Post by Jove Belane on Apr 18, 2017 11:44:23 GMT -5
Death.
Death occupies your thoughts more often than life and it’s killing you, isn’t it? When you’re born, you don’t even have a concept of what life really is. You’re so new and you’re absorbing too much to even be cognizant of how precious your ‘life’ is. Especially when you’re young--you don’t take that pacifier out of your mouth and get existential, you just babble. Then, when you’re old and smart enough to really start considering life and your own existence, all you can think about is when you’re punching your ticket the fuck out of here. Death. You’re so far away from that initial point where your life began, now all you can focus on is death as it rushes towards you.
You’re rushing so fast towards death that you’re pushed back into your seat and your cheeks are rippling like you’re sitting in NASA’s 20G Centrifuge.
It’s ok to be afraid.
Where I come from--where I live--death is pretty common. No one is tight lipped about death around here. You can smell it on the streets when a smoker wheezes and coughs up a half a rotten lung full of cigarette smoke. You can hear it in the bars in the raspy laugh of a drunk who is already half in the bag before five o’clock.
Death occupies your thoughts more often than life and it’s killing you, isn’t it? If you’re lucky, you’re able to compact yourself down to fit within the little box that our various faith systems create. You complexify your existence with a number of archaic rituals as you try to convince yourself that there’s something on the other side. You desperately want to convince yourself that there’s something beyond death. You become Bob Ross and you paint a portrait of it--the happy little beyond. You believe that god is larger than life itself, probably bearded, and is reaching out to hold your hand. Unless you’re into the Old Testament, in which case, he probably wants to fucking kill you. Fuck it though, you don’t want to read, you just want heaven. You want to believe that every dead member of your family is there waiting for you and you alone. Somehow that makes everything in your fucked up and wasted life ok. You close your eyes and you imagine whatever version of ‘heaven’ you settled for and you hope beyond all hope that you’re right. Then you open your eyes quickly because you’re still slightly worried that the darkness is all you’re going to see when you finally run straight into death.
Not all of the faith systems have a heaven, some are clever enough to just assume that we become insects, but who said we aren’t insects alread?
Heaven would be an eternity of being around your parents and loved ones and that would be magical, wouldn’t it? Are you sure about that? What about all of those people you despised while you hid behind your chosen religion? What if they come calling on you during your ‘eternity’ in heaven? They’re just as welcome to it as you are. Now you’re fucked and annoyed for eternity. Escape to limbo.
Death occupies your thoughts more often than life and it’s killing you, isn’t it? You’re young yet, so maybe the idea of planning for your death seems foreign to you, so we’ll go slow. Imagine a wrinkled version of yourself sitting down at a table to get ‘your affairs in order’ which really means ‘decide how to divide responsibility for your pile of shit when your heart stops beating’. Go ahead, take the time to think about who should end up with your record collection. Maybe sort out who will delete all the porn off of your computer, if you’re thorough. Done? Ok. Now that your niece will be the recipient of your much-lauded bug collection, you’re a step closer to being prepared for death. You’re so far away from life that you can’t even remember what it looked or felt like. Life has long since slipped into the vanishing point in your mind’s eye. You’re a step closer to death and those notarized and witness signatures on your will just serve to seal the deal. Now you’re ready to slide into the casket you’ve been considering since the moment you lost sight of what ‘life’ really meant--assuming you even really knew. You’ve got the makeup on and the suit or dress of your choosing. You know that suit or dress, the one that is split up the back so it’s easier for the mortician to dress you? Yes. Now you’re dead. Now your loved ones are crying over your corpse. That’s if you’re lucky. Some of us don’t have anyone. Some of us end up cremated in a box left on a shelf.
This is where you should tell yourself that Death isn’t an exit and is merely an entrance. It will help, especially if you come back as a larva of some kind.
I’d want to be a grasshopper.
Death occupies your thoughts more often than life and it’s killing you, isn’t it?
Dyspathy.
I found myself picturing Mariska talking to her thugs. They would share ideas of how they could hurt me for hurting her. Really, all I did was push her hand away when she tried to tug one out of me. I did her a favor and saved her a few minutes of clean up. She didn’t like it though, so she told her thug friends to beat me up good and then steal whatever they could steal. She wanted me to know how powerful she was beyond the scent of mangos I didn’t try to clean out of the sheets on my bed.
