The Hunter

The other day I was conversing with a bastard towards whom I am socially obligated to be respectful. We were at a dull but elegant restaurant and I became rather bored with his inane ramblings about business and the sad state of the economy. I offered him some hashish, and after his eyes had returned to a normal size (I take it he was rather enamoured by my drugs--I told him it was the good shit because, of course, it was), we went outside and had a little smoke. It hit me hard and I began again to see the point of the world. The sun was setting and I was looking forward to getting nocturnal. It had been awhile.

Upon returning to the table, I reflected on the duck that was now inside me and told my companion that I would eat almost any bird. "Even a penguin?" he asked. "Especially a penguin," I replied. "I imagine they are best done on a rotisserie. Just imagine it there, in your backyard, rotating like a big, tuxedoed sausage, roasting in its own succulent penguin juices." He chuckled uncontrollably at the thought and wondered if it would taste more like fish or chicken. But it was not a joke.

And why must we always compare beasts? It was here I lost respect for him entirely and, like an angsty teen, stopped speaking.

It is odd that we humans are animals though I see the beast in me each and every day. And I know that I am supposed to reject this beast and dress him up in fine, tailored clothing. It is the necessity of living in this artificial world, I suppose. To hell with it. Let's get drunk.

When I'm drunk I am a rogue and I treasure my roguish soul more than I treasure my modified Lotus Elan. While most people spend their lives looking for comfort and money, I spend my life looking for entertainment and experience because I believe these are the only worthwhile things in our artificial world. So I dress myself up in fine, tailored clothing because I want to be the good shit and not the ugly shit or the shit that doesn't know any better. Those in baseball caps and printed blazers are swine; they are scavengers. But me, I am a large, exotic cat--come stroke me if you dare--and I prowl on penguins and drive real fast. The power to weight ratio of my car will knock the cap off your common, greasy head.

We are endangered. Our habitat is nearly destroyed. Where is the wildness? Where is the tall grass in which I can crouch before pouncing on my prey? It is gone and I am supposed to find my dinner at the grocery store. How convenient. How safe. How utterly boring.

Oh hell, I am still sitting here at this table, staring at my glass, starting to come down. He's still high as a kite--I told him it was potent, but he insisted on smoking gluttonously. I'll just feign a full bladder and then hop in my roadster and take off into the night. I need his business less than I need my precious night on the prowl. I'll follow that busty redhead in the tight black dress. She must be wild.

"Let's go hunting," I said to her. "At the grocery store."

She laughed uncomfortably and walked briskly to her car. To hell with her. In this city of garbage, would someone kindly tell me where hide the nymphs and pixies?

Fuck it. Let's get drunk and go to Tesco. I walked into the first pub I found and did three shots of Chartreuse for the Holy Trinity (and then I did another for the road). I then stomped off to Tesco and pushed a blue-hair out of the way to get a good cart. "I am the hunter!" I shouted while I kicked at the automatic doors. I grabbed all the 12-grain bagels I saw--expiration date be damned!--and a tub of chunky peanut butter. I topped up the cart with dark chocolate, cheese, and nuts. I laughed uncontrollably when I saw that Penguin biscuits were on sale and I took the whole stock. I would have a feast tonight.

In my periphery I sensed a security guard's stare. It was time to blow this place. With a snarl and a growl, I took my cart and charged at the door. No one dared get in my way. But in the parking lot I noticed a wobbly wheel on what I thought was my faithful cart--I suppose it was not built for such extreme speeds--and I heard the guards charging behind me. I gave a primal yell, but it was of no use. I knew that damn wheel would be my end and I was forced to abandon my kill and take off into the night. I grabbed two packs of Penguins and shoved them in my pockets. In a wild flourish, I threw my favourite yellow pocket square behind me.

Once out of the artificial lights, I stopped in an alley and took a good, long piss. I cracked open some biscuits and shoved them in my mouth. They tasted very, very good.

Upon returning home, my euphoria quickly wore off. I was sweating and frightened at what I had done. I tried to regain some sanity by watching a marathon of Britain's Next Top Model. What a topsy-turvy world! I was unsure how I could go on knowing that in my heart there was this caged and rabid beast. I do not know... It is in times like these that I reach for my laudanum and hope to feel fresh-as-a-daisy upon waking.

