Post by K. L. Henson on May 29, 2015 13:13:50 GMT -5
The brain is one of the most amazing things in the universe; especially the human brain. It is a computer; a jelly filled, fat, squishy computer powered by a nervous system and coded with chemicals. This computer controls every aspect of the body. It controls functions, memories, thoughts, and senses. Can you believe that. Every movement you make is an electric pulse and every emotion is a chemical reaction. Pain is a defense mechanism of your brain letting your body know something is wrong and this very same brain is the thing that uses pain to benefit by inventing weapons and the concept of torture. All these aspects come together one way or another to create consciousness. And consciousness, as I have covered, is a double edge blade. It creates beauty out of nothing but it also makes tragedy and anguish so much more unbearable.
Consciousness can create its own problems as well. Mainly questions. ‘Why am I here?’, ‘Is there a purpose?’, ‘what makes the world?’, ‘why do I want to fuck anything that moves?’. It really fouls things up. It is enough to send someone into a panic attack. And as far as most people are concerned, even with all our searching, these questions have yet to be answered.
And beyond that, consciousness is only as useful as you try to make it. Most people are unconscious and don’t know what to make of their life. They just live, fuck up, eat shit and then live some more These are the most predictable of people. But some are very much awake and they are the real chess players. They're the ones that make this game interesting. They come in all different shapes and sizes with all different motives and objectives. If you don’t watch yourself, they will trap you. But then there is polar opposite, the people who actively choose not to live. You have to wonder if they even have sentience at all or if they are just humanoid animals fulfilling the very basics of survival.
K. L. Henson: What a waste to use this one time you have to be alive, to spend it just wanting to get it over with.
Henson was laying on a couch in the back of a dark and almost colorless studio apartment. The furniture was limited to the necessities: with a coffee table that sat in front of the couch, a worn down recliner off to the side, and stacks upon stacks of shelf-less books in a far adjacent corner. No television, no radio, no lamps, no computers. If you want to look at something, there is a window to look out at a decaying town, so enjoy...This was the apartment of a friend of Mr. Henson. This was the apartment of a Mr. Cal Killebrew. A young man Henson met at the cafe where he does his usual people watching.
He had seen him a few times every week around the same time. Cal would come in, keeping his head low as if trying to avoid any onlookers, order a coffee, and then sit down and read. He was a small man. Probably five feet and seven inches at best and was a rather anorexic fellow as his skin was pale, his eyes and cheeks were sunken, and a poor complexion of blotchy skin spots to top it off. He usually wore a grey, torn up trench coat with a matching fedora. Probably to keep his unusual structure hidden as he seemed to hunch over no matter if he was standing or sitting.
Henson perceived him as a man violently stuck in a pattern of open isolation and disconnection. He recognized his own tribulation and loathing in Cal’s mannerisms which almost made him feel sick and convinced him that this man needed to be waken up more so than anyone.
So, Henson got up from where he was sitting and moved over to the table of this lonely stranger. Cal looked up from his book for a quick moment, said nothing, and then returned to his reading. Henson wasn’t offended for he felt he knew exactly what was going through the man’s head as he would soon explain.
K. L. Henson: I know what kind of person you are. You are hiding...hiding from life, from action, from dilemma. You don’t want any part in the commotion. You are so opposed to living that even if someone comes and sits at your table, your spot, your ‘territory’, you won’t do anything as long as they aren’t bothering you.
Henson slapped his hand right down onto the man’s book, forcing him to look him in the eye.
K. L. Henson: Well, I’m bothering you and I want to know what you are going to do about it…
There was a moment of silence before the man named Cal Killebrew started laughing and appeared to really enjoy Henson’s assertiveness.
Cal Killebrew: You’re a bold man...Wrong, but bold.
The voice was quiet and curious but also flat. It took Henson a moment to register the response. It turned out that Mr. Killebrew was an observer, much like Henson. Though his eyes always seemed to be on his book, he was listening the whole time. He explained that eyes weren’t the tool for an area such as the cafe. The ears were the best thing for observations in such a confined space, that people felt safe in a cafe as long as it didn’t seem like anyone was alert and aware of them. As long as he appeared too distracted by his book, they would openly talk and hope that the conversation was too esoteric to understand if anyone did happen to hear them. But Cal was good at putting the pieces together.
By the time Henson had approached him, Cal had figured out that the barista was cheating on her boyfriend with a college football player and that the boyfriend had just found out, a man who always arrived while on his lunch hour was selling trade secrets to another company as well as going through a divorce, a young woman who was sitting in the same spot at the same time almost every day was waiting for a stranger she had met once but lost his number and hoped she would see him again by trying to recreate the moment they met (this was his favorite one) and that Henson was an observer but that he also wasn’t the only one...but we will get to that later.
Henson was very intrigued by this man and would sit with him when they managed to arrive around the same time, and then would spend their time dissecting the surrounding patrons. Which was good fun to Henson but what he was really after was finding out more about Cal. It wasn’t everyday he found someone with such peculiar similarities.
Eventually, through a little questioning and inquiring, he found out that Cal majored in Cultural Anthropology and minored in History. Not well paying degrees to go after but ones that satisfied him. Though Henson had trouble at first trying to get this information, for Cal insisted on being a rather cryptic individual. He would only drop hints and clues throughout the conversation and leave Henson to try and put it together for himself.
Henson also eventually found out that Cal had a heavy interest in psychics and fortune tellers like Nostradamus and Pythia. Not because he believed they had powers but for the fact that there was something else behind it. Something profoundly more logical than magic. He always said he was working his way to becoming a psychic himself by using his fields of study.
Which brings us to Cal’s apartment. Henson decided to drop by after receiving the information about his living quarters through incessantly asking. If he could get a look inside this man’s home, that would be an important sway in this information war. For Henson looked at Killebrew not only as a friend but a competitor as well. But the emptiness just confirmed the man was who he said he was and nothing more.
