declaring with a smirk, “Druid.”

Hell yeah, I was right. Good game. Easy.

Not sure if this is any of your business, but I guess I’d like you to know that I purposefully cataloged an extra detailed memory of this moment. Her face beamed satisfaction during her instantaneous initiation of a classic celebration that immediately baited my exceedingly willing compliance, at which point we executed a most fluid and crisp high-five as if we’d been practicing for about ten whole seconds beforehand. The clap echoed satisfactorily across the quiet night.

Now, mercifully, the moment of truth arrives. I knew it was coming—the divisive answer to the most fundamental choice made by loyal players of the game in question. “Horde or Alliance?” she wonders aloud, emotionally guarded and, I suspect, ready for anything.

On purpose, I hesitate, and, as expected, she waits. Is my Blurter Disease cured!?

Our expressions are virtual mirrors. Unless I’m misreading this silent exchange [entirely possible], we are cementing our flowering bond by energetically agreeing to communicate exclusively via the handy-dandy fragile orbs protruding from our two forward-facing cranial sockets. Granted, I’m not exactly sure what she’s saying to me, but I’m asking her something like, “So, in the future, how many babies do you reckon we should attempt to make?”

She’s about to speak, so I decide to interrupt her in advance because, otherwise, I’m sure my reluctance to have answered forthwith would’ve been perceived as unattractive insecurity. “I wanted to be a Paladin,” I explained. “Something about being a warrior of holy light appealed to me,” I further claimed. “Couple that with the horrendous Blood Elf voice lines…”

“Say no more,” she interjects with familiar understanding, cluing me in to her thorough approval of both my answer and the procession of personally logical thought which spawned it. “A choice that makes itself has to be right,” she remarks with a right-eyed wink as, I swear to god, her left eye twinkles.

I can’t help but wonder if she knows just how profound that statement was/is. Even more impressively, she thought it up (just now) on the spot. “I’m guessing,” I blurt [goddammit], “that you align with the same faction for similar reasons.”

She can’t help but grin while nodding, visibly relieved (if not outright impressed) by my inferential capabilities. “I have no interest in even pretending to be a talking cow.”

You don’t have to grasp what any of this nerdspeak means, really. Just know that it amounts to another generous dollop of proof that we are beginning to understand one another on a level that neither of us yet comprehends. In other words, we’re not merely on the same page; no, it’s looking more and more like we each occupy space in the same paragraph, and possibly even in the same sentence.

“I like the Alliance flag better, too,” I add, if only to pad my credibility. She’s not curious enough to dig it out of me, so she patiently waits for more. “Not the color scheme, necessarily, per se,” I clumsily elaborate, “but the clear fact that a little more thought went into it.”

Thierry squints. I like when she squints. It’s “cute,” I guess. Anyway, she’s not sure what I mean; hence, I explain, “It’s a lion.” She still doesn’t get it. This’ll be fun. Very plainly, I state, “A lion. Alliance.”

Now she gets it, but her reaction isn’t quite what I expected. I expected a fit of erratic full-body animation because of the mind-blowing realization that just defibrillated her noodle. But no. Instead, she stands there, almost perfectly still and yet also almost swaying to a slow song I can’t hear but wish like hell that I could, smiling, eyes closed, particularly enjoying a very deep breath. “These are some of my favorite moments in life,” she expresses in a tone that underscores her sincerity. “When you realize something new—something so simply clever that you failed to ever notice because it was staring you a bit too squarely in the face… Fuck, I love it so much. Every time.”

That did something weird to both my throat and my anus. Whatever. Moving on. Before I realize that words are coming outta my mouth, I find myself improvising: “Just yesterday I noticed the obvious arrow in the FedEx logo.” I lied. I noticed it the first time I saw it, I’m sure.

“I don’t think I’ve ever looked directly at the FedEx logo,” she subtly boasts.

“Efficient policy,” I declare without hesitation. “Reserve your gaze for what’s most important. At least that’s what I always say since one second ago.”

She giggles, nods in agreement, settles into several seconds of comfortably shared silence. Crickets chirp. We are each in our own {very similar} little big FUCKING COLOSSAL (mental) worlds.

TNT breaks the unmeasured stretch of silence with a zinger: “But I did notice the arrow peripherally like forever ago.”

That made me laugh. Out loud. I don’t do that. I don’t emit involuntary noises. I was trained for over 50 years to maintain complete control of my immediate milieus [The Big 3: e/p/m] at all times. Counterproductively, now, the faintest whiff of this creature’s pheromones {especially in the evening} makes me forget important details such as where I hid my dagger or why this unusually dense agate slice weighs down my left pants pocket. Conclusion: my instructors at Bessi should’ve included this crap in my curriculum; otherwise, they [mainly Elvyn] structured my path of learning brilliantly.

In the observable universe, which element is far and away [~75% of all] the most abundant/common?

You should know this. This should be taught on day one in Kindergarten. Hydrogen.

