by Shaun Meeks
Of course not, you little sexual deviant, and I doubt you would have known what to do if any of them came in, horny and ready for you to rock their world. Like you would have known what to do with a woman back then, thirteen years old, looking like a male version of Olive Oil from those Popeye cartoons you once loved. You didn’t know how to handle women then any more than you do now, joining the army still a virgin, too scared to touch a woman because you have no idea if the things you think and imagine are normal or the thoughts of a disturbed man.
Well, instead of looking up to the heavens, trying to find a God that you don’t believe in, why not look over at George and see if you can work one out in him. I mean, you don’t really want to die a virgin, not ever feeling the unholy pleasures of another’s hole do you? I know he’s not a woman, and you may be worried that some people would call you gay or a fag if you pushed your little pecker into George’s tight ass, but judging by the way he looks, he won’t tell anyone, nor would I.
I see you don’t want to look at him still, trying to avoid what? The blood? The blackening flesh that flies are laying their hungry offspring in? Or are you afraid that seeing him dead, seeing a guy that you were talking to less than an hour ago no longer looking like himself anymore and making you question your own mortality?
Don’t let those little things bother you, everything dies. From the second you are born you are on the road to death, there’s no way to avoid that embrace. It calls your name on the wind while you walk or while you sleep. You never believed in God, but you can’t help but to believe in death. So why shy away from it? Why not look at George, who death has already visited and know that whether it’s today, tomorrow or fifty years from now, you will be as dead and as vulnerable as him. One day you might just die of natural causes, dead of a brain aneurism while taking a shit, having people walk into the bathroom where you lay, partially naked, crap smeared on your bare ass while they joke to one another at your expense. Did you know that most people that die of natural causes die naked or partially naked? Isn’t that a terrible thought, how embarrassing it will be for someone to find you with you little pecker hanging out, leaving you exposed while they take photos for others to see. At least George went out with some dignity, some style. Just look at him there, that bullet to the head made easy work of his weak skin and skull, like it was paper or something.
Still no?
Suit yourself.
Are you talking to me now, finally acknowledging me?
No, you’re praying. Come one now, I thought we had an understanding here. Why are you praying to God now when you have never thought of him before? How many days did your parents drag you to church and the entire time you sat through those boring sermons you thought of stealing money from your mom to buy comics, or of fucking one of the nuns that sat on the alter, you even pictured that time you killed the Anderson’s cat down by the creek.
Are you surprised that I know about that, that anyone knew that you had tied that noose to that little tabby’s neck and strung him up, watching as he struggled and died? You were such a little monster that day, dressed in your school bests because it had been picture day. I know how much you enjoyed it; the darkness in you came out that day as soon as you saw the cap napping in the shade. You snuck up on it, pulling an old shoelace you had in your pocket from you gym shoes, the one that had snapped just before class, and you made that pathetic little noose and wrapped it around that poor sleeping kitty’s neck. What was his name again? Mr. Magoo, or something idiotic like that? The small details have left me after all this time. It is the way you looked, that smile on your face that grew brighter yet darker as you watched the struggling wan and the life drain from the eyes of the cat. I looked on and saw how much you enjoyed it and knew we were kindred spirits.
Do I have your attention now?
I see that you still are trying to deny me, still trying to call out to that so-called God as though he would even humor your pleas. Listen, you are not the type of person He likes or listens to, you have done things in your life that border on sick and demented, even going over that line from time to time. So why not just give up and listen to me? It’s hard enough trying to talk over the gunshots and the screaming, so if you pay attention, this will be much easier.
Maybe you are one of those people that need some incentive; you have a certain need to see something in order to believe it. I remember years ago, long before you were born, maybe even before your mother and father were as a matter of fact, I came across a man in a less dire situation than your own. I showed up to tell him all about the secrets of the world, both what you can see and what your silly eyes won’t allow you to see. The man was a scientist though, looked through telescopes to see stars, claiming there was no heaven or hell, just planets, gases and other solar systems, nothing more. He looked through his magnified eye, searching for some sort of answer, some meaning as to why the world is the way it is, looking to see if some other planet might house a species close to the human race.
When I showed up, showing myself in a way I thought was fitting, he called me a scientific wonder, a key to answer all of Mankind’s problems. I let him believe it for a while, played him for the fool he was, then showed him the truth and watched all of his hopes and dreams fall to the wayside. It is amazing how one little act; one wave of the hand can turn the bravest man into a cowering child. He looked at me and I told him that everything he believed in and everything that he denied was wrong and he was a fool.
He killed himself an hour later.
Now, while you look up to the sky where people think heaven is, whispering your stupid words that mean nothing to you because you believe in only yourself, I feel I need to get your attention. So look at George now, as I take over his body, making him move towards you. Do you hear his breath? Do you hear the sound of his brains falling from the open wound in his head and hitting the ground, sounding like a boot sinking into the mud, squelching liquid sounds?
