Pg.16-32

The second block of chapters, much of which centers around the introduction of Jimson Kid. If there is interest, I can keep posting more of this story.

“Hey, man. What’s up? And what the hell is that under your arm?”

“Yeah, Dave. What the f**k is that thing?”

Everybody always brought stuff over - I love presents - but Dave topped the ‘weird-s**t-o-meter’ all the time. Today looked like it would be no exception as he held the thing up over his his head, like he had just won the Stanley Cup and was about to start his victory lap.

“It’s a plastic, ummm lamb-shaped flower pot, dat’s what it is.”

Stupid Dave and his stupid speech impediment,

“You’re a thummy, Dave.”

“What’s a dummy?”

“You are Dave, you moron.”, never got old, “So what do you plan on doing with that thing, and what happened to the flowers?”

“Yeah, that doesn't look like much of a flower pot, dude.”

“Yeah, I left de flowers dere. I didn’t want to take dem, just de pot. Stealing flowers isn’t right, and besides, dey were ugly, and dead. And one might have looked at me weird.”

“F**k, Dave. Have you been snorting pills?”

“…m…maybe…so what?”

Dave loves his damn pills, in fact, we call him “Pillhead Dave” behind his back. Not a very clever name, I admit, but I swear the guy dreams about snorting rainbows, or the rings of f*****g Saturn. He’ll stick anything in his nose, and today was no exception. His irises are lost behind exploding pupils, always a tell-tale sign.

The rest of us didn't touch pills at all, for fear of ending up like Dave.

What a f*****g loser.

Really though, Dave was a loser. Not very smart, not very talented, oddly proportioned. He was a guy who didn't win at much in life. I may be a bit cold, but at least I'm not a loser.

Sucks to be Dave, really.

Can't remember how I met him, I think Fecma brought him over.

For the most part he's harmless, never been a solid reason to kick him out, so he just kept coming back. It was only a few nights ago that he was sprawled across the kitchen floor puking into an old coffee can, lifting his head up occasionally to mumble gibberish and fractured sentences. Mostly:

“Ugggghhh...I'm soooo hiiighhh.”

Maybe he was, but he looked like a loser. Droops was so drunk that he actually began to point and laugh, “Go snort some more pills, Dave. You f****n' loser!”

“Sooo higgghhh...”

“Anyways, me and de lamb here come bearing news.”

He went and grabbed a seat on the floor - brushing away debris before he committed - biding his time now that he had our attention. The lamb sat safely upon his lap, like it was his new pet or something. I kept waiting for him to stroke the thing’s head, or scratch him under his plastic chin, but he just sat there.

The lamb's eyes, with poorly painted pupils were staring at me.

And at Bucky.

Simultaneously.

“Spit it out, Dave.” Fecma finally blurted.

And so Pillhead Dave cleared his throat and let us have it, waiting a moment for what I'm sure were trumpets he heard playing solely in his own head.

“Jimson Kid’s dead. I just walked here from de hospital, he died did morning.”

There was a moment of silence.

It was a quick one, but it was there, and then we all lowered our interest level back down to normal. We didn’t exactly take the news as hard as Dave thought we would - I mean, you figure hearing about a close friend’s death would affect you in some way - but the Kid was always dying it seemed.

Like, monthly.

Him and death have regularly scheduled appointments.

I remember the time he died in a coffee shop. The lady was trying to hand him his mocha frappuccino thingy when he suddenly dropped to the ground, shaking and spitting up foam,

‘He sounded like de machine dat dey got behind de counter dere.’, Dave would always say.

Heck, Dave’s seen the guy die more than anyone, you’d figure he’d be more used to it than the rest of us. Seeing the Kid cold and hard on the ceramic floor, eyes kilned to a pearly glaze…

Uggghhh…I can’t go to Jack's anymore because of that…

I can still see him lying there.

But yeah, Dave always seems to be there for some reason when it would happen. It’s almost to the point where we expect a report on the Kid whenever Dave walks in the door. We’ve actually asked him a couple of times, to which he usually grumbles stuff about not following the nut around, and gets real negative for awhile afterward, so it's been awhile since we've brought it up.

“Go snort some more pills, Dave. The Kid can’t die. He'll probably be the next one through the door.”

And Fecma was probably right.

“No, seriously guys. He's really dead dis time, I watched de footage dey had of him."

"Footage?"

The plot thickens.

"Yeah, de doctors taped him dis time, dere's like sixteen hours of s**t, man. Right up to the point where he dies and den ten more minutes after dat where dey're taking temperatures, declaring time of deaf, tying de tag to his toe - you know, all de basic s**t."