A few days have passed since our unexpected bonding session earned me a (sort of) homework assignment. Ya see, later that night, I began cramming in untold hours upon hours of necessary study {in order to maintain the lie until it becomes the truth} while making preparations to join Thierry in playing WoW Classic. Worth it. Because now we share a hobby.

For two nights in a row, we’ve played together from approximately 21:30 until roughly 05:00. The game serves merely as a platform that gives us a reason to interact. It’s also nice to work as a team/duo in a less-than-challenging {but fantastically designed, seamless} environment because it demands very little in terms of cognitive resources, freeing up our combined acumen to discuss anything else while completing “quests” by pressing buttons [i.e. making at least one decision per second] in fantasy-themed, virtual combat.

Also, in the real world, it’s much easier to break into a dead sprint and literally run for your life if you’re already awake when the race starts. Naturally I’m hoping to intercept the coming threat before she’s forced to resort to fleeing in desperation. She is fast, especially for a human female, but she can’t outrun the slowest g/b on record.

Point is, playing a video game together serves multiple useful purposes, most of which were/have been unforeseen. Solid, beneficial escapism is good (if not absolutely essential) for any healthy person, but goodness knows my energy-hogging brain needs it as desperately as hers.

To exclaim the least with elementary simplicity, this is super hard to explain! Despite the thick dust clouds of confusing chaos organizing in preparation to sweep across the globe in a momentous re-contextualization (of our place on Earth as well as in the universe) that will shatter and disintegrate many, many selves, this all feels pretty right to me. In other words, due to my acute awareness of basic statistical patterns, my hand has been forced to make a decision that will destroy virtually every human being’s concept of what life means because it’s the only way we’ll have the slightest chance to prevent the swiftly excruciating extinction of (y)our miraculously well-rounded {but heretofore ultimately blind} special species. Now, if you dare, try to put yourself in my shoes and imagine how my most singular plight must feel to me.

Hahaha. Good try.

Thierry and I went hiking/trail-running once, too. Was that a week ago now? Maybe that happened yesterday. Wait, no, it happens tomorrow. Eh, who cares? Especially in the last few weeks, time has been doubling down on its propensity to blur. Case in point: falling asleep last night, I was under the impression that tomorrow would be Saturday once becoming today, but while typing the previous sentence (mere seconds ago [you know, the blurry one]), I realized that today is Tuesday Monday, and, even more perplexing, perhaps, is the factual opinion that I’ll probably post this entry on (a) Sunday after dark (in the past {possibly}).

Ha. Don’t worry about it, all{y}. Obviously I like you. Clearly I’m glad you’re here. Unequivocally, I do want you on my team. Any individual’s purpose is to find the purpose s/he best serves happily. To accomplish this feat of optimal assignment, we must all help each other. But you gotta know that there are gonna be times when you’ll just have to fucking trust me. Together, we must inspire the dawn of an Age filled with the most wonderfully sweeping changes in the history of civilization because we just might survive beyond 2050. Stranger things have happened.

(All our joint activities {thus far} have been her idea, by the way.)

I forgot what day it is. Whatever; the day of the week matters less and less. At the midpoint of our mapped jaunt [routed around maximum difficulty] through rough terrain in the woods, a strongly precipitous thunderstorm—what Boogie likes to call a “turd-floater”; I laughed the first time he said it {but none of the six times since}—materialized suddenly and soaked us thoroughly. We didn’t seem to mind. Neither of us were carrying any electronics. Conditions were definitively not hypothermic. So, yeah, no harm done; just got a little wet. We chose to get off the beaten path, thereby ultimately slicing a half-hour from our pre-planned 5.8-mile course.

Wouldn’t you know it, right as we got back to my vehicle, the rain had all but stopped. We used the merry-go-round to expedite air-drying. That idea actually was mine. See that? I contributed. Go, me. Then she decided to get both of our shifts covered that night. Then we were offered two bottles of Sangiovese by a disgruntled young woman whose romantic picnic had gone to fiery hell in a soggy handbasket.

The grumpy, pouting dude made a beeline for their SUV [probably hers] without acknowledging our presence as the defeated {but slightly amused} chick diverted toward us with the aforementioned offering and shrugged, “He only likes Pinot and apparently I should’ve known that.”

“Yeah, I could tell by the way he walks,” I joked without thinking. Thankfully, it landed; she guffawed, which pissed off the wet whiny boy—even though there’s no way he heard anything other than his date’s fleeting joy—as he slammed himself inside the passenger seat of the aforementioned SUV.

“If it’s any consolation,” Thierry chimed in, “we will appreciate every ounce of these wines from tongue to gut-brain.” The friendly chick kindly uncorked the bottle that didn’t have a screw-top, at which point we gladly accepted custody of the underappreciated vino before she went on her way toward her big baby of a (surely temporary) companion, renewed irritation escalating as she marched nearer.

