Fly On The Wall: Fairy Tales From A Misanthropic Universe, Vol. I (2 page)

It was time, again. She had waited a whole
year.

It was time, again. He had waited,
saved, and stolen so that he might be able to attend. His
anticipation was literally palpable, a forehead vein pulsed beneath
his skin. Like a creepy grandfather clock, it ticked the time away.
Was it moral to do that which they did? He didn't know, and he
didn't care. Especially not given this year's chump.

He covered himself head to toe in dark
blue paint so he would not stand out against the night sky, she
would do the same, so it made sense for him to too, even if it made
no sense to him. The tortuous, slow, teasing, winding, tick-tock of
the nearby wall clock drove him mad. He stared at the second hand,
willing it on. His forehead vein pulsed harder and harder until
finally each hand pointed in the right direction. It was time. He
just had to pick her up on the way. She was, after all, the reason
he was going. The event did excite him, of course, he was a curious
guy, and it had been how he'd met her. She'd changed his life that
day. To think...how silly he had been, sniveling and begging her to
forgive him when she had caught him with his hand in her bag...how
little he'd known.

She'd let him snivel. She enjoyed
watching him squirm, only then did she tell him that he was good,
but not good enough. She could remember his quizzical expression
perfectly. She remembered the stunned look when she had pulled out
the blank white card and handed it over to him. On it had been a
number, her's. They'd met a few times since then and she'd arranged
this year’s event. It would be the most incredible one yet, even if
she herself was a belieber. She rolled up her little pouch with its
many sections, shoved it in her navy bra. She jammed her feet into
a pair of simple, but stylish, navy pumps, then donned a dark mask
and set off.

There was the signal! One flash, two
'coo's, five drips and six moo's. The way was clear. He edged
closer to the door, his heart beat out of his chest when he caught
a glimpse of her, the too real danger of his acts struck him and
made the sweat bead up on his forehead. He walked up to her keenly,
she reached between her breasts and pulled out her pouch, the same
one he'd tried to grab so many years ago. The picks came out in a
flash, and within two more the door was unlocked. Sleepy rottweiler
snores echoed off the grandiose marble foyer. He steeled himself
against the terrifying roar and removed a blowgun from its pant-leg
hiding place. Thwp. Thwp. As quickly as it had reached their ears
so quickly did the racket subside once more. The coast was finally
clear, the shady twosome sneaked on through the house.

Soon they arrived at the white bedroom
door. Even sooner they found the bed and even sooner than that they
were upon one another. Her screams reached the heavens and his
grunts found the deepest hells. The pigs came the quickest and blew
their load even quicker. They riddled him full of lead, and he just
died there on the bed. She escaped without a wound though, just a
hurt ego and bloodied lips. His lifeless pulp lay there, unmoving
and pointless. The officers stopped and looked into the light, a
weird brooding green which had grown behind them, just out of
sight. From it, he came, as cheerful as always. Not he who was
dead, for he was far gone, but he who was blond – her favorite #1.
The bacon deferred, and let them all be, they backed out of the
room with not a word to exchange. The Biebs held his arm out and
pointed behind her, and she turned to see her own pockmark
silhouette.

The Biebs just said, “I saved you” in
a faux high pitched voice. She turned to look at him again and
smiled, he was her savior, and she knew he'd let her stay for a
while. The biebs reached up to his head, when his fingertips
touched his gold locks the air shone with the fire of moistened
magnesium flowers. When his hand came down it held out a set of
gold lockpicks, just for her. She ran to him naked and grabbed with
glee. She hugged her Bieloved and bade him farewell, then gathered
her clothes and went on her way. Bieber then walked over to the
hole ridden corpse, he reached down and grabbed a necklace of
sorts. He shook off the blood and was reunited with it once
more.

Miles below, in a hot fire
filled cave the soul of the dead man was yoked, like a slave.
Behind him, he pulled ten thousand beliebers on a small wheeled
parade float. Over red hot cobbles he stepped as demoniac clones
laughed at his plight. A million jeering Biebers filled the cavern
about him, some laughed and some sang. So the man who was now not
more than a corpse kept pulling the cart, at quite a slow speed, of
course, all while four eternal words haunted him in
damnation:
'Baby, baby, baby,
oooohhh!'

