The Sadist And Your Cantaloupe Story PART 1

      I had not been so keen, unlike my regular days, while on this fantastic trip. A trail of quiet-talkers, commoners, and fishy folk were gathered in the eulogy catalog of my mind, circulating day and night, trying, but failing, to form tricks in all of my nerves. I wondered why I had to venture out of my boundaries as a ruffian, as a vandal, and as a flook from the civility. Then I remembered that the wondering was over and that my whole goal now was to not be dead. Some people change their morals as they go along. I never once did, even to change a simple habit like brushing my teeth or stamping my foot down the minute I woke up. It was all downhill from the Big Continent, where the insane fiasco commenced. So I ran. And I walked upon roads of orange dirt and metropolitan concrete, and I concluded that I was extending my stay on this Earth every time that I pulled a hop or cheated the system. If I kept doing it, so long if I didn’t cross the line anywhere, I wouldn’t have to meet with old granddad and his old companions and their angry wives. So this was why I took my stay on the blessed Antarctic coast on the old day. I suspect my memory was never fabricated by hired alien forces. This was the most usual of my travels.

        On the pricey jet plane then, I took a coach next to some teenage Scottish mobsters who were keen with their cocaine melodies, and had their weaknesses sprawled out like they were wearing inflated pajamas. I inquired what they were up to by saying, “Hello, yaps. Quickly startling how beautiful the sky is out there, don’t you think? You look like the yaps who screamed bloody murder at the Indian prince’s door and got away with the crimes you downright committed. That’s dirty of you young ones I have to dare say, yes.”

       They were not so keen with my logical analysis, and said in monotone, “Stranger, where do you come from anyhow heh? You have your clean mitts on the filthy. If me foppy buddies and I wanted to, we could bend the knee the other way. But I highly doubt that’s something you would desire. And I highly doubt you don’t think we won’t. So why not sit there and quietly twiddle your thumbs and stuff.”

       “Oh, I’m not the type to be ripe for a tussle, lad,” I said a little louder. “But if I have to, I can play. Yes, uh-huh.” I pulled out my revolver from my blue bag. I pointed it at the boy. He seemed upset. I liked that. “Will this be a long plane ride?”

        He stared at the end of the barrel clumsily, like he had it pointed at him for breakfast. “How’d you get on this jet even, huh? I reckon you bullied your way up here with that thing, right? I reckon you killed whoever crossed you and your dirty mind from coming on here, right?”

       “No no no. I’m a good friend of his really,” I said. “Gives me rides all the time.”

       “Why’ve I never hear about you from before?”

       “Because you never heard my name.”

       “What’s that then heh?”

       “I’d like to be on more steady ground when I give it to you.”

       “You mean metaphorically or by way of landing on the planet?”

       I feel like I made myself too clear there. But I had my fun with the band of addicts. There must’ve been only four, but the way I remembered it, it felt like I had a whole Guerilla army of loosened up highschool-aged folks, wheeling loaded shooting things at my face with tan pants and tai-dai. I liked to think it was ten though, so perhaps you can forget what I said about the four and move on with it. “Maybe we could have a little break with this. Of course, I cannot give you my name, as I’m sure you know you shouldn’t be giving away yours. However, I would much like it if you called me something. Name a name, and I’ll be it.”

        A guy from the back cried out, “Any name?” Then gave a big snort from one nostril by accident. “Why, you look like a Louis to me. But that’s because me name is also Louis.”

        “You don’t look like a Louis to me.” The powder on their tabletops suddenly looked splendid. So I asked, “Could I have some of that?” I ran towards it and sucked my nose down its inverted piping.

        “You’re right. I feel like more of a Dennis.”

        “I’ll call you Dennis,” I said, then hopped up. 

        “Hey, my name’s Dennis.”

        This happened for five minutes. They kept going about it the same way. Soon someone ODed and they needed to fix him up a bit. Then they kept droning on for twenty more minutes. Finally, they decided to call me Popeye for particular reasons that are too particular to go about. And so that is how I received my name by a pack of drugged-Scottish kids, that were too dazed, or too stupid, to realize what harm they created by not putting a bullet in my brain. 

         At around noon the next day, I awoke in the arms of a ballerina statue that was blaring ambient noises from her adorable lips. She looked in need of a companion. I wished to have her. No doubt you wish to have her or do have her. I’m sure of that, reader. I bid her by shouting in her ears, “Soon soon! I’ll find you in the center of a cantaloupe plant and mash you into bits! That’ll be fair and just! That’ll be the fairest and justest thing that this planet will ever face that catastrophe will strike it in the neck a second after our communion! Good day and till then!” The ambient noise, I was to realize, was not ambiance at all, but the flight times that were on for this morning. I went down and stamped my foot to the floor.

         The couples of the old generation and the screwballs of the new were all eating at assorted cafes, masticating away on their muffin tops brought to them by mustached misters. I walked past them in a hurry. I should have been in a warm, comfortable bed hours ago. Instead, I decided to drop my load in the arms of that cobbled patron saint. A big clock with the radius of a school bus was staring down at them. I wanted to look up at it, but then I had severe gastrointestinal pain brought on by the waking up and quickly went back to staring at the clean floor. I left.

         While driving down the green tinge of the clear Antarctic roads, the taximan, in okay English, talked about his amazing children and amazing wife and the sore back of his. So I had an idea and asked if I could take some of the load off by driving. He thanked me. Swiftly, I grabbed the tall umbrella and situated it on his right foot. Then I lifted my legs over his seat and maneuvered his broken steering wheel with my size nines over the roads. He applauded my action with howls and jubilant phrases in his tongue. It ended abruptly though, as I crashed into a stand selling cooked rice in green sauce. He thanked me for the great joke and said the damages were in response to the world’s hatred for them.