Holding each bottle, Thierry asked, “Preference?”

I pointed at the one she didn’t expect. Her eyes widened. “This one?” she confirmed, perhaps more curious about the reason behind my selection more so than surprised/confused by it. She eyed me for a moment before inquiring softly, “Why?”

Thierry has a handful of very different, distinct voices:

• everyday voice [you’d have to hear it]
• talking to customers voice [you can probably imagine it]
• soft voice [butterflies, surrender]
• sleepy voice [often slurred and nonsensical, occasional rasp]
• good mood voice [happy-go-lucky, sunshine, rainbows, puppies]
• bad mood voice [world sucks, people be stupid, time for pajamas]

There are more, but (hopefully) you get the idea. Soft and sleepy are the most powerfully intoxicating. Good mood is formidable in its own right, and it’s the one I prefer, in fact, because my two favorites shred my perceptual defenses and I lose track of where I am physically in space and time. Off the top of my head, I can think of two occasions while under the effects of either of those two voices when I could have been easily ambushed and murdered. Now, I am quite certain she’s well-versed in using her vocal range manipulatively; though I think I can tell when she’s not doing it on purpose. Like just then.

“Why?”

Thierry, in her trademark soft voice (re: my curious choice of a screw-top Sangiovese)

How do I put this? Coupled with the look she gave me [which, by the way, I’ve never seen more diversely expressive capable potential in the art of facial communication; not even Ernest can hold a handle to her], I’m considering the possibility that she could be a witch sorceress who can mind-control mortals by casting spells through the flexible control of her vocal chords and facial muscles. And her eyes; whatever she does with those—for all I know, that shit is magic.

Anyway, I answered her bewitching question honestly. “Because I don’t care which, and you obviously want the other one.”

Again, she pierces me with her luminous eyeballs. She can’t figure out how I could tell which bottle she (strongly) preferred, and I can plainly see that she’s not sure what to make of me (in general). In fairness, I’m not entirely sure what to make of her, either.

Matter-of-factly, she states, “Since I can’t find a flaw in your logic…”

And with that, she awards me with the less desirable bottle of fermented grape juice, I graciously accept, follow her lead toward a successful cheers [meaning no broken glass] before simultaneously—and while aligning our respective gazes in magnetically locked, oddly expressive, almost transcendent eye contact—we take our first sips of the free wine the universe saw fit to gift us on this otherwise ordinary eve.

After that, we lost track of time.

No, nothing happened. Nothing physical, anyway. Unless you count a few lingering touches as one of us showed the other whichever multimedia file on either of our phones that one of us wanted the other to see for whatever reason(s). But mentally, yep, we porn-fucked nonstop for no less than four hours. Emotionally, I have no idea what’s happening to me. Your guess, in this case, just might be better than as good as mine.

Nearly halfway through emptying our bottles, we concluded that the perpetually spinning motion of the clunky merry-go-round could begin to disagree with the delightful liquid filling our stomachs; therefore, we regrouped at the swing set. We didn’t swing, though. We sat. Still. And then we traded bottles. Again, her suggestion.

As you can{not} imagine, we have explored the penultimate depths of the deepest possible topics, the bulk of which was logged at that playground on the night beckoning my current description, spinning slowly round and round as night fell sneakily amid the mentally satisfying arc of our impromptu, thought-provoking, erratically winding conversation. Thierry Nova Tuck feels a profound truth that she can’t quite yet articulate. She’s getting more comfortable (around me); she wants to open up [I can tell]. And I’m battling my own similarly internal struggle: I want to reveal the solution to the riddle of existence—and that she helped me put it all together—but I’m afraid it’s too soon. Connecting her dots could would definitely draw too much attention to us because she’d erupt with unprecedented joy all over the internet. I guess the point here is that we’ve become pals, I think. That seems like the right word. “Pals.”

Us two, too.

Heya, pal{s}!

(X)

a symbol which represents the shape of existence

Looks kinda like an hourglass, no? Looks like something that “marks the spot,” yes? Looks like a bit of a “crossroads,” too, eh? Also, (not) (co)incidentally, in the land of Roman numerals, it’s a BIG ONE.

Unless I’m mistaken, most (young) people would say that Thierry and I are “talking.” However, I’m quite sure that not one of us either (a) feels that way or {perhaps more accurately} (b) acknowledges the feeling. I am aware of a mutual magnetism, and I know she is as well, but I’m not sure if she knows that I know, and it’s almost as if we’ve reached an unspoken agreement to disregard (for now) the obvious fact that we each equally wonder what caliber of offspring we’d produce given the chance to procreate. It’s not the right time for genetic recombination; not for us. For one thing, she definitely doesn’t know that I’ve been naturally marked for a swift death while she’s been artificially destined for an awfully gory, terribly agonizing torture session ahead of utter demise.

I will allow neither to happen, but there’s a chance I’ll fail to stop either.

Life’s a bitch, isn’t it?

