By way of introduction to todays piece by
I am going to quote a piece of correspondence that the humble writer of this story sent to your humble editor. It ran thusly:Alright here it is. Hopefully you get a chance to at least skim it before it goes out, but if not, what I can say about the piece is that it is a story of two star-crossed lovers, except they aren't lovers, and they aren't really star-crossed either. So I guess it isn't a story of star-crossed lovers, but rather a Shakespearean tragedy in the flesh, with some touches of absurdism, incoherence, and humor.
A fair write-up.
Fans of
know what to expect with this one- free flowing prose, great imagery and an eye for the telling detail, humour (of the actual funny variety, not the persistent and needily elbowing you in the ribs kind), and just a touch of debauchery.A good way to start the weekend.
Enjoy.
Oh, and while you’re at it check out the rest of Tony’s work and subscribe for more.
In the wee hours of the morning on one random spring day, in the year 2021, the Dreamer dreamt his recurring nightmare that would frighten him whenever the sky opened up and poured down rain. The crackling thunder was the sound of a flaming rogue dump truck chasing him down Longstone Street, where he would often play in the roadside dirt as a child; and the ping-panging rain against the roof of his shithole of an apartment building were muffled sounds of the angry marauders commandeering the flaming rogue dump truck; and the flashes of lighting were rays of gunfire aimed in his direction as he hopelessly sprinted down the street. And they would always catch him – it was a well-placed rifle shot in the lower left abdomen, that would enter and exit through his kidney, and leave him sensing a searing pain as he lay restless in his bed, kidney being pan fried like a porkchop, and in that moment of simulated offal cookery, he would shoot awake, gasping for air that wasn’t partial to his quivering lungs, and after taking a few moments to come to his senses, which felt like an eternity at times, he would roll over and glance at his plastic alarm clock to groggily calculate how much time he had left before he had to rise for work.
On this occasion, fourteen minutes, which was one and a half snooze cycles.
(Fucking Hell man! Fuck me in my fucking face.)
But he was a dreamer, and the dreamer dreamt of better days ahead, so he rolled out of bed like a good little boy, and after a steaming hot shower, he put on his best clothes for the day’s humiliation ritual, also known as a desk job to the honest man. Some sort of blue collared button-down shirt, with darker, but still blue, colored slacks, and his blue outfit would blend in with everyone’s blue outfit, and everything was blue, inside and out, like that catchy Eiffel 65 song (huh, that is a good song now, isn’t it? To be in a 90s dance club raving ‘till the break of dawn!)
Honey, breakfast is ready! Eggs and bacon, with a side of French Toast. And a cappuccino. But there was no wife. There no was no girlfriend. You are stupid to think otherwise. Dreamer was a romantic, and for that reason he was lonely, left to procure his own morning meals, which typically would end up being a granola bar, despite the plan the night before to cook those eggs and bacon and French Toast he so desired.
But at least the birds were chirping and the sun was peeking out of its cloud lair and the oaks were blooming. Dreamer stood perched over his counter with travel cup of coffee in hand, and imagined his first floor one bedroom overlooked a tropical sea, and not an eroding parking lot. His balcony overlooked the Tuscan cliffside, and not a 2007 Hyundai Sonata with a dent on the front bumper deep enough to hold two bags of microwave popcorn. Soon, he would hop over the driver side door into his foreign coupe, blood red, and meander along the wavering roads and into the quaint village for fresh eggs and cured meats; instead of remote unlocking his domestic four door, piss gray, and trudge his way through AM rush hour traffic to the soul-sucking office to finish another accounts payable journal entry. A quick glance at the clock. 7:15.
