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They call it 'Bullet Syndrome' or 'Silver Bullet Syndrome'.
"A bullet is a simple thing."
People who suffer from it develop maladies that magically they can solve all their problems with one change. A deep nearly spiritual belief in immediately fixing one part, to correct the whole. It's a lot like forgiveness. At least, the basic human hope for it. Forgiveness tells us about ourselves. Our capacity to move forward through the treacherous peaks and valleys of this life. But I don't need yours. The Syndrome can be yours alone. Doing well here won't fix Kris Cruze. There is no fix for what you are. Claim to be. I don't need to ask philosophical questions to make myself feel whole. All I need is a shield to deflect the fallout from coming back and hitting me in the head.
"A gun does what it was made to do too. The bullet, though, fiercely fascinating like a train melting through what is in the way... indifferent to pleading voices, even if they could say something... well, by the time..."
Inside every one of us is a choice. Learning what that looks like is a divergent fact. That thing we don't like to talk about. Gifts of 'not right now'. The rolodex of 'what-if' scenario's so unimaginable that a mere discussion can cause pain. Shoving that anguish a side can be war. Facing internal strife in a mirror of who you really are, and whether or not you give a shit about what it means. Punishment has never been about what's right. It's about consequences for what isn't already. The atrocities, crimes, lapses in morality, and absences of common whatever waiting to dictate a beaten point. Kris Cruze forgets; that sometimes the sense he tries to make of the world has grown stagnant. It past him by. A trail of violent memories. Angst. He neglects to mention his own predicament. What... a surprise. Capturing the attention of an audience is an admirable talent. By the Grace of God, it truly is. He should learn it. Because being caught in what can never be are the things behind us, we as people, have been avoiding all along. Especially him. Tough conversations, filtered by our withholding as an easy way to spare feelings, higher emotions, because we know after knowing are lower reasons to retaliate. No one is right or wrong. Everything is objective based on who or what you may choose to care about that day. There are no moral absolute's; only what happens, then what follows. Immersed in a world telling us to behave this way, shouting to be politically conscious, yet the speculators say throw caution to the wind, because the wind will eventually carry you away anyway. Learning about yourself is undeniably life's ultimate discovery. It's not the moon... out far above the things that matter daily. It's not saving a billion lives by creating dwarf wheat, or making some guy who has interesting tweets President. It's accepting what is already there. For what it has been, and will evolve into.
"I pulled the trigger."
Maybe I don't want to know who I am.
BULLET SYNDROME
The whispers inside my head played a familiar tune.
"Desperation... exile... empty parts..."
Sort of like old friends you aren't sure if you're happy to see. Dragging down any motivation to hold on. So I clawed. Through a desolate and dry desert with no end in sight. Dust storms blinding my eyes. Heat sapping the distant memory of comfort that had taken me this far. All I could think about was home. A cool leather recliner. The one I always sat in. In the den, with football on in the background, and something savory with ice on the coaster. No coasters here. No delicious daiquiri's; or way to chill whatever to its premiere temperature. Only the miserable realization that I somehow allowed this to happen. The blame game snuggling in between the tiny spots of space that doubt didn't already occupy in my head. Have you ever tasted dirt when there's no saliva left in your mouth? Dirt at all? Don't. It will leave you heaving in the middle of a place you never wanted to be. When you look up at the nothing ahead, and recall to your ears all you left behind. They say when you get dehydrated that you can hallucinate. I didn't see a mirage of water to drink. I saw my parents. Walking toward me... with this look. I couldn't shake it. I convinced myself that it wasn't real. Thinking everything I was imagining was somehow one cheap parlor trick after another that a diminished body could not answer for. Tormenting thoughts never aligned enough to cover what I needed to make it out... alive. Burns all over my stomach. After days of walking, I finally had collapsed. In the middle of a poorly planned exit.
Like a wilting rose that hasn't been watered in weeks. Their evaporating ghosts of sand and regret paled in this light. Too bright to see through. An eclipse illuminating the stale desert dwelling leftovers. All the parts I had not assembled for fear of failing. But I had failed. Maybe my parents knew then what I had only recently come to realize; freedom is cauterized by my walk. This was far from finding who I was. I had to compete. Be more than just hollowed out parts. Whether a desert loneliness destined for less, or many foes who tried to annihilate me once upon a time... nothing or no one ever finished the job. Maybe the mirage was just a product of what happens in that place, under those circumstances. Answers aren't plain to see. I needed to get up, go on. Motivation when you're already so exhausted is nothing short of impossible. Giving up is eliminating the battle and accepting what will be. I had been hit hard... in the mouth. Acceptance wasn't the feeling. I didn't know how to describe it. But it left me with a mission. Something to do before all the walls came crumbling down.
"Cylinder still spinning, billowing smoke, the barrel still aimed at it... an explosion of spark and wonder... only, I wasn't happy. Nor shameful. No relief lived within my heart or mind to sigh deeply for. I wanted blood... I still, wanted blood."
Within the journey is where these numerous parts exist. Not just the parental delusions. That part was deep rooted from before I could ever comprehend its meaning. Analyze the foundation of a better life, or a worse one. I never stopped to think about where my end was. Was I close? Could anyone nail the coffin shut on me for good? Other parts were separate, still, it all tied together in the same package... with the same bow. The paper this time was different. Instead of laughing Santa's with jovial smiles and overstuffed toy bags, the design was still red, a bloodier hue. Dark and brooding. I entered XWF at a time when the deck was reshuffled with bits of new talent added to the plain names of old. I excelled. The darkest thing then was how much we had to pay to park at house shows. When success came, it was doing what I was told could not be done. Proud was the part of me that still cared what anyone else thought. Then the sky opened up. I had forgotten that no part of my goals ever lied between Vince Lane's legs. Spreading the thighs of XWF can be a dangerous game. I fell for months into a dusty spiral of uncertainty. An open plain I would have to walk through; crawl to survive in; get out of. At any price. My currency wasn't dollars, it was gravitas. Luckily, I had an abundance.
