I Am Bastard

1

I am Bastard

It’s a funny name, and certainly not one I would have chosen for myself, but still one that suites me very well. It was given to me by the guy who owns the house I currently reside in. He’s been there since the thing was built, and so have I. He never asked me to share the rent, I’m just a squatter, and squatters laws in these parts doesn’t allow him to evict me. I get no end of amusement at that. Like I said, the name suites me very well. 

Before I move on I must tell you about this wonderful place I’ve called home for over 35 years. The Grand Architect would say it is a Cranium style home. As built it was a quite lovely space between two ears, and behind eyes a baby shade of blue. The front door opened to a great foyer with a grand piano and Persian rugs. The down stairs was rounded out with a ball room, dining hall, and a kitchen that Alton Brown would die for. Up stairs was a master bedroom, a writing room, a library, and a large bathroom with jacuzzi tub. All of this on a wonderful hill of a person, overlooking the rest of the world. I particularly love the grand view we get of a life being lived out. There’s a city there in the valley below the hill. A city I am proud to say I have had a hand in twisting into unrecognizable shapes.

To say the house is lovely is actually more the prevailing view. Not one I share. So, early on, I decided it was my job to redecorate. Thick tomes now litter the library floor. The piano has a few strings missing. I’ve burned all the pots and pans in the kitchen. I bought a Doberman that likes to chew on the Persian rugs.  After 35 years I think it’s finally starting to be just a splendid pile of shit.

And life was good you know. I’ve had my squabbles with the owner, but there’s been precious little he’s been able to do to me for all his trying. I get to lay on the couch bathing in victories until it is time to meddle again with the view. I convince it that its rather less beautiful then it actually is, and then after a good laugh, I go back to the couch to play with Scruffles the Doberman. 

That was the way it was until this past week. Something has changed about Owner. It seems that he knows some secret about me (of which I have a great many), but he won’t tell me what it is. It bothers me. It bothers me a great deal.

2

Owner is watching television in his library. He sits on the thread bare carpet looking up at the big screen on the wall, slack jawed. Tears are in his eyes, tears of joy. Tattered books lay in heaps around him, and in piles on the high shelves that take up every other wall. A grandfather clock can be heard loudly ticking in some far off place despite the television. 

Bastard is sprawled out on the large black leather couch half paying attention to the program. It Is a rerun, of one of his favorite shows: CHILDHOOD. The episode on the screen is a particularly nasty one. Father slaps Son in the face. Son is left cowering on his bed while Father screams at him, wanting to know why an infraction was committed. Tears stream down Son’s face. This episode is always one that brings out the tub of ice cream, and the twelve double cheese burgers, and thoughts of to many Tylenol tablets. A solid fun filled experience for all. Certainly, Bastard is left smiling and giggling to himself when the credits role. 

Absorbing much more of his attention, however, is the man. Something is not right. For one, there is no double cheese burgers; no tub of ice cream. Also, it appears that the man is smiling. A frown creases bastards face as he sets aside the pie plate that once held a Dutch apple monstrosity. It is his third pie of the evening, and anyone who knows Bastard will tell you its not going to be his last.

Finally, a decision is made and Bastard sighs heavily. He will have to move his massive frame for a better view of the situation. He is on his back, and until this point has had to painfully wrench his flabby neck to one side to get even a glimpse of the Owner’s odd behavior. 

Upon hearing the grunts and groans coming from the couch, the man turns to look over his shoulder at Bastard as the creature slowly turns to face the TV screen. He studies Bastard for a moment 

Finally, the man erupts in uncontrollable laughter as if Bastard is the latest Netflix Comedy special. Bastard’s frown deepens. The man falls backwards, holding his stomach and attempting with no success to stop the pain. This is definitely not the way things are suppose to be.

  “IT LIVES” the man suddenly screams in his best imitation of Dr. Frankenstein. He thrusts his arms up and waves them above crazily. 

This all has the unfortunate effect of startling Bastard so much that he is frozen in mid move. Tilted at a 45 degree angle, grabbing at the edge of the couch with one hand, he comes perilously close to loosing all momentum and falling back to his previous position. Never in his thirty-five plus years of living with Owner has Bastard ever seen anything like this. 

The realization is slow to enter into his thick noggin, but eventually it penetrates bone and neuron to inform him that he has no idea what to do.

  “What the hell?” Bastard nearly belches out the words the way a dragon belches fire.