"F**k, go back, Dave. What sort of s**t is on there while he's alive?"

Indeed.

We were always curious about Jimson Kid's behavioral psychology, he's such an intriguing person. What I wouldn't give to have that tape right now, to be able to watch it and analyze it, learn everything I possibly could about the Kid - he is a living enigma - possibly the unsolvable puzzle,

"Give us details, Dave."

"Oh man, dere was all sorts of crazy s**t on dose tapes! At one point he's struggling wif like free or four cops and dey are having a hell of a time trying to restrain him - super human strengf - he's literally tossing de first two around until backup showed. Den, after dey strap him down he goes all hysterical, and he's like, speaking in tongues almost and doing weird 'Exorcist' sort of stuff, you know? But on de next tape he's sort of calmed down and he's just chilling and talking to people who aren't dere - you know, you've seen him do it - and like Droops was dere, you were dere, Fecma you were there, I think even I was dere once or twice in his adventures,"

"Adventures?"

"Yeah, man. Dis guy went more places and did more s**t den any of us ever do in one day - dis guy was everywhere wif everyone - it's crazy. One minute he's at school, then he's cruising frough de boonies, den he's at a party, constantly on de go in his head but still strapped to de bed you know? Until he started getting real sick. He was having cold sweats real bad and mumbling and shaking his head around. Den he started foaming and shaking, you know, like at dat coffee place, Jack's, right? And a couple nurses came in and gave him a shot while de cops held him still until he stopped and dat's when he died. I could see him piss himself - his pants got wet, I mean - and I heard dat's how you can tell if a person is really dead, when dey lose control of deir bowels."

This time there was a longer, more real moment of silence.

Dave has been doing community service at the hospital for years now, which explains his constant supply of pills and his access to such confidential information as our good friend's videotape.

They think he's slow so he gets away with all sorts of crazy s**t in that place.

He had explained to us once that he has access to all sorts of places which he shouldn't - and always has a crazy story to tell about what's behind those 'Restricted' doors - but as for this tape, it looks as if the Kid is truly dead this, time.

The tides have shifted on him, washing him away.

Fare-thee-well, Kid.

"So, he's r-r-r-really dead this t-t-time?"

"Dat's what it looks like."

“Damn.”

……………………………….......................................

"…and can you believe it? The sap had never heard of a blimmy in his life! What a f*****g loser, eh?"

Whew, goddamnit I'm messed up.

Good ole booze-ohol. S**t'll knock you on your a*s and send you sliding right into the wall if you know what I mean.

"You know what I'm talking about, right Spudley?"

"Not a f*****g clue, man. Not a f*****g clue."

Crazy Spudley.

The little guy looks wasted already - but I bet it doesn't take long for the booze to flow through that tiny frame.

I love this bar, and my bro Spudley here.

Alot of good memories... that's for sure.

Like the time when Spudley was hammered right out of his tree and stripped completely butt-a*s naked in this joint. F****r threw his underwear on his head and started running around, spanking his own a*s and neighing like a horse.

He got his a*s kicked pretty good that night, I tried to help him but he was asking for it. Oh well, he probably doesn't remember a thing,

I'll never forget it.

I need a smoke.

"Hey, Spudley. Hook me up with a smoke, man. I'm out."

"F**k you! Buy more. You've been scamming mine all f*****g week."

Spit flies as he slurs his words.

Stupid, cheap, b*****d m**********r. And after all I've done for that lousy piece of s**t.

"And after all I've done for your a*s, yo-"

"Like f**k! And don't start thinking I'm paying for the cab home either - I'm not that wasted. I'm not about to fall for your little games where you trick other people into doing all the s**t that you don't want to do but needs to be done - I know what I said. F**k that. I'm not some little plastic pawn that you can just shove up your a*s when ever you feel like it."

That stupid little f****r - I knew he was going to pull this s**t. He always tries to sneak his way out of paying for stuff after he gets a few drinks in him. I don't know how many times I f*****g told the guy,

"How many times do I have to tell you: we're splitting on the cab home, man. Fifty-fifty, even f*****g Steven. Now, hook me up with one f*****g smoke, and I'll give you three when we get back to my place."

"You owe me far more than three f*****g smokes. And I ain't putting in s**t on the cab home. I paid for the last one, remem­ber, Super Bowl Sunday. Super Bowl Fucki-"

"Super Bowl was a long time ago, ma-"

"Last weekend you stupid f**k!"

"Woah. Sit back down, 'Spudley Do-Right'! Nobody's gonna hurt nobody, especially you - I don't think you want to f**k around, little man. Now just give me one goddamn cigarette and we'll forget that this whole me-"

Hey, that guy's got a smoke...

