Strolling with the Devil

mental illness. self harm. gore.

I fell down and couldn’t get up. That was five days ago. My cell phone sits on the cluttered coffee table two feet above my head, hopelessly out of reach. But no matter, it died three days ago.  The chair legs have become towering redwoods, the couch, a mile-high fake suede un-climbable wall.  

Thirst. That's what gets you. 

In the movies, your lips dry up. You stumble through the desert. Bad Hombres with full canteens find you crawling, begging… 

YOU: Water! PleeezGimmeSomeWATER! 

BAD HOMBRE: Did you hear that? This Gringo wants some water! 

OTHER BAD HOMBRES: HaHaHarrHarr! 

YOU: Pleeez…so thirsty… 

BAD HOMBRE: You want some water? Here's your stinkin' water! 

Pouring the contents of his canteen into the adobe dust.          

The dust bunny I’ve been staring at grows day by day. The kitchen mouse roams freely through the trash bags piled waist-high. I can hear the nasty buzzing of a hornet. I can’t move my head so I can’t see it. Nor can I see the two wolf spiders sucking blood out of my big toe.  

If there were a secret deep state-of-mind tape recording, it might sound something like this; 

‘squeeeeeaahh’ 

(the sound of scootching one inch forward) 

(heavy, ragged breathing) 

‘ssssqquuuueeeeaaaachhh…’ 

(the sound of a two-inch scoot) 

“oh fUck Me Fuck mE fuck me i’M fuCked i’m So fucKed…fuuUucCkK jesSus cHrisT hAhhaHehha hEha GibBer suJdejsh AKggaaAa diD i juST stAnd Up?nooO fuuucK meEe helP me doNt boTHeR me fuckYou FuckmeooOhggGodhaAhaHadRiblegAak…” 

Think of this as Route 66 billboards, colorfully coaxing you to the next souvenir outpost. Except on the highway to Hell, the billboards are shades of black, goading you forward to the brink. Not of madness. No. You jumped from that bridge a ways back. 

You’re careening toward outer space. As thick as India Ink. No sound to distract your belittling ghosts. Plummeting in all directions, drawn and quartered. 

Forever burning. Cold. Alone. An occasional speck of twinkling light to remind you where you are. But the worst thing of all, you can’t breathe. Never again... until the earwigs arrive. 

grey-green 

adjective \ ‘gra-gren’ \ 

1 : of the color grey-green 

2 a: covered by grey-green growth or mold – grey-green whitebread 

b: consisting of grey-green plants and usually wilted herbage – grey-green salad 

3 : unpleasantly disgusting 

4 : DECREPIT, WEAK 

5 : over-ripe or rotting – grey-green bananas 

6 : STALE, OLD 

7 : marked by a pale, sickly, or nauseating appearance – grey-green brains 

Now here’s something new. Smeared blood where last scooted. You don't know it yet, but that pesky bottle cap lodged in your shoulder is being ground deeper in, creating a huge, wet wound.

“ooHh sleeEep bLood wHy am udjRvo gOgkw BLeeeeDing! waTer i nEed sOme wAter Got Get thefUking refridGerAtoR theEaaauuuughgh… memOries diStAnt WATER colOr...WATER! gimMeEe…soMe fucKiNg…WAAATTERR” 

Now, as I start my sixth day, long before sunrise, I have a visitor.  

I would flinch and cry out in fear if my body had the strength to do so. Instead, I just lay there as two pounds of spoiled liver plops with a wet squelch between my shoulder blades.  

If I could, I would jump up, screaming when the slimy blob begins to undulate towards the nape of my neck. I can feel the viscous snail trail smeared on my bare skin as it slithers up my spine like a worm would. 

And from every door crack, window sill, and light fixture, from behind every wall hanging, out from every nook, every hole and cranny pokes the twitching head of an earwig. Tens of thousands of greasy insects. Their antennae waggling, as if waiting for orders…from? From the abomination whispering in my ear. 

“I am the Taker... what are you?” 

“St-stardust?” I respond. 

"You are a puddle of cat piss,” the Taker says. 

“This world is done with you. It is time for you to die. Then I will take you home. You will be my pet. I will name yoú Fluffy. You will obey my commands.  Sit, Fluffy. Eat your rat poison, you Bad Dawg.”                                                                                                    

I’ve got to talk my way out of this. Lucifer responds to impolite respect...fawning adulation...slobbering obedience...I hope. 

“Taker, you have the face of a catfish and the stench of rotten meat. A black, sticky tumor resides where should dwell a heart. Clouds of noxious vapours vent from your orify like mustard gas. You are Prince of the Putrid. Ruler of the Wretched... ” 

“BLuUPHuKThBLOshWIjMmNEPOpTuThSIsLGROTH” 

What sounds like a too-full garbage disposal turns out to be the Taker, chuckling Its approval. The insect hoard recedes. 

"Are you insane, Bubba?” the Taker asks. 

"YesSireeBob!" 

“You know nothing of madness! Listen to this tale of true madness. You will appreciate its lack of subtlety.” 

I blink and find myself standing on the high mesa, a choppy ocean of sage stretches to the horizon. Ahead sits what appears to be a gargantuan pine cone. 

An iridescent pink and green dragonfly hovers in front of me. It’s so close I can see myself a thousand times in its bulbous eyes.                                         

A dark cloud covers the sun. The chilly shaded breeze gives the dragonfly lift. It wobbles a bit, attempting to remain in front of me. 

A rogue raindrop hits me between the eyes.                  

“That’s the ugliest house I’ve ever seen,” I say. 