Hell, for all I knew, she was still in bed with me. Bathed in perfume, that woman.
Regardless of what she told the thugs, there would be no way they could beat me into believing that her given name was ‘Mariska’, it wasn’t happening.
I woke up in bed alone, but beyond the perimeter of my bed I saw three men. One at the foot of my bed and the other two flanking it. The one at the foot of my bed was brandishing a filthy baseball bat and the other two had brought only their fists. I wondered if they had plans for the baseball bat. Maybe they were just checking to see if I wanted to go outside and throw some pitches.
My fastball is kind of rusty.
I asked them ‘to what’ i owed the honor and the one I assumed was the leader pointed his bat at me like he was Babe Ruth calling his shot. Let’s just call him Babe Ruth. He informed me that Mariska was in fact his sister and I had disrespected her. I tried to tell him that respect had nothing to do with it. I told him that he could bring her back over and i’d let her jerk me off if it’d make him feel any better.
I had decided to throw in the Barnes & Noble gift card by that point, anyway. She was a good memory.
Back to the ‘letting her jerk me off to make him feel better’ thing: When a thug hears some asshole talk about what his sister can or cannot do with her right hand, he gets upset. His brain sends a quick and snappy ‘kill’ message to his extremities and he’s immediately needs to destroy something. In my case, it was the lamp on the night table next to me. I ducked--narrowly missing his attempt to take a chunk of my head with it. The lamp which used to illuminate my night time reading was turned into shrapnel rather quickly and sent across the room.
I like that lamp. It was my only fucking lamp.
His two thug friends pulled me up out of bed and I felt somewhat underdressed in my boxers.
I asked if I could get dressed and the three of them wanted none of it.
That’s when I heard Mariska’s name again. Babe Ruth told me that he wanted to knock all of the teeth out of my mouth with his bat, but she asked them to merely rough me up. He kept talking, but honestly, I lost track of what he was saying while I thought about mangos and stale cigarette smoke.
That ass of hers. Those eyes of hers.
I needed a drink.
His two helpers pushed me down to my knees and held my arms behind my back. Babe grabbed my chin and made me look up at him. He told me he should make me suck his cock. I laughed and told him I wouldn’t be nearly as a proficient cock sucker as his sister was.
I caught a punch for that statement. I saw stars erupting like fireworks in my peripheral vision.
It made me smile--knowing that I had left a lasting impression on Mariska, Edith, or Flo.
I took my opportunity to ask if Mariska was her real name and earned another punch which busted my lip open. I just found it far too hard to believe--Mariska as a name? Absolutely made up. Had to be.
The only thing left for me to figure out was how long I was going to let the three of them think they had control of the situation.
He drew back his fist again and told me that my place was a dump. He was angry because there wasn’t anything worth stealing and he had already decided that I was all wrong for his sister. I just laughed again and took his third punch. He tried to break my nose with that punch, but failed to do so.
Lucky nose.
I pushed myself to my feet and ripped my hands free and pulled Babe Ruth into a clinch and drove a knee right into his mush. He went over like a fell tree and I wasted no time driving an elbow into the guy flanking my right side and then continued my motion to blindside the other with the same elbow.
All three of them were down when I collected my slacks and pulled them on.
I returned to Babe Ruth--he looked pathetic and surprisingly bloody. I collected his bat from the floor and told him I was going to keep it. The three of them slowly started to stir as I headed to the bathroom to assess the damage and probably brush my teeth. Babe Ruth decided he was a hero and confronted me a the bathroom door with his horribly broken nose.
I couldn’t keep a straight face.
I told him if he tried anything else that I’d break something that would fuck him up, permanently. I grasped his shoulder and assured him that it wouldn’t end well. I assured him that I’d take really good care of his bat.
He believed me, at least on the first count.
I told him that I had very little sympathy for people like him. I told him that the world had even less sympathy for him. It was true. Good people died from stupid shit every day so that had to mean that an asshole like him was on borrowed time.
It probably wasn’t true. That asshole would live forever for all I knew.
I told him to tell Mariska to drop by sometime.
Despair.
