The Day of the Horse Fly

Tonight I’m keeping the radio down low, only one light on and I’ve padded the floors and walls with all the towels and blankets I can find. I’ve even demolished my bed, placing it’s mattress and box springs guarding the hollow walls carefully, my clothes hung up over windows, over my drawing table and bookcase, just to absorb all the noises so that the visitors don’t hear me and come creeping by. I’ve turned off my phone, and I’ll sit in the dark, slowly drink with a pair of socks stapled around each beer I have so as not to reflect light or have a sound reverberate off of the can. I’m even typing this under a black sheet. The Light that is on, I find it under a winter jacket, I trace the lines that stream across the floor, using it as a fenced in haven to locate my necessities, the beer, the drugs, and the gun, the stolen credit card and all of the money from my bank account, I withdrew earlier today. My money is set aside in case things get hairy, if I have to throw my record player out the window and make a run for it, and the credit card is to be used for gas as far and as long as it’ll take me. The gun of course, is not for the visitors, it’s merely from protection from the restless screw heads that meddle in my trash, peek in my windows and gnaw on my doorknobs. A basic and original creation, they are a simple mix of cold blooded drunks and mopey renegades with light fingers. Basically useless, they are, smart as a junkyard dog and five times as slow.
If worse comes to worse, and I wind up being accosted by the visitors and the local drug store ruffians, and if the progress of the night looks bleak, I might save my bullets, block all exits to this house and turn the stove on, cover the downstairs with siphoned fuel from my neighbors jeep, and just set the place on fire, that seems to be the most reasonable solution. Lives will be lost, but sanity would be gained, and perfection would be just around the block. Of course, not until I’d sliced deep gashes into every two tires in a 3 block radius, because when it comes to survival, one can never go far enough.
There’s no greater joy to see the flaming apocalypse in your rearview mirror as you pull out onto an empty road, smoke some Jamaica imported Hashish, crack a beer and turn on the radio to listen to the madness as it unfolds, pop tiny blue pills to keep my eyes open, because I figure if you’re gonna face apocalyptic madness, you might as well be mad yourself, in a nuclear winter, no one wants a run in with someone who speaks perfect English and wears clean clothes. Savages will reign and the meek shall be buried in a shallow trench, if they’re lucky.
The howls outside my window still seem distant—I can not tell if it is the wailing of the winds or if it is the caravan of the moaning visitors, or the crazed life ridden fanatics already starting multiple fires miles from here. The crying adolescents, the burnt pregnant wives and other drunken slobs piercing the night with their materialistic souls going up in smoke. Damnation before eternity, they recite the Good Book and trample each other while trying to escape.
The visitors are not a bad Race, they are a mute origin-less species that may have existed before, in this world or in another, I can only catch glimpses of them, through the corner of my eye, or in the swift swivel of my head and neck. They never stay for very long, a threat they are not, but a pest they are, in a moderate crowd I do not catch them, but by myself and with creeping eyes alone, they stupefy me all hours that the night and day the clock has time for. I have outgrown weary of this being spied upon by shy recessive spirits of uneffusive circumstances, I am attempting to camouflage my body and mind and spirit from these calculating ethereal introverts, these bastards of imagination. And might I add, an entire village in rubble ruins and also in flame is a lot of work just to remain stable. But to create happiness, to meddle with Utopian sincerity, one must be a bastard to one race of people, a liar to others, a loser to some, and a mindbender to a chosen few and eventually a destroyer of all, only so that the utopia can be constructed of hell and lust, tears and bones and the inability to further your emotions because you’ve already seen it all. The succubus of lethargy, being too lazy to hate is the key to understanding the point of life. It makes you feel better when you allow your enemy to pass you in the fast food line, his devil is shamed and your soul warms itself, regardless if the Great Spirit has become your spiritual Lamprey or not- you shed a devious grin and an altercated vision of another mans point of view.
The house is still quiet, since I’ve begun this passage, I’ve rubbed garlic on my neck and urinated a circle around my tent that houses me, my alcohol and my typing machine, thank eternity, I haven’t heard a peep, nor have I seen a mangled mess approaching me through a beer glass reflection or the corner of my eye. Things seem quite calm at the moment. I pray to the predecessors that share my last name, and have a marble mailbox and a pine home; thanking them for the retribution my sinful sanity has provided. No fire is necessary here, not yet, anyway, my narcissistic gluttony has proved its worth, my trigger finger is now relaxed and the wailing has ceased.
Though transfixed I am, with the itches above each temple in my head, I am reminded of horns or antlers, I am stubborn to wistfully believe that I am man, animal or an un intend creation, modeled after a failed belief, survivor after a failed conception between God and beasts, a remainder that still smiles in the dark, a suicidal delight that lightning wouldn’t even touch. Bereavement is wept with miscalculated sorrows on the same scale as I was produced, as also when I die.