Here he is now, wandering around the flat, grassy area behind the local grocery store, and he’s seeing a bunch of pretty little birds. Some of them are big. Perhaps that could be a new hobby? Birdwatching. Bird-naming. Etc. He needs to get himself a fine, Easton Press edition of Audubon’s book about feathered friends in and around the ole U.S. of A. That could be his new thing.
Acting? Meh. That’s out of the question. He wasn’t cut out for it. Slaughterhouse working? More meh. No one’s cut out for that shit, save for a couple loonies who live under rocks and are fine with eating meat after seeing how mass-produced it is.
Now he’s free to wander. Free to let his inner passion act as a dowsing rod that will lead him to what he needs next. What else could life have in store for him? Is it possible he could hit his stride and then die unexpectedly, without having really lived for as many years as he’s been around? If so . . . then it is what it is, some living is better than none.
As whoever the fuck is the singer of Def Leppard says: “It’s better to burn out, than to fade away.”
Fading may very well be what’s next. Sad, sure. And Jeremy knows it, but there’s no denying it, because he also knows he’s a fucking fuck-fuck who’s clumsy as a duck, and the only way to fix something that’s broken is to kill it . . .
. . . and he doesn’t want to die. So the only option left is to take what clumsy accidents occur. Take ’em with balls, son, take the shit out of ’em.
Jeremy then trips on nothing and finds himself face down in watery, muddy, grassy ground.
***
This time, he picks himself back up and spends the money he has left on food and a hot shower. Fuck a place to sleep tonight, he can sleep under the stars.
As it happens, though, he finds himself sauntering back to the house he broke into. Perhaps the occupants will take pity on his poor soul. Also, they’re the only people in town who know him.
When he gets close, he turns away and decides it’s not a good thing to knock on the door of a person who already rejected you (and/or stabbed you) once. He does, however, stay on the property. He finds a comfy place under an old, Southern Gothic-ass looking tree and lets the Zs come. They don’t come in the form of sheep, however.
They come in the form of his mother scolding him for being dirty.
CHAPTER 19
Broken Hearted, in the Shadow of Coolness
He said it himself:Jensen, you’re never gonna be as cool as Junior Hicks . . . Junior Hicks is special, for crying out loud! Or something along those lines. Nevertheless, it left a mark, and it’s a mark that will be felt for some time to come. “You’re not special. Get over it.” That’s what he’s been telling himself, over and over again, for the past hour (which has been spent lying back-down on the bed, crying).
Now there’s no more crying left to do, the only way out is acceptance. He’s got to accept he’ll never reach Junior Hicks’ level of coolness. He’ll never be a part of that subculture of awesome, string-strumming stand-offers.
He’ll grow up to get a bland job, but he’ll probably do his time as a wannabe. Wannabes all have bland jobs, and they never make a mark on anything special. They’re basically denizens. They know “special” when they see it, but they never create.
“Are you fuckin’ okay with a life like that?” He’s asking himself this, knowing damn well he’s too young and inexperienced to provide an adequate answer. Hell . . . he probably won’t be able to provide an answer ’til he’s too old to plan anything meaningful or lasting.
He’ll die before he knows what he wants out of life. He’ll fall over, gasping for breath, begging for his mother . . . then it will hit him: “When I grow up, I wanna be a (insert something here).” Then he’ll breathe his last breath. Bye bye.
Hopefully things won’t be that bad, but, case in point, he better find something to stick to now, or else he won’t be getting anything out of life. Because, as everyone knows, you have to be someone, you have to have a thing that makes you special, makes you worth more than other people. Because if you don’t, you’re a nothing. And if you’re a nothing, then hell, you probably shouldn’t have existed.
Jensen feels this way. Feels it strongly. And the pressure’s getting to him. It’s starting to make him feel . . . itchy.
***
When he’s back at school, he sees Chad. And Chad says: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said yesterday. Junior’s not that special. Not that special at all.”
Now Jensen’s whole new world-view is changing again, and it makes him swimmy. The vertigo is coming on. He needs a helping hand to steady himself. A good helping hand.
He decides to use his own.
CHAPTER 20
Harold’s playing his guitar like a motherfucker one day, staring off into blue skies. He’s not, however, thinking of the blue skies. All his focus is auditory, fuck the sky. It’s blue and monotonous.
The songs of slaughter are oozing from his soul. He’s singing of how it’s such a bad thing, the killing of animals for food. Where he’s from, a lot of people look down on it. Here, he’s sure, there are some. But the majority of people don’t bat an eye.
And that’s a problem.
How can you go through your everyday life, knowing (KNOWING) there are helpless, kind, innocent furry creatures meeting grisly ends so your hamburgers at the fast food place can be cheap? How?!
It makes the epitome of no sense, and Harold is sure he’s going to make it stop one day. Him . . . alone. He’ll put an end to it. A glorious, no-prisoners-held end. The world will be born anew, born better. Life will be worth living for every organism.
All he has to do is make them see. Make them all see.
I gives you my loves; does you give me yours?
“I sure do, Slithery Cow. I sure do.” He pats the cow’s scaly head. The cow licks him with a forked tongue.
“They’ll be comin’ to get ya soon. And I ain’t gonna let ’em.”
They both resume their lookout.
Their lookout for the bluegrass musician with a concoction to create.
