“Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love.” Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
A ¼” if you prefer a little too meticulous.
It pays off in the long run, if you have the patience.
Gus had made a small wooden sieve out of some spare wood. Even that would be burned, so nails were used instead of screws. It only had a small function, figuratively speaking of course. It was to sift through some of the anonymous rocks that had been found on the shore of the lake during the coldest winter months. The extreme cold of a Canadian winter ensured all bacteria and traced biological elements could not be tracked back in case the bag broke. This batch had been taken on February 14th, part of his annual walk to reflect on what love really meant.
He shifted the weight and the pebbles fell through the holes. Typical, porous, sedimentary – small basins that could weigh up to a gram each, but Gus had figured on using 0.65 grams as the normalized average weight, and he was looking for 2.2 kilograms here. The number was not random. It would require about 3, 385 of them.
The go to drink had always been Crown. It created the necessary rage to entice the act to fruition. In solitary, by choice confined, either in the maze of his mind seeking more information and knowledge about the life that he had led and chooses to live, or in the physical world, seeking some kind of personal solstice in each of the solitary revolutions of the cosmic fantasy dipped in his world beneath the brine.
He was drinking Patron.
It was not by chance.
It was by design.
A change of state, from one plane of abide to another not often seen in the planes of conformity, and done so only in splinters and fragments, most of which would be reluctant to admit at inception that they would never speak, sense or smell the world around them other than the fleeting seconds of dalliance embraced in an ethereal world.
On the table before him lay two of the most common elements in society and a small plastic bowl. Bags, and duct tape. The thirteen plastic bags were inside of a BC Liquor Stores bag. It was green, and it had the “Celebrate Life…Enjoy Responsibly” branding blazed across the Made In China fabric to make sure they complied with whatever syntax the machine needed to confirm they had met the test for safely providing lethal bullets in the right amounts.
It too was not a bag that was random. Gus had tested many bags, over many years, for many reasons. Some of them to transport things, the details of the contents not relevant now, but are in the right context. Some of the bags were used to ensure the orange grass never became an issue. A critical component.
This bag had beaten out every other one he had tried. Across all the provinces, even bringing back samples from the Nevada area, and California. Nothing compared to it. Amazingly, some of the shittiest bags came from New York, likely a function of some kind of mob controlled, recycling/bag program pennies on the dollar swaption, but this bag was awesome, all alone.
Of course, it would not be alone. There would be other accomplices, but none would be able to speak, before or after disposal.
Testing involved seeing how long it took for the bag to break, with random stones in it. At certain sizes, and with certain textures each of the bags would react differently. Some of the hemp fiber bags were the best, but they had little sticking strength and bonding abilities like the plastic, and they could be identified. The plastic could also, toxic analysis of ashes and ambers if found would be able to delineate the difference in materials used for the plastic, markers if you will. The hemp bag had natural DNA in it, and Gus always like to restrict any type of DNA information being passed on.
Sure, more visible paranoia.
The testing involved a side of beef. Gus considered it therapy in so many ways. It was the kind of the thing that allowed him to wander through some of the darker side of the days, and sense each of his senses. It was important to him, the whole sensual thing, especially the common kind.
Using his hands, he was able to design a small fulcrum based catapult that had a swing arm exactly the length of his arm. The fixed based allowed surgical grade rubber to be stretched tightly, providing some force on a repetitive basis. Each alignment of the band snap, combined with the simple gear mechanism he designed from some old library research, allowed exactly 80 impacts.
40 days, and 40 nights worth always made him grin.
The beef would be pounded, tenderized and softened, but most importantly, measured. Small sensors on the meat would transmit data back to the laptop, about the blunt force trauma. He had seen some of this in a documentary he stayed and watched one day while on the road, cleaning some of the 20 tick-Benjamin’s he scored off Shift at that anonymous Laundromat place in Winnipeg by the Forks. He missed the rinse cycle and had to go through another load to add the small cup of bleach and vinegar during the spin cycle, but it was worth the wait. It helped hatch this.
He could smell the air around him, and it was the sweet smell of the traditional marijuana that most would find lingering, but the blunt air surrounding him was clear about intention. These were different experiences, and he had to lick and feel every second, not knowing just how many of them are in one’s life really should mandate this is done more often, but social convention frowns on certain behavior.
So the fetish is hidden in the realm of the cage, chased in the rage of a type, a writer’s trail. Razor and edge, slime from a snail.