Just five more minutes…. Five more minutes…. Five more min –
CLANG! Dreamer startled out of his daydream and snapped his head around to the origin of the sharp banging noise, to which he discovered that a chef’s knife had fallen from the drying rack. Ah yes, last night’s chicken breasts. He reached down to grab the utensil, and in the process was able to admire his scrubbing ability, as the metal was polished so clean you could see your own reflection. But dreamer looked hard, and despite seeing a pair of hopeless, dreary eyes, there was no one there. A sack of flesh and bones, yes, perhaps even a conscious one, one that saved ten percent in his company match 401k, one that worked out four times a week and watched his heart health, one that would spend one night out per week sipping five dollar drafts; yes, there was a someone there, but there was also no one there, a being that was dead and alive, breathing, yet unresponsive to the flickering lights of the paramedics of life. Another check of the clock. 7:20. Time to go.
(I’m letting you over man, come on! Get a move on it. What the fuck are you doing? Merge!
“Welcome back to the Joe Rogan Show, today we have….”
God is Watching. Huh. That’s a strange billboard. Who in the world is shilling out the cash for a roadside religious billboard? I get the idea, but it seems excessive, no?”
Ok, I have the final journal entry due by the end of the day, and John wants me to finish up the prior year expensive pivot, and we have the weekly touchpoint at 10. Damn. I hate meetings. I never have anything to say really. I’m the new guy, they don’t give a fuck about my input, and that’s assuming I even have input.
That semi is getting awfully close to me. I wonder what would happen if he just rear-ended me.
Exit 409c. That’s me.
Maybe I’ll get Arby’s today.
These thoughts can’t be healthy right? I am going insane!)
Dreamer parked in the second to last row today, like always, as he didn’t mind the extended walk to the back door, where he always came in, as it gave him a few extra seconds to prepare himself for a long and grueling day of sedentary computer work. Unironically, it was more grueling than the manual labor jobs he used to work back when he was a wee high school lad; the office cuck sat around all day and did nothing, and yet would walk out of the building as tired and battered as the guy mowing lawns in the one hundred degree heat all day, but unable to rest because the disconnect between mind weariness and body weariness was wide enough to park Saturn between the two. So the extra few seconds provided by the Long March from four dour sedan to one door back entrance was enough to prepare him for the incessant turmoil. It wouldn’t make a difference, but at least he was ready.
The next 16 hours were scripted beyond Dreamer’s control, and he was but a mere spectator in his own life. He would walk through those doors, and one of his insufferable coworkers would be standing at the coffee machine slash water cooler, and immediately ask him about some pop culture nonsense he had no interest in. And after enduring that cruel and unusual punishment, he would walk past the admin’s desk, and she would say good morning, and he would say it back, all while he imagined doing horrible, heinous things to her while her family and dog, especially dog, watched. Horrible things not suited for motion picture audiences. And then Dreamer would plop down at his desk, and log in, and endure more incessant small talk and water cooler shit-shooting, and finally, a near half hour after arriving, he would start his work, which at this point, was a highlight of his day, as at the very least it required little collaboration, and he could crank up the volume in his wireless earbuds and coast off to a distant land, one not accessible to any of the muppet coworkers in this office, and for the next eight hours, he would be on cruise control. Of course this escape would be interrupted by pointless meetings and luncheons and that fatass Dan, who shared a “cubicle” with him ever since those flamboyant hacks at corporate development decided to remodel to an open office concept. Dan would spend no less than 2 hours babbling on about his lunch of the day, and Dreamer would often wonder if he could murder someone with a quarter pounder. In fact, he may one day take up the challenge, and perhaps land himself in the Guinness Book of World Records – only recorded case of hamburger homicide.
And after a while, he would commute home, maybe decide on a workout, maybe go straight to dinner and scrolling, and shower and scrolling, and TV and scrolling, and writing and scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling, and bedtime and scrolling, and eventually sleep, after his eyes grew tired of scrolling.
But at least he was ready.
.
.
.
.
Listen, you’re a sweet guy and all, you really are, but I need some stability in my life. I need at least a glimmer of a future. I’m 24. You’re 26. We need to get serious. You need to get serious. And I’m just not sure you can do that!
