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Thaddeus Duke · (10-13-2016)

A man lies on a sofa, one too small for any average sized man, in a dirty, rundown apartment littered with cigarette butts, ashes, beer can and bottles, and a bottle of cheap whiskey, nearly gone, lying on its side on a beat up coffee table, its cap lying nearby. This particular apartment lies in the inner city, evidenced by the sounds of traffic outside and close by. Emergency vehicle sirens can clearly be heard in the distance and coming closer with each passing second.

This man, in his early to mid 30’s, lies in only boxer shorts, drenched in his own sweat, and by the looks of it, four days of unshowered body film grossly enriches his sheen. The man appear to be asleep and dreaming by the rapid eye movement beneath his eyelids and the low moans he exalts as his arms quiver.

Very suddenly, an old nineteen inch console television, sitting on a milk crate, comes to life. The snowy static takes you back to days gone by, before blank blue screens became the norm. The static is loud at first. Then cuts out several times before going quiet.

A long, drawn out whisper is emitted from the television speakers: CROOOOAAATOOOONNN

The man whimpers in his sleep for a few seconds before falling quiet again.

Again, with the whisper: CRRROOOOOAAAATOOOONNN

Once more, the man whimpers, but stays fast asleep.

A third time, with the creepy whisper: CRRROOOOATOOOONNN

At once, as soon as the whisper goes quiet, the dirty unkempt mans eyes spring open. He sits up almost immediately, looking around his surrounding as if he has no idea where he is. He spins around, placing his bare feet down on the heavily soiled carpet that looks as if it hasn’t been vacuumed in several months. Sweat drips from his head and lands on his equally sweaty chest. It is only now that he notices he is even sweating. He grabs a black t-shirt lying on the floor nearby and wipes the sweat from his head and chest then tosses the shirt back to the floor. Staring at the nearly empty bottle of whiskey, he picks it up and swallows its last drops before tossing the empty bottle across the room. It hits the wall, then falls to the floor several feet from an overflowing trash can.

The man, perhaps still feeling the effects of a bad dream, extends a shaky hand toward a half crushed pack of Marlboro reds, taking a bent cigarette into his mouth just prior to lighting it. With the cigarette dangling between two fingers, he rests his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his palms. He takes a deep drag then stands up and walks over toward a closed window, adorned with no curtains. Looking out the window toward the night time traffic below, he appears to be at least twenty floors above ground level. At once, he tosses the window open and steps out onto an old iron balcony and sits on a cheap plastic chair, taking in the cool autumn air.

Our mystery man takes a deep drag of his cigarette and tosses it over the balcony. He watches the cherry burn and disappear into the night air as it tumbles to the busy street below. With a little hesitation, he climbs through the window back into his apartment and returns to the sofa. He lays back again, and closes his eyes.

Seconds later, a deep articulate voice comes again from the television speaker, this time not a whisper, but an almost normal conversational tone: Andrew.

Andrews eyes spring open, ”who’s there!?” he asks.

”My name is Croaton,” the voice responds. ”And you are one, Andrew McMillan of Seattle, Washington.”

Andrew jumps off of the sofa and stares toward the television, looking one hundred percent scared to death and confused. ”I’ve got to be losing my god damn mind.”

Nothing at first, then ”no, I assure you, Mister McMillan, you are completely sane,” he finally responds.

”I’m completely sane but I’m having a conversation with a fucking television,” Andrew says with a bit of contempt.

Croaton chuckles, ”Relax, my son. I bare you no ill will. Please, sit,” he pleads in a calming voice.

Andrew McMillan hesitates, then does as he’s asked and sits.

”I know you are quite confused. It is completely understandable. Again, my name is Croaton,” the male voice reiterates. ”I trust you have a million questions for me, but I will answer only those I deem important to the task at hand.”

”Task at hand?” Andrew questions. ”What the hell is this?”

”Tonight, my friend, you get a glimpse,” Croaton replies.

Andrew lights another cigarette before asking the obvious question, ”a glimpse of what?”

”A glimpse of yourself, naturally. You see Andrew, you were born into immense wealth, but your father cut you off. He cut you out of his will. He cut you out of your family.

