by Dan Dillard
*****
Is it wrong of me to listen to ranting from a man who speaks ill of entire races? People he has never met, cultures he has only experienced through the hatespeech of others? He claims tolerance due to experience. Verbal vomit. What good can I do? Arguing seldom changes the mind of the ignorant fool. It merely adds to their opposition. A more tactful and understanding soul might bring his thinking around. Someone patient. Someone with pure thoughts.
Someone…not me.
I abhor him as he refuses to see the lovely things in this world, things which differ from comfortable claustrophobic views. He needs reminding of how ignorant he is. This man needs a lesson. I have a curriculum that will open his mind and close his mouth permanently. I will wait for him to open that gaping hole in his face with the next uninformed rambling. I will enjoy my next beautiful dream, and in that dream I will fill that hole with the closest blunt object, spraying fragments of teeth about the room. I will continue applying punishment in thick layers until said object reaches daylight on the other side of his head.
But wait…Maybe you are as closed-minded as he is? If so, stop reading because you won’t learn. You will be repulsed by my artwork, never understanding its depth. Not beholding it for what it is…and one day, maybe you will become art, created by someone like me.
In my head, he passed the test, educated, his mind now wide open. There is still the problem of the tongue, a tough muscle to remove, but like mother always said, anything worth doing, is worth doing with a rusty box-cutter. I’m paraphrasing of course.
There he lies with his tongue removed and a giant hole in his head, a hole larger than the mouth I used for its template. Almost peaceful. Through shattered teeth, a dislocated jaw and other unrecognizable viscera you can now see light, the light which would not dawn. I take a mental image and close my eyes to savor the work as long as possible.
Red rivulets roll down his chin, neck and chest. The resulting blooms on his white shirt are hypnotic. I know his heart still beats because liquid still pumps from the wound where his tongue used to be. He will suffocate before he bleeds to death, feeling nothing because severed spinal cord. A vibrant scene. I wish it was real, but when I open my eyes again, it is gone and he is still there, alive and well, fouling my air.