“I cannot, will not live
without you.”

“You can, you must, you
will, for 'tis to be. I do not care. I do not want to. I am free.
Am I not? Let me be! Alone! Away foul witch!”
You are not and I must not. We are not free, you know 'tis
not to be. You cannot flee this wretched temple so end your too
pathetic plea.”

“
But I need to go, I must live, must see! How dare you try and
break what little hope I have of glee? You, who've shown me truth,
justice, and merciful peace. You who've shown me cruelty, darkness
and endless mourning wreaths? How dare you try and make me stay,
let go banshee, harken to my just decree. I am not your devotee,
and I am not your detainee. But soon, I will be the
escapee.”

“
Maybe just one more try?” cried out a pleading yearning
voice, in sultry seductive tones, it meant to lure, to hold, to
trap. “I have had enough of danger, and people on the streets. I
can't be happy, but you can be, go, try and flee - you'll see. You
know what I foresee? You, crawling, coming back to me.”

“See what you will, but your will is not
law. And law is not will but for when will is but law. And love is
the law, love under will.”

“You manatee!”

“Manatee? How dare you! I told you I don't
pree. Soon I will be alone, and carefree, having a black tea, atop
a fig tree, by the sparkly, warm, and wavy, blue lake. Let me go.
Let me be. Let me run to the quay,” jerking forwards, Sonia made
Sarah drop like a brick. Her nose burst and dyed the rocks bright
red.

Blood warms Max's upper lip, and trickles
down from the corners of his mouth. He lies on the floor in pain,
smelling iron, reaching for dear Haldol. Inside, Sarah and Sonia
bicker still. Max just lies there, waiting it out.

A fly meanders by, it pauses on Max's head
and considers sucking up a bite, but decides not to on balance.
This one seemed wrought with problems. The fly flies on and Max
just waits.

The baby cried out with a
piercing shriek. Its mother's eyes welled up with tears. She set
her newborn life down on the dusty step. He looked up at his
mother, he could not speak, he could not even control his bowel
movements, but he knew; he would be alone. As she stepped away
tears left luminous lines on her face, and suddenly the baby was
all alone.

“
COME INSIDE THIS INSTANT YOUNG MAN.” shrieked sister Mary,
brandishing her favorite yardstick. He made his way, fearing sister
Mary's inflexible rule. Back to the house, back to the school, back
to the cruel, fly-ridden, orphanage. He vowed he would get himself
out. He vowed he would leave the trap and make it. He vowed he'd go
away.

THUD. Joey fell to the
ground, a violet lump started to grow and fill the shallow
depression left by the orphan's fist. Nobody and that meant NOBODY,
would disrespect him. He may have been unwanted, but would not be
disrespected. Haters would pay most dearly, this much he knew
already. The orphan pushed his sleeves up high, as he had seen so
many tough men do in so many movies and approached Joey, ready for
round 2.

“
Yo, she'll suck yo dick like a fucking elephant sucking on a
peanut,” said the orphan, now a man. He continued his sick pitch
“she's my bottom bitch for a reason, tennis ball through a garden
hose yo.” The suit looked thrilled, and soon would be.

“
FUCK YOU FUCKING WHORE ILL FUCKING KILL YOU.” screamed the
orphan at his bottom bitch. So she left. She ran while she still
could. She did not know what she should do. She realized then that
she meant nothing to him, that she was just another hooker that the
lucky could forget. She knew nobody would care, it happened every
day. She was afraid, but at least she was not alone anymore. Some
months later a piercing shriek filled the air as she set her
progeny down on that same dusty step.

And life went
on.

He was born, awkwardly he
fumbled from his mother into the doctors latex covered
claws.

He was home, awkwardly he
fumbled to place his lips around too tender teats.

He was sitting, awkwardly
he fumbled so much that the airplane could not land, but crashed
instead, causing massive broccoli fatalities.

He was walking, awkwardly
he fumbled his way across the room, exploring the world for the
first time.

He was careful, awkwardly
he fumbled with graphite filled wood to emulate the gentle slopes
and sharp cliffs of the alphabet.