“Why?”

”My father is an asshole.”

”Is he? Or is it that he grew tired of watching his only begotten son, the heir to hundreds of millions of dollars, waste his life away on drugs and booze and womanizing.

”How could you possibly know all that?” Andrew asks, with a bit of anger evident in his voice.

”I see all, Andrew. You are a chosen one. A chosen one to look into your past. After our little excursion here this evening you will have two choices.

“Your first is what many in your position choose to do, take your own life and end the misery of others, or two...”

”Misery of others?” Andrew interrupts.

”Or two, come to terms with what you have done. And repent.”

”Okay, so I dabble in a little of recreational drugs from time to time. Maybe I do hit the bottle too hard and too often, but I’m only hurting myself. And womanizing? So fucking what, man! It’s consensual. She gets what she wants, I get what I want,” Andrew argues back.

”Women? Just women? Or do you like to lay with men too?”

”Who fucking cares, man? Its 2016, not 1956. I don’t care who’s sucking my dick, as long as it’s getting sucked.”

”And the children?” Croaton asks. To which, Andrew’s stare goes blank.

”I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.”

”Yes you do.”

”That’s just sick. You’re nuts. I’d never...”

At once, Croaton’s voice turns angry, ”YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT, ANDREW!” Croaton interrupts, shouting loudly. Returning to an even tone, Croaton continues, ”You do know, Andrew. Grown adult males and females that can consent to sexual intercourse is one thing. But children, who are innocent and know nothing of your intentions, who know nothing of what you are about to do and can not consent to such an act?” he pauses before concluding, ”that is one of the most despicable things one can do.”

”H-h-how… could you possibly know that?” Andrew asks of Croaton, completely shaken to the core.

”I have already told you, Andrew. I see everything.

“This world is filled with despicable, disgusting people that do terrible things. Imagine yourself, for instance, bearing witness to all of it. Imagine the horrors and atrocities that I have witnessed during my time in the shadows.

“Do you know what happens to people like you, that do things that you have done? The worlds prisons are full of thieves and murderers and liars and conspirators. Do you know what they all have in common?” Croaton asks, not really expecting an answer, and not getting one.

”They despise child predators and rapists, Andrew. They do not hesitate to cut down the likes of you. People like you are the lowest of the low.

“Your father knew what you did because he walked in on you in the act. He never told your mother. He could not burden her with the knowledge of what you have done. Instead, he tossed you on the streets and cut you out of the family completely. Your mother, the proud matriarch of the entire McMillan clan could never bear the burden of knowing her only son forced his six year old nephew, an otherwise lovely, pleasant boy, to give you fellatio.”

Croaton finally falls silent. Andrew stands up and walks back to the window overlooking the street and throws it open once more. He climbs out onto the balcony and leans with his palms down on the railing. He sighs, and silent tears begin to trickle from his eyes.

”I don’t want to hear anymore, Croaton,” Andrew says from the balcony.

”Unfortunately that is not an option. I gave you your options, Mister McMillan. You can either come with me, journey into the deepest, darkest recesses of your mind. Confront your past. Confront your sins. Cleanse yourself of your misconduct. Or...” Croaton doesn’t get to finish. Andrew McMillan hops over the railing, falling several stories onto a parked car below. The screeching of tires as startled drivers slam on the brakes and car alarms are sounding as passerby’s scream in horror at the site of Andrew McMillan, dead on impact.

I suppose that was not completely unexpected.

More often than not, those that interact with me choose to end their lives and save us all from their miserable existence rather than confront their demons.

Who am I?

Throughout your insignificant lives you strive to be the best you that you can be. If you are born poor, you strive to do better. You fight and scratch and claw your way through your lives in order to reach middle class. Those in the middle class strive to reach the upper class. Likewise, the upper class seeks to be rich. There again, the rich want to be super rich. Having enough, is never enough. Instead you step on those trying to join you keeping them down and you, in turn, mired in a thick sludge not allowing you to advance any further. No matter how far you climb, there will always be something trying to push you back down.

