Sunday, July 26, 2009

DEALING WITH IT : A Portrait of Hatred in one Part

God would damn dusk, if it wasn't hell already. It has a pointless pink sky that somehow despite it's bright tone seems to muffle light. As if it were a brief time period where the clock stops and and life becomes something you should perhaps be a little more careful around, be wary of. The headlights of my car do absolutely nothing to cut the dimness, and it's too dark to make out some of the shapes that cross my path on the road. I sink my 2006 Ford Taurus further into a massive wooded area that is like something made out of a mixture of Cajun swamp and the northern woods of Alaska. It is grimy, cluttered, foreboding and does not seem to welcome life.
I pass through this wooded damp in my car and see another vehicle shimmering toward me in the opposing lane. It's headlights are not on. Not that they would help. This car is spectral as it almost seems to just fade in from nothingness.
"I know whose car that is." I think, almost startling myself with my own inner monologue. Did I think it, or speak it?

It doesn't matter.

A flash of static impedes my vision. Dead air. When sight restores, everything I see is tinged red. Seeing the world through blood-colored glasses, now. My breathing is now rushed. The other car is a 1940's Ford, jet black, and the driver is Cancer. He turns his head and looks at me. It's not a smile, nor a frown,...his facial expression just is.

I slam on the brakes of my 1969 Dodge Charger and wheel the Beast around.
I've seen that black car before many times. I've been in this movie prior to this. I lean over, reaching ito the hidden holster under my glove box and pull out my Beretta, finger the clip, check the action. The piece is fine, and in this vision, Cancer becomes tangible. It is now on.

As the Charger runs him off the road, his Ford shudders to a stop in the ditch. I'm rocket-sled harnessed into my seat, so I barely feel the jar. I get out, walking hard down to the Ford. It's leaning almost on it's side, steam dancing through the bent hood, seeming to enjoy playing in dusk's unsubtle shitpile. I kick the glass in on the driver's side door, reach in, and pull Cancer out.
Not an attractive one is he, but I'm used to looking at him. An eyeless black wraith that has a cowling set of wings instead of arms. He smiles like a chainsaw. I grin back as I turn and see my father in the back seat of the Ford. He looks to the floor of the massive vehicle and just shakes his head. Tears? I don't give a damn. I put the Beretta in Cancer's jagged-toothed mouth and cock it.
Clenching my teeth, I utter, "You've taken so many." My grin grows wider so slowly, I can almost hear it. "I am gonna shut you off."
There's a low chuckle from Cancer, as we've done this before. I pull the trigger repeatedly until all 16 in the clip and the one in the pipe exhausted and the clink of falling shells stops it's consistent jingle. They are not unlike coins to pay the ferryman. I could almost have danced to their twinkling rhythm. Right now, I don't feel like dancing. No, not at all.

Cancer squints his empty eyes and shakes his head. I turn to see Father in the back seat mouthing inaudible words.
"Robby, let it go."

That wave of brief static is there again, and my vision restores minus the crimson. I shake my own head out of this dark fantasy, as dusk continues to suck the light out of the air. I see a Doe and her fawns grazing on the crisp fall grass on the side of the road, from behind the Taurus' windshield. I continue shaking my head. It's clear now, but filled with the feeling of foolishness, and not a little bit of embarassment due to the game I just played in my head.

Cancer of course, is not a being. He doesn't walk the streets freaking out children. He doesnt call your house in the middle of the night. He drives no ancient black car of death with his loved victims in the back seat. He's just a motherfucker who doesn't watch where he steps because more often than not, he doesn't have to.
I put my beretta, back in the sleeve, the safety never having come off. It's black metal now glistens with my perspiration, my palms now mirror the texture of the pistol's grip.
I think I just heard my dead snap the holster shut.
See, the car is still a Taurus, it never turned a rubber burning sphere in the country road to seek my vengeance. I am facing the same direction as when the static came, just with a few more miles behind me. I shake the self-induced stiffness out of my hand as I accelerate. I grit my teeth into the blackening sky and flip the radio on.

The Stones: "I see a red door and I want to paint it black".


I flip to AM: "....another body found this afternoon, as Milwaukee's record murder count rises by one..."


I tap the CD button...

Misfits: "Come on, sweet death, one last caress...."

I punch the off button and it snaps in half, clicking to the floormat. Looking ahead, shivering, the sun crawls down the sky like a tear.

So be it.

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