“Excuse me, sir. I’m sorry to bother you but, might I trouble you for a cigarette perhaps? I seem to have misplaced mine.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure buddy, whatever. Here you go.”

“Thank you kindly, and I’m very sorry for any inconvenience I may have caused.”

“No worries.”

“F**k you, Spudley.”

Yeah, now that’s a good smoke…

Ahhh…a real good smoke - and this is a good drink.

Yep,

A good day to be sitting back, drinking and smoking.

No thanks to Spudley. F****r.

But none of that matters now,

‘cause I’m drinking and smoking.

Both hands happily occupied.

No need to disturb this moment of solitude just to severely beat this ‘high-and-mighty’ loser over here. This f*****g miser, hoarding his things like they carry some sort of value.

Nope, not worth it.

I'll just kick back and relax.

I wish I were on a beach…

……………………………….........................

"Remember that time we found the Kid knocking on random doors at like, three in the morning? Trying to sell pennies and nickels."

"Or that time we found him in the kitchen, wearing nothing but his socks, and a clothes hanger dangling from his c**k."

"Sure, that would b-b-be the moment you remember you s-s-sick f**k."

"Yeah man, let's skip that memory."

"Haha, there was that time he thought the apple on the wall was real, so you picked it for him and he tried to eat it."

"Man, dat was hilarious. Den I told him he dropped it, and he was trying to chase it across the floor."

"Hahaha, 'Oh no Kid, you just kicked it! It's getting bruised! You're bruising your apple!' That was a f*****g fun night."

"Or his obsession with orange chocolate shakes, whatever those are."

"Or the tree people. He would always get really weird when he saw these people he said were hiding in the trees. I asked him once to describe the guy, and all he could say was that he was wearing dark clothes, and just going 'shhhhhh' with his finger."

"That's creepy."

"F**k yeah it was."

"Nah man, when he was playing with his puke. Dat's always de one for me, sitting cross-legged in front of a puddle of his own puke, driving around de chunks like little cars. Making engine noises and everyfing. Dat's de most fucked up fing I've ever seen. Just, de little car noises, and making de pieces crash and stuff. Dat was creepy s**t."

"I j-just don't think he's really d-d-d-dead."

"Oh, he's dead-dead. Like dat lamb over dere."

"Yeah, about that. What do you intend to do with that lamb, Dave? I honestly don't think I want that think lying around my house."

"Don't worry, we'll dink of somefing."

"Remember that time the Kid wore a Halloween costume to go hand out resumes?"

"Those were supposed to be resumes? It was just a stack of napkins which said "I'm good at shooting stuff."

"Well, yeah. He said they were resumes."

"Man, or that one night when we scored all those free nachos and saw Jimson Kid walking up the street. And I was like, 'Hey, Kid. Want some nachos?' and he opened up his cupped hands which had like three broken potato chips in them and just said, 'Got my own chips.' and kept walking like he didn't even know us."

"Haha, of all de dings dat could've been in his hands at dat moment."

"I know, eh?"

It's hard to explain Jimson Kid.

I remember when I first met him. He introduced me to a fire hydrant, by name. I think it was Shawn. I thought he was nuts, but at the same time harmless and intriguing. When he spoke, it was almost as though he could see the things he was talking about, but clearer than he could see reality. The slightest detail would then be disassociated into something entirely different, so his tales were always morphing as he told them. I wonder what that looked like. Probably nothing like how I'm picturing it.

So many weird moments with that guy...

"How much do you want for that cup?"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"That cup right there. I want to buy it. How much?"

"Ha, I don't know, man. It's like a thrift store cup, how much do you honestly think I paid for it?"

"I don't give a s**t! Sell me the f*****g cup! I want it! Name your price!"

"Woah, settle down, Kid. I'll sell you the cup, okay?"

"Okay, how much?"

"Two bucks?"

"Not enough."

"What do you mean not enou-"

"I'll give you fifteen bucks. Final offer."

"But -"

"Fifteen bucks!"

"Okay, okay, sure. Fifteen bucks, Kid."

"Sweet."

That was nearly three months ago now, and the cup is still sitting on the kitchen counter - unwashed. Stale booze slowly molding and dehydrating inside. Vodka with Orange Crush, and ants are circling the pool like cloves on a s****y Christmas ornament.

F*****g Jimson Kid.

We had heard he ate too many Jimson seeds way back - datura stramonium, scientifically, I looked it up - from the deadly nightshade family. It essentially sent him into a permanent trip. He should've died, but obviously he didn't, so here he is.

Or, was I guess.

Damn.

There's been times where we've been tempted to try the seeds ourselves.

Not going to lie, I've thought about it.