Those miniscule few that tread into the upper classes, what do you do with your new fortune? Do you utilize your wealth for the greater good? Do you spend your riches trying to help others that are less fortunate than yourselves? No. You buy more boats or more houses or more cars to justify your otherwise meaningless existence. You cheat on your wives or your husbands and you hurt and scar everyone you say you care about.

I regret to inform you, it is all for nothing.

For the universe is quite vast. Time means nothing in the grand scheme of things. Most men and women live into their 70’s or 80’s. Some even into their 90’s. If you are part of a lucky few, you may reach triple digits. The universe has existed for billions of years. Your existence in it, means nothing. Here for just the smallest time, and gone in, in universal terms, gone in an instant.

My name is Croaton.

What you see is exactly what you want to see. What you see is exactly what your simple minds tells you that you see. To some, perhaps I am but a small child. To others perhaps I may appear to be an adult male. Or perhaps female. Maybe some see me as a pleasant dog, wagging my tail in excitement as you come close to give a gentle rub of the head.

It matters not what you see, it only matters what I am. Therein lies the question: what is Croaton?

Who am I?

I am a universal being. Not human. Not non-human. While you all perish from the Earth within a hundred years, give or take a decade or so, I still remain. I remain intact. In human form. Or dog form. Or for that matter, lamp post form. However you choose to see me.

I am a subconscious, if you will. I am a being that lies within the recesses of the minds of others. Though very few can reach me. Very few can tap deep enough into their subconscious to see what it is I have to show you all. To those that can tap into my being, it can be a very traumatic experience. Many people are unable to stomach their own lives. I can show you your past. I can show you every person you have ever hurt in your disgusting lives. What’s more, is I can show you what became of those you hurt.

It is then, and only then, that you can proceed on your path to enlightenment. Those very few lives that I have touched with my presence have gone on to do big things. They have gone on to fulfill their full potential. I can show you your future.

Who am I?

SCRATCH.

STATIC.

Croaton’s voice changes. It’s now somehow familiar. Almost as if we’ve heard this voice before. Perhaps hundreds of times in the history of the Xtreme Wrestling Federation. As if it’s not even Croaton at all.

Without any further adieu, I reckon it’s time to address the task at hand. That task, however minimal it may be, is currently to destroy the one that calls himself, Ghost Tank. Ghost Tank is a born loser and he has the unenviable task of competing against an unknown. Coming off his HART breaking loss at the hands of another born loser in Mikey McBride.

Christ. Really, Tank? McBride? That fuck couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag and you lost your title to that shit stain?

So Tank is now without his championship which I’m sure he’ll bitch and moan and cry to high heavens to anyone in the back that has the misfortune of crossing his path. WAAAH, I lost AGAIN! WAAAH Unknown Soldier throws like a girl. WAAAH, fuck off you cum guzzling thunder cunt. Man up and do something about it. Man up and beat the shit out of Unknown Soldier… Of course, that’s easier said than done. He’s a crazy son of a bitch who’s path I’ve had the fucking honor of crossing a time or two.

You know what? Go challenge Soldier. Get a match with him. I’ll get some popcorn and watch you get ass raped and turned inside out and upside down before he ever even touches you.

By the way, you wouldn’t stand a snowballs chance in hell against Soldier.

You know what’s funny? There’s three people in this match on Warfare. Well, two people and Ghost Tank. I have the benefit of knowing who I am, and what Ghost Tank lacks in manhood and skill. This mystery opponent, is in the same boat as I.

Ghost Tank knows nothing. I mean, seriously. Even if he knew, he still wouldn’t know. He is that intellectually challenged. Ghost Tank faces the question and the riddle, making this match a complete ENIGMA.

I’ve been away a long time. Ghost Tank, you have no idea who I am. But I promise you, you will know soon enough. And you’ll remember. You’ll shake and you’ll quake and you’ll wish you were some place else entirely. Why? Because I’ve destroyed bigger, better and badder than you.

And I’ll do it again.

SCRATCH.

STATIC.

Croaton’s voice returns to normal. ”Ghost Tank, I certainly hope you prepare yourself. It seems evident that you are in for a long night and your troubles will continue at least another week.”

SCRATCH.

STATIC.

Who am I?

GONE.

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