Maybe her name really was Mariska. Regardless of her title, she hid a special kind of insanity behind her pitch black pupils. Maybe she was right to steal my money and send thugs after me. Yeah, I didn’t let her spill over into my life when I slapped her hand away from my cock when all she wanted to do was jerk me off. Had I really done anything that deserved such a harsh retaliation?
I’ll save you a very long and somewhat contrived explanation and inform you that Mariska was a Gypsy. Well, she probably still is, but we’ll get to that. Anyway, she was a Gypsy and they’re known for putting a great emphasis on relationships and family. By batting her hand away from my cock, I essentially slapped her and her whole family in the face and told them to eat shit.
Or something like that.
Apparently when she allowed me to penetrate her, it wasn’t just a passing fancy. For her, it had meaning. For me, it was, well, pleasent, but not something I thought had much meaning.
Define: Meaning.
The thugs had been gone for hours. I had just returned from the shitty little Medi-Clinic a few blocks up with some fresh stitches and a couple band-aids I didn’t have before. I had been sitting down with a drink for what felt like ten minutes when there was a knock at the door. The lip of the bottle of cheap whiskey was inches from my mouth. I debated answering the door.
I told whomever it was that I wasn’t interested. I added that if they were of any particular faith that I didn’t want to hear about heaven or reincarnation or any of that other shit.
Waste of time I just don’t have.
I took a swig of the whiskey and let it burn from the tip of my tongue all the way down to my gut.
Another knock at the door told me this Mormon or Jehovah’s Witness wanted to film the sequel to ‘the beating Babe Ruth’. I took a heftier swig of whiskey and kicked around the idea of giving whoever it was a good beating while I washed down the empty feeling in my chest and gut.
I told the knock to fuck off; it didn’t listen.
I had enough of it. The knock was persistent and had a kind of mad urgency to it, like a heart ready to explode. I cleared the bottle of cheap whiskey and rose to my feet, pitching the empty bottle into the trash as I headed to the door and threw it open.
It could have been a few people. It could have been Babe Ruth, back for another go. It could have been that pint sized Harvey Lohman back to wow me with a new hip ensemble and a new pair of glasses I wasn’t sure he needed. It could have been President Trump thumbing away at his phone preparing more Twitter profundity. It could or should have been anyone other than Mariska.
Mariska
Marika
Edith
Flo?
I let the name thing go.
Her eyes--those eyes reeled me in before and they reeled me in again. I stepped to the side and let her walk back into my apartment and in doing so--my life. I knew it was only because I was drunk, but when she stepped past me, all I could smell was marijuana and raspberries. As she passed me, I focused on her ass. The way it struggled with the tight jean material got me hooked quickly and I really knew it was only because I was drunk.
She walked straight into the kitchenette and stepped right back out of it with my last bottle of liquor. This time--cheap Vodka. She spun the cap off of the bottle with her thumb and pulled the lit cigarette out of her mouth. She held the cigarette out like an offering to the gods as she took a swig of the cheap shit vodka. She didn’t even wince. She’d been down that road enough times. She set the bottle down on the counter and ashed her cigarette on the carpet and closed the distance between us.
She wrinkled her nose when she complained about what I had done to, what would turn out to be, three of her brothers. She told me they were all in the hospital, but had all gotten the message. She went on to tell me that no one had ever put up that kind of a fight against her brothers and she wanted to check on me.
I just smirked.
She said it turned her on and grabbed the bottle and took another swig. She set the bottle down, but it fell over on its side, belching up the remaining cheap vodka, but neither of us seemed to care.
We were drunk enough?
I told her that she made a poor gamble thinking I was going to be a pushover. I told her that she’d better not steal anything from me again or her brothers wouldn’t get away with minor injuries the next time we met. With every word I spit, she seemed to draw in closer. Her eyes became wider and wider and soon they were glowing like twin moons at midnight.
She told me she was sorry. She told me she that she didn’t want to feel used. She told me she was jealous of anyone else I’d end up fucking. She said she’d make it up to me as she started unbuttoning her blouse.
It was only because I was drunk, sloppy, and in despair, but I didn’t stop her.
I didn’t know and didn’t really care what I had gotten myself into, but my face hurt, and I knew she’d make me feel better.
So with logic dripping from the cheap bottle of vodka on its side, Mariska and I fucked. We fucked hard. The kind of fucking where you’re rigid and experimental and don’t care who might hear.