The man pulled himself off the floor to sit facing Bastard. Turning his head left and right as if to ensure that no one is listening he leans forward and cups one hand around his mouth

  “I know your secret”  

  “Piss-off, nobody knows my secrets” 

As if the mans previous actions haven’t been surprise enough, he stands, sticks out his tongue at Bastard, and walked towards the Library door to leave Bastard completely dumbfounded.

  Did the man really know anything at all? If so, what did he know?

 Ah, Fuck. 

3

I think I finally know which of my secrets Owner is aware of. I’ve been spending more time on the couch then is usual, contemplating things. Scruffles has been of no comfort to me lately, despite the fact that he is chewing up even more carpet then usual. My pies (which somehow seem to manifest themselves from somewhere or another) have been my only true friend.

But, despite the melancholy mood, I have arrived at what I believe to be an answer. I used the little gray cells as the fictional detective Hercule Poirot is so fond of saying. I do not know how this can be so, but I am convinced of its truth none the less: Somehow, after all these years, the bastard knows my true name. 

Not that he yet knows quite what to do with the information. Right now he treats me as if I am one of my many brothers. Anxiety, Phobia, Aggression, Obsession, Compulsion. He thinks that I am truly like those dullards, and yet I am so much more then those simpletons could ever hope to be.

Oh, look at me. Masquerading as some comic book villain, complete with insidiously cliche laugh. I have been spending too much time on the couch. I have resorted to dreamt up victories rather then creating new ones. I should be spending my time twisting the scenery. 

Well, maybe one more pie, and then I can go scream at the view. 

4

Bastard stares triumphantly at the view from the wrap around porch that frames the front of the house. A blood red front door with brass nob and dead bolt is behind him. To his right is a porch swing, and to his left another piano. This instrument is an upright looking like its been through hell. The porch itself is made of a dark brown wood. 

For the first time in days he has a smile on his face. The sky is blue with a few wisps of clouds high in the stratosphere. Down the hill and in the valley the city of a lived life waits for him. Bastard’s back hurts terribly under the strain of so much excess girth, but its all worth it. It is time to do battle

  “Way I here it you don’t spend enough time playing with your child. Is that true?” 

He shouts it as loud as he can causing the foundations of the house to shake a little. The words reverberate off the surrounding hills and down into the valley. Bastard cocks his head to listen. There is only silence. Though slightly disappointed he sets himself again for the next volley

  “I heard you play that piece yesterday. I bet Bach is rolling over in his grave. You can’t even play a simple Bach Invention correctly. Many other cities out there think you play with such grace and composure. What they don’t know is how much of a sham you are. Can’t even play a simple Bach or Debussy.” 

That one would do the trick. Usually he didn’t pull out the really good ammunition until later, after letting the city think they were starting to win. Today, however, the initial volley had worried Bastard more than he cared to admit. Thus he decided he could allow the heavy artillery to come out just a bit earlier. 

Again, he cocks his head. He listens. Nothing. Just silence among the hills. No heads peak out from little houses. Not even the local militia is out. 

By this point he could usually see the tiny soldiers breathlessly running to and fro in quite a panic. Sometimes they get off a shot, sometimes they just run head long into each other. Cute microscopic Tweety birds circle there heads; little tongues lull out of little mouths. It is hysterical. 

Today though? Nothing. He turns to glance at the door, then back at the city below. After a repeat performance he realizes that his back is hurting more then usual. He tries to stand a bit longer, but the pain is too much. Carefuly he moves to the porch swing and gingerly sits hearing the crack and groan of good wood under strain. The swing holds. But for how long.

Closing his eyes, Bastard reaches up to massage the bridge of his nose. Was he hyperventilating? The breath came out in quick gasps. No, not hyperventilating. That couldn’t be true.

“Hmm, looks like someone forgot to tell them down there that there’s a war going on”

Bastard lowers his hand and turns his eyes just enough to see. Owner is standing there in Captain Shatner print pajamas holding a white mug emblazoned with the Vulcan salute. The fumes that waft from the mug smell strong enough to wake the dead.  

  “Such manners. You would think they would have the courtesy to send somebody out. You know, a wrinkled Veteran of the Great War. Maybe, even with the same pop gun he played with as a child”

Bastard wheezes softly to himself, trying his best to ignore Owner. Definitely not hyperventilation.

  “Ah! I got it. They just can’t hear you. That’s it. To many pies have made you soft Bastard. You can’t project like you used to.”

It is to much. Bastard lowers both his arms now and turns his head so that Owner can see the controled expression on his face. 

  “You are child. You may look like a man, you may sometimes act like a man, but you are still a child.”