Drunkard tugged on his gnarled, bed-headed curly brown hair as he stood shivering in the parking lot listening to his now ex-girlfriend explain to him why she was ending things. This was unnecessary, and he had tried to explain it to her over the phone, but she insisted, because she was “raised right”, something that she never failed to bring up whenever she had the chance to shoehorn her self-proclaimed morality into an unsuspecting conversation. Ha! Raised right to be a massive cunt.
No, he couldn’t complain. She was feisty, a little trashy, but he did love her at one point. And at one point, she may have loved him too, or loved the concept of a better, brighter, refurbished version of him. One that had a stable job and didn’t drink eight nights a week. One that didn’t crush up Adderall and sprinkle it in his orange juice, a potent cocktail he called a “Stimosa”. One who wasn’t delusional about his various aspirations, which changed by the month – pulp fiction writer, underground rapper, home fitness equipment installer, crypto trader – anything but a fucking honest job. She hated the fact that his dreams outweighed hers, which capped out at a countryside colonial and horse farm, and looking back, it was never going to work out. He felt the once crackling flames turn to dying embers and now cold, flaky ashes that were being swept from the chimney with every word he spoke. Sex daily turned into sex three times a week which turned into sex once a fortnight, and only following a nasty argument about money. And despite them being together for just eight months, they had grown up fast, almost too fast, and when the time came to lay out plans for the future, he knew he was fucked when he showed up to the meeting empty handed.
Well I don’t know what you were expecting, Kali, like how was I ‘posed to know you wanted kids? Seems like a dumb proposition anyway! What if I want a boy, and you end up pregnant with a girl? You can’t just discard of the damn things like the old days! You used to be able to drive on up there North and find one of those churches, with the plump chested nuns, and hand them a newborn like it was the day’s paper. Here you go Sister Fuckington, enjoy your new sacrifice, like it’s some Game of Thrones shit. Ha!
Drunkard, are you drunk?
And he was drunk, impressively in fact, drunker than a skunk, having polished the first of 3 bottles of Crown Royal that would be guzzled by nightfall. Then, by 5 PM Eastern, he would be drunk enough to head to the bar. But first, drunkard needed to hit up his dealer, Fuzzy is what they called him these days, an apt nickname considering his patented peach fuzz of a mustache, and was even funnier considering his real name was Gertrude. Who the fuck names their kid Gertrude? Anyhow, old Fuzz needed to sell him some smack so potent it would make all the rest of the junkies come running when they found out the latest batch was putting Narcan needles in citywide chests.
Course I’m drunk, Kali, now are we done? Yeah, I get it, I’m not good for you, and you’re too pretty and pink for me, and besides, this was never gonna work out after your dad called me a retard for wearing a clip-on tie to Easter dinner. Can you even say that word anymore? Sheesh!
Yes, you can say that word, Drunkard. Now I need to go. Good luck. You should seriously consider therapy, I think it would serve you well. But you probably won’t listen to me. I’m gonna miss you (I think). Now give me a hug.
Kali reached in and hugged Drunkard goodbye, likely forever, and she scrunched her nose at the stale cigarette stench radiating off his bomber jacket, which was stolen from a thrift store. Drunkard half wrapped a lanky arm around her girl boss blazer and looked off in the distance, as he wondered if today was the day Burger King would serve Whoppers before nine AM.
As she drove off in her leased BMW, which Drunkard’s friend Jimbo called midwit of car brands, Drunkard whipped out his cracked screen iPhone and speed dialed Fuzz, which he programed as #4, #1 being his mother, #2 being his brother, and #3 being his dog.
It rang 3 times before a familiar voice spoke on the other end.
“Yo, Drunkard, what’s good homie? Did you watch that game last night? It was sick!”
