Verse XIV: Psychopath Negotiations

Backwards chair maneuver like Britney Spears, or maybe Spice Girls. “Do you really not know who I am?” Solinis inquires.

The failed Soldier of Scion rubs his crotch against the corner of the obsidian table. “Wanna fuck?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Solinis summons thirteen big fat hairy bears from the year 2017 to molest every orifice and exposed piece of flesh that Frederic has to offer. Medina can never again obtain an erection due to the trauma and sheer lurid memory of his failure to satisfy those thirteen big fat hairy bears. For the rest of his life, the boy knows he failed his own sexuality by failing to help those bears attain ejaculation.

Verse XIII: D. E. M.

“Is that Tidus?”

Devon looks over to the bar where a sallow skeleton with the approximate appearance of a young man he once knew to be Tidus allows himself to be manhandled and groped by any and all. “…I thought we were supposed to meet Tyson?”

Johnny squints through the smoke and neon bursts of light. “I am pretty sure that is Tidus.”

The S666 tempts Devon’s fingers; Solinis had lost track of that young man quite a while ago. “What should we do? I am not sure if this supercedes our original mission or not.”

A groan. “I bet you anything that Tidus is going to be the victim of that snuff film.”

The bit of professional resolve has vacated Devon completely. Solinis aside, everyone is quite fond of the boy in question. “We have to wait until we receive the signal,” Devon cuts through pursed lips, as though his son were tempting him to abandon the mission. “We have to wait until the second cut.” After the boy begs them to stop. It was supposed to be fake. He was told it was fake.

And then, ‘How did you expect to pay for all those drugs you used, all those nice clothes you got, the fancy hotels you stayed at…..’

Seemingly on cue, Tyson trundles down the steps of the entrance, into the underground night club. It is apparent that he himself only recently discovered the identity snuff victim number three by the robotic motions of his gait.

Devon turns back to his rye and permits the other two their obligatory theatrics regarding the opulent deus ex. He wants to hate himself for caring more about the snuff victim he was slated to allow to suffer up to a certain point whe finding out that the victim is someone he loves, but his emotions are dead.

Verse XII: “And the Faeries Danced”

“…So I do not really know if it was a psychotic episode, a narcotic delusion, or if everything that happened there was real.” I am sitting with the two of them on my tattered leather couch, sipping a cup of rooibos tea. “The experience came to feel precisely like demonic possession. Even with my skeptical introspection, trying to assert that it was dissociation due to trauma, I could no longer hide the moments from myself when my body seemed to move involuntarily—-perhaps responsive to thoughts and feelings I had within my private psychology, sometimes influenced by environmental stimulus, but the trends of tics and twitches followed me into isolation. Going for long walks to the middle of nowhere, external transmissions seemed to appropriate my cognitive faculties, rape my motor functions to skew my own comprehension of the phenomenon. Was I experience remote viewing? Psychic interference? Was I getting messages from people in other parts of the world? Was I talking to God? Was I insane?”

“And that’s why you killed yourself?” The man named Cairo is smoking a cigar, leaning against the door frame near the hole I punched in the wall…

The scars running up my arms are mostly old by now, more brown than red; they remind me somehow of unholy insects that border on the nomenclature of parasites, slimy atypical invertebrate that you catch a glimpse of in the washroom and feel sharp nausea in response to, like the sighting is an ill omen either of poor hygiene or poor sanitation… but my brain, it fulminates like cotton over my eyelids in the desert because I know that the error I have made is so deep in the realm of my unconscious that it is actually useless to attempt recuperative action. The suicide scars running up my arms dance like those unholy insects and it is my stupid fucking optimism that forces me to assimilate the sight of them as being a part of my identity now, not to convince myself that they are acceptable, but just to desensitize myself to the sight of them.