A Bike Ride of High Intensity

At an unsafe speed, I rumble through the trees--through the fall I fly, the stink of sewage in my nose--and I know there is no happiness that I'd call true. For happiness is fleeting and false, like this dandy-on-wheels, and I wish I were foolish enough to buy into the buying and the house and the dog and the car--though they appear all innocent, at heart they are all evil, except my roadster, of course, which I enjoy because it's fast (and perhaps a little evil). Now, Nigel, focus, and watch out for the retard with rotting teeth but nick the oblivious teen as a wake-up call from reality--ring your bell like a coked-up Pavlov and hope the dogs respond and make way for Master Tewksbury, he's faster than you; and I storm along the riverside--upshift! upshift! upshift!--with a death wish, perhaps, yes, certainly with a death wish, because I am an exotic bird of paradise that does not wish to propagate--propagation's for the common and the plain--I wish to go out in a colourful explosion of feathers, dancing my strange, exotic dance not understood by the populous who prefer the ignorant impregnators, the bacon and the burgers--now I'm on the ragged edge, dipping down and up, huffing and puffing and growing younger--ringing my bell, again, like a coked-up Pavlov to signal my mercurial pace through the sewage stink and cultural garbage--hark! my message is chaos with precision--whoever made this bike path had great aesthetic sense--I salute your work--I'm sorry no one notices, but we are all basically stupid. Ah! This is happiness, this is false, this is fleeting, but fuck it feels grand and fuck I feel superior and fuck it would be a good time to die, now, by smashing my head upon the road and being eaten alive by ducks--I just hope it cracks easier than a coconut and I taste alright without sauce--I wish to die--I'd like to be a cutter, that is, a cutter of corners, up upon my bicycle, my silent steed; but with sadness this ride must end. It is a shame. But I feel a little better now. I must remember this as a cure for my occasional bouts with malaise.

quickly beating heart
trees, sewage, water, and will
hidden underground

Planetary Plagues, etc.

Reginald stopped by for an unscheduled visit and brought with him his magic pouch. As he rang my bell, I awoke from a drunken slumber and inquired, "What time is it?"

He replied with slurred enunciation: "It is pre-plague Renaissance. I know it is your favourite."

It is... He opened his magic pouch and indeed there was no time at all but those times that are our favourites--and in times like these one must really be outside! And then we were in an empty battlefield with no one but our ghosts. Like teenagers we traveled there by bicycle. We waited for the fight but there was no one there to fight us. Ah, it's just a field, then. So we rode on but not before losing our accents.

"What happened to your accent, Reg?" I asked.

"What happened to yours!?"

"I'm not sure... I do not know my voice at all... But to think of my accent frightens me."

"Let's bike on."

We rode to the university where wild Tropicália music crackled and pulsed and wasps buzzed about unemptied rubbish bins and I grew fearful of the plague while Reginald munched a bagel and played kitten with his cock. What was this plague I feared? I looked around and saw people who were advertisements and whose teeth were like dentures because they were so white and so straight. Is this style without substance or substance without style? Or is it neither and none? Ah, listen to their voices... Their accents are strong and false... As was mine--but now it's gone and I am left with a rubble of phonemes with which I must build my new Babel. But let's not build Babel again--it always falls down--let's come up with something simpler, something sturdier, something a little more like Lascaux.

In the distance I gazed at a girl with wild, red hair. I know her. I danced with her once in a Dublin bar. She is better than most but that's not much. I quickly realized she wasn't my Nicevenn when she professed to be a follower of Acca Dacca. I shan't strike up a conversation. Our orbits have briefly crossed and sentimentality is known to kill a planet and turn it to a moon.

We must leave this place before we die--Franny was right--there is no knowledge here--only horny professors with patches on their sleeves. There you are, my bicycle, my steed. We shall go home now in total darkness. Though there are no lights in the park we can get by with echolocation and a little bit of luck. It's all we need. Who cares if we die because this is a good way to go--speeding down a hill, towards a set of headlights, drawing me in like gravity.