         I entered a hotel with millions of curtains and banged on the bell. “Morning! Morning!” I cried out. No one answered. “Morning! Morning!” No one. “Heyyyy! MORNING!” A hand was put over mine and the bell stopped ringing. “Were you there the entire time?” I said to an aged Polish princess-looking type.

         “What room do you want?”

         “Your mother’s will do fine for me.”

         She muttered under her breath, “My hair is too white for this.”

         “Never said I didn’t want a coffin. No, I booked this vacation a day or two ago. I should be room 36.”

          She looked at the yellow paper sheet. “No rooms on first floor.”

          “I can take room 136.”

          She looked at the yellow paper sheet. “No rooms on second floor.”

          “Are there any floors that are available?” I looked at the yellow paper sheet. “I’ll take room 956.” I unlatched the gate to the left, walked up, and pulled up the keys from the rack. “Have a good lunch,” I said.

         “Not a good idea, sir.”

          Nothing happened before entering the room. It was almost like a pure moment of serenity and anxious edge being rolled by the purveyor that wants reality to commence. So it was great that when entering room 956 I was immediately hammered to the floor by rough hands and pointed weapons. I didn’t speak their language. I just knew that they weren’t Polish(from my days of working at a club in Kraków) and that I liked their accents. 

             I had what must’ve been a revolver to my head for a few quick minutes, then I was hoisted up and given to the “captain”. He was very well-dressed, well-razored, clean, and standard. All of the old men were. Old. Not in a profane sense. But old like a flower that begins to droop, or a stone that doesn’t know its last skip on water. They asked me a question so I said Joe Montana. They asked me another question in a different tone so I said Snoopy. Soon they realized I was not a cop by searching my clothes I guess. That’s about when they got really confused. Was I sent here by someone? Was I an accident? Was I a miracle? Then came the discussions of whether I should get my balls blown off. I knew this because an ugly one had set his little shooting device down there like a pillar. I didn’t like that ugly one.

              Soon their talking desisted. I must’ve convinced them.

              They pushed me up to the window and made me look at the stone square that’s as blocks away. Right in the left corner was one of the many heads of government of the Antarctic coast. She had a scarf over her shoulder and was drinking a pint of ale with coffee creamer spilled on the top. She ate bratwurst as well. The guy from the back had a sniper on her beautiful-shaped head.

             “I see,” I commented. 

             They opened the window, picked me up by the ankles, which allowed me to notice the sight of the pool down below. I saw a child-looking figure with a water gun spraying a mother-looking figure. It was impressive from that far up.

             Then they said some English. “We have the right to kill you.”

             I agreed. I had stumbled upon their secret assassination club, possibly ruining the timing. However, I didn’t tell them this. “No one has the right to spoil a man’s prospective suicide!” Then I howled and screamed at the top of my lungs. The LSD from twelve years ago came back to some lobe in my brain, or maybe I was just scared. Anyways, they brought me back up soon after that.

            “Kill her.” And they handed me a liquid dropper and kicked my rump out. There were families with beach towels and with their fat exposed midriffs. “We watch. HEY!” He pulled out a Bluetooth mic and attached it to my coattail. “Go. WAIT!” He ran back in and grabbed a Dixie cup full of purple goo. They forced me to swallow by closing my nostrils. “There—now go. 30 minutes or you dead without an antidote.”

             The government official was middle-aged. I was standing near the ultra-pink flower pot with an awful posture. She seemed to hate her job and hate her life. This was the feeling I read from her. When about to kill someone, it’s good to see any positive that can come out of this. Especially if you are psychotic. I did not like to kill people. Not because it was too messy, or too revelatory, or too unethical(unless you like elaboration). But it was too systematic, like dust when you sway it with your hand—never not the way you intended it, but laid down in the same size layer at the end. I kept thinking of the clock in the airport for some reason. Maybe she cut the ribbon for its first minute. She seemed to be under it just like all of the others.

               Numbers. Numbers. Names and popcorn. I was forgetting what I was there to accomplish. There was poison running through my veins. I was feeling lightheaded. I was dead from a distance, but I knew that was just my fear of dying talking. That is one fear of mine that I’m willing to give away.

               She saw my face from the background of people. She walked up to me. “You look different from the rest. Your shoes only have one knot. Did you come here to kill me?”

              I answered yes.

              “I’ve had a total of 22 assassination attempts. All were from the same group. They can’t afford sights—a very rinky-dink operation. What is your name?”

              I answered Popeye.

             “That wasn’t poison you drank. It was vitamin jelly. They give it to everybody that stumbles into their hotel room.”

              I said oh.

              “Why did you come here? Are you on vacation.”

               I said that I was on the run and that I was a criminal that killed many souls and that hotels at the coast were cheap and I could use a quick holiday.

             “That’s funny. Will you like your stay here on the Antarctic coast? I hope so. A beautiful man-made stay. You’ll leave soon though. I hope that won’t affect your thoughts of the dirt and stone and water below us. That’s what people say when they leave here. . . I’ll get killed one of these days. They can’t aim but the bullet will get lucky. For now, I’m just waiting. . . Will you remember me then? I know you will. It seems the world hates to remember. But you’ll remember me, won’t you? Not because I’m a big persona, but because you met me here, because I talked to you, or that it was just the truth. . . Will you?”

               I left the government official where she stood and went on to find a solid conclusion buried under mighty depravity. I’ll explain where that is later on. A bullet dug itself in a wall twenty meters away. Another: fifteen meters. So I pretended I was gone, with no cause for any pain, and that made a difference for my great travels, reader.

END OF PART ONE