The first night I began cutting myself is not vivid in my memory but the foggy apparition communicates enough detail. “Suicide never makes sense. Right? It is a form of madness. Problems mounted high enough and with enough consistent insistency that death seemed like a viable exit, maybe even the correct solution to a life that divorced itself completely from my autonomy.” It is Saturday night. Outside, young people celebrate a life I always admired from afar, their cries of happiness not exactly alluring to me, just a fact to be considered. “It embarrasses me to admit, but I began cutting myself to ‘teach the voices a lesson’, to ‘shut them up’. That sounds immature to me, even now.”

“Did it work?” asks Laertes.

“It must have?” I bluff, not able to recall. ” I mean, why else would I have kept up the unsavory habit for so long.

“When you say voices,” Laertes prods. “Could you tell that they were still inside your mind, or did they sound like they were external?”

It has been maybe three days since I have showered. The stove is grimy with food from a few weeks ago. “This will never be made clear. At the worst of it I heard what sounded to be people in my physical vicinity making comments about the private aspects to my life that no one should know about—-kind of like they were reading my thoughts, and that is why I am willing to say that maybe I was just hearing voices. One of my psychiatrists explained inferential thinking to me, the advent of believing that conversations you overhear in passing are actually about you… but the coincidences were so ongoing and precise that I MUST have been hallucinating.”

“Or you were requisitioning the receptive human minds of those around you like radio receivers,” Cairo offers. “Something that no one really likes, thus explaining any hostility you perceived, or paranoia you felt.”

Verbose treatises cry out to be fed within Laertes, but the Wellbutrin has him acting peculiar. Misguided pride keeps his otherwise noble intentions in escrow of an unformed conspiracy that has the world conniving to keep him inert of renown. Laertes does not even want the renown. “Regardless of whether you intended to or not, you built an elaborate spiritual vortex around yourself to enable simple manipulation of collective metaphysics. Fabricating a lifestyle of complete isolation, possessing the psychology of an actual outsider, you still traipsed the norms of society without inciting the ire of automatic defenses inside the psyche of your peers. Go to the store to buy a pack of smokes and an energy drink, and then come back to the vestige of this bedroom to parlay with ambivalent deities of psychic trade winds.” He laughs. “Because you did not care that you were actually talking to some pseudo Illuminati, you did not go insane; because you are balanced of intent and ambitious to succeed, ‘they’ were able to use you for real global progress…”

“They neither wanted to let you go nor allow you to stay,” Cairo concludes. “Go talk to Art Bell about spooks.”

This is all well and fine, a natural conclusion garnered by a progression of events that everyone agreed upon as being necessary or unavoidable… but I do not really believe that I succeeded in killing myself and was brought back to life. It does not strike me as particularly real that these men are actually here speaking to me. Dreams within dreams, or memories meant to be deleted and presented to me at a later date in evidence of some Kafkaesque trial where I know I ought not to have done the thing that no one dare speak aloud, regardless of the fact that I actually do not have any idea as to what the crime might have been.

I think it was love. I think I am useless to everyone when I fall in love. I opened up Doctor Faustus and screamed at the devil to grace the world with his presence so that my antagonists would have company at the sidelines of my public execution, so that I would believe myself that I have committed an atrocity worthy of this torture.

Verse XI: One Word

Twenty-one year old Tidus has been successfully posing as a fifteen year old to some dirty pervert trucker from the state of Missouri. Various situations were contrived to provide the proper fake identifications and evidences to the trucker in question, but it was only after the young man permitted the older one to inject him with various narcotics that the particulars of the seedy sex and drug life of Montreal had been revealed to the Tidus. It is worse than you can imagine.

Something about the knowing that the syringe contained crystallized methamphetamine that the trucker could verify and account for made him trust Tidus fully. Of course, the slim blond was raised in a doomsday cult devoted to honing supernatural ability and transcendent awareness of universal paradigms that do shift with the meager ministrations of man’s feeble machinations, so Tidus converted the narcotics in his system into the appropriate salts and enzymes that are the final byproducts of the respiratory system synthesizing the original chemical and finally exhuming the poison through various forms of biological waste. He never did get high. The experience was something fascinating for Tidus to behold because the trucker’s belief that he successfully intoxicated the youth unleashed unconscious forms of psychic hypnosis; the belief that he was working with an addled slut allowed the Missouri courier an admirable finesse over subtle sectors of scriptures that The Faith had boasted prowess over. Translated into the home life of his home town, Tidus found the attitude of the trucker to be akin to an elder who had caught a younger disciple making a grave error of spiritual morality that causes vulnerability in all adherents to The Faith.