Oftentimes in recent weeks, I find myself awake at 04:00, whether up too late or too early, depending on who you (don’t) ask.

Currently, for these purposes, time is irrelevant. My phone’s display dims, having idled in my hand for too long, message app open, cursor blinking before an empty text input box, the addressee of which surely need not be named (since you {should} already know). The screen darkens. With unnatural speed (damn near independent of my awareness), my fingers enter a several-digit code, unlocking the device, whereupon, again, a cursor steadily blinks, taunting my indecision.

I can’t/won’t do this right now.

I need to be far less alone.

I want to talk to Ernest. Thank god for the outer rim of the internet. Piloting the user known as @yousurname on a hilariously dated, fantasy-themed, minimally maintained message board meant for text-based {and often erotic} role-playing games, what follows is the most recent coded message I sent to my old friend. Verbatim:

And so it went. The Wayward Warrior Lyten Gaidwaye dutifully embarked on his wouldbe epic quest. With the ease of finding a Gaphlardian Troll in the Bumsquirt Bogs south by southeast of New Pearlopolis, he quickly picked up the malodorous trail emanating from the horde of drow minions. And thus he found the damsel in (unbeknownst) distress, who, irrelevantly, was a very fair maiden, indeed. L.G. weighed his options carefully and soon realized that the moar he could be in her presence, the more likely he’d win an opportunity to vanquish the evil drow prince of terror, Stu Piddidiut. Thanks to a chance encounter that led to an improvised choice, Lyten found work in the tavern where the lass serves strong mead and a popular porridge for the hard-luck townsfolk, and he began watching over her from afar every night while she slept.

In the name of unpacking and contextualizing this madness (to which I have alluded previously), for the past 21.5 years, I’ve been in contact with the second highest-ranking operative in a clandestine global organization tasked with safeguarding and shepherding the world’s biggest secret. Our communication hides in coded story through a Dungeons[ish] & Dragons{esque} message board in a forgotten corner of the internet. My cohort, EQ2, maintains a covert line of communication with a spy inside the inner circle of Richard Purdy, one of the richest and most powerful old white men in the world. While most folks have never heard of him, he wields more influence than the current American President—you know the sluggish fellow, the shallow tycoon making an utter mockery of the job and, unwittingly, of himself.

Anyhoo, per usual, thedeemaster1337 responded posthaste to my unplanned transmission. Here’s an minimally edited version of said response:

By way of carrier gryphon, Sgt. Nightshade received a message from his top spy stating that none other than the dark drow prince himself has sent his top two lieutenants (and bedfellows) to the Southern Reaches where the coast stays engulfed in fierce competition for finite resources. The spy’s message further reveals their destination to be the immediate vicinity of a particular citizen of this increasingly fragile kingdom. A fair maiden of modest upbringing, one day by sheer unfortunate happenstance she crossed the wrong Baron. The specific nature of her wrongdoing has either not been attained, or perhaps more likely, has been intentionally withheld for unknowable, sinister reasons. This could be a golden opportunity for our w{e}ary hero to find the lieutenants and the damsel, use them all to lure the evil leader out of his lair, and then strike a devastating blow to the malevolent forces that stir unseen across our lands.

Obviously I already knew about F&F, but thanks for the heads-up, bud!

I’m (mostly) kidding, and he knows it. Well, I should say, “He’ll know it.” See, he’ll read these words long after the proverbial shit hits the metaphorical fan. [Hey, E. {Clutch parenthetical(s).}]

Dick Purdy Senior made his family’s initial fortune in the oil business. (Imagine that.) After his death a couple decades ago—and under Dick Junior’s cutthroat leadership—that wealth continues to balloon courtesy of investments in pharmaceutical companies and livestock production. Mr. Purdy also enjoys unparalleled influence over Republican politics and, by extension, the current U.S. Administration. Now here’s where facts pique (extra) interest (maybe). A murderous g/b mother-daughter duo by the names of Fausta and Faustina have been on Dickie Pee’s payroll {under contract labor} and are typically deployed only when the highest degree of “force” is deemed apropos.

Perhaps by now I should’ve mentioned that Dick sired two boys (by different mothers, neither currently living), the eldest being Judd [43 as of late October, 2019], his prodigal golden boy and heir to his perpetually amassing, obscene wealth, followed distantly by Kenny, the less fortunate of the two in every respect, who a downtrodden Thierry stumbled across in a cosmic event that has guided us here. Kenneth Herman Purdy: a mentally troubled, sadistic rapist—a budding serial killer too, I (have reason to) suspect—and he has been deceased since age 37.25 about 11 minutes before Thierry went on the run and into hiding. [She accidentally killed him in self-defense; another story entirely that, eventually, if she (somehow manages to stay alive and) so chooses, she’ll tell you in her own words.]

Doesn’t this all seem like, dare I suggest the term, fate?