I know where they grow.

Maybe just take a lesser dose, I've thought, to try and understand what happens in the Kid's head. But he's completely unstable most times, and that's scary. Not knowing the difference between fantasy and reality, and being in such a suggestible fantasy world - without control - well, those are some pretty harsh side effects for a drug.

Not a recreational trip, by any means.

So we decided it's best to not go down that rabbit hole, just observe it from a distance.

Jimson Kid's head isn't "here", on Earth.

F**k.

I guess that's a far more concrete statement now.

I'm going to miss that guy.

I wish I knew his name.

……………………………….........................

And then Droops snapped.

I remember him sitting back enjoying his borrowed cigarette, holding his beer - he looked like he were lost in some crazy fantasy, suntanning or something. Basking under the ineffective light sources available in the bar. But then, from the edge of my vision and protruding into it, came this large fellow. I watched him approach, but mo­re directly I watched his beer approach - being a strong fan of alcoholic beverages - carried in a boat glass that was riding on some pretty rough seas. A chill ran down my spine as beer splas­hed out of his cup with every waddling step - soaking his chubby hand - and I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to grab him by his sweaty Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt and yell,

"You're spilling your goddamn beer, man! By the time you sit down you're going to have to go back up and get another! Be more careful - little baby steps if you have to - you clumsy oaf! The brew is precious, don't be wasting that s**t! F**k!"

But I didn't, and it turned out I didn't have to.

Just as our wasteful friend was passing us by, some of his lost sailors found their way directly onto the heater of Droops' precious cigarette. The sound seemed to echo through the whole building, sending out an alarm that someone was wasting alcohol - and tobacco - two very severe crimes in a pub of such low caliber. And Droops, being one of the only people in the bar, and the one who was most affected by the incident, took up the call loud and clear.

Yes.

This was going to be good. I liked when he lashed out in rage.

Droops jumped up like that cigarette had been put out in his eye - a look of pain scarring his face - and the extent of his involuntary reaction to this pain left the poor man mumbling apologies through bloodied gurgles. Droops didn't seem to hear him, and just kept swinging, and swinging. The bartender lunged over the counter - with a dusty bottle of Peppermint Schnapps in hand - and tried to knock Droops out, but that just made things worse, as he turned and grabbed the bartender by his man-bun and tried to rip it from his skull. It took four members of the kitchen staff to finally calm him down enough to kick him out.

There are some rather large dudes working in that kitchen, I must say.

Outside on the sidewalk the f****r was completely oblivious to anything that had happened, as if he had blacked out during his violent rampage. He turned to me after wiping the sweat and blood from his eyes,

"Where's my cigarette?"

"Don't you remember? That guy spilled beer on it so yo-"

"What guy?! Where?! I'll kick the f*****g s**t out of him, I swear to f*****g go-"

"Woah! Settle down, man! You already did - f**k, look at yourself - you're all bloodied up like a goddamn animal. We're not even in the bar anymore!"

Droops paused, and actually considered what I was saying.

"Oh yeah, eh? Well, it's your f*****g fault.

“And how the f**k is that, eh?”

“Couldn't give me one lousy cigarette, that's all I wanted."

"F**k that. Now you're trying to blame this s**t on me? F**k you! You nearly killed that fat b*****d in there, seriously. The guy apologized like, fifteen f*****g times - he even offered to buy you a whole carton of smokes - but you were probably too busy booting his face in to hear s**t-all he was saying."

"Yeah, I think I got one of his teeth inside my boot somehow - how the hell does that happen?"

"Are you listening to a word I'm f*****g saying at all? F**k. F**k it - let's just get the f**k out of here, we'll head to your place for awhile. Call us a cab."

“Cool, you’re paying though - I paid for the last one - besides, I don’t have any money.”

“I paid for the last one! Super Bowl F*****g Sunday! Don’t give me that s**t, you know I did.”

What a f*****g idiot.

Screw this s**t.

“You need to get yourself some help or something, Droops. Some professional help.”

“Oh yeah? Well f**k you! F**k you, and your fat ladle-taking a*****e.”

“Yup, whatever man.”

He can figure out a way to get his own a*s home - hopefully the cops find him, looking like he just stumbled out of a murder scene - I’ll just hitch it.

A little walk would do me some good anyways - go eat lunch, sober up a bit -

Besides, I need some time to take in what actually happened in there. F**k, I'm surprised they didn't call the cops. Still a lot of day left for that though I suppose.

They know who he is, and if the guy ends up dying, they'll know where to go.

Alcohol abuse can be a dangerous thing…

“Where the f**k are you going?!”

What an idiot.

Still sitting back on the curb, like a puppy tied to a pole.