“What, the Wizards game? Yeah man, Bradley went off. 40 and 10. I had him getting a double double in a parlay with the moneyline and the over. Shame the Celts missed the last bucket. Needed overtime for it to cash. Just 5 more points from being a rich man Fuzz.”
“Damn bro, that’s tough, but I wasn’t talking about the hoops game. I was talking about that Korean Baseball game bro! The Samsung Lions walked off against the Doosan Bears!”
“No one watches that shit bro, are you kidding me? Not even Koreans watch that shit. It’s all rigged anyway. Manipulated by Asian betting syndicates. Umpires wake up in three pieces if they don’t blow a few calls in favor of the syndicate’s pick to win. Don’t tell me you’re betting on that shit Fuzz!”
“Nah man, I stopped gambling after my hair caught on fire at Hollywood. Bad juju all around. That call girl hexed me forreal man. I knew I had to call it quits after I almost scorched my locks.”
“Yeah, well that’s what happens when you try and sell dime bags in the casino bathroom. Speaking of, can I roll through, say 15, and snag a guy?”
“No can do homes, I’m not around, but there’s an emergency guy under one of the rocks in the flower bed. I don’t remember which rock though, for security purposes. Put it there when I’m blacked out. Call that two-factor authentication. You can swap it out for your hard earned cash.”
“You truly are a next-level thinker Fuzz. Surprised you ain’t sitting in the Oval Office.”
“Ha! Yeah well, if I ever get up that high, I’m gonna look old sweet-eyed Monica look like an altar girl.”
“Just make sure it isn’t the Johnson girl you’re dating now. She might just be Helen of Troy.”
“Haha Hell yeah man, Troy is a dope dude. Alright brudda, I gotta run, Jakey’s having issues at the Cheesecake Factory again. Take care homie.”
“Thanks Fuzz.”
God, what a guy Fuzz was. Drunkard almost looked up to him, in a perverted way, as he admired his aloofness and inability to be productive, which served him well in his line of work. Ah well, no time to waste when you’re about to get high.
Drunkard hopped in his car and headed up North to Fuzz’s place, and soon after picking up his guy, he would have yet another day of drinking, drugging, and stumbling around town.
.
.
.
.
The reoccurring nightmare once again. Dreamer tossed and turned, more violent than usual, as the dump truck was bigger and menacing, and the marauders more malevolent, and their shots more accurate. Each shot rang out louder and louder, closer and closer, louder and louder, louder and louder, LOUDER AND LOUDER, LO-
Dreamer stood upright like a stiff board on Viagra and once again panted and attempted to catch his fleeting breath as the cold sweat poured down his back. He swore it was real this time, as he had that lucid feeling one feels when in between sleep stages, where the outside world and subconscious overlap, and the audial inputs from reality are also in the mind. He swore it was real, but when he opened his ears, which were finer tuned than a rabbit’s from the makeshift shot of adrenaline, all he could process was the faint humming of 18-wheelers from the nearby interstate behind the tree line, and the faint humming of some psycho running his air conditioning despite it being a chilly 42 degrees Fahrenheit, and the on and off buzzing of a broken street lamp at the corner of his side road. So business as usual. Nothing spectacular beyond the typical city white noise that lulled him to sleep each night. But he swore he heard something, someone even. He swore!
And by God, Dreamer was righter than a right turn, because just as he was about to rest his head on the cool side of the pillow, which he had exposed prior to laying himself back down in bed, he heard the voice, piercing and scraggly and a voice of someone on a near lethal dose of poison, and the subsequent pounding on his front door, which shook the inside of his quaint abode, and with the yelling and banging, Dreamer’s heart skipped an estimated three to five beats, which was enough to make him theoretically shit his pants and freeze in place. If you thought the adrenaline was spiked after the nightmare, well now there was enough of the hormone to bring all 909 Jonestown Massacre victims back from flatline 40 some years post-mortem.
