It had been some time planning this little event. Not so much a plan in fact, as it was a hope that a hand would be given and extended to meet. It had weathered it’s festering well.
The solid ball of rubber had been used to stop the sink from flowing water when the hard metal pressed against it. Shallow the nudge, but quick the cut of the flow. The nearest it would come to metal again would be the chain that held it. Want for nothing but the swing that would see it come crushing down on the skull. Bone replacing metal in a cold embrace opening the tap on a new kind of dark hell, but a knock before true entry.
“I never meant it to be about you.”
Understanding physics is not required to feel the blunt force thrust, thunk only in a camera’s eye to ensure you can hold the baton around that corner, when you hear that train coming. Conducting steam from the forged heat that lashed out streams of hot blood, Gus swung with the fury of the anger.
Vengeance that was fed by the poison and the attempted destruction of calcified hate.
“Mary, and Stavros – feel.”
Time in these seconds held to the dynamic of high speeding footage would do little justice to the sounds of what lay in these walls. White had been so Clockwork Orange.
The new Glockwork Orange was much more suited to the feel of what was here, but Gus and the boys knew he had a special place for the color. It held the notes and the staffs, as spilled disgust sped towards it like some comet drawn to one last burst of hope before it’s red blended into the citrus like pigment. All the world is a stave motherfucker, sing the song you played that night.
In the HD footage hum, pock marks on his face were small semblances of the moon landing set in ’69. A nation now horrified by the ideal of walking in a man’s mind, tasting the steps that each swing took.
The ball was just under a kilogram. 2.20462 pounds.
The oblique line.
The masseter had no chance, it was held in place.
“Do you know that some kindness is paid in ways only understood by currencies not intended to exchange hands many times?”
The fucking eye’s had little prospect to but cause a flicker of the pins, each thrust only dug them in deeper. They had been specially made when he had learned his skills at flies. Magnified under a lens. 36 hours from forge to blessing.
He had blessed them. In prayer and in faith, in the name of the moments past.
Vitruvian angles splayed the protractor extracting a self-indulgent commerce. Justified deposits.
Slips in the game of sobriety that were to extract an interest rate never seen in the clauses projected on the parchment posts.
Offered crucifix, an overlaid rollerball on platinum shining in the sun reflected from man made surfaces countering the blinding light of the way.
Water just flowed.
It danced off her face when she was happy, and it was all he longed for in each of his days. How he missed her.
One of the men knelt down to pick up the hand.
In his reflections, a million thoughts poured from his mind. Not one satisfied by the look of a man, once again wondering between the state of death, misery and hallucination.
He had studied all of these years, he had no idea any of the things that were mechanical magic and patience would exact such a toll on the mind. Forever more he would remember not only what he had seen, but also what was about to play out in front of him.
The orange ball too, was made for this occasion, planned for at this stage. After the first beating to unconsciousness, its intention would be made clear, thrust past the horizontal lines blessing the tube for a solitary measurement before disposal. Purpose serving.
Two consonants of the elixir saw the eyes stop bouncing off the flesh curtains that would never close again to bring rest to a hell they would be made to pay.
“Nice to see you back with me.” Gus said. “Fucking stinky little bastard eh?”
The smell of last night’s corporate waste had come to haunt the proceedings. Redolent, in re-doing what was lent indeed. Rancid reminder of the foul nature that stood in front of him.
“This; is another special gift. Not only made, but wrapped for you. I wanted to spare no expense, so had gone to find a couple of things.”
The “glass” was nothing short of precious gemstones, orange emeralds from the Medellin region, outside of Cartegena. It was not a trip for pleasure, there was none. It was a tale he would tell once more in his life, and that was told. Had you heard it, you know the trip had been an investment in the pleasure that would come now. It had been re-invested, a retained earnings for his hardship and suffering. It mattered not what anyone would have thought, if they found out about it.
They never would.
Ilk the like of those stranded payments, left in the capital cost allocation. The payments were not even discovered, seen, understood. They were always clean, they had come from the “government” body that had sanctioned it. It was nothing short of a corrupt and lucid brothel of pulp fiction it was, and so there is little in the way of anyone asking how the money was being allocated. That was the nature of those that were part of the hiatus from the social convention. The chasm that had to be paid for entry, was not one many would cross, let alone accomplish.
Trust, in the way, was very clear. It had nothing to do with the grass being any colour than that which it was.
“The orange emerald’s are rare, in any size. Fragments of them are said to be able to carry the wishes of the dead, and so they were left to listen for all these years. Noting with each passing second the ones that had passed, multiplying them like some kind of Sun Tzu parable repeated over and over as one performs. Like knuckle balls. Every play Nerf baseball in the house?”
The muffled replies were hulking hopes of sound, but swallowed to the depths of Titanic forks and whimsical stair knobs covered in coral and cold. The pins comforted by the small drops that now had been swung into place by another man, not dressed the same. He wore the same clothing Ghetz had.
Another one of the men in the white coats approached as if on call for the queue that was unspoken, rehearsed in the depth of the mind. The mechanical hum provided a startled look, as close to one as could come from a dying man now aware his ankles had been clamped and now were snapped into position.
“Little off for me, but that is ok. It is self adjusting.” Gus tapped the first button.
Pistons gulped air, and the air gulped the cracks. Bone at that pressure sounds like ice dancing on a lake’s shore in the winter months. Magnified, an awl of sound.
The ankles dangled, but the skin was in tact. The machine had been calibrated to understand the right resistance. He called the equation, Blue Suede Schole’s.
“Prefer these ones to concrete every day of the week since. Elvis would be so proud. Mind if I do a J? I want to watch you aware of everything. Each of these chemicals and parts has been specially designed for you. I had a team of ‘them’ provide me with the components. You would not even be considered to know the name of the institution they came from, or the gulch they live in. Nor should your kind, ever.”
Gus cupped the perfectly rolled joint in front of his face as he lit it. The Zippo never failed.
It was instinct.
Of the kind that extended his hand in one motion, placing it with a tic behind the button apparatus dangling from the pocket on his chest. A gruesome Cirque flourish, provided it to his left never losing grasp of the eye’s that studied everything, for any kind of hope.
There was none.
“You are not going to be able to say anything to save you any type of agony. There is nothing left to say, it is all about doing, and what I am going to do is ensure I get at that…in the most enjoyable manner I can. That is why…I chose to find another kind of magic… lose…Cartagena…do you roll those gena’s…gggggeeeehhhhnnnnasss…you know where that is?” asking with a marked metronome, he needed to make this last.
Gus’s face instantly changing, “Listen here man. I had considered the barbed wire around a broomstick option, but it was just too clean. To ‘standard’ for this whole affair.” and his arms danced again, “You are just blessed to know I had spent so much time as a pot pacifist to be able to come up with such love for you, cheeky monkey.”
Every piece of the ball that was now in his hands glistened, and it was alive.
Pleasure was not of the same scope as the orange grass.
Here, it was defined because there was no trying.
The was, is a beautiful place to graze, as the wave of calm reflected nowhere in his gaze but inside.
To a state of…