the world’s own, Atlas!

{TN}T[/A]R{K}

the next time a rousing exchange of fluids (sits in a tree)…

No, this is not about ninjas, turtles, or anyone [or any AI] called “Noah.”

Oh, by the way, typos (as well as spelling/grammatical “errors”) aren’t my fault. And any weird formatting? That’s not my fault either. You can blame/thank this (un)lucky WordPress theme that I’ve chosen has chosen me.

Listen Read. Certain blanks [gaping holes] beg for your filling, do they not?

The void inside the shell of a cannoli, for instance. Tell me the mental image currently per{for/me}ating your dome does not beckon for a generous abundance of sweet, thick, white, creamy, frosty filling.

I’m freaking out a little. Officially, I have saved the life of my renewably eventual betrothed once so far this week, but I still haven’t met her in person.

Suddenly, I’m guessing that I should lock eyes with her at least 48 hours prior to making her physical acquaintance officially to see if I reckon she might be able [albeit unwittingly and certainly via no malicious fault of her own] to, um, lower my defenses by, uh, clouding my judgment—I do not know how my brain/body responds to “love potion”—thus increasing the chances that our noodles will be sucked from our craniums like Jello from a snack cup.

Pfft. Just wait.

Let’s get novelistic, shall we? Why I asked, I do not know {except that really I do [it’s so that I could write this fun sentence]}, for indeed, even upon your failed refusal of participation, the rest of us shall!

A day after lopping off that devil’s [Faustina’s] head, I sit alone deliberately, eating a mushy pile of cool pie at family-owned-and-operated seafood restaurant (called named Dinner’s [the owner of which is a fat fella named called “Boogie”]) ten miles inland near Foley, Alabama. The HVAC direly needs an update, the decor feels frozen in the nineties, the place is a hotspot among the natives and seats about 75. According to internet reviews, it’s “always” slow during the day but packed at night.

Incidentally, who thought it would be a good idea to let any idiot sign up for internet accounts (that can only negatively affect another person’s livelihood) just to dispense (often hateful) food reviews based on very personal “opinions” [(only) by technicality; hence the “quotes”] that reek of deep-seated ignorance?

You're wrong! It's seeded!

Are you sure?

Too, have I ever claimed not to be an idiot?

The My current time is 15:00; the date may (not) be apparent. Boogie Dinner’s establishment finds itself devoid of patrons aside from an older couple ordering an early supper and me (taking my last bite of “dessert”). Man, what a name [B.D.], but I could {not to be confused with “couldn’t“} make this stuff up if I tried.

Having detected movement, I lift my head in a manner which permits my eyes to land on the remarkable vision that is Thierry Nova Tuck as she glides out of that shitty kitchen.

Why are you doing it like this?

Stop putting words in my mouth. (Just kidding.)

(No, really, don’t stop.)

Have I mentioned that she is a caramel-skinned, light-eyed mulatto enchantress with legs that never end under healthy [usually] flowing dark natural curls all the way down to the top of her bottom? I guess I must have mentioned that by now.

Before she turns the corner en route to the restroom, her eyes meet mine in a first moment that lingers until its duration elicits smiles, prompting each of us to look away shyly, but then, after a moment or two, a simultaneous second glance/smile gets interrupted a second later when she turns the corner and disappears.

At last, I’ve seen a unicorn. Fuck me.

[It doesn’t count as “using the same term twice in a sentence” {as if that should be some type of “infraction”} when each occurrence (of the word) carries a different meaning. I wonder why “second” was chosen to (also) be two’s “first,” if you catch my drift. Somebody, google that. {Remember when “google” wasn’t quite its own verb?}]

Eff your parentheses!

No.

Fuck. Me.

I think I’m about to do some light daydreaming.

Already, this has been the weirdest year of my life. Here’s to the next {99}!