Dejected, Henson strolled over to the couch and flopped right onto it, laying on his back facing the ceiling. This brings us back to where we last left him. His mind was running through a few different thoughts as Cal proceeded to actually read next to his stack of books which seemed to mainly focus around history, sociology, or psychology. This differed from Henson’s own reading venture as he preferred to read classical literature for he felt there was more real life in them than in analytical texts.
Henson tried a few statements like the earlier one, trying to start a conversation with Cal but Cal seemed rather engrossed into his book. So, Henson laid there in silence for a few minutes before trying one more time to get his peer’s attention. If he didn’t make a reply to this one, Henson would leave and forget about Cal entirely as he can see this man not only lived the life of a watcher but that there was nothing else he did and it was not Henson’s place to interrupt another observer.
Henson sat up, scooted to the edge of his seat and leaned towards Cal with an intense stare. It was time to come right out and ask how much this man knew of his world.
K. L. Henson: Do you even know who I am? I mean properly. Do you know what I do for a living? What my lifestyle is like?
A moment of silence passed as Henson refused to take his eyes off Cal and Cal refused to take his eyes off his book. Henson sighed, stood up, brushed himself off in a symbolic gesture and made his way for the door. He was halfway out when he finally heard a reply in Cal’s usual monotone, disinterested voice.
Cal Killebrew: You are a professional wrestler who disappeared for six years without a trace then all of a sudden, appeared to be working for WCF. You just had your debut and now you are facing John Michaels at the Pay-Per-View…
Henson stopped in his tracks and made an about-face then, with a devilish smirk, returned to the couch. Taking a seat, he crossed one leg over the other and threw his right arm over the back of the couch.
K. L. Henson: Wrestling fan are we?
Cal Killebrew: No. Was just curious one day after you told me your name and decided to do some research. Did you expect any less of me?
Henson shook his head in response as it was rather visible he was enjoying his own dissection.
K. L. Henson: I assume you even went a little further with your research and looked up a few other people from WCF as well, just to make sure you didn’t miss anything.
Cal Killebrew: Just those who relate to you either through matches or interaction through twitter. Katherine Phoenix, Jack Coston, Professor Coach, Raymond Hatcher and John Michaels so far. Felt it was appropriate.
K. L. Henson: Haha! You are good, my friend...Then let me see how much you understand, Oracle of Cleveland. I am facing John Michaels. What say you, Soothsayer! What will the outcome of my match be?
Cal smiled and placed the book down before closing his eyes and crossing his arms…
Cal Killebrew: You are going to lose!
Cal Killebrew opened his eyes, placed his hands on his knees and looked over at Henson who sighed and observed the wallpaper once again…
Cal Killebrew: Upset?
K. L. Henson: A little up front than most psychics, don’t you think?
Cal Killebrew: What do you want? Some cryptic poetry, open to interpretation bullshit?
Killebrew stood up and placed his fingers to his temples as he closed his eyes once again. This time his tone of voice was obvious mockery to the ‘mad scientist’.
Cal Killebrew: I see...angels firebombing the ghettos! They look to make room for the landing of God and his billion feather army. Fiery swords line the hallways, highways and alleyways. Glowing armor blinds the heart with hot rays made from holy biology of skinned heaven beasts. This is not judgement day. It is instead a new form of the most dangerous game.
K. L. Henson: Okay, you can stop, I get it...
Cal Killebrew: Man goes running for his life! Flee! Flee! Flee! for there is no way for him to win. What you see now is a predator that has been waiting millions of years for its prey to build to its peak. Jehovah is not a judge or a protector. He is not a father or a mother. God is an animal! He kills for the fuck of it. As you have said yourself, God is a sociopath.
K. L. Henson: Okay! Jesus Christ, knock it off!
Henson’s face was red as a beet. There was a lot of things he would openly put up with but being mocked wasn't one of them. Cal opened his eyes and glared at Henson with a straight, unapologetic, unironic, unflinching stare. Cal slowly walked over to him and pressed his index and middle fingers right at the middle of Henson’s forehead.
Cal Killebrews: But did you expect anything else from an all powerful being who is infallible no matter what he does? Compassion? Compassion is a trait for those who understand suffering, for those who understand what it is like to be human. There are two kinds of people in this world. People who suffer together and those who suffer alone. All love and sympathy comes from the former of the two, while all evil spawns from either the latter or from the lack of any suffering at all -- which is only a factor for Gods.
There was nothing in Cal’s eyes as far as Henson could see. This man had no tastes for anything and no love for anyone. A void stared back at Henson. A dead man who had yet to be told his time of passing. His finger dropped from Henson’s forehead as he moved back over to his spot by the stack, took a seat and then resumed reading. Henson felt his blood run cold and his heart sink. It had been a long time since he had felt so unsettled. After flipping a page in his book, Cal looked back up to Henson with the same dead stare.
Cal Killebrew: They might not be able to get to you emotionally and you might have a high threshold for pain but they can and will make you lose yourself in your own weaknesses and trust me, you have a lot of them. Leverage is a three dimensional word and if the wrong people knew what I know about you, they wouldn’t need to break a bone to bring you down.
He returned to his book as Henson regained his composure but failed to regain his strength. His face was as pale as a ghost as he tried to stand to his feet. He slowly made his way to the door again but before he left, he turned to Cal one last time to ask a question that had almost entirely slipped his mind.
K. L. Henson: Who…
Henson took a minute to gather the strength to ask.
K. L. Henson: You said there was a man...someone watching, besides you and I...who is he?
Cal Killebrew: I don’t know but he seemed specifically interested in you. Do you know anyone who would want to follow you?