Look over and see that I have made your hometown compadre sit up, looking as though he is still alive and wanting to tell you all he has seen of the afterlife. You must be curious; some part of you must want to know what is beyond this damn world, beyond the death and suffering that you are sitting in. Don’t you want him to tell you that there is more than this jungle heat, the odor of piss and rot in the air that burns your nose and makes it so hard to sleep?
Or are you worried that there is something more, that all the sins you are guilty of, all the horrible thoughts and actions that have plague you all your life, you will be accountable for? You must be afraid to look at your dead friend rising, moving in this damn foxhole, inching closer and closer to you while you try to block out my voice because you know I’m right and that you are fucked.
What if I told you there was a way out, a way to redeem yourself and it was easier than you think? I know you’d like that. So turn and look at George, he’s smiling at you and holding your redemption in his hands.
Yes, that’s it. Now try not to mind his face, he is doing all he can not to let it cave in on itself. Instead, look to his hands, there, where he holds his service revolver. All you need to do is to take it, remove it from his hand and put it to the work it was created for. Just put it in your mouth, squeeze the trigger and all will be forgiven, your sins and digressions will go the way of the buffalo and I will take care of you.
Who am I?
Don’t worry about who I am, names are irrelevant. I am here to save you from yourself and from this horrible world that is suffocating you.
That’s it. Now put it in your mouth, no need to worry if it is clean or not, because soon, nothing of this world will matter to you. Just put it in there and squeeze the trigger nice and slow.
Now you will see that heaven does exist.
As does Hell.
Maybe I should have said that sooner. Next time I guess.
Tailpipe Dreams
I drive to live and live to drive, and some days I just hate that my love and passion ha
d turned into a job. Once, I had wanted to be a race car driver, to get behind the wheel and feel the power as I sped along, hearing the cheers of the crowd to driving me forward. I had NASCAR bed sheets, a closet full of Matchbox and Hot Wheel cars and my room was wallpapered with different hot rods instead of Twisted Sister and Van Halen. There was nothing I wanted more than to be that bad ass in the Tornado, the dude that could get any chick in the world because I ran with a 700 horse powered sonofabitch. Driving around with a tank full of gas, a hand full of ass and respect was all I ever wanted.
Life doesn’t always give you what you want though, you learn that growing up. Instead of driving a Maserati or Lamborghini, I was hauling around tankers for gas companies, working as a truck driver for Esso and then Shell. Instead of having hotties flocking to my window as I pulled my ride to any street corner, I found myself going to crack infested areas, picking up drug addicted whores for a hand job in some dark alley, hoping the cops wouldn’t find us. Instead of being envied by men standing at bus stops or driving in their Smartcars, I was being called a corporate monster for driving a gas guzzling hulk around, killing the environment.
I never thought of myself as a monster, even now I don’t, despite any judgments you might have of me. I never hurt anyone for some cheap thrill, or to be famous because what I did was more out of need than anything else. I didn’t want to hurt the people I did, but in order for me to be attracted to someone I had to take certain steps to enjoy the moment. It’s not my fault that leaving someone to soak in the gas-filled tanks as I drive across the country kills them; I just need that smell on their skin, soaked deep into their pores for me to even get turned on these days. And sure it makes it easier to dispose of a gasoline marinated body when I am done with them, but it was never part of the plan, just an extra bonus.
I ask myself though, some dirty little crackhead bouncing around in the tank as I drive towards Toronto, would I be doing this if I had been the racecar driver I use to dream about being? Or is this the real me? Did I dream so much about cars as a kid that now I can only screw something that smells as good as they do?
Well, as my daddy’s t-shirt use to say, keep on truckin’.
The Creek
When I was kid, my father would take me down to the creek after dinner for walks, telling me stories about when he was a young and all the funny things he did with his friends. We’d stroll along the dirt path, not even aware of the smell of waste coming off of the water, being that the creek was no more than just sewer run off. Sometimes we would even walk down to the water and scoop up crayfish from the foggy green looking water. My dad would tell me how when he was a kid, his family would actually eat the miniature crustacean and I would laugh, telling him how gross it was.
In the late spring and summer months, I would bring a knapsack along with me on our walks, carrying five or six mason jars that would clink musically as we went. My dad said he had done the same as a kid, heading to the creek in the warmer months to gather fireflies from the bushed area back when he still lived in Alabama. He told me stories walking behind the mall that ran along the creek, as a group of teenagers sat on over turned shopping carts drinking beer and spray painting obscenities on the brick wall. Usually the stories he told were about him growing up in a small town, the fun things that he use to do with his friends, just the general mischief he would be involved in. I loved hearing those stories, his slight southern accent peeking out when he spoke, though it was something I never told him about it. He hated the idea of his accent being heard, didn’t want people to know that he was not from Canada, that they might look at him as some dumb hillbilly, but I secretly loved it.
