1.5A: Metaphors R Us

A lone piece of tumbleweed dances freely along the dusty road. I watched it from where I sat at the booth inside the diner. The gentle wind catches it and then releases it again. Repetition. Nature’s song. Who could blame the weed for trying to aim higher and higher? For trying to better its position. Anything is better than chaos. Anything. And as the godless sun bakes the road, leaving behind a splotchy, melting mess of tar, the weed is free. Free to come and go as it pleases. Free to flee.


Free to get hit by a truck.

Dust. Crumbled and nothing. Joyless. Like something out of Dis-Continuum.

Don’t they know? I kind of have the lock on dark and moody.

Except when I don’t.

The red clown wig is still stuffed inside the one duffle bag that I brought with me, mostly because Morbid Angel didn’t want me leaving it on the ground in his church. And for some reason, I didn’t feel comfortable leaving the bag in Morbid’s vehicle. I… I don’t know why. It’s not like I really care about what’s in the damn thing. A few shirts, some jeans, some underwear that I’m not quite sure about the cleanliness of. I guess there’s that golden cumberbund too, some might consider that thing to be important. But still… something told me to take the bag, and by now I’ve learned to listen to those urges.

It was an urge like that which led me to Morbid’s church. I… felt that I’d be received well, given the circumstances. And I was. It was another urge which led me to play the clown while I was there - to break free from the melancholy and mystery. I’m sure others won’t buy it, but I think that I know why. I think… I think there’s meaning to it.



“Would you like something to eat, dear?” asks Caitlyn D., the diner’s waitress, with spot on timing. I gleam her name from the badge pinned to her blue and white-striped shirt, just below her collar. Her belly bulges. God knows what kind of monstrosity Caitlyn is going to birth.

“Uh… no thank you,” I say, eyeing her abdomen and the lifedeath within it. “I’m about to have a pretty big meal. Besides, my… friend… will be out of the bathroom soon. I’ll just finish my coffee, then we need to get on the road.”

“Suit yourself,” she shrugs, sending a glance down to my coffee mug before waddling off and taking her hellspawn with her.

I return to the window. Another clump of tumbleweed skips along the road, taking giant leaps to clear it from the dreariness below.

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1.5B: Intermission



Would that make it better?


The secrets of my life?


My world?


Or should I do…


Like this?


Narrative device…


Way that…


Fucking sense!!!

~~~~~

“It’s better when I do it.

Because it’s for a reason.

Rather than a joke.

A circus.

A carnival.

A caricature.

A fucking team of them.”

~~~~~

The door opens to the diner. The heat from outside enters alongside a rugged, dirty man with a strong jaw and broad shoulders, and a young, blonde, piece of jailbait. The heat is…


A harbinger.

Of a shattered mug.


The blonde girl and filth-ladden man exit the diner as soon as they enter. They made a mistake even coming here.

And now they’re nothing.

‘Welcome to the dope show’ alright.

Get Dicked.

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1.5C: Breakfast at Caitlyn’s

The tumbleweed floats to the sky. The mountaintop. The heavens. It’s nothing special though. There’s nothing left up there.

I fucking burned it all already.

“A fill up, hun?” Caitlyn asks, circling back around to me with her pot of coffee. My mug is empty (but complete). I nod and she begins her pour. As she leans across the table, I get a chance to study her. I muse upon her beauty. It’s just a shame about the parasite.

“Thanks,” I say, with a tip of the head.

“Is your friend alright?” she follows up, motioning with her head down the side of the serving counter towards a red door on the far wall with the words ‘MALE’ scrawled in black marker on the chipped paint. “He’s been in there an awful long time.”

“I’m sure he’ll be out any minute,” I reply. Although… he has been gone a while.

“Okie dokie,” she smiles. “Holler at me if you need anything.”

I think for a moment. Should I go to check on him? He was pretty comfortable telling he needed to take a shit though, and I definitely don’t know enough about his bowels to question it. If it were Corey, I’d probably have some insight. Not for gay reasons! I just know a little about his diet. Honestly, I’d have a good hunch if it were Drew Archyle too, and oddly enough, for the same reason. The other one I could predict is Chris Chaos, though that’s an entirely different beast. Hint: He literally is shit. Always believe when he’s pooping.

Wait… if Morbid’s dropping the kids off, does that mean B.O.B. is about to come and attack me like they did Corey when I was squeezing one out? Better scope this place out!