"Being reluctant was never my problem. My finger didn't quiver as I thought about the aftermath. It firmed up. Clarity through shadows of web and lint. If I didn't fire, there was no tomorrow."
Annihilate
Demolish
Eradicate
Finally, the desert could not bare to see my suffering forth. I had danced with its storms, and bathed in its wealth of sweltering endless ground. Cleaned up would be the wrong way to say it. But something happened that brought it all together. Not like before. I was... more. More willing to say what I want. Unafraid of the roles anyone played in anything. Instead, petrified in the stone certainty that I would walk out. Making the humidity laden shadows of my parents proud. While doing something I have done well. Fuck up the plans of a Cruze.
"Today isn't the same. Gone, is the sadness. Vengeance is madness. My finger feels no panic. Just a cool metal lever inside a concaved frame..."
Parts are just that. By themselves one may mean little: but parts complete the whole. You don't corner someone in this state. You don't tell them no thanks, or not right now. The ears can't take in calls to listen. Hearing becomes selective. It disgusts me. Kris Cruze spent so much time trying to find ways to tear at the parts. Meanwhile, the whole is standing right in front of him. Prodding at a past means you are not focused on the future. A future that will invest in you if you give up front, Kris. Sticking your nose into a filthy tape vault beneath XWF Headquarters is not the way to prepare for this man. One you have feared for longer than you would ever let be known publicly. Privately, that's not the case. A whimper when the powers that be said you would be the centerpiece of a meal I would be starving to feast on. Some people call that considerate. Others, suicide. This man you will look at shoulder to shoulder. In the center of a place known for maiming those who were not ready for it's aggression. This man, who willingly stops at nothing when the stakes are raised. He, who has been to hell and back. Who has heard the cries for mercy, but listens not. That nausea won't go away. The shamble you leave behind is called the English language. The body I leave behind will be called Kris Cruze.
"It has to be done. Any price. No more!"
What other fun charisma-less antidotes might you recite? Do you know what recite means? Maybe more fluorescent colors will help. Plastic surgery? I'd get my money back.
"A rotating instrument of death hurling toward the target at warp speed. My eye's widen. The wait is excruciating. My hands clasped around a total awakening... and a warm handle."
Grindr may handle your social life, but I will handle your Savage existence. Regulating can be a force for good. But I won't just walk in and toss you around. It's impolite. A man who gave it his all? How the hell would you know? Did your Schick Intuition whisper sweet nothing's about times before you got here while you gave your legs a razor? Beauty pageant? Do you ever think of turning the razor on yourself? It was just an idea. You seem out of them. Perhaps something simple and pink would do the trick. Refocus "God's Gift" before he is made King Jester of all condom protestors. What's wrong with safe sex, anyway? What's your beef? Oh, that's right! It's a lack thereof. Makes you tear up to think about all the good you do deluding the enter educational system into checks and fallacies. You like warm mornings? Do ya? It helps you hear the fat coming, is that it? That is the strangest thing. You've never heard the flab between your ears? It's practically running a marathon.
"What's done is done and cannot be undone. A bullet to cure Bullet Syndrome."
Directionless squirrel running from bin to bin. Possibly infected and in need of real eradication. Substance isn't really your strong suit, is it? Is the more in depth thing that occurs in your mind about picking a chewing gum flavor? Do you have someone else pick so you can stay copasetic? It's like the teenager who we all know can swim but takes the smaller kids floaties anyway then stays on the shallow end of the pool. XWF is the deep end, Mr.Cruze. There is no safe water when you enter a brawl at a show called Savage. The only one to take from is me. Look at me. Say it to yourself... "Kris is a loser". Open up about it. Come to terms. "Kris Cruze is like a novella of lovers lost. He chases after the prize with no real thought, has an affair with someone powerful's wife, spending the last 4 chapters romanticizing what could have been." See? Better right? Oh, it's worse? There's a reason she wasn't yours to begin with. It's called an affair because it's a small event. A short window. It closes. You'll never know love now, or forever. Just in case any of us need a roadmap to avoid washed up model trash, we can still give you a call though, right?
"I named it 13. A poetic tribute to the voicemails you'll never have time to get to."
Silver Bullet Syndrome. Invariably erroneous every time you speak. Hard to be more delirious than that. At some point odds alone say you'd make some sense, but, not a lick. It's like watching a kid get smacked with a Turkey. Right upside the dome. You know it's wrong, but you still gobble on like a Thanksgiving glutton. Are you a wrestler, really? It's just that, I had flashbacks to when our gay cousin Mikey would sit at the table, and my dad would ask him to say the prayer to give Thanks. He would try to take the stage and say all the shit that sounded amusing to himself in the shower. Like you, he thought saying sorry or offering his fatty turkey leg would make amends. It doesn't. It's about years of putting up with scrawny kiss ass never-were's like you. Of course, he was much better looking... well, it doesn't make a difference. You know what else doesn't? You. Do all the homework you want. Talk about my career, my departure, and don't leave out the chapter still being written! That's the best part! The one that starts with making you wish you were far from me. No chains are left to bind me. THE RADICAL in his purest incarnation. Disruption be thy name. Eradicate.
"Here's the cure. Open wide."
E R A D | C A T E
¤
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