As expected, a three-day record-setting heatwave forestalled F&F’s initial attempt to “intercept” our “damsel in distress.” But on the fourth night of my stakeout at Thierry’s house, Faustina arrived—I can’t possibly know whether you are aware of this incident because {unless you tell me explicitly} I’m not privy to the chronology of your consumption of this interweaving story—but I got the jump on her and dispatched her twitchy ass with ease, which, in theory, elevates Thierry’s predicament to the highest priority on Mr. Purdy’s hot-headed willy-nilly hit-list. I must assume that the outcome [Faustina’s loss of bodily function above the neck region] warrants a visit from my uncle—or at least his BFF Vilfred—whose food of choice involves sourcing human brains from only the most intelligent specimens. Unless they’re super hungry. Or bored.

Think of Severus and Vilfred as the antithesis of Batman and Robin—the Adam West and Burt Ward iterations. Polar. Fucking. Opposites. But synergistic sidekicks nonetheless!

Only once have I seen the aftermath of Severus/Vilfred meal, and never, in spite of my desire, shall I be able to un-see it. There was a lot of, shall we say, disgustingly unnecessary dismemberment. You might also say that they like to “rage-eat.” In other words, the belanoc are ramping up their emotional range at a pace that worries the hell outta me.

One more other thing: once I piss this entry into the wind for no one to find (at first), I’m going to start a job working alongside Thierry in a local restaurant kitchen. By this fact, I can’t accurately express my quiet amusement. A 16-year-old portly boy born of an ethnic cocktail that I can’t pinpoint aside from a hint of Laotian and perhaps a dash German, somewhat handicapped mentally, unable to synchronize a right eye that appears lost and frantic to land and focus on anything upon which his left eye fixates, and who happily goes by the nickname Beaver King, will be training me on their sensible system of washing, rising, and sanitizing dishes.

On the day of my utterly needless orientation, Thierry gave me a quick tour of the kitchen, and I met BK on my way out the back door. “Beaver King, this is Seth; he’ll be starting next week.” By this point, BK was sweating profusely, smelly, dirty, stained, soapy water saturating much more of his thrift-store-acquired outfit than not. Best I could tell, he never notices his disastrously soiled appearance. And I guess that must’ve been marinara on the side of his face {as opposed to blood}. Wouldn’t be surprised either way. Wouldn’t be surprised if whatever it was had been there since yesterday. Wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he gets dressed in the dark. The soon-to-be man they call “Beaver King” is the simplest of beings. He’s a dish soldier who plows ahead nonstop for $7.25 an hour. Oh, capitalism. In his eyes, watching paint dry constitutes a form of endless entertainment. Know what else? He’s happy in a way that cannot be faked. For that, I envy him.

I’ll never forget much, including his first words to me. “Hey, did you know you ain’t supposed to eat toothpaste?”

“You really shouldn’t eat any type of poison, for that matter.” Instantly, I almost felt bad for cock-blocking his punchline—it was not my intention—but, thankfully, his face revealed elation, appearing caught in the throes of hysteric laughter minus the audible cues. Very weird, if I’m not being dishonest. If only to alter the trajectory of the exchange, I offered a fact I figured he’d enjoy: “Did you know porcupines naturally float in liquid water?”

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just can’t help but clarify which state of matter I’m referencing. Shit’s relevant to understanding (y)our presently inescapable surroundings.

BK’s face froze blankly for a few seconds—for half a split-second I thought he was suffering a stroke—before, as if erupting from a trance with the oddly enthusiastic response, “Hells yeah, brosef.” I can’t do it justice via merely written/typed words, but that’s what he uttered. More so than uttering, he rap-sang. To this day [two days afterward, as it were], I haven’t the foggiest idea what he meant. Exactly more than one possible translations still spring to mind:

1. “Yes, I was aware, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed retaining the knowledge since gaining it.”
2. “No, I didn’t know, and I’m tremendously glad that you’ve informed me.”

I didn’t bother seeking clarification; instead, we exchanged a fist-bump before Thierry continued the tour of the gigantic kitchen with criminal gobs of wasted space that forces cooks to take unnecessary steps in order to bring the boring menu items to successful fruition. Quite easy to see how the rearrangement of equipment/appliances could massively improve the efficiency of this haplessly humble operation.

She showed me out the back door, which was beginning to spread small rusted holes from just above the kick-plate, before pointing out the limited employee parking area plus the long walk to the dumpster, recommended the matchless ginger dressing at the Thai place two doors down, and then, after revealing our current choices in gaming mice [same brand and model {teehee}], we parted ways—and this all happened awkwardly, I’m quite sure, but her little giggles led me to the hopeful {if optimistic} conclusion that she finds my social retardation to be endearing and worthy of additional exploration. As always, time will do its thing. [“Hint”: it’ll tell.]

I do like the simple human known as Beaver King, though. Good character, better work ethic. He’s a sweet kid who means well and nothing more. I look forward to additional exchanges with whatever his extremely basic brain might burp up. I have a strange feeling that he will inadvertently teach me a valuable lesson; maybe two!