--Detective Mode: Activate!--

As I look around the suspiciously packed diner, I begin to grow even more concerned. There are a lot of hopeless losers here, literally any one of them could be B.O.B.! On further inspection, about fifty percent of them are completely toothless, so those gummy bitches are more likely to be playing butt-pirates than being B.O.B.

A further fifty percent of the remaining patrons are actually smoking hot college cheerleader ‘tang on the way from to (we’re going to a secret location - I can’t just give that shit away!), led by their creepy Mexican-American coach, so they’re definitely not B.O.B. They have all their teeth. Back to the ones in-between...

Bearded woman? Not B.O.B. material. Apparently the girl who dresses like a cat and loses to Ruby all the time has ‘standards’. Must be this pathetic to ride the ride. I guess that eliminates the sword-swallower (bye Atty Atara) and the fire-breather too (I’ve already done better). May as well eliminate the whole carnival while we’re at it.

When it comes down to brass tacks, I’m really just left eyeing up the large African American man ordering a vanilla thickshake from Caitlyn at a stool next to the counter. ’Extra vanilla’, he insists, highlighting how dull he is. ’Extra thick too’. He definitely said that with a K so I know he’s reflecting his own intelligence rather than making a pass on my gal.

Definitely B.O.B.


BZZT!

A text message on my super sweet 2003 Motorola Razr!


The text message. Eek!





“Shit...” I mutter under my breath. That’s what I get for trusting somebody. Caitlyn, God bless her, hears me curse and immediately comes to my aid.

“He left, didn’t he?” she asks.

“Yeah…” I trail off, forlorn.

“How about that bite to eat then?” she offers.

“I think…” I start. “I think that sounds good.”

“What would you like, then, darl’?” She smiles sweetly at me.

“Got anything hand-like?” I ask.

“Umm… like, human hand?” The sweetness dissipates.

“I mean…” I don’t finish. She cuts me off with a raised hand in my face, and her other, clasping at a cross around her neck.


“Best I can do is wings,” she says.

“I’ll take ‘em!”

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1.5D: The Replacement

With sauce-smeared hands like a grubby child, I gnaw away at the final wing of chicken, and drop the remains into a bowl. Though I may be eating alone, there’s a part of me that still holds gratitude for my position. After all, there’s a chicken wing shortage in this country, and here I am! Lucky me!

I take a wet wipe to my hands, mixing the pinkish sriracha on my left hand with blobs of blue cheese sauce on my right. Together, it forms an almost Salmon colour on the moist towelette, which only further highlights my plight.

Alone.

The bell on the diner door chimes on irregular intervals. No more warm openings. No cold either. Just… openings. They close and the door grows quiet, and then, with another ring, they return. Until…

A draft. It sends a freezing shiver up my spine.

Something cold after all.

The winds of change.

A relatively small man, dark-haired and showing signs of aging around the temples, makes his way across the diner floor.

To me.


He’s not imposing by any measure. One would hardly be able to pick him out from a crowd, especially in a more urban area where his blue-grey suit would help to blend in amongst the crowd. But yet… it’s not his apparel that attracts attention to him as he walks towards me. There’s a wisdom and sure-footedness to his step that sparks whispers of ‘who is that?’ amongst the rabble.

I don’t like this one bit. Too many prying eyes leads to too many judging questions. I’ve railed against that since day one, and yet here it is again, on my figurative doorstep, as a result of the man who slides in the booth across from me.














































































“Can I help you, Andy?” I ask, barely concealing my ire.

“Morbid Angel let the XWF know where you were,” he says, as if that somehow answers things. I drain the last drops from the refill that Caitlyn D. had provided me before my meal.

“That was awfully kind of him.” I roll my eyes. “And so they sent you to come and get me? Ever the loyalist, aren’t you? You got here pretty quickly too.”

“I was in the area,” Centurion replies. “We better get going though, if we want to catch up with the others.”

“I don’t need a keeper,” I say, staring intently at the so-called ‘legend’ in front of me.

“Yeah, well… you might benefit from having an extra partner at War Games.” We sit there, eye-to-eye, for several long moments.

“You?” I break the silence.

“Yes, me, dipshit,” he responds. I sigh. Loudly. He doesn’t exactly seem too thrilled about it either. But as he stands, adjusts his lapel, and drops several bills onto the table, he nonetheless continues to look to me expectantly. “I’m going to need you to tell me the way.”

He turns his back on me and makes his way back to the door. After several seconds, I groan, snatch up my duffle bag, and follow after him. At the door, I look back to see dear Caitlyn cleaning up my mess.

I step out the door and into the sun.

Just as she drops the mug and shatters it.