Tidus had grown up sequestered from pop culture and mainstream society but he was neither stupid nor naive. He wonders what cosmic trend has tangled up the actors within the global sex and drug trades because the rituals appeal to various dogmas and religious deities—of course, so profane and crass that respective archetypes would fain associate to the perversions… but…

Verse X: Pornography

It is still Saturday evening. Devon had spent the totality of the previous two days watching various Todd Verow films to garner some semblance of cognition regarding the disturbing underbelly of gay society; Johnny had told him to at least throw in some John Waters for a little bit of class, but Solinis vetoed the whole subject with his ancient dark rite relevance to homosexuality that had been prevalent since the beginning of mankind. Any and all homosexual sentiment has ties to Solinis.

“I did not say it was good cinema or an apt representation of the community,” the demigod of the fourth dimension drawls, puffing on slender Benson and Hedges fags known also as ‘bitch sticks’. Satin pillows ruminated beneath his hooves, cracked as they were from the multi-thousand kilometre walk he had endured as a result of his erroneous teleportation into the third dimension. “I said only that Verow had gotten an aspect of it correct.”

Johnny, as such, felt a little squeamish next to his biological father, who had taken it upon himself to bleach his hair and adorn fish net everything circa nineteen-ninety. Assless leather chaps and twin nipple piercings that were still kissed with swollen flesh from their fresh punctures. In muted glee, his wife had assisted him in the application of what was meant to be authentic punk glam—gleeful, because she had never in her wildest thought that she would get the chance to dress up her legitimately heterosexual spouse in this manner.

Elle was not wooed by the emasculation of feminine garbs on her husband, nor even the novelty of reenacting her childhood games of dressing up her male cousin (who did not even turn out to be queer in the end) in dainty silk stockings and hot pink whatever… It was this feeling in her guttural sectors that Solinis really did have some insight into the unconscious phenomena that all exquisite faggotry did fall victim to, that the gays of Montreal would sense it in their superego that daddy Devon was unobtainable in some unknown manner, like maybe the whole of human sexuality could be reduced to pheromonal attraction and the opposed realities of a man stating that he was gay but actually emanating testosterone like a straight male would drive the faeries into some madness akin to Black Friday shopping riots.

“…So where is this snuff film supposed to be taking place?” Johnny has the advent of disinterest and youth on his side, so the dumpy old jeans and Wal-Mart brand t-shirt he adorns invokes some other form of desire. They would assume that he actually is straight and is there either for the hard drugs or the prostitution money. Johnny only wants to get to the end of everything and the gays simply cannot accept that, subscribing as they do to the thrill of the chase, the knowing that death/ejaculation is the cessation of all life’s pleasure.

Tonight, the S666 looks simply like an S6. All the extradimensional locating features and temporally fluctuating text capacities are turned off because Solinis, Lucifer bless his lack of a heart, bestowed the gays of this particular era and dimension some pointless supernatural extrasensory perception towards quantum technology from the future, because all gays and Solinis can agree that nanomachines in the bloodstream are an undesirable thing for all of God’s children on this green earth; at the least sign of forbidden technology from the future here in the present, some exquisite homosexual flits literally out of nowhere and begins discussing the private thoughts and feelings of the human that possesses the quantum machine. Even high class time criminals who try to hide their quantum machines in hi-rise condos that cost millions to obtain can attest to sudden encounters with the wife’s waif of a cousin who stops by because Billy just dumped him—-but those beady little eyes send signals that let the holder of illegal technology know that his presence is fate, that the time criminal shan’t escape the wrath of homosexuality until the technology is set down and deactivated.

