007
(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:
- “Yes, I was aware, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed retaining the knowledge since gaining it.”
- “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.