Hello despair, did I mention I was drunk?
End.
Death occupies your thoughts more often than life and it’s killing you, isn’t it? When you’re born, you don’t even have a concept of what life really is. You’re so new and you’re absorbing too much to even be cognizant of how precious your ‘life’ is. Especially when you’re young--you don’t take that pacifier out of your mouth and get existential, you just babble. Then, when you’re old and smart enough to really start considering life and your own existence, all you can think about is when you’re punching your ticket the fuck out of here. Death. You’re so far away from that initial point where your life began, now all you can focus on is death as it rushes towards you.
You’re rushing so fast towards death that you’re pushed back into your seat and your cheeks are rippling like you’re sitting in NASA’s 20G Centrifuge.
It’s ok to be afraid.
Where I come from--where I live--death is pretty common. No one is tight lipped about death around here. You can smell it on the streets when a smoker wheezes and coughs up a half a rotten lung full of cigarette smoke. You can hear it in the bars in the raspy laugh of a drunk who is already half in the bag before five o’clock.
Death occupies your thoughts more often than life and it’s killing you, isn’t it? If you’re lucky, you’re able to compact yourself down to fit within the little box that our various faith systems create. You complexify your existence with a number of archaic rituals as you try to convince yourself that there’s something on the other side. You desperately want to convince yourself that there’s something beyond death. You become Bob Ross and you paint a portrait of it--the happy little beyond. You believe that god is larger than life itself, probably bearded, and is reaching out to hold your hand. Unless you’re into the Old Testament, in which case, he probably wants to fucking kill you. Fuck it though, you don’t want to read, you just want heaven. You want to believe that every dead member of your family is there waiting for you and you alone. Somehow that makes everything in your fucked up and wasted life ok. You close your eyes and you imagine whatever version of ‘heaven’ you settled for and you hope beyond all hope that you’re right. Then you open your eyes quickly because you’re still slightly worried that the darkness is all you’re going to see when you finally run straight into death.
Not all of the faith systems have a heaven, some are clever enough to just assume that we become insects, but who said we aren’t insects alread?
Heaven would be an eternity of being around your parents and loved ones and that would be magical, wouldn’t it? Are you sure about that? What about all of those people you despised while you hid behind your chosen religion? What if they come calling on you during your ‘eternity’ in heaven? They’re just as welcome to it as you are. Now you’re fucked and annoyed for eternity. Escape to limbo.
Death occupies your thoughts more often than life and it’s killing you, isn’t it? You’re young yet, so maybe the idea of planning for your death seems foreign to you, so we’ll go slow. Imagine a wrinkled version of yourself sitting down at a table to get ‘your affairs in order’ which really means ‘decide how to divide responsibility for your pile of shit when your heart stops beating’. Go ahead, take the time to think about who should end up with your record collection. Maybe sort out who will delete all the porn off of your computer, if you’re thorough. Done? Ok. Now that your niece will be the recipient of your much-lauded bug collection, you’re a step closer to being prepared for death. You’re so far away from life that you can’t even remember what it looked or felt like. Life has long since slipped into the vanishing point in your mind’s eye. You’re a step closer to death and those notarized and witness signatures on your will just serve to seal the deal. Now you’re ready to slide into the casket you’ve been considering since the moment you lost sight of what ‘life’ really meant--assuming you even really knew. You’ve got the makeup on and the suit or dress of your choosing. You know that suit or dress, the one that is split up the back so it’s easier for the mortician to dress you? Yes. Now you’re dead. Now your loved ones are crying over your corpse. That’s if you’re lucky. Some of us don’t have anyone. Some of us end up cremated in a box left on a shelf.
This is where you should tell yourself that Death isn’t an exit and is merely an entrance. It will help, especially if you come back as a larva of some kind.
I’d want to be a grasshopper.
Death occupies your thoughts more often than life and it’s killing you, isn’t it?
Dyspathy.
I found myself picturing Mariska talking to her thugs. They would share ideas of how they could hurt me for hurting her. Really, all I did was push her hand away when she tried to tug one out of me. I did her a favor and saved her a few minutes of clean up. She didn’t like it though, so she told her thug friends to beat me up good and then steal whatever they could steal. She wanted me to know how powerful she was beyond the scent of mangos I didn’t try to clean out of the sheets on my bed.