Henson almost collapsed. He pulled out his phone and looked it over with a sort of torment…
K. L. Henson: Just one...but I don’t know who he is...I think I might be in danger.
Cal Killebrew: We all are. It is just a matter of finding a way into less danger…
Henson turned away and slowly walked out the door with one incredibly heavy thought occupying the fat, squishy, jelly filled computer in his brain. His gut wrenched inside of him for the first time in a long time. He almost felt human in his anxiety. Almost like he felt six years ago.
---(KLH)---
Henson was smiling, obviously in much lighter spirits than earlier. He stood in the empty streets of what appeared to be an old abandoned city in Mexico. Remnants of wooden houses laid crooked or completely demolished and clearly the road had gone years without any sort of maintenance. Henson was just driving around when he discovered it. He was told not to travel too far from the tourists town, but telling him that was like saying “LOOK! There are places you shouldn't go but you should ignore me anyways and go check them out!”...that was what Henson heard anyways. Once he discovered the area, he immediately contacted members of the WCF film crew and offered them a decent sized tip if they would venture the area with him. Fairly predictable people. Money conquers fear and disgust...
He was covered in X's in specific points of his body, some around the neck, cheeks, nose, shoulders, arms, different joints, etc. There was a line of them that lined up straight across his forehead and appeared to go all the way around.
K. L. Henson: I have a pay-per-view match, everyone! I couldn't be more excited! And it's against the surprise contestant of last Slam, John Michaels...After seeing what he said and what he did last week, I can officially say I like him! He seems like a fairly honest man to me. Sure his hobbies differ from mine but I think we have very specific aspects in common that interests me. If we weren't competitors, I would love to have a chat and ask him a few things but alas chaos works in mysterious ways. I guess I will just have to settle with breaking his arms and see how what I can find out about him that way...Hmmm...Everyone reacts a bit differently when their arms are broken, unlike the face. When you break someone's face, they always react the same…
Henson put both of his hands over his face and backed away from the camera to reenact the details of his observation.
K. L. Henson: ‘Oh god! You broke my face! Why the fuck did you break my face?!?’...
He stopped and peaked out between his fingers then let out an anxious laugh before composing himself. He put his hands together in front of his chested and interlocked his fingers, except for his two index fingers. He pointed towards the camera as if addressing the audience in an informative manner.
K. L. Henson: It is from the shock. A person can’t help but react that way. The only variation is sometimes people cry right afterward.
Henson then stretched out his right arm, running his left hand down it and stopping it under the bicep. More X's are revealed on the underside.
K. L. Henson: But when you break the arm...Well, the average person bawls like a bitch. Especially if it comes out of no where. But you would be surprised how many try to remain strong and refuse to scream, specifically in the event of competition.
Henson let his right arm drop and moved his left hand over his throat.
K. L. Henson: Their egos seize their vocal chords and the adrenaline tries to kick in as fast as possible to extinguish the pain. Tears are inevitable but that is the unconscious part of the brain, not a sign of weakness…
He moved his hand away from his throat and put both of them behind his back as is his habit when speaking at length.
K. L. Henson: Breaking arms are a fun way to see if someone is a fake or not. There are plenty of people who put up the facade of being 'the man' as some people would call it; with their chest puffed out, their chin sticking out as well, almost daring someone to hit it, their hands either always in their pockets or always clenched into a fist, and so on. In a fake, this is more of an attempt to divert any trouble that could come his way by creating a bluff he hopes no one will call. If he is the most intimidating looking guy, then no one will bother trying to rough him up. The fake may not even realize he is doing this, he might actually believe he is one tough son of a bitch. It is instinctual, a trait of survival.
But then there is the real deal and no I don’t mean Raymond Hatcher. That man is anything but the real deal. I am speaking of the people with the callous skin, grimy fingernails, greasy disheveled hair and maybe a few scars here and there. The real deal keeps his head low and keeps in the corner because he knows it is stupid to flaunt what he knows he has. The real deal has seen some shit, some crazy shit.
Henson held his arms out in front of him, underside up. Emphasizing the X’s.
K. L. Henson: Wonder what the X's are for? Well, I have gained some anatomy here and there and the X's mark the spot I think I best for breaking parts of the human body. You can use this guide if you want, Mr. Michaels. I already have it memorized so this is really for your benefit in case you have just been snapping people all willy-nilly. Anyways...The moment you snap the bone of a fake, you both learn instantly what kind of person he is. He will cry and beg and call for help as his brain screams at him to escape. But the real deal…He will remain silent like always. Maybe a grunt at most will escape his lips but that is all. Though being tough is not just an on and off state of mind. It is a threshold, a threshold that has a breaking point. If one wants to find how deep the rabbit hole goes, all he has to do is grab the arm with one hand and press down at the fracture point with the other hand and begin moving in two different directions.
Henson mimicked the movement. Describing it in a cool, calm tone as he stared straight into the camera, unflinchingly.
K. L. Henson: At that point there is no shame in screaming. One already proved a good bit when the arm broke. You still lose, but there is no shame in it. Honestly, it is best to just let it out because it isn’t like the malevolent force can be stopped at this point by some sort of savior. It is already too late. No one is coming to save you, you are all alone. You are just encouraging him to go even further if you don’t scream, especially if he is anything like me and then what happens next is all on you.
He once again put his hands behind his back.
K. L. Henson: At that point, most who are left in the category will scream ‘uncle’ when they hear the bone crackle again, on the verge of further damage. But there is still that small percentage that just won’t let go. They will do anything they can just to not give in. They will bite their lip or tongue until they get blood, they will start hitting themselves in the face just to evenly spread the pain, some even have little chants to try and divert their attention. What you do then is just snap it. I mean it, you push with all your might until the bones are no longer connected to each other. Even they will give in by then.