***
Junior Hicks wears a witch’s hat and snickers with the Devil’s snaggletooth.
He’s gonna get that damn cow, and his bass player is going to help him. Forklift driving by day helps prepare one for cow stealing. And this cow is something special; the most special thing in the world, perhaps.
A cow that’s evolved and become Slithery. Reptilian. The thing has feelings, can it really be called a thing anymore?
Yeah, sure, it can be called a thing. We can all be called things. But we’re not animals, for animals are unthinking. No, Slithery Cow is a thinking thing, just like us; a thinking thing with a heart burning with passion.
And we all know what passions do. They infect others; passions are like viruses. A bug that’s going around. If one member of a household gets it, you can bet your keester everyone will come down with the ailment, sooner or later.
Slithery Cow is like that: stuff dripping off him, hitting you.
But don’t fool yourself, passions are all unique. My passion isn’t yours, yours isn’t mine.
Currently, something large and scaly breaches the surface of the swamp’s mucky water. Then a rodent of some kind is projected upward. It flies through the air, then lands on soft ground. Green sludge drips from its mouth, nose, eyes, and ears.
Within the rodent is a burning need to kill.
Yeah, you know where this is going.
A rodent has a passion for surviving. Who is it you know . . . who’s got a passion to provide?
I’m not gonna answer that question.
There’s magic in Junior Hicks’ music, alright. He’s the best.
It’s easy to be the best when you’re a vile person. Mix Slithery Juice in, let your hustling skills rise. Got players surrounding you who’re into the music scene you leach off? Give ’em some Slithery Juice. Mix it up in a cauldron, control the doses.
Be a master of the essence that drives
people forward.
Be a purveyor of passion water.
***
Passions confused.
PhD? English teacher for life . . . WRITER?! What have you ever written?!
WIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Are you a wife?
A wife to what? A weirdo who isn’t what he used to be? A weirdo who’s started calling you sugar all the time? Right before he fucks you for you, not him . . .
That’s not the man she knew. The man she knew was normal, a practical thinker with dreams of a family when everyone else was busting their asses for a meaningless degree that’d make ’em poor in the long run. Now what is he? He’s unrecognizable.
But you’re not. It’s easy to recognize what you are: a failure.
Vogel tightens the noose. Stands on the stool. Then lets the stool do what all her passions did: crash.
***
Aldert followed the guy this time.
Got to avenge those pretty, dead puppies.
He followed the guy to a campground. By a slaughterhouse.
Found the man picking on an old dude and a fucked up looking cow.
Found some fat, bearded dude bashing the old guy’s brains out with a fiddle.
They apparently want that cow. Want it bad.
Imagine Aldert’s fury when he sees EVIL going on. Gotta rid the world of that.
Kill the fiddle dude. Rip him to shreds with bare man hands.
Snap the forklift truck driver’s neck like a twig.
Imagine Aldert’s surprise when he comes home to nothing to provide for?
CHAPTER 21
“It’s . . . it’s okay, son. People die all the time. Sometimes, even your heroes die. You’ve got to figure out how to make yourself your own hero. Egocentric? Yeah. That’s an egocentric thing to say. But you wanna know what I think? I think people make egocentrism out to be a bad thing, because they know that’s the easiest way to keep people down. Make ’em be ashamed of being the best, um, them they can be. Make ’em be ashamed of reaching greatness.”
Jensen thinks this over. Says: “I’ll be the best me I can be. I ordered a fiddle off the internet. Someone’s gotta pick up where Junior left off. You think you could teach me a thing or two about country music? I think I got a lot to learn.”
“I’ll teach ya what I know. I don’t have any problem with that. I guess the main thing is with all this stuff . . . it passes time the best way possible. It’s not a complete waste . . . as long as ya don’t get lost like I did.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t expect anything from it. And sure as FUCK don’t put yourself under anyone who already declared themselves at the top.”
CHAPTER 22
The Holy Snake Swamp is as fine a place as any to be. As long as you don’t get in the water. Because if you do, you won’t be you. You’ll be what you like. What you enjoy doing.
What you were meant to do.
Jeremy staggered there. No direction. Thought back to that day he got all dirty and his mom was pissed. “I’ll get dirty again,” he screamed aloud.
Then he jumped in the swamp.
He spent the rest of his life taking seven baths a day while telling himself, in a super high-pitched voice: “You need to get clean! Clean, I tell you! You’re a respectable young man! No dirt.”
BOOK TWO:
HOW THIS ALL WRAPS
What passion are you going to pursue next? You’re free to write out a fictionalized short story of how you see your life progressing from this point in time (excluding the writing of this, of course).
Oh, and when you’re done, be sure to use this template (and no, don’t change the first line, keep it exactly as it is).
I.A.
M/D/Y
Your location
(NOTE from author: Again, don’t list your name. Be sure to tell readers that you are: Intentionally Anonymous)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Here are a couple people I think you should look up: Bob Freville and Justin Burnett (from Silent Motorist Media), Vincenzo Bilof, Chris Kelso, Joey Madia, and Mark Simmons, as well as Graeme Parker and Sandra Kinloch from Kensington Gore Publishing. They’ve all been great book-buds.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Zakary McGaha lives in Tennessee. He loves books, dogs, and all things horror. He does not play the banjo. He plans on moving to Roswell, New Mexico one day.
Soothing the Savage Swamp Beast Page 10
