The Little Words Mean the Most

Chapter 30

-- "The hijacking was stopped," said Major Burke. He sounded weary; not especially victorious. For good reason: "Four dead." Sold out by informers. "One other thing," the RUC man said. "You know, Major, this is eye for an eye now." He looked Burke's way. "For you." Paused, went quiet. "Nothing you don't already know, yes?" "I know. Yes." "Not the little lads and lassies, either. You lose people to these mutts, you find their biggest man. Chop his cock off. Mail it home to mother." Burke remembered Claire saying something about "mother." I'll be mother, she'd said, pouring tea in the shop. Burke chose a safe reply. "We'll have our justice. One day." "Justice?" the RUC man started. His fist banged the rattling table. He was having none of it. "Who's talking fuckin' justice? I'm talking fuckin' prevention." He stared. "These people take an inch? You give them back a mile. Up their arse. With your boot. "This isn't pinafores and puppies, Major America. You kill them. And then you kill them again, just to make sure they're conclusively dead. Yanks have to learn that, I'm telling you. No shit. You are going to leave a massive turd behind you if you don't." The RUC man paused. A smile crept back. "If you have trouble with the killing, we stand ready to help. Because we're going to have sweep up after you, any way it turns."

Apprehension danced its chilly fingertips across Jimmy's heart. "Who?" he asked. "The locals, kid."

Scudder was a lifer; in Jimmy's eyes, a dinosaur. But he probably had most of it right.

"The locals are shooting at us, m'lad. Happened this morning, at a town on the Derry road. A truck hi-jacking. They almost got away with it, too." All the fire, the small fire he'd nourished for a unified Ireland, went out. Utterly. Suddenly. For good. Reversed. Untrue. A lie. Replaced by his sense of complicity in an evil. Clear to anyone with half a brain. Those chilly fingertips he'd felt on his heart? They were all that was left. He'd broken something that couldn't be fixed. Inside. As long as he lived he knew it would remain busted, too. An accusation he couldn't talk himself out of. He had killed some-body. More than one. His own kind, too; other soldiers.

It's called writing. Actually, it's RE-writing. Chapter 76, the opening, AGAIN

 

Chapter 46

Scanlon sat in his cell.

         He knew he was meat.

         Pound his head against bars, beat himself bloody on the back brick wall, try to take the coward's way out? Didn't matter now.

         He knew well as knowing you needed to piss: he'd fallen. He was just bad meat. Unsanctified meat. Soul chased out. Low meat. Gone meat. Done meat. The thing Father had warned against: "Never be just meat, Jimmy." Scanlon could only see himself that way now. Might as well have arrived sealed in a can. He had no control. He had no more will. He had nothing except a beating heart keeping the whole worthless apparatus alive. His brain counted for nothing he could see.

         He needed his soul back.

         Even a small replica of same.

 

So Scanlon sat in his cell, sticking to his tune: "the legendary Explosive 808, the green stuff that smelled of almonds," he whispered to himself. "Got me a trunkful. Being shipped to another base on a certain day, at a certain time."

         That was his story. His tune.

         Said it over and over until he could sing it to the IRA, if he ever saw those pricks again. That was the best he could do. Jimmy Scanlon could try to sell one more easy hijacking. One more, out of a lingering last-gasp loyalty to Father Mike, who thinks you people walk on water. 'Course he's never seen your real work. After that, fuck-ups? Then I head off to fight the Huns. Good riddance to you all: your little island and your little fights.

 

Wiped this up, thought the dog had vomited it

 

If I [internally depised fundraiser] COULD raise more philanthropy, then maybe you - wonderful, pure, impeccable, unblemished, decent, far-seeing, spotless, uncompromised, flawless, thoughtful, insightful, inspired, valiant, good-smelling, narcissistic, self-referential, self-congratulatory, remarkably ignorant and intolerant and untrained (did I say that, too?) - staff ~ WOULD YOU do MORE of your great mission?

What's normal?

 

What's normal?

         I watched my late-in-life mentor/these last recent 2 years friend/me-life-changing devout Buddhist John Haydon white son of an inventor die at 53, consumed by a cancer of absolutely no use to human progress.

         I saw the grams. John's cancer was black. His organs were disappearing. Cancer draped his torso without mercy, like a drum corps filling a hall. Cancer killed him, painfully. At the end there was far more cancer than John. Cancer replaced John.