Hell, for all I knew, she was still in bed with me. Bathed in perfume, that woman.
Regardless of what she told the thugs, there would be no way they could beat me into believing that her given name was ‘Mariska’, it wasn’t happening.
I woke up in bed alone, but beyond the perimeter of my bed I saw three men. One at the foot of my bed and the other two flanking it. The one at the foot of my bed was brandishing a filthy baseball bat and the other two had brought only their fists. I wondered if they had plans for the baseball bat. Maybe they were just checking to see if I wanted to go outside and throw some pitches.
My fastball is kind of rusty.
I asked them ‘to what’ i owed the honor and the one I assumed was the leader pointed his bat at me like he was Babe Ruth calling his shot. Let’s just call him Babe Ruth. He informed me that Mariska was in fact his sister and I had disrespected her. I tried to tell him that respect had nothing to do with it. I told him that he could bring her back over and i’d let her jerk me off if it’d make him feel any better.
I had decided to throw in the Barnes & Noble gift card by that point, anyway. She was a good memory.
Back to the ‘letting her jerk me off to make him feel better’ thing: When a thug hears some asshole talk about what his sister can or cannot do with her right hand, he gets upset. His brain sends a quick and snappy ‘kill’ message to his extremities and he’s immediately needs to destroy something. In my case, it was the lamp on the night table next to me. I ducked--narrowly missing his attempt to take a chunk of my head with it. The lamp which used to illuminate my night time reading was turned into shrapnel rather quickly and sent across the room.
I like that lamp. It was my only fucking lamp.
His two thug friends pulled me up out of bed and I felt somewhat underdressed in my boxers.
I asked if I could get dressed and the three of them wanted none of it.
That’s when I heard Mariska’s name again. Babe Ruth told me that he wanted to knock all of the teeth out of my mouth with his bat, but she asked them to merely rough me up. He kept talking, but honestly, I lost track of what he was saying while I thought about mangos and stale cigarette smoke.
That ass of hers. Those eyes of hers.
I needed a drink.
His two helpers pushed me down to my knees and held my arms behind my back. Babe grabbed my chin and made me look up at him. He told me he should make me suck his cock. I laughed and told him I wouldn’t be nearly as a proficient cock sucker as his sister was.
I caught a punch for that statement. I saw stars erupting like fireworks in my peripheral vision.
It made me smile--knowing that I had left a lasting impression on Mariska, Edith, or Flo.
I took my opportunity to ask if Mariska was her real name and earned another punch which busted my lip open. I just found it far too hard to believe--Mariska as a name? Absolutely made up. Had to be.
The only thing left for me to figure out was how long I was going to let the three of them think they had control of the situation.
He drew back his fist again and told me that my place was a dump. He was angry because there wasn’t anything worth stealing and he had already decided that I was all wrong for his sister. I just laughed again and took his third punch. He tried to break my nose with that punch, but failed to do so.
Lucky nose.
I pushed myself to my feet and ripped my hands free and pulled Babe Ruth into a clinch and drove a knee right into his mush. He went over like a fell tree and I wasted no time driving an elbow into the guy flanking my right side and then continued my motion to blindside the other with the same elbow.
All three of them were down when I collected my slacks and pulled them on.
I returned to Babe Ruth--he looked pathetic and surprisingly bloody. I collected his bat from the floor and told him I was going to keep it. The three of them slowly started to stir as I headed to the bathroom to assess the damage and probably brush my teeth. Babe Ruth decided he was a hero and confronted me a the bathroom door with his horribly broken nose.
I couldn’t keep a straight face.
I told him if he tried anything else that I’d break something that would fuck him up, permanently. I grasped his shoulder and assured him that it wouldn’t end well. I assured him that I’d take really good care of his bat.
He believed me, at least on the first count.
I told him that I had very little sympathy for people like him. I told him that the world had even less sympathy for him. It was true. Good people died from stupid shit every day so that had to mean that an asshole like him was on borrowed time.
It probably wasn’t true. That asshole would live forever for all I knew.
I told him to tell Mariska to drop by sometime.
Despair.
Maybe her name really was Mariska. Regardless of her title, she hid a special kind of insanity behind her pitch black pupils. Maybe she was right to steal my money and send thugs after me. Yeah, I didn’t let her spill over into my life when I slapped her hand away from my cock when all she wanted to do was jerk me off. Had I really done anything that deserved such a harsh retaliation?