Henson looked off to the side for a moment as he swayed his jaw, contemplating something to himself. He stared out at a shack of a house that remained standing with minimal decay, almost as if it was triumphantly standing tall among the rubble of the town.
K. L. Henson: But I have a funny feeling…
He returned his gaze to the camera,
K. L. Henson: I have a funny feeling, Mr. Micheals, that you might be a one in a million type. I can tell already that you know everything I have said so far is true. But what I am willing to guess is that it is all true except for you. You could have your forearm in a ninety degree angle but you wouldn’t say shit. Hell, if I were to break your arm and then let go, I bet you wouldn’t even try to get away. You would just get to your feet and fight with the one arm that's left. But I want to break your arm just to make sure...Can't hurt me any.
But the reason that I feel that this maybe be the case is because I can tell you are not one to flinch. If there is anything you know in this world, it's pain. It's your business to be familiar with it. More so than most people. It is how you choose to live. It is how you get off. Your world is a series of people receiving or giving pain and you don't care one way or another.
I love it! It is a challenge to see where the damn thing ends and if it doesn't, that is even better! As I said earlier, we are two similar people...in the points that matter anyways. We both seem to be missing a specific part of the brain that most people find rather important. But must not be that important if we've managed to live without it. Have you noticed anything, Mr. Michaels? It is a specific part of the brain that registers right and wrong, bad and good, empathy and tragedy.
To us, the world just is. There are no spirits, God or true divine punishment. We know that when we die, there is nothing to go to. So, why not live while we are alive, am I right? Though our definition of fun are very different.
Henson looked back at the standing house again and after some pondering, decided to walk over to it, the camera followed.
K. L. Henson: ...Now, I have broken a few arms before. When I was first getting into the business, it was something I did to win. It was the easiest way to take out an opponent. If he can’t use his arm, what is he going to win with? Though, I regret not really taking away the valuable information I could have been learning while doing so...But now I have the best possible way to make up for it. I have the real McCoy ready for me. I want to see how far I will have to break you before I break the spirit of you.
Henson reached the house and placed his hand on the wall, feeling over the splinters and rot that ran along the outside. Henson smiled before turning back to the camera.
K. L. Henson: But I have a question for you Mr. Michaels. How did you desensitize yourself to the pain? Did it just happen over time through experience what I assume is a very extraordinary life or did you lock yourself away and beat yourself stupid as you kept repeating to yourself “This doesn't hurt! This doesn't hurt”?
While I secluded myself away in my cabin, I would get into such fits of rage for no reason that I would end up punching walls until my fists bled, even causing my knuckles to break at times. And when that would happen, I would resort to throwing myself against it, whole body. Eventually I came to the thought that pain is not bad. Pain is a good thing. Not enjoyable upon oneself but that it has purpose and if one stops thinking of it as bad then it ceases being torture.
Henson turned toward the house.
K. L. Henson: No matter how you did it, the fact still remains that you did it. And the trouble is how do I defeat someone like that. You see, I could punch away at you...
Henson began punching the wood repeatedly, busting holes into the rot and spreading blood among the splinters. He gave the wall one good elbow at the end but the house continued to stand.
K. L. Henson: But I don't think that would be enough. I could break your arm...maybe even both of them...
Henson backed up a few steps and took a running charge, should first, at the house but only manage to put a dent in it.
K. L. Henson: But even then I think you would keep going...Hmmm...maybe I am looking at it all wrong. Maybe you are too much like me in the sense that the way to take you down is in here.
Turning to the camera, Henson tapped his skull as he grinned mischievously.
K. L. Henson: In the mind. See, to me, at first you seemed infallible. All you care about are your urges and desires. There is no issue of needing to be right, needing people to acknowledge you, needing to be rich and successful. As long as you get to have your fun, you are as content as can be. It gives people less leverage against you. It makes you almost uncrackable, to be honest. But I think your one track mind will curse you. You are a man stuck in a pattern and don't realize it. And that pattern makes you weaker than me by default...
Henson moved over to the door at the front and kicked it in. He stepped inside as the camera watched from outside. There was a bed visible in the corner, dirty yellow sheets with a minimalist wooden frame holding it up. Henson approached it as he pulled out a box of matches and a can of lighter fluid.
K. L. Henson: What will happen if you were to try and break me and I didn't give you the satisfaction of doing so? What if I just refused to stay down, refused to scream, refused to acknowledge any of the pain inflicted upon me. You would feel empty, wouldn't you? Your one prize would be taken away from you. What would that do to you? Would you lose yourself? Would that concentration of yours collapse? Would you be irritated and flustered by not being able to fulfill your urges and start to trip up? I can't say I know for sure.
But what I do know are my limits. I am not like your average opponent; I know my body inside and out and I know for a fact that I can take a beating just as well as you can. I won't say better than you can, but I feel I have the advantage of motivation. Because it isn't about winning for the both of us, is it? It is about what we want...
You see, I don't want to hurt people just because. Unlike you, I don't kill for the fuck of it. Everything I do has a purpose. I am the man who is drawn to find the limits and the fringe of humanity. If someone doesn't scream, it doesn't bother me. What I am after is the information that will make them scream.
Henson lit a match and threw it onto the bed. He gave it a few squirts of lighter fluid, causing the flame to consume the bed that much faster. He stared at the bed for a moment or so before shrugging then threw the can of fluid onto it before exiting the shack. A burst of flames erupted and caught onto the walls. Henson resumed standing where he originally was before entering.
K. L. Henson: See, no matter how I choose to beat you, I will know that I will beat you because I have purpose. I have motivation where you really don't have anything. I need to know things! You could die and what would you care? I need to find the limits! You don't give a shit about anything besides you. So whether I have to destroy your body, or...
Henson stepped further away from the house, causing the camera to back up. As the camera revealed more of the house, it was clearly visible that the roof was now engulfed in flames.