So he slowly crept out of bed and peeked around the corner of his bedroom and out into his living room to see if he had closed the blinds prior to resting for the night, because surely this drunk maniac would be peeping Tom through the windows if he truly was expecting someone to let him in. Maybe the guy had the wrong place? He had to be lost. Oh well, we’ve all been there before. Dreamer recalled the night in college when his friend started the night in dinner jacket and slacks at a wine mixer, and ended the night shirtless in a bush in front of the Union, being stuffed and cuffed in the back of a squad car while being thoroughly disappointed the boys in blue couldn’t run through the White Castle drive through on the way down town to the clink. Maybe the clink was this drunk’s destiny as well. He will figure it out soon enough, surely. Surely!
But twenty minutes passed, and Drunkard could not be deterred, as he had not strayed from his post at Dreamer’s front door, knocking and knocking and knocking and screaming Kali’s name like roll call, determined to get a last, hopeless word in with her. And his desperation spiraled, as he began rotating from front door knock to window knock to back porch door knock, which required some agility to hurdle the short fence that apparently kept no one except the lame-legged out. Dreamer was irritated beyond comprehension. He was handcuffed, just like his friend in the bush, except this time he was sober, which would suggest Dreamer was in full control of his destiny, his reality, but he wasn’t. He was trapped. And it was getting late. Just three more hours until the alarm rings and he has to do it all again, this time on Friday. Great. Being doggone tired will certainly make it even more bearable, right? He remembered the time he was so hungover for work the next day after nearly wrapping his vehicle around a telephone poll just outside county lines after a few Margaritas and lite beers at a company mixer. How else was he going to get home? Call an Uber? They’d laugh no later than one nanosecond after seeing the pickup spot. You except me to drive all the way out THERE? So he had no choice but to drunk drive. But now, he would be equally as miserable at work from the unintentional exhaustion, except with no cool stories to tell the one cool guy who would listen, Mike, who once found a hooker handcuffed to his bed with a candy apple stuffed in her mouth after his grandma’s 85th surprise party. Can you really be surprised after all those years?
Perhaps Dreamer could reason with Drunkard. Talk to him from behind the door, because God forbid this guy was violent, and try to explain the situation. You have the wrong place pal, there is no Kali who lives here (much to his disappointment, Kali is a hot girl name), please move along so I can get some sleep. An old man in a 26 year old’s body. In fact, he would try it. Dreamer crept towards the front door, where he could hear Drunkard’s frustrated muttering and pacing, and called out to him.
Hey man, you have the wrong place. There is no Kali that lives here. My name is Dreamer, and no one else lives here. I live alone.
Huh? Impossible! This is Kali’s place. Drunkard swore. He swore!
No…. man…. You’re uhhhhh, you’re wrong. Are you’s sleeping with Kali!? Fuck you man! Fuck you! Let me in!
Dreamer was confused, and getting irritated by the second, more irritated that a math teacher talking order of operations with a room temperature IQ student, and attempted to explain again, this time in a more condescending manner.
Look man, I know you’re drunk and confused, but trust me, your girlfriend doesn’t live here. It’s just me, and I’m trying to sleep, and I’m sure my neighbors are trying to sleep as well, so please, move along.
No! He’s wrong! He’s wrong, I’m right! Kali is inside! Drunkard persisted.
She’s not my girlfriend anymore….. uhh fuck! Listen bro, if you’re with her now, that’s cool, just let me talk…. Let me talk to her. Please! Please! Ah fuck!