“Whimsical disbelief.” Dunno how else to describe it. I mean, I knew she was pretty or whatever, but golly gee willikers—what in the flying shit? I feel butterflies in my stomach because I made eye contact with a human girl and my goddamn pulse quickened. Um, what? Am I in a romcom? Butterflies?? That’s a first. I’m sure it’s just a natural effect caused by my apparent depressed state. Maybe the coconut pie here is infused with a sadistic amount of caffeine. Making eye contact with this female sent my thoughts in a thousand directions, some of which are irrationally deep into a grossly theoretical future. I almost hope I never see her again.

My god. I feel like a creep for feeling like she and I now know each other well enough to speak. This can’t be normal. My sweat glands are working overtime. I should leave.

However, there she is again doing restaurant server crap, imperfectly beautiful soul that she embodies, bipedally locomoting, lookin’ all fine.

I don’t like when people say, “Talk about [insert any topic of widely varying specificity]!” Especially when it’s something about which no one had been talking. Example, “Talk about being a three-pump chump one day and an all-night rider the next!” But, anyway, yeah, whatever: talk about hidden treasures.

I can see her peripherally; for some reason, it seems as though I am physically incapable of looking directly at her, which makes absolutely no sense because she is the antithesis of Medusa. She seems to be coming toward me. There goes my stupid pulse again. Okay, yep, coming right at me. No idea why. Wow, I’m nervous. I don’t think I’ve been nervous since 1980 after falling into a deep well. Why do I feel like my life just sprouted an extra layer of enormous complication?

As I rapidly type, Thierry interrupts, “You wouldn’t happen to be looking for a job, would you?” Eye contact again. Reciprocal butterflies abound. I probably shouldn’t tell her that I was just “blogging” about the magical moment my warped brain thinks we shared earlier.

Casually, I improvise, “Well, um, kind of, actually.” I retract my hands from the laptop and look up.

“What kind of job are you looking for? If you don’t mind my rudeness.”

Nope. I sure as hell don’t seem to mind. No idea what’s about to come out of my mouth.

“At the moment, I’m simply looking for the kind of job that pays.”

Excellent answer, liar.

Now you're talking to yourself?

I’ll bet this is hard to follow for many. I can’t help it. Really, I can’t. It has to be this way.

“That’s so weird,” Thierry observes with an intentionally cute smirk, “because it just so happens that we have two openings at the moment that might fit your stringent needs.” She smiles because she can’t help it, and surely neither can I. “Or one opening, possibly, depending on whether you want full time.”

Why are her lips so easy for me to read?

Are you really asking me?

Of course not. But I’m supposed to be trash at lip-reading. God save me. I think I’m about to take this job for the sole purpose of getting to know her, which means I can’t rule out the possibility that I might actually believe this could be “love” that I’m feelin’ [“Albino Serpent,” anyone?] which signifies the probability that I’ve finally gone cuckoo after decades of solitude trapped in a hypnotic orbit around the event horizon of sanity.

As this goddamn-gorgeous goddess begins her first departure from my company, she takes about five steps, spins, returns to ask, “Can I see your phone?”

I comply by displaying said extension of oneself.

She giggles, confirming that I have been successful in my attempt at dry wit. “Can I touch it?”

“Sure.” Hell, you can have it.

And, by the way, she is outstanding at hiding her long-lost accent behind a subtle Southern twang.

She taps away. Glances up for more eye contact. Taps. Glances. Taps. Smiles. “What’s your name?”

“Seth Krêps.” I don’t know, okay? That’s what came out. Pretty sure I almost blurted, “Kyle Klapka.” (In case it’s not obvious, I do possess soft-/hardware that enables me to churn out fake IDs as needed.) [Also maybe this whole paragraph is code for 4 particular {rogue Bessi} operatives, and we’re planning to raid a belanockian den later tonight for funsies—who knows?!]

Thierry eyes me, and unless I’m mistaken, a coy grin verges on emergence.

What is happening? Is this a staring contest? Are we speaking aloud beyond my realization?

Oh, oops, forgot I’m not supposed to know her name yet. “What’s yer name?” Yep. I said that. By now I’m sure she has taken notice of my social clumsiness. Apparently she finds it endearing as her face exudes something that cannot be faked (well enough to fool me).

