“Where from did ye come?”
“From out of your matted arse crack, you blasted savage, now get out of my way, I’ve business to attend.”
Beats writhing upon a battered sausage sold at a Bunnings Warehouse in aid of domestic violence in Logan – burning onion scolding your hole as the hot sauce runs down your forearm. Quite repulsive.
The throat of the toilet-keeper chunders inane sentences garbled in the flush. The Admiral Rectus thinks rather highly of himself but he’s useless as a fart in a stiff breeze. The salt upon the jagged batter stings his silent insult. One eye weeps, yet he puts on a brave face. But hark, be that the swarm of maggot loaded blowflies I hear?
That it be.
Bad and primitive English. Is it any wonder. For what schooled me were a mere stain upon the face of human potential shovelled off to the tin mines in search of a heart. There I met a lion with no courage. He was a funny bastard. We got on well. We shovelled coke up our noses like black Aztec gods. He introduced me to the Queen whom forced me to observe his odd ritual with the Bunnings sausage. I was paid handsomely, but it is not about the money. My mental health deteriorated over those several weeks and my personality slid off my face like a slip in the rain. It blocked two lanes of traffic, forcing emergency services to airlift the wounded at great expense. I know they’ll never forgive me for that. Chalk it up. Another red mark. You’ll be needing a new pen soon. You’ve run that one dry.
Funnily enough, Easter weekend was very quiet. I’d expected much more, being as thousands-upon-thousands of pseudo-Christ’s had made the pilgrimage to my lawn in vain attempts at having my witness their crucifixion. But time and again the Roman’s failed to attend and they were left wallowing in pathetic pools of self-righteous victimisation wrought by their own limp wrists. I wouldn’t so much as peep through the blinds at them – only occasionally tricking one of them into waxing my car. Bastards. It’s amazing how tumultuous peace can be. Silence is a floppy dagger to the weak. So, out with it. Your witness is blindfolded behind baffles being sucked off by the priestess. Rapture in your absence. Don’t return. Your kingdom is doing so well without you. It would be a shame to ruin it.
Locked in this cell, I’ve nothing but memories. It’s a gift – this time if introspection. I see that now. My mind is, and has ever been, an eclipse. The shadow I cast is one of deep red.
I’m sorry for what I did to your daughter. That is something I’ve been wanting to say for some time. I want you to know that it was out of adoration that I performed my Great Work. I need you to understand that. Your feelings are collateral. Take solace in that. You’ve been indirectly embroiled in a harm that comes as the true expense of all works of perfection. I executed the task with such care. My hands were symphonic. Graceful. Marianne became the jewel of sculpted flesh at the centre of my enduring movement. She blossomed like a blood orchid.
One day, humans will look back on my creation and see the subtle nuances in my opus – her requiem. Nature is gentle, loving and beautiful… If you want it to be. I leave this in your hands.
Me? I chose to take up the club. The lash. The concrete block.
Eternal mistress. One sniff of her trail and the heads begin to roll. A hearty death toll. She’s an eruption. My hands were never cruel. There are those whom watch from the shadows and applaud these works. All art is subjective after all.