K. L. Henson: Or destroy your from the inside out. I WILL get what I want from you. And even if I somehow lose, I will make sure never be able to enjoy a single pleasure again without thinking about how you failed to break me and so even if I lose, I will have won.
Henson walked out of from as the little house collapsed inwards on itself, sending sparks flying into the air along with a giant cloud of thick black smoke.
Consciousness can create its own problems as well. Mainly questions. ‘Why am I here?’, ‘Is there a purpose?’, ‘what makes the world?’, ‘why do I want to fuck anything that moves?’. It really fouls things up. It is enough to send someone into a panic attack. And as far as most people are concerned, even with all our searching, these questions have yet to be answered.
And beyond that, consciousness is only as useful as you try to make it. Most people are unconscious and don’t know what to make of their life. They just live, fuck up, eat shit and then live some more These are the most predictable of people. But some are very much awake and they are the real chess players. They're the ones that make this game interesting. They come in all different shapes and sizes with all different motives and objectives. If you don’t watch yourself, they will trap you. But then there is polar opposite, the people who actively choose not to live. You have to wonder if they even have sentience at all or if they are just humanoid animals fulfilling the very basics of survival.
K. L. Henson: What a waste to use this one time you have to be alive, to spend it just wanting to get it over with.
Henson was laying on a couch in the back of a dark and almost colorless studio apartment. The furniture was limited to the necessities: with a coffee table that sat in front of the couch, a worn down recliner off to the side, and stacks upon stacks of shelf-less books in a far adjacent corner. No television, no radio, no lamps, no computers. If you want to look at something, there is a window to look out at a decaying town, so enjoy...This was the apartment of a friend of Mr. Henson. This was the apartment of a Mr. Cal Killebrew. A young man Henson met at the cafe where he does his usual people watching.
He had seen him a few times every week around the same time. Cal would come in, keeping his head low as if trying to avoid any onlookers, order a coffee, and then sit down and read. He was a small man. Probably five feet and seven inches at best and was a rather anorexic fellow as his skin was pale, his eyes and cheeks were sunken, and a poor complexion of blotchy skin spots to top it off. He usually wore a grey, torn up trench coat with a matching fedora. Probably to keep his unusual structure hidden as he seemed to hunch over no matter if he was standing or sitting.
Henson perceived him as a man violently stuck in a pattern of open isolation and disconnection. He recognized his own tribulation and loathing in Cal’s mannerisms which almost made him feel sick and convinced him that this man needed to be waken up more so than anyone.
So, Henson got up from where he was sitting and moved over to the table of this lonely stranger. Cal looked up from his book for a quick moment, said nothing, and then returned to his reading. Henson wasn’t offended for he felt he knew exactly what was going through the man’s head as he would soon explain.
K. L. Henson: I know what kind of person you are. You are hiding...hiding from life, from action, from dilemma. You don’t want any part in the commotion. You are so opposed to living that even if someone comes and sits at your table, your spot, your ‘territory’, you won’t do anything as long as they aren’t bothering you.
Henson slapped his hand right down onto the man’s book, forcing him to look him in the eye.
K. L. Henson: Well, I’m bothering you and I want to know what you are going to do about it…
There was a moment of silence before the man named Cal Killebrew started laughing and appeared to really enjoy Henson’s assertiveness.
Cal Killebrew: You’re a bold man...Wrong, but bold.
The voice was quiet and curious but also flat. It took Henson a moment to register the response. It turned out that Mr. Killebrew was an observer, much like Henson. Though his eyes always seemed to be on his book, he was listening the whole time. He explained that eyes weren’t the tool for an area such as the cafe. The ears were the best thing for observations in such a confined space, that people felt safe in a cafe as long as it didn’t seem like anyone was alert and aware of them. As long as he appeared too distracted by his book, they would openly talk and hope that the conversation was too esoteric to understand if anyone did happen to hear them. But Cal was good at putting the pieces together.
By the time Henson had approached him, Cal had figured out that the barista was cheating on her boyfriend with a college football player and that the boyfriend had just found out, a man who always arrived while on his lunch hour was selling trade secrets to another company as well as going through a divorce, a young woman who was sitting in the same spot at the same time almost every day was waiting for a stranger she had met once but lost his number and hoped she would see him again by trying to recreate the moment they met (this was his favorite one) and that Henson was an observer but that he also wasn’t the only one...but we will get to that later.
Henson was very intrigued by this man and would sit with him when they managed to arrive around the same time, and then would spend their time dissecting the surrounding patrons. Which was good fun to Henson but what he was really after was finding out more about Cal. It wasn’t everyday he found someone with such peculiar similarities.
Eventually, through a little questioning and inquiring, he found out that Cal majored in Cultural Anthropology and minored in History. Not well paying degrees to go after but ones that satisfied him. Though Henson had trouble at first trying to get this information, for Cal insisted on being a rather cryptic individual. He would only drop hints and clues throughout the conversation and leave Henson to try and put it together for himself.
Henson also eventually found out that Cal had a heavy interest in psychics and fortune tellers like Nostradamus and Pythia. Not because he believed they had powers but for the fact that there was something else behind it. Something profoundly more logical than magic. He always said he was working his way to becoming a psychic himself by using his fields of study.
Which brings us to Cal’s apartment. Henson decided to drop by after receiving the information about his living quarters through incessantly asking. If he could get a look inside this man’s home, that would be an important sway in this information war. For Henson looked at Killebrew not only as a friend but a competitor as well. But the emptiness just confirmed the man was who he said he was and nothing more.
Dejected, Henson strolled over to the couch and flopped right onto it, laying on his back facing the ceiling. This brings us back to where we last left him. His mind was running through a few different thoughts as Cal proceeded to actually read next to his stack of books which seemed to mainly focus around history, sociology, or psychology. This differed from Henson’s own reading venture as he preferred to read classical literature for he felt there was more real life in them than in analytical texts.