It was no use. He could threaten to call the cops, but by the sounds of it, this guy was probably friends with the entire squad from being a regular at the bailiff’s desk. And besides, that would be a cop out (literally). A literal cop out. Dreamer was hopeless, and no matter how he analyzed the situation, he couldn’t get past the fact that he was a giant pussy, and a victim, and unlucky, and feeling sorry for himself. Why did the drunk guy pick my place? Why! It was a microcosm of the bigger picture, a representation of his dire rut, an analogy for the dead end his fuel-less junker of a car was approaching. The adrenaline had worn off, and now he was just awake, and his vision had never been more clearer. His vision of the future that lied ahead, both near term and far term, both tomorrow and in 20 years, both as young man and old man. And it wasn’t even about the job; most people hated their job, and his wasn’t all bad. At least he had one. His vision was of one much larger than a job, which was just an aspect of his miserable experience. No one loved him, at least not in the way he wanted to be loved. No one saw his fire, his rage, his wrath, and his desire to impose his will on the world, and how ironic that the tables were turned on this chilly spring night. The ravenous world was thrusting his girthy, fleshy phallus deep into Dreamer’s clenched caverns, and there was nothing he could do as he gripped the radiator tightly and yelped for dear life. Dear life! He didn’t have Kali, but he wish he did. He had chased away every girl who ever loved him before, because he didn’t love himself. Aubrey, who he cheated on with some tavern slut from his home town. A decent girl, a sweet one, thrown awa
So he knew what he had to do. Oh boy, did he know what he had to do! Ha ha! Never, not once in a singular moment prior to this very one, had he felt as alive as he did. And yet, he was frightened to death by the prospect of a higher self-achieved through sacrifice. He was going to murder that stupid drunk that camped outside his door. He would pay in blood. Murder, yes but how? Not something one can Google for an extended period of time without invoking the Patriot Act and Uncle Sam and the rest of the Federal boys up the road in Washington. His heart raced out of his chest and into the kitchen, where the knife he had polished the night before with a toiled sponge and a few drops of blue Dawn was still sitting in the drying rack, this time wedged in between two bars as to prevent another startling spill from counter top to tile floor. He dashed in and grabbed it and held it up to his eyes, and this time he saw a burgeoning beast, with yellowshot eyes, and a license to kill. Oh yes! He was still so nervous though. Where had this been all his life? The nerves needed calming, and after first opting for a spirit in the form of 1800 Tequila, Dreamer instead chose to operate sober, as to not stoop himself to the unfathomable level of Drunkard. So it would be music, instead. He dashed back into his bedroom for the JBL, all the while Drunkard was continuing to bang on the doors and call out for his long lost lover Kali. Oh don’t you worry boy, you will be coming home to Kali soon, or Kali will have to wait to come home to you, assuming you both choose for yourselves the same afterlife. Ha! Dreamer’s heart pounded faster, and he was confident it was in an interval that would qualify as tachycardia, were a cardiologist to strap leads onto his sweaty chest. He held down the “on” button on his JBL speaker and it made the signature start up hum that sounded like a guttural noise. But what song would he play? He thought for a few seconds, and like God-given intuition, it came to him like Eureka came to Archimedes, and he typed the letter M, followed by the letter A, followed by the letter S, and after those three letters Spotify’s algorithm had enough information to suggest, based on his listening habits and recent searches, exactly what song he was looking for. But before he pressed play, he paused, and his thumb hovered over that button, because once it came crashing down on the screen glass of his smartphone, his life was over as he knew it, and soon enough, a new one would begin, whether that was behind bars on the run in between roadside motels or six feet underneath the surface of the earth. He wasn’t ready, but the decision had already been made.
Huh. That opening guitar riff never got old, Dreamer thought, as Metallica blared out from the Bluetooth device and into the quiet air that had already been raped by Drunkard’s horrible, inebriated voice. Speaking of, Dreamer scurried across the room to the front door, chef’s knife in hand, and thought about what he would say next to the idiot. It was a fine murder weapon, the kitchen knife he wielded, that his mother had gifted to him when he moved out. It had previously been used to prepare homecooked staples such as grilled chicken breast and to trim the fat on ribeye steaks; or sometimes it was used to chop larger vegetables, such as a head of lettuce, as the longer blade was optimal for slicing through the entire flesh of the greenery. And now it would be used to thrust into Drunkard’s innards. Dreamer’s mom wouldn’t be too happy when she found out.