Uh, and I guess I think I might “love” Thierry. Just typing that sentence activated my sweat glands and made me feel like a creep who should be thrown in a deep prison-well. Hell, how should I know whether I’m even capable of feeling that type of “love”? On this subject, I freely admit sheer ignorance due to the tragically ongoing accumulation of inexperience in “matters of the heart.”

But, so, yeah, this could get interesting.

Should this entry have ended already? Guess not!

The night before my first shift, as I drink one of my specialized calorie-dense energy shakes, this (particular) one spiked with a silly measurement of moonshine [“white lightning” as I overheard people around Nashville call it], I want to send her a text message. I’ve rewritten (and subsequently deleted) a draft 14 times now, and none have been about the same subject, at least not overtly. My first textual concept referenced the impressive survivability of headless cockroaches. Another idea was to ask her if she liked the name “Lotus” for a child (of either sex/gender). Next, I contemplated informing her, in case she didn’t know, that all colors of Fruit Loops taste the same; for health reasons, I would have recommended that she trust me on this one. That’s when I decided to go outside and sprint 3 miles in the rain. I was pleasantly surprised by my time of 9:28. I vomited (twice) while running, so that slowed me down by a full nine seconds or more. I blame the moonshine. And I’m anything but an experienced puker. My throat muscles will be annoyingly sore tomorrow; I just know it.

These days, my normally steady hand is not so steady.

Aside from anything and everything, I have nothing to say to this woman, and yet, here I am, itching for (remote {for now}) contact/connection.

How do you people navigate the waters of “dating”? What an oddly cruel, confusing custom, an unwinnable game which runs on/off a persistent undercurrent of emotional tumult, highlighted by unforeseeable explosions of varying, volatile, vague degrees/types. Hereby officially and with the utmost conviction that my tortured soul can muster, I solemnly vow on my mother’s imaginary grave never to participate in the unruly game of modern courtship.

When two people identify a mutual chase, it’s more efficient just to cut right to it.

someone, somewhere, someday

My time is 01:23. I’m less awake than asleep. That (“illegal”) moonshine was stronger than most. Educated guess: 280 proof. Unexpectedly—and by that I mean it startled the shit [not literally] outta me—a text message illuminates my cellular device, whereupon eagerly and immediately, I access the contents (while scanning my surroundings for immediate life-threats, of course). Thankfully, the coast is clear; miiiiiight be dead otherwise. I’ve yet to achieve 100% consciousness. The alarming AF message originates from the newest contact in my phone:

Since I’m under the impression that you keep your phone on silent, I expect you’ll read this nonsense in the morning. I just thought you should know that my middle name was almost Boon. Oh, it is morning. Frick. “Morning!”? If you don’t read this ’til after noon, I’ll never text you again today.

T. Tuck

First of all, my frickin’ god. The grammatical mastery on display here in the wee hours has altered the overall distribution of my bodily bloodflow—not to mention all the takeaways! Right away, she proved that she listens when people I talk. The word nonsense advertises a relieving sense of humility. Not that it’s any of your business, but I told her that my middle name would’ve been Martinsworth if my father had won a nickel-flip. Dunno why. Apparently sometimes I make up details on the fly to sound authentic. And her use of quotation marks around “Morning” indicates that she’s asking making sure I read the message before noon, as reinforced by the next sentence, wherein she was refreshingly arsed to slide in an appropriate apostrophe before “’til” [because it (kinda) deserves one], and she didn’t let autocorrect slip below her wine-drunk radar by cramming in the word “afternoon” since, in the context of her particular sentence, it would have been less correct than her astute choice to draw a line and separate the oft joined twosome.

God bless you, English. I wish more people understood you/us.

Back to her text. First of all, I DON’T KNOW HOW/WHEN TO RESPOND. My gut tells me to “be asleep.” And “I always set my phone to DND.” [I said that during our “interview.”] So I guess I’ll be “asleep,” but I’ll stay awake all night sweating to formulate my response in the morning at the hour I want her to assume I rise. The fuck is this? Why would anyone know [beyond actually having learned] when a potential friend/mate would most like him/her to wake up, on average, on any given morning? In other words, what in the fuck? How do you people do this? So much to consider. So much guesswork. So much horseshit.

Interjection: do you date? If not, skip the next paragraph [{sentence} the one below].

Advice: stop “dating.” Start trusting nature. Start being.