Henson tried a few statements like the earlier one, trying to start a conversation with Cal but Cal seemed rather engrossed into his book. So, Henson laid there in silence for a few minutes before trying one more time to get his peer’s attention. If he didn’t make a reply to this one, Henson would leave and forget about Cal entirely as he can see this man not only lived the life of a watcher but that there was nothing else he did and it was not Henson’s place to interrupt another observer.
Henson sat up, scooted to the edge of his seat and leaned towards Cal with an intense stare. It was time to come right out and ask how much this man knew of his world.
K. L. Henson: Do you even know who I am? I mean properly. Do you know what I do for a living? What my lifestyle is like?
A moment of silence passed as Henson refused to take his eyes off Cal and Cal refused to take his eyes off his book. Henson sighed, stood up, brushed himself off in a symbolic gesture and made his way for the door. He was halfway out when he finally heard a reply in Cal’s usual monotone, disinterested voice.
Cal Killebrew: You are a professional wrestler who disappeared for six years without a trace then all of a sudden, appeared to be working for WCF. You just had your debut and now you are facing John Michaels at the Pay-Per-View…
Henson stopped in his tracks and made an about-face then, with a devilish smirk, returned to the couch. Taking a seat, he crossed one leg over the other and threw his right arm over the back of the couch.
K. L. Henson: Wrestling fan are we?
Cal Killebrew: No. Was just curious one day after you told me your name and decided to do some research. Did you expect any less of me?
Henson shook his head in response as it was rather visible he was enjoying his own dissection.
K. L. Henson: I assume you even went a little further with your research and looked up a few other people from WCF as well, just to make sure you didn’t miss anything.
Cal Killebrew: Just those who relate to you either through matches or interaction through twitter. Katherine Phoenix, Jack Coston, Professor Coach, Raymond Hatcher and John Michaels so far. Felt it was appropriate.
K. L. Henson: Haha! You are good, my friend...Then let me see how much you understand, Oracle of Cleveland. I am facing John Michaels. What say you, Soothsayer! What will the outcome of my match be?
Cal smiled and placed the book down before closing his eyes and crossing his arms…
Cal Killebrew: You are going to lose!
Cal Killebrew opened his eyes, placed his hands on his knees and looked over at Henson who sighed and observed the wallpaper once again…
Cal Killebrew: Upset?
K. L. Henson: A little up front than most psychics, don’t you think?
Cal Killebrew: What do you want? Some cryptic poetry, open to interpretation bullshit?
Killebrew stood up and placed his fingers to his temples as he closed his eyes once again. This time his tone of voice was obvious mockery to the ‘mad scientist’.
Cal Killebrew: I see...angels firebombing the ghettos! They look to make room for the landing of God and his billion feather army. Fiery swords line the hallways, highways and alleyways. Glowing armor blinds the heart with hot rays made from holy biology of skinned heaven beasts. This is not judgement day. It is instead a new form of the most dangerous game.
K. L. Henson: Okay, you can stop, I get it...
Cal Killebrew: Man goes running for his life! Flee! Flee! Flee! for there is no way for him to win. What you see now is a predator that has been waiting millions of years for its prey to build to its peak. Jehovah is not a judge or a protector. He is not a father or a mother. God is an animal! He kills for the fuck of it. As you have said yourself, God is a sociopath.
K. L. Henson: Okay! Jesus Christ, knock it off!
Henson’s face was red as a beet. There was a lot of things he would openly put up with but being mocked wasn't one of them. Cal opened his eyes and glared at Henson with a straight, unapologetic, unironic, unflinching stare. Cal slowly walked over to him and pressed his index and middle fingers right at the middle of Henson’s forehead.
Cal Killebrews: But did you expect anything else from an all powerful being who is infallible no matter what he does? Compassion? Compassion is a trait for those who understand suffering, for those who understand what it is like to be human. There are two kinds of people in this world. People who suffer together and those who suffer alone. All love and sympathy comes from the former of the two, while all evil spawns from either the latter or from the lack of any suffering at all -- which is only a factor for Gods.
There was nothing in Cal’s eyes as far as Henson could see. This man had no tastes for anything and no love for anyone. A void stared back at Henson. A dead man who had yet to be told his time of passing. His finger dropped from Henson’s forehead as he moved back over to his spot by the stack, took a seat and then resumed reading. Henson felt his blood run cold and his heart sink. It had been a long time since he had felt so unsettled. After flipping a page in his book, Cal looked back up to Henson with the same dead stare.
Cal Killebrew: They might not be able to get to you emotionally and you might have a high threshold for pain but they can and will make you lose yourself in your own weaknesses and trust me, you have a lot of them. Leverage is a three dimensional word and if the wrong people knew what I know about you, they wouldn’t need to break a bone to bring you down.
He returned to his book as Henson regained his composure but failed to regain his strength. His face was as pale as a ghost as he tried to stand to his feet. He slowly made his way to the door again but before he left, he turned to Cal one last time to ask a question that had almost entirely slipped his mind.
K. L. Henson: Who…
Henson took a minute to gather the strength to ask.
K. L. Henson: You said there was a man...someone watching, besides you and I...who is he?
Cal Killebrew: I don’t know but he seemed specifically interested in you. Do you know anyone who would want to follow you?
Henson almost collapsed. He pulled out his phone and looked it over with a sort of torment…
K. L. Henson: Just one...but I don’t know who he is...I think I might be in danger.
Cal Killebrew: We all are. It is just a matter of finding a way into less danger…
Henson turned away and slowly walked out the door with one incredibly heavy thought occupying the fat, squishy, jelly filled computer in his brain. His gut wrenched inside of him for the first time in a long time. He almost felt human in his anxiety. Almost like he felt six years ago.