         Kate was his beloved. They were made for each other. Guthrie, John's son, was every solace known to human hearts. Brother Jim was always there; always; none of it easy.

         John Haydon wrote a profound book as he died. Did you hear John's light knock on your door? Nothing disturbing. He lived small. He lived away. He wanted nothing from you. He hoped though for your best.

 

2: My First Kiss / My Last Days

 

 

Normal. You, too?

------

What's normal, I ask?

         I watched my late-life mentor/recent friend/devout Buddhist John Haydon die at 53, consumed by a cancer of absolutely no use to human progress. The cancer occupied John's torso without mercy and killed him, painfully.

         Normal?

         Guess not. Hope not. Are we there yet?

------

Before my first kiss, that night, under bug lights, in a reputedly "bad" part of town (where we danced right now), I figured life would turn out pretty normal.

         "In the end."

         Who knew what the END was? I was a freshman in high school. I was a brain attached to a bag of bones. Catastrophe at that point? Kathy's virgin breaths that evening tasted of green apples. Why not? Kathy was as pure as a newborn. No male lips on her lips. No fingers up her blouse wandering. No insertion ... what the fuck???

My First Kiss / My Last Days

 

Normal.

         You, too?

------

 

What's normal?

         I watched my surprise mentor/recent friend/devout Buddhist John Haydon die at 53, consumed by a cancer of absolutely no use. John had a use, to human progress anyway. The cancer overwhelmed John's torso and killed him, painfully.

         Guess not.

------

Before my first kiss, I figured life would turn out pretty normal.

"In the end." Who knew what the END was? I was a freshman in high school.

I was a brain attached to a bag of bones attached to an unregulated sack of hormones.

Catastrophe at that point?

 

 

I doubt this goes anywhere useful; you tell me?

 

I see today that China's GDP has finally started to rise again

 

expressions of relief, WHEW

so maybe I didn't waste pillow time on the news

there's that couple of hours between deep sleep

and NOT so deep

and last night I wrote the Adventures of Billy the Fart

He ran one way ... but Billy's escape north was solidly blocked

 

SO Billy ran the other way ... but the only available sphincter was jammed shut, politicians shouting in Billy's face

and it went on from there

 

Adventures of Billy the Fart: the movie?

Chapter 46

 

Scanlon languished in his cell.

            He knew knew knew he was just meat.

            Pound his head against the bars, the back wall. He Scanlon shit was poisoned meat. Unsancitified meat. Meat not a soul. Meat that would go nowhere.

            Meat that would die, spoil, right here, in a basement with drips and routines and bricks. Where no one really cared, duty being duty. Meat that would spoil not just in this cell. But forever. Gone. Done.

            He saw himself that way.

            Jimmy Scanlon might as well have arrived sealed in a can. He had no control. So he stuck to his fruit-fly tune: "the legendary Explosive 808, the green stuff that smelled of almonds," he hummed. "Got me a trunkful. Being shipped to another base on a certain day, at a certain time."

            That was his story.

            About the IRA? Best he could do.

            Just before the typical count-on-them Brits doubted him and put a bullet through his brain; as an economy measure. Because bullets cost money. And government Brits weren't trusting. Government Brits weren't patient. Cunning is all. And if he wasn't cunning, he was dead; Scanlon knew.

         That was his last pillow. Cunning or dead.

Chapter 46

 

Scanlon languished in his cell.

            He knew knew knew he was just meat.

            Pound his head against the bars, the back wall.

            Scanlon shit was poisoned meat. Unsancitified meat. Meat not a soul. Meat that would go nowhere.

            Meat that would die, spoil, right here, in a basement with drips and routines and bricks. Where no one really cared, duty being duty. Meat that would spoil not just in this cell. But forever. Gone. Done.

            He saw himself that way.

            Jimmy Scanlon might as well have arrived sealed in a can. He had no control. So he stuck to his fruit-fly tune: "the legendary Explosive 808, the green stuff that smelled of almonds," he hummed. "Got me a trunkful. Being shipped to another base on a certain day, at a certain time."

            That was his story.

            About the IRA? Best he could do.

            Just before the typical count-on-them Brits doubted him and put a bullet through his brain; as an economy measure. Because bullets cost money. And government Brits weren't trusting. Government Brits weren't patient. Cunning is all. And if he wasn't cunning, he was dead; Scanlon knew.

         That was his last pillow. Cunning or dead.

the Fuck You Manifesto

 

fill in your own blanks

 

you deserve it