He liked her, awkwardly he
fumbled under thick coats on snowy hills to steal her innocent
youthful kisses.

He was mad, awkwardly he
fumbled trying to hit, throwing fists and kicks with reckless
abandon.

He was in trouble;
awkwardly he fumbled with his explanation.

He failed, awkwardly he
fumbled his way to summer school where he would fumble even more
awkwardly, trying to catch up.

He woke up, head pounding,
eyes watering, awkwardly he fumbled to the bottle for a favored
hirsute canine remedy.

He was with her, awkwardly
he fumbled with her body and his own.

He was with him, awkwardly
he fumbled with his body and his own.

He graduated, awkwardly he
fumbled to the job market, wanting nothing more than to be
wanted.

He was married, awkwardly
he fumbled to juggle lust and responsibility.

He had kids, awkwardly he
fumbled every day between 9 and 5, trying to make sense of it
all.

His parents died,
awkwardly he fumbled trying to hold back his tears while making
sure their departure would be worthy of their existence.

He was alone, awkwardly he
fumbled with the pen as he tried to sign the papers, turning to his
favorite remedy.

He lay there, awkwardly
fumbling with his memories. Alone and in agony. Human contact was a
button's push away, awkwardly he fumbled, his crooked fingers could
now not do what he willed them to. He tried to recollect the
happiness & pride which had long left. He tried hard to
remember, but the memories were gone, so instead he fumbled
awkwardly with his own mind, his own thoughts, finding no string to
guide him in his labyrinthine quest.

He closed his eyes one
last time. As awkwardly as he had fumbled through life, so too did
he in death. His existence snuffed out, his cadaver rolled, egged
on by his fumbles for the red button, it fell.

THUD.

As he; so we.

Who was she? Perhaps it
didn't matter anymore. She was too old, too tired, and too beaten
down to care anymore. She had known what she wanted when she was a
child, not that it had mattered. As she'd grown, so had the
expectations, it was not enough to be a good person, to be polite,
nice, funny, or smart. She had to be pretty. She had to be skinny,
and girly. So each time she saw a bug she screamed and she often
shunned her food.

And so, she grew. She knew
then what she wanted, she was a teen; no-one listened. As she grew,
so did the expectations, it was no longer enough to by polite,
nice, funny, smart, skinny, girly or pretty. She had to be chaste,
flirty, and submissive.

And so, she grew. She knew
what she wanted when she was in college; no-one listened, for she
was too young. As she grew, so did the expectations, it was no
longer enough, none of it was, a whole new world awaited
her.

And so, she grew. She now
truly does know what she wants. But now there is nobody there to
listen. Alone, she ventures through the days and nights, slaving at
one thing or another, fighting for her bare survival. The dreams
she holds close to her heart glow dimmer today as they have done
each day before. She lives, days pass, and she survives. In most
ways it is enough that she has become society’s dream, she embraces
each stereotype to quiet her detractors and so embraces them, in
each approval finding more comfort. She likes it, she cherishes the
fun. The tropes which play out in front of her are better than any
show. She knows what she wants to be, and she can well do it too,
indeed she can pour a great gas can upon that flick'ring flame and
turn the world alight. But the fire scares her. It makes
her...hesitate. Society quietly confirms her fears and cradles her,
it keeps her in a safe space where no flame is allowed, where none
dared make an unsanctioned sound.

And in that there is
comfort. And so she survives, as she's done each day
before.

Her babe screams as the
train passed. Its horn blankets all other sounds with a lion's
roar. The clickety-clack of the wheels beats out a metallic rhythm.
She caresses her baby's wispy blond hair. She cradles him upon her
hip and looks at him tenderly. She leans in and whispers, “Hush
little baby, it’s just the choo choo". Each step she takes seems
better than the last. She walks through the shallow waters of the
local wading fountain. She likes feeling waters wet embrace about
her feet. Her flowery green dress stretches out upon her high
bones, they betray a history of labor. Her tanned skin glistens
with droplets of spray, it pulls the eye, it was as though one
watched a gazelle and her young. She swats at a fly which buzzes by
her baby's head.