A very drunk puppy.

“Home! I’m f*****g walking! You can go f**k yourself and see where you end up, I don’t give a s**t. And remember, you still have to pay for the next cab!”

“Yeah, f**k you too.”

I was far enough that I barely heard it, but I know it's what he said.

………………………………......................

"Okay, silence people! Shall we get started then? I believe there are many matters that need discussing, and if I remember correctly, Mr. Johnson, you wished to address the table primarily this morning."

The group resembled a perfect, pearly white set of teeth in their bleached suits, and sat evenly spaced around a massive, horse-shoed oak table. The Head, faced the entire group from the base of the structure. With his enormous, flailing crimson robe he acted as the tongue for this judicial voice. A nameless voice, with power over most others.

The group made small talk spurt from their hair encircled mouths towards those closest to them while Mr. Johnson organized the many papers that lay before him. They looked identical, eve­ryone, like brothers from the same mother, every last one. This was a family of authority, whose decisions meant life and death to millions. They decided who would run, and win presidential elections, when wars would begin and end, which rebellious organizations would be allowed to rise and/or gain any sort of power, and how much or little of all this information that would be privy to anyone else. They decided which countries starved and which prospered, set market prices - both international and black alike - and organized the next trends and arguments before leaking them into the mainstream. They control everything you’re able to find out about. They are the media and the news. They are censorship and exposure. They are law and order, corruption and chaos.

They are everything.

Their salaries consist of the bribes they receive from people below them, and they take great pride in eating well, and living royally.

They consider themselves a race above humans - they are the authorities - the writers of laws, the deliverers of judgment, the gods among men. It is they who truly make the world go 'round.

...you get the point.

"Thank you, sir. Yes, there are some matters I would like to bring before the table immediately, for I feel they are of great concern to myself and fellow members," there was a quiver in his voice and he cleared his throat before continuing, "namely the Resensitization Wards being implemented nationwide as a means of controlling criminal inmat-"

"Now, now, Mr. Johnson. With all due respect, there will be plenty of time to discuss this matter at a later date. But obviously you know that the fact that they are currently being implemented means that the time for debate on this matter has actually passed. Maybe you would first like to visit one of our clinics, sit in on a presentation, and then you’ll be more informed as you so wish to be. Then you will be able to approach the table with any further questions you may have after all your basic ones have been answered. Now, if you don't mind, may we begin with something a little, lighter? An appetizer, so to speak."

"Sir, I feel these matters have been pushed aside long enou­gh and I do not wish to waste my time sitting in on an information session geared towards the general public. With all due respect, you insult me, and I -”

"Mr. Johnson. I believe that I have already stated this ma­tter is to be postponed until a later date, and under different circumstances. Now, without further hesitation, we are moving forward!”

“But, Sir I mus-”

“Are you questioning my authority?"

His sentence ended in a low rumble, that silenced the room. Even the leaf-less trees that sat outside the only window ceased their crackled swaying and stood frozen in the grey sky. Mr. Jo­hnson chose his words carefully before continuing,

"If it was your authority that decided that these wards wou­ld prove beneficial towards mankind. If it was your authority that allowed these mindless zombies to return to society, non-threatening but completely incoherent. If under your authority there are plans to expand this already massive program and implement its uses on a much broader scale, then y-"

But, before the final word could be spoken, the Head pushed a button on the table before him, launching a slim steel blade surgically into the throat of Mr.Johnson. His speech was cut short and replaced it with the gurgled cries of a dying animal. He desperately clutched at his own neck trying to slow the loss of blood. It spurted from between fingers and ran down his arms, pooling within the elbows of his white suit and then quickly staining through. Then the Head rose, and with his broad chest puffed out like a frigate bird, strode down the length of the table to where Mr. Johnson sat. He then bent over his victim, as to see and hear him more clearly, and spoke,

"I repeat, 'Are you questioning my authority?'. You never quite finished, sort of trailed off at the end there. Well?"

"UghhghhggUgghhgUgghhghhhggUuuugghhhhgghggUugghughhhg.. “

"Come on! Speak up, boy! Those aren't words!"

Mr. Johnson struggled desperately to speak - his face was swollen with strain - but not a single word could be produced. His blood sprayed freely upon the papers strewn before him, papers filled with information he had spent years tracking down. He stared helplessly as the words became unintelligible beneath him and he felt the surging pain of failure as his heart pumped for the last time, the blood slowing to a mere trickle from his neck and down his soiled suit. The Head turned away and stro­de back towards his desk in disdain,

"Now then. Moving on. In fact, I believe it would be most appropriate to allow a twenty minute recess so that the janitorial services can clean up this, mess, created by the late Mr. Johnson. And let us remember him for the good things he has done, and not the less tasteful outbursts he has displayed in most recent years.  Adjourned."