---(KLH)---
Henson was smiling, obviously in much lighter spirits than earlier. He stood in the empty streets of what appeared to be an old abandoned city in Mexico. Remnants of wooden houses laid crooked or completely demolished and clearly the road had gone years without any sort of maintenance. Henson was just driving around when he discovered it. He was told not to travel too far from the tourists town, but telling him that was like saying “LOOK! There are places you shouldn't go but you should ignore me anyways and go check them out!”...that was what Henson heard anyways. Once he discovered the area, he immediately contacted members of the WCF film crew and offered them a decent sized tip if they would venture the area with him. Fairly predictable people. Money conquers fear and disgust...
He was covered in X's in specific points of his body, some around the neck, cheeks, nose, shoulders, arms, different joints, etc. There was a line of them that lined up straight across his forehead and appeared to go all the way around.
K. L. Henson: I have a pay-per-view match, everyone! I couldn't be more excited! And it's against the surprise contestant of last Slam, John Michaels...After seeing what he said and what he did last week, I can officially say I like him! He seems like a fairly honest man to me. Sure his hobbies differ from mine but I think we have very specific aspects in common that interests me. If we weren't competitors, I would love to have a chat and ask him a few things but alas chaos works in mysterious ways. I guess I will just have to settle with breaking his arms and see how what I can find out about him that way...Hmmm...Everyone reacts a bit differently when their arms are broken, unlike the face. When you break someone's face, they always react the same…
Henson put both of his hands over his face and backed away from the camera to reenact the details of his observation.
K. L. Henson: ‘Oh god! You broke my face! Why the fuck did you break my face?!?’...
He stopped and peaked out between his fingers then let out an anxious laugh before composing himself. He put his hands together in front of his chested and interlocked his fingers, except for his two index fingers. He pointed towards the camera as if addressing the audience in an informative manner.
K. L. Henson: It is from the shock. A person can’t help but react that way. The only variation is sometimes people cry right afterward.
Henson then stretched out his right arm, running his left hand down it and stopping it under the bicep. More X's are revealed on the underside.
K. L. Henson: But when you break the arm...Well, the average person bawls like a bitch. Especially if it comes out of no where. But you would be surprised how many try to remain strong and refuse to scream, specifically in the event of competition.
Henson let his right arm drop and moved his left hand over his throat.
K. L. Henson: Their egos seize their vocal chords and the adrenaline tries to kick in as fast as possible to extinguish the pain. Tears are inevitable but that is the unconscious part of the brain, not a sign of weakness…
He moved his hand away from his throat and put both of them behind his back as is his habit when speaking at length.
K. L. Henson: Breaking arms are a fun way to see if someone is a fake or not. There are plenty of people who put up the facade of being 'the man' as some people would call it; with their chest puffed out, their chin sticking out as well, almost daring someone to hit it, their hands either always in their pockets or always clenched into a fist, and so on. In a fake, this is more of an attempt to divert any trouble that could come his way by creating a bluff he hopes no one will call. If he is the most intimidating looking guy, then no one will bother trying to rough him up. The fake may not even realize he is doing this, he might actually believe he is one tough son of a bitch. It is instinctual, a trait of survival.
But then there is the real deal and no I don’t mean Raymond Hatcher. That man is anything but the real deal. I am speaking of the people with the callous skin, grimy fingernails, greasy disheveled hair and maybe a few scars here and there. The real deal keeps his head low and keeps in the corner because he knows it is stupid to flaunt what he knows he has. The real deal has seen some shit, some crazy shit.
Henson held his arms out in front of him, underside up. Emphasizing the X’s.
K. L. Henson: Wonder what the X's are for? Well, I have gained some anatomy here and there and the X's mark the spot I think I best for breaking parts of the human body. You can use this guide if you want, Mr. Michaels. I already have it memorized so this is really for your benefit in case you have just been snapping people all willy-nilly. Anyways...The moment you snap the bone of a fake, you both learn instantly what kind of person he is. He will cry and beg and call for help as his brain screams at him to escape. But the real deal…He will remain silent like always. Maybe a grunt at most will escape his lips but that is all. Though being tough is not just an on and off state of mind. It is a threshold, a threshold that has a breaking point. If one wants to find how deep the rabbit hole goes, all he has to do is grab the arm with one hand and press down at the fracture point with the other hand and begin moving in two different directions.
Henson mimicked the movement. Describing it in a cool, calm tone as he stared straight into the camera, unflinchingly.
K. L. Henson: At that point there is no shame in screaming. One already proved a good bit when the arm broke. You still lose, but there is no shame in it. Honestly, it is best to just let it out because it isn’t like the malevolent force can be stopped at this point by some sort of savior. It is already too late. No one is coming to save you, you are all alone. You are just encouraging him to go even further if you don’t scream, especially if he is anything like me and then what happens next is all on you.
He once again put his hands behind his back.
K. L. Henson: At that point, most who are left in the category will scream ‘uncle’ when they hear the bone crackle again, on the verge of further damage. But there is still that small percentage that just won’t let go. They will do anything they can just to not give in. They will bite their lip or tongue until they get blood, they will start hitting themselves in the face just to evenly spread the pain, some even have little chants to try and divert their attention. What you do then is just snap it. I mean it, you push with all your might until the bones are no longer connected to each other. Even they will give in by then.
Henson looked off to the side for a moment as he swayed his jaw, contemplating something to himself. He stared out at a shack of a house that remained standing with minimal decay, almost as if it was triumphantly standing tall among the rubble of the town.