On this particular walk, something seemed to be on my dad’s mind, he was quieter than normal, and that was a strange thing. I’ve always believed that my father loved few things in life; Bluegrass, beer, reading and those skin mags that I found hidden under his bed or in his briefcase from time to time. As much as he loved those things, none of them came close to how much he loved the sound of his own voice. I use to think that he liked to tell stories to me and my brother so much not because he like to see the looks of awe and sometimes even boredom, but more so for him to hear his own stories being told by his favorite storyteller; himself.
As we walked past the teenagers, my dad still silent, I looked up at him, shifting the knapsack on my back slightly and wondered what was bothering him so much. As a child, I think most of us look at our fathers as larger than life, someone that can do no wrong; almost invincible. I know that when I was growing up, going through school, so many of us argued in the playground, at times even coming to blows over who’s dad was better, stronger and had the most awesome job, even if they had a job that wasn’t even close to being as cool. We would argue over who’s dad would win in a fight with the others, or with fictional characters like Superman and Hercules. Anyone that questioned another kid’s dad’s strength was apt to get a punch to the face.
So with those thoughts of how indestructible and stone like our fathers are, seeing my dad walking along the creek with me, silent and looking upset bothered me more than anything else I had ever experienced in my life.
“Are you okay, dad?” I asked quietly, hoping that he would just smile and tell me that everything was fine and dandy. I wanted him to mess my hair with his one hand, look down on me with that smile that would tell me that all was well and I was just a silly little kid. Instead, he just kept walking, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jean jacket, lit one up and ignored the question completely. I had no idea what was wrong, but I knew that it was something big and was probably something that no kid would want to know about.
I knew that adult problems were nothing like what kids see and have to deal with. Sure as a kid our problems seemed like the world was falling apart all around us, its weight bearing down hard on our shoulders, but I had also seen things that my parents dealt with that showed me just how hard they had it. I was the youngest of two kids, and in my parent’s eyes, I was their baby so they kept me close most days, sometimes letting me see more than I ever should have. Arguments over money, tears spilt over accusations of infidelities and growls hatred toward each other, found my ears all through my early childhood days. I’m sure they both thought that I was too young to hear and understand, and in a way I was. Though some of the words and their meanings were lost on me, the feelings behind them; the yelling that echoed all the way to my dreams and woke me with nightmares, the sounds of crying that brought about my own sorrow, the power behind the words let me feel the meaning of everything being said.
I followed my dad, getting the feeling that there was something really wrong, and said nothing else. I looked at him from time to time, seeing the way his shoulders were down, how his hand shook each time he lifted his hand to his mouth to take a drag from his cigarette and I began asking myself what it could be that was weighing so hard on his mind. I was only eleven at the time, so there wasn’t a whole lot in the way of adult problems that I knew of, but I was sure whatever it was would be one of the worst things I could imagine.
The first thing I considered was that he had received a letter from a sister or cousin in Alabama telling him that his mom or dad had died. He didn’t really talk about his parents to me or my brother too often, as though maybe they had already passed or perhaps he had come to Canada to get away from them. I had a friend of mine, Dougie, that had run away from home five or six times already, being brought home by the police each time, but telling me that the second he was old enough when the cops wouldn’t care if he left, he was going to run away and never look back on his mom or dad. He said he didn’t hate them, but he felt like they only took care of him because that was what was expected of them, that they never did anything nice for him, never showed any sign that they loved him more that life itself and that bothered him more than I understood. I figured my dad’s relationship with his parents had been similar and that if they had died, he would grieve privately, yet be able to move on quickly.
A worse idea came into my head right then. What if it wasn’t his parents passing on, or his job canning him, what if it was something even more devastating? I thought of when Brian Munch had come to school, old tears stained his cheeks, and how he broke down crying as he told a group of us that his parents were getting a divorce. In those days, it was such a dirty word, not something that people were doing willy nilly, they weren’t just throwing their hands up when they found keeping their marriage together was just too hard and saying screw it, so they would get a divorced. It happened, sure, but it just wasn’t that common. Back then, all my friends were from Catholic families where the church still told us that marriage was sacred and that destroying the sanctity of it was pretty close to a sin in the eyes of God. In our school, there were only three kids that had parents that had been divorced, and all three of them were the “weird” kids, two of them in the remedial class which made us all think that divorce fucked you up so bad that even your grades went down. I know that it is silly to say that now, but back then it was a different time and in a way we were innocent in the workings of the world.