“Bartholomew’s latest project,” the Taker says. “Stu, the carpenter, is in there now. This is his last day. Let’s watch.” 

And there he is. Toolbag slung gunslinger low. His grubby wife beater covered in sawdust and sweat. His weapon of choice; 

The 2-pound framing hammer. 

If this were a 60s ‘Mod’ movie, you would have to cast James Coburn as Stu. A shock of unruly California surfer hair hangs over his blue eyes. He is a good .01 on the body fat index. 

Stu has that smell of death around him. His manly facade is like the glass pane of a mental aquarium, leaving his frail, damaged psyche exposed to vampires. 

But to know Stu, we must first understand Bartholomew. Over the years, Bartholomew has become proficient at buying pieces of land, putting up little houses, and selling them for big profits. An honest gig. Unless you’re an asshole. 

Bartholomew has to get a little bit extra out of the contractor. Something free. He can’t help himself. It’s as necessary as installing the windows. 

By the time the house is finished, he’s nickel and dimed the carpenters enough to fund his next ‘Spiritual Quest.’ The contractor, sick of the abuse, tells Bartholomew to go fuck himself. So, Bart finds a new crew for his next project. 

Bartholomew’s abhorrent behavior was attributed to his fanatical devotion to ‘Swami Gagmee,’ who famously decreed: 

“The key to enlightenment is giving... to mee!”  

Bartholomew hires Stu to build his custom kitchen island because Stu is the best. And a pushover. Bartholomew is going to lowball the shit out of this guy. They come to a verbal agreement and for Stu, the last nail has been driven. 

Stu is building his masterpiece; A large kidney-shaped kitchen island made with exotic wood. Cherry and teak... cedar and oak. Carousel cabinets, self-closing drawers. Telescoping cutting boards. Smooth and silent. As much art as function. 

And, inevitably, Stu goes over budget. 

Bartholomew is out of town and wants the island finished before his return. Stu is broke and unable to pay his rent, let alone buy food. It is the last in a long string of insults. Starting when he was three and Dear ‘ol Dad was showing him some discipline. When Dad’s breath smelled funny, little Stu knew he was a really bad boy. And today, some thirty years later, he can take no more.                                                                                                           

The breeze picks up as it always does this time of day. The Taker executes a perfect figure eight, stopping closer to my face. His breath smells of aphid and grease ant.  

“Are you squeamish, Tiger? Stu goes Horror Show now. The smell.The pathetic crying. The...” 

"I get it, Taker! It’s terrible, 

so let’s get the fuck 

outta here…” 

“Kick back, Sport! Grab a brewskie, some pretzels, enjoy the shit show!” the Taker says.         

“I hate pretzels, Taker.” 

“But you love the brewskies, don’t you, Champ?” 

The dragonfly zips away to the Mosh Pit of Madness. 

Stu drops the trim he’s been sanding. He stands motionless for a few moments. He takes a deep, shuddery breath…but then remembers, real men aren’t allowed to shudder. He turns and walks away from his last piece for the last time. He steps through the shiny new sliding glass door, and out onto the recently poured patio, where his table saw sits. Tables are harmless. Saws are still pretty tame. But putting those two things together makes one a bit queasy. 

T a b L e S a W  

Stu walks up to the saw. He yanks the carpenter’s pencil from behind his ear, using it to jam the safety guard open. Something every carpenter has done a thousand times when dealing with a tricky cut. He flips the red switch to the ON position. 

The tortured blade squeals to life, screaming; 

WHEEEEEHHIIIIIIZZZHSHSHSHSHSHSHZZZZZZZSKREEAAAACHWHIIINESCREAMMWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!  

translation; 

‘Step Away from the Blade…                                                     

STEP AWAY FROM THE BLADE!’  

But Stu isn’t listening. Stu is busy making stuff. There’s this 2x4 he needs to cut…. But Oh My! Stu seems to be mistaken! It’s not a 2x4 after all...it’s his arm.  

He pushes his wrist through the hysterical blade. A fine red mist covers him and the sliding door, leaving a cut-out clean spot on the glass.  

‘A clean-cut all the way through!… pleeez get this nightmare over with!...’ you’re praying.  

Pray again.  

The blade jams on his humerus; 

It isn't funny. 

How can Stu possibly endure such suffering? How can we stand by and watch as he struggles to dislodge bone and flesh from shark tooth steel? Does he scream? And how did he get so fucking crazy? A madness worse than death.                                                             

When the Very Large People finally come for him, he’s sitting on the darkly stained slab, leaning up against the sticky red Table Saw.                                        

He’s yanking on his hand, trying to pull it off... trying to finish his last job. 

Stu was taken to a ‘secure facility' up in Denver. So, we won’t be seeing him on Angie’s List any time soon. 

But the real tragedy is the stress and inconvenience Bartholomew has to face. After a grueling week operating his ‘Crystal Retreat' booth at the ‘GaiaGathering ’89,’ Bart is exhausted and deserves some respect. Coming home to a blood-soaked deck and unfinished cabinetry is quite annoying. 

Oh, yes, I almost forgot. If you’re seeking spiritual counseling, and in need of compassion and wisdom, Bartholomew holds a weekly round table (actually, it's kidney-shaped) $374.99 + tax at the door. * 

*Sign up for a chance to win the ‘Lucky Chandelier,’ made with 666 authentic Peruvian Rabbit’s Feet.** 

** Peruvian Rabbit jerky only $13.99 + tax. 

“Thanks for sharing, Taker. You’re a real Pip.” 

“I’m glad you liked it, I have a few more for you. Come on, Fluffy. Let’s go home.”