“It’s saved in your phone. See you tomorrow.”

Yep, I’m in a romcom.

For real, though. For real. What in the actual fuck is happening (to me{, you, or anyone})?

Be patient. All answers are forthcoming. Pinky swear.

An hour later, I’m alone again, but I don’t “feel” alone. I actually know someone. A person IRL, no less! I guess I forgot what that was like. We chatted for almost an hour about the most utterly random of topics such as geopolitics, Masters of the Universe, an Australian hypnotist who can talk you to sleep if you let him, (re)cycling, recurring nightmares about dogs trapped in garages and forgotten locker combinations, kites, WoW, full-body silhouettes, black coffee and{/with} neat bourbon. This isn’t happening quite as I planned {perhaps because I failed to plan it}. I took a bottom-rung job that I definitely don’t need. Or maybe I do need it. Forget the financial aspect. Maybe I need to see what it’s like to live the life of a fairly normal, emotionally college-aged, single human being. Or however old I look. I wrote “27” on my application and she seemed to buy it. (27-year-olds go to college, too, you know.) Whatever. Doesn’t matter. I look her age. Or close enough. She made the extra effort to get her hands on my phone so that she could actually save her own number in my device. And! She sent herself a message so that she would have my number. Suddenly I’m an eighth grade girl again.

Huh?

Anyway, I start my new job tomorrow afternoon. This post is probably a bit too honest. Have I been “compromised”? I feel like I’m about to laugh out loud.

I was right. I’m laughing as I type this sentence.

Oh, and I’m probably gonna decapitate Fausta approximately exactly{!} 48 hours (and 13 minutes).

You with me?

I am not a “psychic.” I’m just a the shitter who knows what’s gonna happen.

Plus, are you with me?

Dark(en Her {Gee}) Daze

the last supper before “Her” first rite of passage

Sometimes, especially lately, I’ll catch myself transfixed while watching water and suds spiral down a shower drain because it reminds me of a cosmic hurricane centered not by a tranquil eye that offers temporary reprieve {like an evolved tropical storm}, but rather by a SMBH supermassive black hole dark orb [S{m}DO] which relentlessly deletes everything that succumbs to its gravity. In other words, it reminds me of a galaxy.

Then I’ll feel foolish for spending time and energy on circular, unending, abstract contemplation.

Then I’ll feel like an asshole for wasting water.

Why are my thoughts so obscenely loud? The only thing louder is pure silence.

I don’t know how much longer I can shoulder this burden, but I suspect my time is rapidly running out.

I must have written that two years ago before tonight as I smell stagnation.

This neighborhood [where I am/was at the time of generating this paragraph] reminds me of the kind of place where I wish I would have had the chance to grow up as a normal kid {if only for a few years}. A street with decades of history under its belt, as evidenced by the fully developed trees and the wear-and-tear on the modest houses, advertises a decidedly middle-class vibe. People go walking just to get out and be social with neighbors—families grilling out, kids riding bikes, playing in yards, whatnot. Very communal. Everybody knows everybody. That’s how I imagine it anyway.

Not much happening at the moment. The fact that it’s half past two in the morning might have something to do with the lack of activity. Lights at this lady’s house have been out since 00:55; entire street eerily silent since 01:30. Starting to think they’re not coming for her tonight. This would make three consecutive fruitless nights. I think I’d leave if not for the cooler air due to hit by 03:00. 23°C is astronomically more tolerable (to me) than 30°C.

Incidentally, I predict that on the first day of October in Nashville, the temperature will reach the upper nineties.

02/10/19

Hope this tree branch is sturdy enough. A twenty-foot fall could hurt me. Theoretically.

If I pass out and invert on the way down.

Maybe.

If F&F are still in town, then they’ll be here tonight.

If they don’t show, then their mission was merely to scout.

Of this, I am one hundred 99% sure.

No, that doesn’t make sense. Overkill. It’d be like sending a Seal Team to sort out a domestic disturbance.