As I was trying to say originally halfway through a spiel of (no) consequence, I never gave the name Nova a second thought before today. I had given it a first thought in the late nineties when I enjoyed a CD {that I borrowed from a kid called Bennie} by an artist named Heather. Sometimes, she sang me to sleep at night. I could relate to London rain—a mist that lightly dampens you more so than gets you wet. I remember feeling it against my distraught face on the worst day of my life. However, as a mere noun in a D&D nerd’s head, a boon amounts to a statistical advantage that can equate with a game-changing buff. Therefore now I’m bound to like Boon as a name, but I wouldn’t assign it to any of my hypothetical offspring barring insistence from his/her mother, at which point, gladly/proudly, I would not object. Okay, why am I thinking about the names of nonexistent half-people?? I doubt I’m pregnant. Do you/I think I want children? Biological clocks can be assholes, am I wrong? Did I just change my mind about “dating”? I need to be rescued from my own noggin. Make you a deal: rescue me (mentally) and I’ll rescue you (physically). “Ha”?

If you’re not already used to jumping around in time, get used to it. You’re doing it anyway. Right now. In your head. Tell me I’m wrong. You’re not right. Either way, we’re in this together. What year is it again?

{Now} the year is 1957. I’m 36 years old and I look like a child. This was the first time (anyone knew that) I had ventured beyond Bessi’s 8-mile, carefully protected perimeter. It was a lesson Elvyn had been contemplating and devising for longer than I know or could guess, I’m sure.

Daily and ritualistically, as dawn approached, our fearlessly objective leader, Eve Lynne Quinn, patrolled the outskirts of our extra, extra top-secret compound alone [though heavily armed {with a pair of gladii, Apogee & Perigee}]. Each day, that was her time. Everyone respected it; no one questioned it. She went alone and that was that. On what started as a run-of-the-mill February Wednesday, she stumbled glid across an opportunity.

This was to be the day I laid eyes on a belanoc in the flesh for the first time.

A light snow had been falling gently for several hours. The temperature hovered several degrees below the freezing point. I remember us all being uncomfortably warm—in another word, overdressed. Bessi was never under-prepared. Except for once. (Again, another story.)

[So many other stories.]

The four of us hunkered down at an elevated vantage point (in a sensible spot chosen by EQ2, sniper extraordinaire) spying on a campsite exactly 182.88 meters down the fairly steep mountainside. It wasn’t steep enough to require rope, but one could easily slip, fall, and tumble to his/her painful, gruesome death.

Let’s say that for whatever reason (your imagination can conjure) that we all had to jump. I might have survived. “Might.” A coinflip, really. In other words, I might’ve died! Elvyn would’ve had a shitty shot in hell to live. Conrad and Ernest would’ve been fucked sideways. Non-spoiler: we didn’t have to jump; I’m merely illustrating our respective physical capabilities at this time in our lives relative to the peak on which we’d positioned. To expand on physical prowess back then, I will admit sans hesitation that Elvyn could’ve bested me in a swordfight (but not a fistfight). The only full-blooded human who would’ve survived the hypothetical fall explored in this paragraph was first depicted in a flick called Unbreakable.

What happened to that guy? And what can I say? I’m a movie buff out of necessity. Even a brain like mine requires escapism. In fact, a brain like mine requires a much higher dosage.

Anyhow, Conrad and Ernest were involved in their semi-regular pissing contest about which type of weaponry was optimal against our mortal enemies: firearms or swords. This occasionally heated argument occurred so frequently over the years that, coupled with my goddamned bear-trap of a memory, I can remember it verbatim {more or less}.

Picking up mid-debate, Ernest quips, “Times are changing with unnatural rapidity. You should learn to adapt, Gramps.”

I had recently [meaning within hours] used that word in a sentence and, thus, taught it to Ernest. “Rapidity.” I just thought it was fun to say.

Typically, my policy as debates unfold is to remain silent and (attempt to) stifle laughter; therefore, I did that and succeeded in spite of a few close calls to burst out.

Meanwhile, Conrad, the old-school old-timer, the stoic rock of a man’s (British) man, ever-maintains, “Bullets will never be superior to blades in close-quarter combat.”

“Now that we’ve established the obvious, let’s ponder occasions when the quarters aren’t close.” Ernest is the one who taught me how to be a smart-ass, so when I piss you off, blame him.

Never fazed by Ernest’s subtle disrespect, Conrad clarifies, “With belanoc, combat never deviates from the close-quarter variety.”

On this point, Conrad was {and still is} right. As had/has been his lifelong M.O., when Ernest gets outplayed in verbal jousting, he resorts to fumbling for humor, and to his credit, (usually) he’s funny. “Unless they’re fleeing,” he awkwardly jokes. “Sometimes they flee from me.” This is normally where Elvyn interrupts [just as she did (on cue)], “Boys, if I may.”

The bosslady always chose/chooses her words carefully. Especially at that time, calling her grown sons “boys” carried implications that shut them up lickety-split. While they silently licked their emotional wounds, she focused her attention on me. “Atlas, what’s wrong with this picture?”

