5 AM passed and the night bade its farewell with an embarrassed whisper.
5 AM passed and the night bade its farewell with an embarrassed whisper. The sun spilled molten rays down onto the tarred rooftops of the city’s brown bricks, prancing along like gingerbread men, cinnamon sprinkles shimmering. We were supposed to go big-time that year with the arrival of the NFL expansion Jaguars, but the heat wave that had set upon Jacksonville was continuing into a twelfth day. It was too hot for anyone to care.
I had worked the night shift in Orange Park taking blasts of sour semen across my bow and the ramrods of hate-filled men up ’neath my poop deck. As usual, I finished up at the diner with toast and eggs before administering myself six milligrams of Clonazepam. Satisfied, I stepped back out into the sun and lumbered down the decaying pavement toward my building like a desiccated slug having come in contact with garden pellets. I grimaced as my pig-leather whoring costume chaffed mercilessly against my cum-dried thighs.
Through the leprous haze that hung over town, occasional shurikens of white light struck my naked eyes, adding to the sum of torments with which life presented me. I turned my head toward the local home for those of special need. Through the eyes of the building I had become ensnared in the gaze of a young Mongoloid. A slow arm rose to wave, the hand atop it flopped wildly like a carp freshly plucked from a muddy creek. The child grinned, grim news foretold.
I mounted the steps to my apartment and turned my back on the infant morn. I bequeathed to it an emission. The hot gas dissipated into the street, welcome among its constituency in the city’s sick perfume. With this, the state of my ass filled my mind. The nature of my work made great demand of its ventricular nature, and it glowed a most brilliant red.
Clasping an iron railing, I heaved my mammoth frame up the stairs toward my apartment. Suddenly from the shadows a figure emerged as if it were a native of the darkness itself. I rubbed my eyes and refocused. It was Garry my neighbor: “Still working?” he asked, exposing his oily penis. I reasoned that the next day’s cigarettes and drink would be free if I were to take one last load. I think most—including those not involved specifically in street work—have probably rationalized questionable decisions in a similar way at some point in their lives. Perhaps it is universal.
Farting again, I slunk to my knees. My face bravely held the expression of a stunned cow. Garry began to daub his musty scrotum against my face. He molded it into the craters that housed my eyes and patted his shaft on my forehead and about my ears before engaging my wet gob. Soon my mouth flooded as he jerked, shuddered and then vanished back into the darkness as if it had eaten him.
I unzipped and sprawled about my bed. Springs near death groaned beneath. I lit a cigarette and released a stream of blue vapor into the air. As I closed my eyes, I felt my breakfast begin to erode within me and my bowels filled with diarrhea. I had 30 seconds at most. I ran to the toilet and unleashed a torrent of gastric acid into the basin. The lesions that lined my colon’s membranous walls began to scream out as if in concert; a terrific crescendo of torture emanated from my ass. I began to cry.
When one sobs gently it is often the mark of spiritual despair. I thought wistfully of my youth. I remembered birthday candles. I remembered Ms. Ruddlesticks writing out the ABCs on her chalkboard. I remembered the sensation of being loved: I had once been someone’s child. With great strain I tried to recall exactly when I had made my transition, but the memories would not come. I pulled the lever and my waste disappeared fan-like. The drain gurgled and the pipes within the walls rattled with cruel applause.
Trembling fingers searched the knobs aside my clock radio. I thought that this might be the day that I would finally make my decision to go. But then the exuberant classic “Life is Life” cut through the sound of my despair:
And you call when it’s over
You call it should last
Every minute of the future
Is a memory of the past
‘Cause we all gave the power
We all gave the best
When everyone gave everything
And every song everybody sings
Life is life
Hearing the tune anew, it occurred to me that perhaps Opus implicitly disagreed with Bacon’s famous dictum that “chiefly the mold of a man’s fortune is in his own hands.” Sleep came over me like a fog.
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