Devon is not doing anything remotely productive, is in fact playing a modded copy of Pokémon GO that makes it even MORE vulnerable to hackers and INSISTS that the CIA use all the information on the phone to track down any illegal activity, or to further secret Area 51 research, as the case may be. “They will come to us,” Devon states. He is not really sure if he cares to stop this snuff film from occurring because all the participants have some link to Solinis and most people linked to Solinis deserve to be tortured and killed for some reason or another. Or they WANT to be tortured and killed. Devon persists in this line of employment for his own philosophical research into the nature of humanity. Has he just been shown a false reality in order to make him more pliable, or are there really such masochistic humans in the world who cannot be saved via conventional psychotherapy or medication?

Johnny, on the other hand, knows for certain that some people want to be murdered and killed. Because it is their only way off this god forsaken immortal coil. He wants to stop the snuff film because if he is forced to live out the natural course of his immortality, then so must everyone else who has entered negotiations with the absurd deity known as Solinis Nepzastis.

Verse IX: Blue

Blue demons are known to cause profound depression. Blue pictures were a certain type of homosexual pornography. When Solinis takes off his Stupid Man Suit, irridescent blue flesh does stretch across his hollow bones and mangles any natural light into glints of obsidian that only crackle like lunar offal.

“That feels sooo much better,” he sings out, referring to the bevy of fresh, clean blood in his system.

The elder djuka nods once at the demon. “This is not Frederic Medina.”

Solinis hisses to shush Gemini. “Don’t tell them yet. We are not sure what portends his fingerprints doth incur in Miss Cleo’s after hours paid programming.” That lady wears only one earring so as to balance her chakras and that is pretty bad ass.

The day is humid, with chaos thunderclouds looming low in the sky. Augury would dictate the behavior of our avian brethren as most ominous: tinges of whimsy fraternize with omen, and shades of ochre soak up all the spilled blood to ensure true love for obedient denizens of the southern hemisphere. It is June the sixth in the year six hundred and sixty-six AD at six o’six AM, just six seconds past the minute. Diamonds still glitter in the sky as Lucifer still sleeps somewhere underground, swooning not to the flattering arrangement of numbers in the present astrological forecast. A chipmunk scurries. Do chipmunks live in Guyana? A chipmunk brushes against Solinis’s back left hoof anyway. (He has human arms and hands, but crazy demon hooves for legs. In case ur wondering.)

Djuka are immortals with no allegiance to linear time, are in constant cahoots with Hangul (and similar organizations) to bestow everlasting peace upon mankind. “We have to tell the world,” Gemini, the djuka elder, insists. “That man has stolen my child’s identity!”

Frederic, in the process of being shackled, has neither blinked nor breathed since Solinis entered the meadow opening. The boy just stares and stares. Having never seen the other man without the guise of humanity to shade his true form, Fred is merely curious. Although there is something familiar and compelling about the creature, he knows not yet who it is.

Verse VIII: Re: Snouts and Smell

The djuka meander out of the forest escarpment as though it is only a coicidence that a man from their antiuniverse is standing in wait for them. Who knows with those guys; maybe their continual dealings with extradimensional personnel really is just a matter of course.

“Did you bring the relic or not?”

Medina cannot account for the awkwardness that takes hold of his motor functions, something like a prolonged attempt to shy away that has been stunted by a knowing that he must look these men in the eye or not at all—but damn it, he notices that neither of his female associates suffer the same affliction of posture. “I mean, yeah. Yes. I got what you were looking for.” It is a misplaced empathy, a compassion towards the people he hopes to betray in the end. Fred never feels guilty for anything, but he is wary about what will come of his dishonesty towards the indigenous persons of this backwater Caribbean country. “It turned out to be a meteor that had fallen in my world.” Shame occurs. He is tempted to speak as though they were dull-witted, elaborate upon the word ‘meteor’ by saying ‘space rock’ with abundant enunciation, maybe point at the sky, repeat each word slow.

They speak perfect English with barely any accent.

“Show me.”