Counting the rocks out took little time. In each of the primary bags, three of them, there would be the mille counts. The secondary bags would hold one hundred and eleven stones in each ascending layer, and a fifty spot would be the nucleus.
The two remaining stones were to be wet drilled in the center, dipped and baked in his traditional manner.
The Abide Beads would find two more rosary companions shortly.
Placing the first 50 stones in the first plastic bag was to be a quick task, but between having to violently masturbate and taking a shit, it took about 20 minutes. As the Patron coursed the known franchises of his lucid infrastructure, Gus took to wrapping the bag after three inverted flips and two knots. It was roughly the size of a racquetball now.
This was the most important seam, and the only part of the whole kit that could have provided any clue, and it was at the heart of it all.
In his own writing, by his own hand, of his own free will, and knowing full well the consequences could very well outweigh any iterations of the right he was to seek, he wrote using Midnight Black, using his cherished Meisterstück;
τηρούν, δεν είναι μια παθητική πράξη.
The push, pull and wrap motion strained his forearms. With each revolution completed, he shifted the tape in the radius and beat a rubber mallet over the surface to ensure adhesion and sound restitutions, intuitions murmuring amongst the rock of a once in life time chance to break the monotony and boredom of waiting to erode into some kind of nothing abyss.
Having completed the ball, and a full roll of tape later, it looked like a hard packed baseball. It was grey, not like the white one she had from their first suitcase date, a little league baseball game in Cuba, via San Francisco and San Jose de Cabo.
He kissed it, and placed it into the next bag, half filled with the mille count, in the bottom of the rounded bowl. By forcing the nucleus into the collection of stones, he created a semi-circular ball. It was not perfect. He did not want it to be. Nothing in life is, and this was to be what would bring one thing to life and take it from what should never have existed in the first place.
The layers would lock naturally, creating a new CSI stream of petrology, but never to be found by another. Kind of like hiding new species, not exposing them – the dawning of the Age of Nefarious.
The top was loosely taped into the top of the oval, and then flipped over to create the first core. Forearms, mallet, pull – forearms, mallet, pull – forearms, mallet, pull. It became a symphony of tears, laughter. He was out in the middle of nowhere, and there was not a single sound that could be heard by anyone. The music, the gunshots, the screams – all for his own pageantry, for his own ritual…just, to clarify.
When the ball was completed, it was roughly the size of a large shot put ball. A small honeydew, but about that size, and in total he had used nineteen rolls of tape, up to this point. He had done. It was not about trying or questioning. It was not about looking for approval, or seeking some clarity from another.
The bag now became the centerpiece and he started with the straps. It was key that they had internal tendons to keep the core from coming out of place in the throws of passion. The fantastic magic material from China grabbed the glue from the duct tape like a tension wire in a Shanghai skyscraper. It had to, that is what helped build it. Carbon fiber crosses and patterns were used, gleaned from meticulous research about strength and tensioning papers published from the likes of MIT, NC State and the public NSA materials.
It was now time for the Crown. Patron had fuelled the fire. The ashtray was indicted as holding enough marijuana to jail someone for 20 years if it were 1957, and still the Tupperware container held at least another 200 if they were called for.
Gus placed the ball into the bag, ebullient.
By the time the bag had been wrapped and properly molded all of the 40 rolls of tape were used. All of them allowing him to wield this random weapon with such force, the first blow would kill, if it were not accurate to merely facilitate the right impact for further viewing pleasure.
It now held a small noose like hole that could be twisted around the wrist with comfort before being flicked over three times to create a human numb-fuck. Traditional Chinese martial art tools be damned, their chain can be broken, a numb-fuck cannot. The bland wood claims such prestige, but is brokered as a concubine is for her ancient wares. Brokering with a numb-fuck is an entirely different enterprise.
The temperature was -40 °C, it was not ideal. There was still time, but he had to test it out in a real setting, at this extreme he would only have about a minute, fully naked to run outside, swing with fierce justice, and get back to the warmth. Return happier, better, never filled but with some empty removed.
Chugging back the Crown, he peeled off the last of the clothing and took his last haul.
The music had reached a delicious pitch, not important what kind.
Merely that is was empowering, not passive.
It demanded action, and logical illusions prevail it seems, so stop trying to fight them and just accept it.
A hundred meters from the main grow barn was the Tank.
Time to bring some yearn to the stern.
Steam greeting the air in an icy mist, Gus ran.
Time to make it rain.