I’ll save you a very long and somewhat contrived explanation and inform you that Mariska was a Gypsy. Well, she probably still is, but we’ll get to that. Anyway, she was a Gypsy and they’re known for putting a great emphasis on relationships and family. By batting her hand away from my cock, I essentially slapped her and her whole family in the face and told them to eat shit.
Or something like that.
Apparently when she allowed me to penetrate her, it wasn’t just a passing fancy. For her, it had meaning. For me, it was, well, pleasent, but not something I thought had much meaning.
Define: Meaning.
The thugs had been gone for hours. I had just returned from the shitty little Medi-Clinic a few blocks up with some fresh stitches and a couple band-aids I didn’t have before. I had been sitting down with a drink for what felt like ten minutes when there was a knock at the door. The lip of the bottle of cheap whiskey was inches from my mouth. I debated answering the door.
I told whomever it was that I wasn’t interested. I added that if they were of any particular faith that I didn’t want to hear about heaven or reincarnation or any of that other shit.
Waste of time I just don’t have.
I took a swig of the whiskey and let it burn from the tip of my tongue all the way down to my gut.
Another knock at the door told me this Mormon or Jehovah’s Witness wanted to film the sequel to ‘the beating Babe Ruth’. I took a heftier swig of whiskey and kicked around the idea of giving whoever it was a good beating while I washed down the empty feeling in my chest and gut.
I told the knock to fuck off; it didn’t listen.
I had enough of it. The knock was persistent and had a kind of mad urgency to it, like a heart ready to explode. I cleared the bottle of cheap whiskey and rose to my feet, pitching the empty bottle into the trash as I headed to the door and threw it open.
It could have been a few people. It could have been Babe Ruth, back for another go. It could have been that pint sized Harvey Lohman back to wow me with a new hip ensemble and a new pair of glasses I wasn’t sure he needed. It could have been President Trump thumbing away at his phone preparing more Twitter profundity. It could or should have been anyone other than Mariska.
Mariska
Marika
Edith
Flo?
I let the name thing go.
Her eyes--those eyes reeled me in before and they reeled me in again. I stepped to the side and let her walk back into my apartment and in doing so--my life. I knew it was only because I was drunk, but when she stepped past me, all I could smell was marijuana and raspberries. As she passed me, I focused on her ass. The way it struggled with the tight jean material got me hooked quickly and I really knew it was only because I was drunk.
She walked straight into the kitchenette and stepped right back out of it with my last bottle of liquor. This time--cheap Vodka. She spun the cap off of the bottle with her thumb and pulled the lit cigarette out of her mouth. She held the cigarette out like an offering to the gods as she took a swig of the cheap shit vodka. She didn’t even wince. She’d been down that road enough times. She set the bottle down on the counter and ashed her cigarette on the carpet and closed the distance between us.
She wrinkled her nose when she complained about what I had done to, what would turn out to be, three of her brothers. She told me they were all in the hospital, but had all gotten the message. She went on to tell me that no one had ever put up that kind of a fight against her brothers and she wanted to check on me.
I just smirked.
She said it turned her on and grabbed the bottle and took another swig. She set the bottle down, but it fell over on its side, belching up the remaining cheap vodka, but neither of us seemed to care.
We were drunk enough?
I told her that she made a poor gamble thinking I was going to be a pushover. I told her that she’d better not steal anything from me again or her brothers wouldn’t get away with minor injuries the next time we met. With every word I spit, she seemed to draw in closer. Her eyes became wider and wider and soon they were glowing like twin moons at midnight.
She told me she was sorry. She told me she that she didn’t want to feel used. She told me she was jealous of anyone else I’d end up fucking. She said she’d make it up to me as she started unbuttoning her blouse.
It was only because I was drunk, sloppy, and in despair, but I didn’t stop her.
I didn’t know and didn’t really care what I had gotten myself into, but my face hurt, and I knew she’d make me feel better.
So with logic dripping from the cheap bottle of vodka on its side, Mariska and I fucked. We fucked hard. The kind of fucking where you’re rigid and experimental and don’t care who might hear.
Hello despair, did I mention I was drunk?
End.