………………………………..........................

F**k, you can't be lost.

Think Reef, think. But they all look the same.

I hate these modern subdivisions.

All sorts of curving, interchanging streets to slow traffic and make pedestrians nearly invisible.

Holy s**t, where'd that guy come from?

Seems like everyone has a dog nowadays.

F**k, every single house is identical - wait, those two used a different shade of blue on their garage doors - I stand corrected.

Is that it?

No, Bob doesn't have a Mustang. Neither does that crazy lady who lives above him. Damn I'm tired, maybe I should just pull over and sleep in the van for awhile. Nobody will find me in this crazy Lego maze.

Nah, f**k it. His house can't be that hard to find, and I've e been driving around in this stolen van for far too long now. This isn't safe anymore.

Come one, Reef. It never was. You know it.

At least it's bright out, this would be impossible in the dark - hehe, unless they have another bonfire blazing in the front yard again. You could see the glow for miles, no wonder the cops showed up.

You can't have fires out here.

Especially with a crazy upstairs neighbour who was traumatized for life back when her parents burned alive in an old barn - or however the f**k her mumbled sobby stories go - how the hell were we supposed to know?

Stupid b***h has been traumatized by everything. She's afraid to leave her house because something might happen.

Of course stuff happens, that's kind of the point.

“Deal with it, b***h!”

...I've always wanted to just yell that at her when she shows up whining at Bob's door.

But it's her property too,and she actually pays to get the lawn mowed and the flowers watered, so that the world looks pretty from her windows. Blah, blah, blah.

Like we really give a s**t if the lawn looks li-

What the - is that Jimson Kid?

It's got to be.

He's the only guy I know who would possibly hitchhike

by shooting the finger

in a hospital gown

walking against traffic.

That crazy f**k.

"Jimson Kid! What's going on? What's with the gown, you die again or something?"

The Kid was always dying, but it was a gag that never got old.

"Can you give me a lift to the ocean? Step on it. Follow that car."

"If by 'ocean' you mean Bob's place, hop in you crazy f**k."

He was already in the van by the time I finished talking.

I don't think he even heard a word I said.

"Shotgun."

Jimson Kid is the most fucked up person I know, by far. It's reassuring though, because I'm the next most fucked up guy I know otherwise and it gives me an idea of what I could become possibly.

What I need to avoid becoming, I mean.

The way I see it, I think there's more satisfaction in knowing that someone’s worse at something than you than having the idea that you're better at something than other people. There's no need for improvement that way - and the stress that comes with trying to improve yourself - you just have to make sure you don't deteriorate past the next person below you.

You don't have to be better, just don't be as damaged as the next guy.

I'm pretty sure that's not about to happen any time soon.

Not for me, at least.

F**k, right now the Kid's running his fingers over the Caravan logo on the dash, trying to read it like braille - I think - while his other hand is steadily rolling up and down the window, creating this erratic breeze that keeps breathing into this beast.

“Ummm, so...what's up, Kid?”

He's nearly impossible to talk to in a traditional sense. He phases between different realities, or something, and he never really knows where he is - I wonder where he thinks he is right now - it's fun trying to talk to him though,

"So why are you headed to the ocean? Going swimming?"

“Swimming?”

I must’ve snapped him out of his zone and now he's just staring at me, blankly, like he has no clue who I am. After a few awkward seconds I see him become familiar with the setting and he finally takes in my question,

"No. I forgot my swimsuit. Forgot my swimsuit at the ocean - got to go get it before it swims away. Without me. Then I'll be naked. I'll hitchhike. Yeah. No swimming, no. Fish swim - sharks and dolphins. Nice dolphin. Sorry, I'm naked."

"Yeah, those crazy dolphins."

"And sharks."

"Yeah, and sharks."

Sure.

F**k.

Whatever.

Where the hell is Bob's house?

I hate this s**t. He needs to put like a little flag, or a skull on a stick or something out front.

Or a little fetus on a stick - yeah, a fetus - like six, seven months old.

I wonder what the neighbour would think of that. Probably remind her of her unknown twin who died within the womb and left her life empty and meaningless, like half of herself died in the womb with her fetal sister, too.

Or some s**t like that.

Mascara running down the deep crevices in her face.

Fetuses are sweet - or I guess it would be 'feti'.

Ha, feti cheese.

Gross.

The Kid suddenly pipes up,

"Hey - there's Bob's house - let's go say 'Hi'. Hi, Bob. Yeah, I'll have a beer. Sweet."