Perhaps they’re here neither to scout nor to kill, which leaves only capture as a possibility.

I guess. Especially if Sleeping Beauty down there perpetrated a crime against Dick Purdy so vile that he wants to watch the life leave her admittedly amazing body.

She must run a lot.

[as Lloyd might’ve said in my/(y)our head]

Almost forgot that I’m wearing Halcyon on my back. Kinda cool, I reckon, that something this big/sharp could be so unobtrusive.

I can’t emphasize this enough—assuming you’re able to cultivate a real proficiency at wielding it: you should develop an unhealthy attachment to a trusty weapon which you assign a thoughtful name, and of which you take obsessively good care.

Back home (in 1969) my best bud’s life was saved basically thanks to separation anxiety from his weapon of choice—he preferred a bolt-action dinosaur in those days. These days, being the same person {obviously}, he prefers one of his trusty .50-70[-90] Sharps rifles, all appropriately named Sharpy [insert Roman numeral in reverse order of acquisional chronology], which (due to a slightly longer-than-usual lifetime of practiced familiarity) suggests that he’ll never adapt to the tactical superiority found in more modern(ized) weaponry.

Confession: I know how he thinks. A handy-dandy, fancy scope would only get in “his” way. Granted, he augments personal vision with the latest technology—he can reload the chamber in 4.2 seconds.

Ernest is as “old school” as he is a sly dog. He’s not big on learning new (mechanical) tricks—i.e. developing new muscle memory—but he remains at the cutting edge of computer science [among other cerebral fields].

EQ2 was introduced by happenstance to Sharpy I in 1861 when he stumbled upon a struggling trapper who relinquished the rifle {for 19 bucks}, which he kept as a relic on display in his living quarters until, after an impromptu sniper dual in 1919, he found Sharpie II at the abandoned post of his target. As of 2019, he has collected 10 iterations of Sharpy, all of which must function with a striking degree of similarity.

The dude is nothing if not stubborn. He has been known to scout a hawk’s [sniper’s] nest for varying periods of time well in advance of a planned mission. His personal record for location-scouting is 12 months and 24 seconds—ironically, of course, that mission had to be aborted mere minutes before he could pull the trigger. Womp, womp.

Not sure why I’m going on about my “childhood BFF.” I guess I must miss him. Emotions are crazy. I walled them off for 98 years. Friggin’ energy, man.

God, since I’m a gushing puddle of warm, fluffy rainbow{-flavored} vibes, please allow me to admit (thanks to your continued absorption of this sentence) that I love my sword. Honestly, I’m not sure whether I love anything else. That’s probably weird. How am I only just now birthing this thought? “How long have I known you, Halcyon, you inanimately perfect object you? 42 years?” Yeah, actually, I might care more about my sword than anything else in the world. I know I’m a jaded cynic; it’s the natural outcome of the hugely unnatural trajectory of my existence. Even knowing that, I can’t control my cynicism. Wait. Is that movement? Down the street, coming out of the brush. Did I forget the concept of the “ENTER” key? Am I actually “blogging” this as it’s happening? Not exactly, but yep, here we go—a female shape makes a swiftly silent beeline across lawns, between houses, toward this seemingly unsuspecting lady’s house. Why do I detect only one of them? Confusing, this! No person has ever seen one [F] without the other. Who is this? Fausta? Maybe. Yep. Nope, Faustina. Visibly pregnant. Yikes! Looks like she’s been knocked up for about three years, maybe four. How would I know?

Is that your bun in her oven, Sevy? Perhaps it’s your slimiest best pal Vilfred’s latest sprout. Have you missed me, Villy? Your brain stem has a severance package coming due soon as well. Don’t worry, pumpkin; I’m going to make sure you see me coming. I want to stare into your eyes [remember the Tube?] while your spirit slips into a surreal trance. Together, in spite of your initial resistance, we’ll be doing a dance of death, but you’ll be the only one seeing the light as I slice into your sightline and bisect the depths of your starving energy.