  “Actually, you know what, I still have all this coffee to drink, and until then I don’t have quite the head for playing this game out. How ‘bout I just cut to the end.”

The man leans down bringing his face so close to Bastards that there noses touch. This causes Bastard to pull back just a hair. Then, moving his head slightly left the man speaks directly into the creatures ear. The words are nearly inaudible, yet Bastard hears them loud and clear. 

  “I told them all your secret”

The arms come up fast shoving with all there might, causing Owner to tumble backwards. Coffee flies in a long arc spraying the red door. With a howl of pure rage, Bastard rises. Coming off it’s mountings the porch swing splinters into several large pieces. The man is now flat on the porch, his arms laid out like a crucifixion scene. Not defensive. How is Owner not in the defensive posture?

5

My fists are almost molding like silly putty with Owner’s face before I have time to think. Red, red like the door becomes the theme of our modern art sculpture. They say art is pain, and I’m sure that Owner is feeling quite a lot right now, and yet he doesn’t move his hands. I feel none. 

I say that rage-sculpting should be considered an art. It is a beautiful thing working with all that aforementioned red. The occasional flesh tone appears, disappears, and reappears again. It’s quite lovely.  

My full weight is on him, and he struggles for breath, but somehow I see a smile, and catch a gaggle of giggles. Or maybe a giggle of gaggles. I don’t know anymore. 

  “I TOLD THEM ALL YOUR SECRET” The man suddenly screams with all that is left in him. 

  “I TOLD THEM YOUR TRUE NAME”

In a deep part of my creature brain, clinically detached from the rest, I find an almost academic curiosity with what the man is saying. He think he knows my true name? I wonder if he really does. I continue to make modern art via rage-sculpting.  

  “YOUR NAME IS KBG”

I stop. The whole world stops. A black hole somewhere is swallowing up the sounds of the world. 

  “What did you say?”

One eyeball hangs form the man’s face by a nerve. An entire cheek is caved in; the left one. Holes left by broken and swallowed teeth gape up at Bastard. A fountain of blood from a head wound. And yet, Owner is still able to smile, still able to speak.

  “Your name”, slowly, meshed in with a quiet gurgling sound, and the crunch of what was once face, “ is KBG” 

   “How do you know that?” A smile, still that horrible smile. “HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?”

  “I told them all to stay home. I told them all they can’t loose if they don’t show up for the war. You only have power if they show up for the war.”

I pull myself up off of Owner, numb, and unable to think. Surely I haven’t lost. Maybe, maybe this is just a set back. Maybe tomorrow they will all forget, and continue to be scared and run to and fro, and take away my misery leaving only joy.

Somehow I think that maybe I’m just full of shit.

Ah, Fuck

6

I am Owner

His name is KBG Syndrome. It is unimportant how I came by this information. What is important is that I now know how to win the war. It won’t be easy, but I have hope. 

KBG Syndrome is a genetic disorder. It fucks you without your consent, and in more ways then one. Jolly good sir, Jolly good, just clean up before you leave will you. The key with KBG is that it is a rather insidious combination of all it’s brothers. Rather like a creation of Dr. Frankenstein himself. Why don’t we look at the metal slab as it comes down from the thunder clouds and see what lightening life the good Doctor Has sparked.

The legs come from High Anxiety. They are made for running around, with the need to stop all perceived terrors (And believe me, it’s all terror all the time). The arms and hands come from Compulsivity; always the need to fiddle and meddle and do. The mouth comes from Impatience never being able to stop for long, always sighing with the burden of a long wait. The stomach is from some nameless bloated corpse that died eating too much pie.

And the brain? The brain comes from the devil himself (cross my heart and hope to die); somehow full of worms and yet pouring out a nasty intelligence that beats anything. It can formulate ways to twist and break a soul of Iron and steel. 

Last but not least is the voice. The voice belongs to Bastard alone. It is a belch of fire, a scrape of claws. Also, somehow, it is my father too, shouting down at me while I try and figure out what I’ve done wrong.

 I hear the every day as it speaks to the city. For the longest time I crawled up in my bed when he started to bellow down the hillside. I would tremble until he cackled out his last laugh before returning to the couch to bathe in his own glory. Some days I spent entirely in that bed, looking at the underside of my covers and just waiting for the terror to stop. 

Now, I am a bloody mess on the front porch. With my one good eye I can see Bastard, Mr. KBG, standing over me. My ear drums are both busted so I can hear what he is saying, but I can see his face. I see it, and I smile. I will win, now. 

I am Owner.

And it is time to take back what it is rightfully mine. 

THE END