He's drinking out of an invisible beer bottle now, and seems to be enjoying it...

but he knew which house to go to - and now that he pointed it out I can still see some charred remnants in the grass out front.

Finally.

I suppose I shouldn't park right in the driveway - Bob hates having stolen property around - a few houses down should be alri­ght. I mean, I don't want to walk too far now.

And I'm tired as hell. Can't wait to pass out.

Ah, yeah.

Sleep.

That sounds so nice right now.

"Come on, Kid. Let's go."

"Where're we going?"

"The Circus. You are cordially invited, man. The elephants wanted to talk to you personally, they‘ve got a beef with you."

"Elephant beef? Oh well, I‘ll try anything once."

And with that he took the final swig of his imaginary bottle, lobbed it into the back seat of the van, and got out.

"Don't leave your trash in my van."

"S**t, sorry."

"Don't worry about it, let's go."

Hehe...good ol' Jimson Kid.

………………………………...........................

"Dave, what the f**k are you doing to that lamb?"

"I'm decorating it."

"Well, it looks like you're burning it."

"Don't worry, you'll see."

"Dude, that's my only lighter, and you're dripping molten plastic

all over my carpet."

"Since when did you care about de carpet?"

"Touche, I don't. Carry on."

Once the lamb's snout was good and liquified, Dave stopped torching it and reached for an empty beer bottle. With the creature clamped between his legs like a crowning newborn he began to press the mouth of the bottle into the mouth of the lamb, until the glass neck was clean down the animals throat. The plastic quickly cooled and hardened around the bottle, leaving it stuck.

We all watched silently.

“See, dat's what I'm doing. Hey, pass me the Heineken and I'll shove it up his a*s."

"Simple things amuse simple minds."

F****n' Dave.

It did look pretty cool though, and we all stared in a trance as he began the next hole.

"Hey, Dave, do you remember where you got it? We'll bring it back when you're done and watch the people freak out when they see it - this crazy lamb-gargoyle hybrid. Hide-in-a-bush-and-film-their-reaction type s**t."

A beer bottle slides easily up the lamb's newly developed colon.

"N-N-No, we'll p-p-p-p-put a p-picture of it on their lawn wh-wh-where you f-f-found it, with a ransom n-n-note and an ear or t-t-t-t-tail or something."

"Haha! Like one of dose, 'If ever want to see your lamb alive' sorta letters, right?"

Dave's already ripping one of the creature's ears off, and heating the area around the wound for the next bottle.

"Nice. Good idea, Bucky. Dave, see how many bottles you can wedge in that thing and I'll go find some markers. We'll put blood around all the wounds and s**t."

"Dis'll be killer."

As I'm getting up to grab the markers, my door flings open again and a couple more people come clamoring down the stairs into the living room of my basement suite.

This is going to be a busy day, I can already tell.

"F**k! Reef! What going on? You get your a*s kicked or something?"

“Yeah, where's your shoes?”

A horribly beaten and exhausted Reef lurches down the steps followed by a pair of purple feet.

That are also missing shoes...

Holy s**t.

Science has been caught sleeping once again...

"Jimson Kid! You're alive! Holy f*****g s**t!”

“See, Dave. I told you nothing can kill this guy! F*****g immortal. Holy s**t, man. Look at you! What the hell happened?"

The Kid looked like crap, but you can't expect much from a guy who just came back from the dead. He was still carrying a smile, as usual.

Actually, I've seen him look a lot worse.

Upon entering, the Kid spun a complete 360 on one bare foot like a “balletomane” (don't ask me how I know that word) which we all immediately noticed was horribly frostbitten and disfigured.

Same with the other one.

Holy f*****g s**t that looks painful.

F**k. That's disgusting.

Some of his toes, the lesser damaged ones, looked like plastic grapes that had been charred and melted in grotesque ways, while the worst of his toes were beyond description. I kept expecting them to snap off, at least a couple, during all his twirling - and all the laws of science would probably agree with me too but they were still sleeping I suppose,

and this is Jimson Kid.

Science says you die but once - this has to be the Kid's seventh by now.

Science says you must intake food, and excrete waste - I've never seen him do either.

And science says that toes as severely frostbitten as the Kid's, must be amputated to prevent infection and gangrene. But I bet he turns out alright - toes intact.

God, that looks nasty.

At least it takes the attention away from his open-backed hospital gown he's so proudly wearing, like a graduation robe or something. And he keeps spinning, and spinning.

...on those toes.

I wonder where he thinks he is right now.

"What the f**k happened to your toes, Kid?"

"My toes? They want to cut 'em off. My piggies. I'm outta here, man. Nobody steals my toes. Hurts to run - keep falling. I'll hitchhike. This one had roast beef, man. This one had roast beef."