He Drunkard, you fucking loser, I am with your girl right now, why don’t you come fight me for her! Loser! She’s naked in my bed right now, screaming my name to come back to her and give her a proper fucking like you never did!
He knew it! Knew it knew it knew it! Kali was in there. Oh poor Kali, tricked and guilted by some scheming guy preying on girls fresh out of toxic relationships.
I need…. I need to help her…. Hey! Open the door! Open the door right now! Kali! Kali open the door!
Gladly. And so Dreamer pulled open the front door, and in spilled Drunkard, who had been leaning on it with too much of his bodyweight, so that when the door did give way to the inside of Dreamer’s place, he stumbled in and went to the ground face first.
Dreamer chuckled. I don’t think this guy is just on drugs. Perfect. Perfect!
Drunkard rubbed his head and rolled over, and just as he did, a knife was thrust deep into his abdomen, and then removed, and then thrust in again, slightly higher this time, and once again removed, and thrust a third time, and removed a third time, and thrust once more, making it four, and out and in, again, and again, and again, until the number of thrusts equaled that of the number of times Dreamer and drunkard had circled the sun, which of course was the same number of the legend Wade Boggs.
Dreamer pulled the knife out for the last time, and his hand was now trembling with fear and finality, as he had followed through on his greatest dream and worst nightmare. Blood pulled below Drunkard’s abdomen, and all he could do was look down at the infinite gashes in his stomach that seeped viscous blood redder than a Scandinavian who had his sunscreen confiscated in Miami International Airport.
You…. You…. Fuck you man…..
And those were the only final words Drunkard could muster as he lay there dying. Fitting one of them was “fuck”. Such a profane and horrid word, Dreamer concluded, as he sat with his dying friend’s head in his arms, as the blood of self-actualization covered his hands and face.
He picked up the phone with his bloodied hands, entered those 3 forbidden numbers, and a few seconds later, the dispatcher answered with her scripted response.
Yes, I have a real fucking big emergency miss. I fucked up big time. I killed some random drunk guy who broke into my house. Well, he didn’t break in, I let him in intentionally, so I could murder him in cold blood, and yes, his blood is cold, and it is smothered all over me, and I have to say, I am simultaneously scared and frightened and satisfied and angry and heartbroken and ecstatic and slap happy, and if your boys don’t get here in 5 minutes or less, I may as well be dead too, hanging from the pull-up bar with an exercise band as a noose, or I may too be bleeding out on the floor, with the same kitchen knife used to murder my friend the Drunkard here, which my mom once used to prepare family dinners, such as grilled chicken breasts. A grilled chicken breast sounds nice right now. Tell one of the boys in blue to bring a grilled chicken breast from the fridge. I know it might be a bit dried out, but that’s okay, I have some barbecue sauce in my refrigerator. Did you know barbecue sauce never goes bad? I swear! Sweet Baby Ray is an innovator beyond his years. Chemicals aside, can you imagine if we applied the same anti-spoiling agents to human flesh? We may all live forever! We might even be able to preserve Drunkard’s body here for a future date when we are able to revive the dead, like modern day necromancers. I do still believe necromancy is practiced in various occult religions around the world, particularly in remote areas that are secluded from Western civilization. It makes you wonder if we should try to assimilate them into modernity, or if we should just let them be, you know? There is certain beauty in preserving the archaic and primitive. Part of me wishes we would return to a way of living that is rooted in our ancestry, where we had to hunt and forage for our food, and where our most intimate moments were shared with the entire tribe, and where the interests of a far off tribe did not concern the interests of your own tribe, so not to complicate and cloud your worldview, so you could just focus on the present, and only the present, instead of getting caught up in a globalistic way of living…
Dreamer continued on as police and EMS sirens rang off in the distance.
Onwards,
Tony
Humble Wordsmith
Writer Boy
Drunkard
Dreamer
🤌