I am a patient boy. I wait. I wait. I wait. I wait. Time refuses to slip down the drain.
There are people moving, above me and below me, even to the walls on my left and right. Everybody's moving. But I have motion stilled. Just a room, four walls and a couch, beaten cushions by a thousand bodies, all the softness squeezed out until it is all wafer thin. And it feels good. My shape is somewhere in the upholstery. Somewhere. I am not aligned with it now. I am just resting my forehead on my bat and thinking about nothing at all. Deep breath in, met with a deep breath out. It flows with no beginning and no end. I chose this moment to begin my perception of it, but it did not begin with my perception. I am just here to remain.
I am the scalpel to the gossamer curtain that is a moment. I slip inside and wrap myself in the titanium impenetrable armor that only fits me. I have the mace of devious intent in my palms, its biting sting an unforgettable sensation. Pried only from my cold dead hands, and it is only a lump of dull bent aluminum. I give it the form, the true form of what it is, what it should be. I pull from the nebulous ether the forms purpose, will to exist solely in an iota of time, unleash rebellion for rebellion's sake against the world as I see fit. It will not obey. It cannot obey, for it is unmoored from something so petty as consequences. It is unmoored from the simple if then. The form becomes only then, action taken with no set up. Action willed and dominoes set down. I am the cascade of ruin with no beginning. I thump the bat against the floor hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling.
"Twenty-fucking-five to one,
Me gambling days are done,
I bet on a horse called a Bottle of Smoke,
And my horse won," shouts the ceiling.
In all fairness the new verse probably caused the disturbance. The bat is strong, but not a blood drunk army strong. Already through two whole drinking songs, and the Troubles will squeeze in another handful before we all decide it's time to really roll out. And get one more on the road.
My invitation to such festivities went unopened. That was the first time. Then they just kind of stopped. Not how I work, and t they eventually figured it out. I know Violence is off doing her own thing as well. Stretches and meditations, or more schematics and plans, I never bothered to ask. It's all a private affair, only divulged when it comes to someone rather intimate. The dust shakes again and they have entered a new verse.
A knock comes from my door, surprisingly demure. I didn't know that door could be demure. It was just always raucous rapping to get me from my silence. Sometimes it even got rowdy, depending on the job waiting for me. But no, this one is soft and calm and even a little nervous. It opens and to my surprise, it's Riot Girl. I didn't' know she could be demure either.
But she is. Enough training is behind her to give the semblance of composure, straight back, squared shoulder, stiffed upper lip. The hands give it away. They tap and poke and pull and prod at anything and everything.
"Loud," she says. I nod and the ceiling proves me right once more. It is less loud here. Slightly.
"Nervous?" I ask.
"Yeah. Yeah, kind of. Good nervous, though. It was always reaction on the other side. You'd do something and we'd be sent out. No time to be nervous. But this has just dragged on and on and on. You didn't help last night either."
"It's like boxing. Can't get off before the match. Makes you hungry."
"I think you just couldn't get it up. And that's fine. A lot of guys have that problem."
I give her a look and she is smirking at me and that means she likes me. So, whatever happens outside of this room, it doesn't matter.
"And I also stopped by to give you something," she says, "As well as insult you."
"You didn't have to do that. You could have just kept insulting me. It's what I really want."
"Well, I didn't get this. I'm just the messenger. Sunday said you'd know what it is. I got some too. I don't know what to do with them and he just laughed at me when I asked."
She pulls two small bottles I put my head in my hands. He's moved on to an actual bottling stage for this. I hate him and his stupid, brilliant need to go for the curtain and stage lights. There's a campfire burnout, trailing a lone whisp of smoke that spells out Sunday's Private Reserve. Behind it, a good shot and a half of bright red, almost glowing, definitely sparkling, tumbles and sloshes at every shake.
"That's Sunday's little trick," I sigh, "And it's kind of what has got the boys upstairs all rowdy. Well, that and stout. And whiskey. It does some really fun things. He only gives it out for special occasions."
She brightens and starts going through the dreams of what could happen if she drank it right now.
"No," I say, "That stuff will burn right through you. Save it for something special."
"Y'know, you're the best judge of what substances can do. Half a beer and you need to be carried to bed."
"And you like carrying me to bed. So, it all works out. Save it. Seriously. Worst case, you don't need it and then we go upstate to Picciotto and mess around with that. I already know what it does to me."
"Tell me."
"No. Surprises and if I don't need it, then you will get a fun surprise later. Speaking of, I have some more of those for you."
"Do I have to wait for them too? I don't like waiting for surprises. I want them now so I can be happy about being surprised."
"These can come now."
The box in question and the first part of my showering of gifts is at my feet. It is also a simple cardboard box lined with tissue paper and tied with a simple bow. I did not spring for wrapping. I should have, in retrospect. Some of the other things I have don't quite fit that mold, but still. Gifts without that paper don't quite work right. No idea why.