Like a hyper-aggressive thunderbolt, my thoughts splintered in a thousand directions. What did I miss? Did I fail a test? Are we in Utah? Am I about to be killed? Am I awake? Carefully, nigh frantically, I studied the picture in question. The campsite. The dying fire. A handful of jolly, half-drunk miners yapping around their fading light source. Charred salmon blackening by the second. An uneasy dog chained to a tree. Signs of a faint footpath slowly disappearing under persistent snowfall. And twenty yards away, a straggler, previously assumed to be part of the group: the token lightweight who guzzled too much ale.

Nope. This was a slumbering belanoc—i.e. “what’s wrong with this picture.”

The second day of February in the year 1957. The night I grew up (mentally).

“Is it as you imagined?” my mentor whispered softly, her calming hand on my shoulder, counterbalancing my accelerating heart rate. I could only nod, transfixed by the inaugural sight of my natural enemy. By then, the Brothers Quinn had fallen respectfully silent, fully aware of this moment’s gravity. Until then, I’d never seen one in the flesh.

There it was, visible to the naked eye, a representative of the source contributing half my DNA.

As it often does, my head raced. [Right now, as we interact through this jarring parenthetical, it races.] Without thinking it through, I blurted, “Why does he share company with those humans?”

“They are unaware of his presence, and he of theirs.”

I had answered my own question before I finished asking. She knew it. That’s why I didn’t say anything else. I just focused on remembering.

Not only was this the night I first laid eyes upon (y)our enemy, but also it was the first time I witnessed firsthand just how heavily these creatures sleep [galacians even more so]. This is another advantage that we should probably exploit. Or, hell, we could all die. The best choice seems obvious to me! [Hint: let’s (try to) live.]

Packing up to depart from our observation nest, and not coincidentally while Elvyn was away scouting the area, we [only the males] had an actual pissing contest. It was Ernest’s fault. He knew how to goad his older brother. Whatever, no matter; I won by 18 inches. I am not bragging; I’m reporting. Ernest won the Bronze Medal—i.e. he came in last place—and blamed the impressively immense size of his bladder.

After returning stealthily and urgently insisting that her boys stay put, make ready for departure, and be prepared to vacate the area in swift silence, Elvyn requested my presence and explained, “Unless we intervene, those people are dead.” Naturally I nodded in agreement. “Keep up,” she added with a wry smile.

And off she went with impossible agility, grace, stealth, and speed. I kept up easily—(because) I’ve got more of their DNA than she does, and I’m male—which afforded me the opportunity to marvel (as I trailed behind) at her versatile maneuverability while mimicking her absurdly efficient movements.

We stopped suddenly where I thought we’d stop about ten seconds before I spotted the spot where I thought we’d stop. I correctly assumed I’d proceed no further. I didn’t argue. I figured she wanted to perform a demonstration, but more than that, she knew I needed to have the experience before creating it myself.

I’ll forever remember the heavily sleeping belanoc as Ramón. Don’t ask why. Doesn’t matter right now. Maybe he looked kinda Mexican. Who cares? On this night, Ramón probably overfed, went to sleep, and never woke up due to Elvyn’s impossibly sharp blades; with a half-second double-strike, she demonstrated a textbook execution:

Cut off the head then split it.

[how to finalize the physical death of a g/b]

I can almost feel the adrenaline all over again. Lot of major firsts for one night, ya know?

After we returned to base and everyone else had gone to sleep, Conrad supplied me with the piece of advice that would save my life 22 years later. By extension, he might have indirectly saved yours, too.

Old laddie, you’ve got to accept the possibility that there may come a time when you need to forget all your training in favor of running. Just run, son. Don’t just run like the wind; run faster. Run for your life so that you can save the lives of the living in the future.

ICQ, February 1957, 02:48

I hated that moment because his wisdom rang too true not to obliterate my contentment. Before bed, I hugged him tighter than ever because I knew he was right. And I figured it would happen. Conrad the Prophet. Magnificent bastard. I knew that one day, there would be nothing I could do, and I’d just have to fucking run, leaving some of my brethren all to die horribly.

Have you noticed that we’re leapfrogging across time again? Now it’s now. You know, “present day.” For the first time in about 5 years, I am genuinely compelled to exercise. I want to improve. What a relief. I’ve been losing mass from which I would soon benefit {again} greatly (unless I’m murdered in hatefully destructive, aggressively savage fashion, obviously).

Look, if this is not about you, then this is not about you, so don’t think that this is about you unless you know that this is about you. I’ve chosen to highlight this fun fact only because {in (some definition of) “many” ways} this is very much about you.

Are you as confused as I am?! Better yet, am I as confused as you are?

Not that you could (if you tried), but don’t answer either of those questions.

Alternatively, try! I’m listening. Hurry.

Whatever your personal case may be, all our shit approaches the fan. I, for one, vote that we all work together in order to ensure occupancy of a most favorable spot before it hits. Feel free to disagree, but be aware that if you do, you’re not only (essentially already) dead, you’re also gross.

I’ll probably respond to Thierry’s message at (exactly) 11:11 tomorrow, but you can’t/won’t know about it until an undetermined swath of time elapses.