F*****g Jimson Kid. He's hard to explain.

I remember when I met him. He was sitting in the grass at the graveyard talking to the only tree there, a large Maple that was near the back corner of the lot. We - being I, Fecma, Droops, Spudley, and Yunk, I think - used to actually go chill under that same tree and blaze joints when we were teens, and he just happened to be there one day. Said he always came and talked to that tree " called it Onufrey - we all thought he was nuts though, and didn't believe anything the guy said.

But he was clearly harmless.

Anyway, he never forgot who we were after that day and we started running into him everywhere, I mean everywhere. Now it seems like he's around all the time. Except when he's dead. But, crazy or not, the guy's genuine, and treats everything - living or non - with equality.

And anybody with morals like that is welcome in my home, there's so few nowadays.

Besides, he's f*****g hilarious.

Right now he's trying to hitchhike in my living room, and yelling at the invisible cars that pass him by,

"F****r, see if I ever give you a ride anywhere! Or your mom!"

What the hell's that supposed to mean?

But I can't stop staring at his toes - they're hideously intriguing. I wonder how it happened.

He probably passed out in a snowbank, where someone eventually found him and called the paramedics. Can toes get that bad while a person's still conscious?

Maybe, if it's Jimson Kid.

"So what do you plan to do about your toes?"

"What toes?"

"No, seriously, man."

"Huh? Seriously what?"

Ah, f**k it. Fate's got the Kid in the palm of his hands, petting and nurturing him, and prolonging his life.

He'll figure something out.

Some people say, “When hell freezes over…”

Around here, we say, “When Jimson Kid dies…”

And here he stands, once again, proving that there are exceptions to every rule. Even the seemingly linear process of life and death. Standing right in front of me, spinning actually, full of life. Piss and f*****g vinegar. I just can't get over it, sorry.

Unlike Reef, who managed to sneak over to the couch and pass-out during all the excitement.

But man, Jimson Kid. It just - I just don’t get it. How the hell?

Well, this calls for a celebration - as usual.

But it really doesn’t take much for us to find an excuse to drink excessively, celebration or not.

“Well, Kid. Happy f*****g birthday! Let‘s get some booze!”

We always referred to it as his birthday, because technically it was. Who were we to examine the logistics of how he does it? He’s being reborn as much as he’s being brought back from the dead, we figured.

Besides, we had no idea when his real birthday was.

The Kid doesn’t either, he has no sense of time whatsoever. The entire concept of a 'birthday' is completely beyond him. But he enjoys the parties all the same, and loves the attention.

“What are we drinking?”

“T-T-T-T-Tequila.”

“Dat’s what I’m talking about! Spare no expense! Is dat cool, Fecma?”

“As long as we’re getting 100% agave. And real f*****g lemons with it. I’m not drinking Tequila unless we do it right. None of this lime s**t.”

“Sweet. Who’s doing de run?”

“Not me.”

“Not m-m-m-m-me.”

“F**k that s**t.”

“Alright. We’ll let the Kid choose. It’s his day. First name to come out of his mouth is going " cool? Hey. Jimson Kid...What’s up?”

The Kid had actually been paying attention in his own unique way the whole time, and was anxious for his turn to speak,

“Me! It’s my turn! It’s my day! Give me a shot, the numbers say so - and the animals - and animals are louder than words. Good thing my calculator has the alphabet. I’ll out chug any of you fuckers - choking b******s - chug fuckers. Tell that bucket to get over here so I can give it a good -”

“F**k, hurry up and say someone’s name, Kid.”

He was reliving random parties in a drunken clip-show of nonsense it seemed.

His mind was in ten places at once.

“I’ll hurry to f**k. Bucket f****r. Haha. Never eat alone, Fecma, or -”

“Fecma! Get going, man. And hurry back.”

“Damn it!”

It was so perfect using the Kid to decide things for us like that. Far more random and fair than pulling straws or rolling dice even, or any stupid crap like that.

Jimson Kid is cool s**t.

Completely unbiased in every way. But I suppose that’s because he doesn’t really know what’s going on, and isn’t aware of something long enough to compare it to anything else, or put it on a relative scale of good and bad. It’s seemingly the only way to have equal respect for everyone and everything these days; to be purely childlike and delusional.

What a sad, fucked up world.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go. Just give me a second, it’s still only like, one o’clock. Plenty of time. How about we work on that lamb-gargoyle or something.”

“Sure, now you want to work on de lamb.”

Author's Note

Any thoughts or words on this is greatly appreciated. My writing is far from traditional, but hopefully it makes some sort of sense.