Fred reaches into his back pocket for the shard of Meteor that Solinis had given him, holds out the shimmering antimatter with his left hand.

A dark woman with wild hair and emerald clothing stalks forward, nabs the thing as though she were pilfering from an unwilling holder. Granite eyes assess the stone momentarily. “This is it.”

The elder takes out a steel firearm from underneath his ceremonial sash. “Seize him.”

“What the—”

Fiona cries out in pain as a flanking tribe member draws his gun first and grazes her hand with a bullet as she goes for her own nine millimetre.

Kate manages to depress the panic button in her pocket before putting her arms over her head.

“The women can leave but you must stay.”

“Why?” The query is automatic and spoken in a nasal whine. Although he knows they may torture and kill him, the situation feels more akin to a grounding from an unfair parent.

The elder roves over the other man’s face once more. “You say your name is Frederic Medina?”

Verse VII: Psyche

They put the sanctuary all the way in Guyana because Fred is a superstitious fellow and he knows that his shadow falls just a microsecond out of synch every so often. The people of this country are especially prejudiced against persons who cast askance shadows. Medina had spent entire millions on various supernatural remedies to the compromising affliction but old ladies still tend to hiss at him if he approaches from a certain angle during the day.

“Don’t leave my side,” he murmurs to Kate and Fiona.

Verse VI: Out of Habit

It is less of a resurrection spell and more of a request to a soul to ask it to change its forward trajectory. The pair of them stand in Jeff’s present place of residence.

“Now,” Laertes continues through gritted teeth. “Can you please pour the holy water as soon as I tell you to this time?”

The previous two efforts saw Cairo dropping the ball, causing Jeff to come back to life with just a fraction of his mind still outside the mortal coil—but a fraction of infinity is still infinity, so Jeff decided to just kill himself again in order to shut up all the angels and demons in his head screaming out directions and suggestions.

“This… just makes me nervous,” Cairo admits, examining the crystal vial once more. “Handling the blessing of a god who is not my own.”

“That is why it has to be you,” Laertes elaborates. “We spoke to every one of your holy men and made absolutely sure that this procedure is a benign aspect to your soul. It is naught but a professional service.”

Without further ado, Laertes whips the parchment out of his coat, as well as the knife, and slices open his palm to draw a circle with his blood around the lifeless Jeff MacLean—-who had slit his wrist the night before. Blasphemous Latin is spoken. The neighbors grumble through the paper thin walls, mistaking the male voice for the lease holder and deepening their impression of Jeff as being a miscreant disturber of the peace; when terrible howls of the dead waft through dimensional vortex, they all think that he has his speakers turned up to an insensitive volume, is watching some movie, perhaps [Constantine].

“Pour the holy water!”

Finally, Cairo cleanses Jeff’s suicide wounds properly and MacLean is set back into the third dimension without anomaly.

Blinking, I sit up. “Please help me kill myself,” I say again, not seeing the two other men in the room with me. “Please let me die.”

Laertes snaps his fingers from behind me. “Hey! Buddy, you back with us now?”

Fluorescent fuschia bile rises from my belly and spews out of my mouth, mingling with the blood all around me to make Rorshach patterns no one would ever be able to describe in coherent nouns.

A glance at Cairo. “Oi. I think we were a little late.”

“He’s….” It had been half a decade since Cairo saw the phenomenon that had marked the first time he witnessed Meteor falling to the earth. “He’s glowing.”

“What? You’re full of shit.” There seemed to him to be nothing luminous about the particulars of my body; on the contrary, I seemed to him to be pale pf flesh, devoid of saturation.

Resignation claws at Cairo’s sensibilities. It was never the primary focus because that would be stupid, but his own world was torn asunder by those who could see the glow and those who could not… because there was a hidden third demographic who would lie for reasons unknown, say that they saw it when they did not, or vice versa. The conflict never was addressed with clarity and so Cairo is only tentative as he marks Laertes as a potential traitor.

The smell of marijuana drifts up from somewhere. Jeff exhales a broken breath from the tears he shan’t weep. “I hate marijuana.”