K. L. Henson: But I have a funny feeling…
He returned his gaze to the camera,
K. L. Henson: I have a funny feeling, Mr. Micheals, that you might be a one in a million type. I can tell already that you know everything I have said so far is true. But what I am willing to guess is that it is all true except for you. You could have your forearm in a ninety degree angle but you wouldn’t say shit. Hell, if I were to break your arm and then let go, I bet you wouldn’t even try to get away. You would just get to your feet and fight with the one arm that's left. But I want to break your arm just to make sure...Can't hurt me any.
But the reason that I feel that this maybe be the case is because I can tell you are not one to flinch. If there is anything you know in this world, it's pain. It's your business to be familiar with it. More so than most people. It is how you choose to live. It is how you get off. Your world is a series of people receiving or giving pain and you don't care one way or another.
I love it! It is a challenge to see where the damn thing ends and if it doesn't, that is even better! As I said earlier, we are two similar people...in the points that matter anyways. We both seem to be missing a specific part of the brain that most people find rather important. But must not be that important if we've managed to live without it. Have you noticed anything, Mr. Michaels? It is a specific part of the brain that registers right and wrong, bad and good, empathy and tragedy.
To us, the world just is. There are no spirits, God or true divine punishment. We know that when we die, there is nothing to go to. So, why not live while we are alive, am I right? Though our definition of fun are very different.
Henson looked back at the standing house again and after some pondering, decided to walk over to it, the camera followed.
K. L. Henson: ...Now, I have broken a few arms before. When I was first getting into the business, it was something I did to win. It was the easiest way to take out an opponent. If he can’t use his arm, what is he going to win with? Though, I regret not really taking away the valuable information I could have been learning while doing so...But now I have the best possible way to make up for it. I have the real McCoy ready for me. I want to see how far I will have to break you before I break the spirit of you.
Henson reached the house and placed his hand on the wall, feeling over the splinters and rot that ran along the outside. Henson smiled before turning back to the camera.
K. L. Henson: But I have a question for you Mr. Michaels. How did you desensitize yourself to the pain? Did it just happen over time through experience what I assume is a very extraordinary life or did you lock yourself away and beat yourself stupid as you kept repeating to yourself “This doesn't hurt! This doesn't hurt”?
While I secluded myself away in my cabin, I would get into such fits of rage for no reason that I would end up punching walls until my fists bled, even causing my knuckles to break at times. And when that would happen, I would resort to throwing myself against it, whole body. Eventually I came to the thought that pain is not bad. Pain is a good thing. Not enjoyable upon oneself but that it has purpose and if one stops thinking of it as bad then it ceases being torture.
Henson turned toward the house.
K. L. Henson: No matter how you did it, the fact still remains that you did it. And the trouble is how do I defeat someone like that. You see, I could punch away at you...
Henson began punching the wood repeatedly, busting holes into the rot and spreading blood among the splinters. He gave the wall one good elbow at the end but the house continued to stand.
K. L. Henson: But I don't think that would be enough. I could break your arm...maybe even both of them...
Henson backed up a few steps and took a running charge, should first, at the house but only manage to put a dent in it.
K. L. Henson: But even then I think you would keep going...Hmmm...maybe I am looking at it all wrong. Maybe you are too much like me in the sense that the way to take you down is in here.
Turning to the camera, Henson tapped his skull as he grinned mischievously.
K. L. Henson: In the mind. See, to me, at first you seemed infallible. All you care about are your urges and desires. There is no issue of needing to be right, needing people to acknowledge you, needing to be rich and successful. As long as you get to have your fun, you are as content as can be. It gives people less leverage against you. It makes you almost uncrackable, to be honest. But I think your one track mind will curse you. You are a man stuck in a pattern and don't realize it. And that pattern makes you weaker than me by default...
Henson moved over to the door at the front and kicked it in. He stepped inside as the camera watched from outside. There was a bed visible in the corner, dirty yellow sheets with a minimalist wooden frame holding it up. Henson approached it as he pulled out a box of matches and a can of lighter fluid.
K. L. Henson: What will happen if you were to try and break me and I didn't give you the satisfaction of doing so? What if I just refused to stay down, refused to scream, refused to acknowledge any of the pain inflicted upon me. You would feel empty, wouldn't you? Your one prize would be taken away from you. What would that do to you? Would you lose yourself? Would that concentration of yours collapse? Would you be irritated and flustered by not being able to fulfill your urges and start to trip up? I can't say I know for sure.
But what I do know are my limits. I am not like your average opponent; I know my body inside and out and I know for a fact that I can take a beating just as well as you can. I won't say better than you can, but I feel I have the advantage of motivation. Because it isn't about winning for the both of us, is it? It is about what we want...
You see, I don't want to hurt people just because. Unlike you, I don't kill for the fuck of it. Everything I do has a purpose. I am the man who is drawn to find the limits and the fringe of humanity. If someone doesn't scream, it doesn't bother me. What I am after is the information that will make them scream.
Henson lit a match and threw it onto the bed. He gave it a few squirts of lighter fluid, causing the flame to consume the bed that much faster. He stared at the bed for a moment or so before shrugging then threw the can of fluid onto it before exiting the shack. A burst of flames erupted and caught onto the walls. Henson resumed standing where he originally was before entering.
K. L. Henson: See, no matter how I choose to beat you, I will know that I will beat you because I have purpose. I have motivation where you really don't have anything. I need to know things! You could die and what would you care? I need to find the limits! You don't give a shit about anything besides you. So whether I have to destroy your body, or...
Henson stepped further away from the house, causing the camera to back up. As the camera revealed more of the house, it was clearly visible that the roof was now engulfed in flames.
K. L. Henson: Or destroy your from the inside out. I WILL get what I want from you. And even if I somehow lose, I will make sure never be able to enjoy a single pleasure again without thinking about how you failed to break me and so even if I lose, I will have won.
Henson walked out of from as the little house collapsed inwards on itself, sending sparks flying into the air along with a giant cloud of thick black smoke.