Anyhow, great, this slutty viper is already unnervingly strong—or so I hear—and now she’s armed with bonus pregnancy power. And she’s combat-trained to boot {or so I’ve heard}. Damn it. Why is she alone? [I’m not really typing all this as it unfolds—to label my memory as photographic means to undersell its ridiculous potential and processing power.] Faustina looks to be on track to pass almost directly underneath me within two full fistfuls of seconds. Where is her mother? This is a gamble; shouldn’t engage. Why would she be alone? What the hell is she wearing? Looks like she robbed a drunken tourist who had just wandered out of a souvenir store after a sequence of bad decisions. At least she’s (un)comfortable. Hell, I dunno. Less than ten seconds. Detecting no other presence. Nobody else anywhere. All alone. Shit. Five seconds. She just slowed down—a futile attempt at “stealth mode,” I presume. Six seconds. Can’t afford to miss. Focus. I’m not doing this. Fuck. My hand was lightly gripping the hilt before I knew it. Three seconds. This’ll be interesting.

Welp. That’s over. She didn’t even have time to display her fangs.

I just killed a sentient female.

And it wasn’t human.

Where’s her mama? Can’t be this easy. Been years since I’ve had such an uneventful, one-sided, clean encounter with g/b. Guess I’ve retained the portion of my training rooted in the kind of mindless muscle memory that makes such a technical, textbook strike possible. Reassuring. Not outta the woods yet, though.

Crickets chirp. Steam rises from the blood spilling from Faustina’s dismembered body. Other than that, stillness reigns.

Eyes closed to amplify a keen sense of fine-tuned hearing. It’s much easier to detect noise when your eyes can’t distract you. As predicted, I listen, sweat, concentrate for a full ten seconds of frozen silence before relaxing, sheathing Hal, scooping up the two parts that comprise Faustina’s formerly functioning body then taking the shadowiest path available on foot out of the area. 

I could be the only person awake for 7 miles. Possibly 42 24.

It’s almost like it never happened.

That’s not my boat, by the way, but it might as well be.

Sometimes my hyperactive head wanders down a “dark” path and next thing I know, it feels as if I just can’t summon a normal breath, but the gentle sloshing of a properly functioning [i.e. floating] boat in still water on a quiet eve has an incontestably soothing effect on me; its sluggish rhythm reduces the cadence of my respiration to a relaxed pace. Super strange that I would ever notice—my respiration should not require external stimulus to regulate. I’ve always assumed that I am immune to a condition as pedestrian and human as anxiety. But at the present time, listening to my little craft drifting (up)on quiet (liquid) water and nothing else, I’m fine. I’d even go so far as to say, “I’m content right now,” but all the while, I know it’s only for the moment. It’ll vanish as suddenly as it appeared. That’s the nature of existence. Yin meeting yang. On repeat. Since the beginning of time and for all that remains.

A foreboding sensation swells in my gut, and unless I’m missing something terribly obvious, this is due to my relative certainty that very soon, perhaps as early as tomorrow, I will finally lock eyes with Thierry Nova Tuck. Whoa. I think that for the 5th time in my 99 years on our planet, I’m about to throw up.

The first time I felt nausea at age 12 {after tasting English peas in spite of my instincts}, I could have cried. Naturally I didn’t, but what a miserable feeling! I had only been told about it. I remember wondering if I could shit my way out of the misery. Give me a break. At that point, I carried the body of a toddler, the brain of a budding egghead, and I had never left Bessi’s 8-mile perimeter. Life was almost as confusing back then as it is now.

Luckily, however, the expansive pool of potentially gained universal knowledge will never be found empty.

In every instant, anything will change.

Augustus De Morgan Alfred Holt, Nevil Maskelyne, Paul Jennings, John Sack, et al. [kinda]

Snap your fingers. Not only is that how fast your life can (effectively) end, but also that’s how fast ignorance can be rectified.

Great news: you may feel free to never stop learning.

Wise up. Get smart. Know.

Now go.

Postscript: …and (please) don’t dilly-dally; after all, we’re already far behind.