Post by Jack of Blades on Jan 27, 2007 19:21:10 GMT -5
This has to be the most surreal moment of my lifetime. And that for someone who in the past eight months has introduced a sexual nuisance to the mainstream, tortured an anorexic, had his face burnt-off, won multiple accolades for his achievements in a world often derided for its comicality, attended the delayed and wholly bizarre funeral for an illegal immigrant, sold an aborted embryo, prevented an international conglomerate from taking over my roster and dabbled with both sanity and its opposite, that is a statement of considerable purpose. And thus, all that is left is for me to remain stationary until the whore arrives.
Passing through the halls on my way to her room was a rather odd attack on the sensory perception of one Mr. Blades. Japanese business men being whipped, forty-year-old-virgins simply talking with their 'first' at premium rate, screams of 'Auntie, don't stop' pigmenting the general levels of normality. The rooms of iniquity each explaining a story of inadequacy and retaliation. And yet, there is some comfort in my ego that for once I am not the most fucked up person in this place.
The receptionist was nice enough about it if a little concerned of why someone of my appearance and vocabulary took it upon themselves to credit sexual intercourse with a wage. She explained it that I must be one of those people who want a 'special' or that I talk all women into a state of consummate befuddlement. Either way, when I told her who I wanted to see she was placated in terms of her ponderousness. Plus, she charged me an extended fee. Apparently, my girl has made herself a nice little income by sitting on the faces of adulterous spouses. I'm sure they don't pay her extra for the smile. My smile.
It was of relative ease to someone of my abilities to find her. Whether it be visiting that pisswater appartment complex we used to frequent to finding the exact dwelling of the carnal she found herself in. Note to me, it was of magnificent glory seeing that former roommate of mine cower in a corner as I strolled past, still bearing the scars of our most prior interaction, ha. I later learned that she had progressed from the place with the use of a close neighbour and that move I was taught in the Japanese tour after some 'broken heart.' I never had any attention of breaking her heart, in fact, it was rather to the contradictory.
The air smells of that cheap scent of candles obviously used to envelop her humiliation and the clientele's conquest. It matters little. At least, I know that there has been some activity within her. Some activity that has further driven her on the path that I proposed. The guidance that I tacked onto her with all the resolve and sinister obliqueness of a cultist on Xanex. I know she has been keeping up the schedule of degradation and iron solipsism that I set upon her. The candles tell me this.
The door rattles one way before finding its place in the other. Outsteps a confident, dashing caricature obfuscating from the shallow, uncomfortable misanthrope that really stands. Without even looking at her prospective punter, she moves away to the side of the enseamed duvet and lights those candles. She lights them in precision before reaching the embedded card.
"Tell me a joke", she asks still reserving all heed from my being.
"What do you tell a woman with two black eyes?"
"You've told me this before," she interrupts with a surprising monotone.
"It's actually nothing you haven't told her twice already but I'll give you that out of pity."
I crane my neck to the right avoiding the candle-cum-projectile that is propelling itself towards me after leaving her slugger-like pitch.
"Hello, dear."
"You bastard."
"Clown...Why doesn't anyone ever remember to connect its adjacency pair?"
"Oh, I know about the bastard and the 'bastard clown.' I did my research. Why don't we have a conversation?"
"Oh no, I'm not one of those impotent whelps. If you actually look down at my groinal area, you will see what can only be considered a 'raging erection.'"
She pulls out the slinky that had been used to emulate the rush of blood to the masculine organ. She throws it away. Without a smile.
"Jack Blaine Nolan, a professional wrestler by vocation but also fancies himself as a bit of a comedian. Originally wrestled as 'Johnny Mutation' until his history of mental anguish caught up with him and had a 'psychotic epiphany.'--"
She quotes me. I am tre impressed.
"Began calling himself 'Jack of Blades' and turned his career around. Developed a degree of acclaim that led to a temporary contract with the Wrestling Championship Federation. In his early months, he took great enthusiasm in torturing an urchin of a girl before relapsing back into sanity. There he met a prissy secretary and warped her into what you see today. Should I continue or is there anything you'd like to add?"
"Sarah isn't a fitting name for a courtesan."
"You know full well what they call me. You have your stage name, Nolan."
I should snap her in half for saying that. I don't. I need her.
"Euphoria. Have you honestly felt that much happiness that the term 'hyperbole' is imperceptible to your ecstaticism?"
"I'm called that. I'm known as that because that's what I give my customers."
"Customers? You make it seem as if your vagina is a grocers."
She slaps me across my cheek causing my face to immediately revert back into its neutral position of staring at her. I should be smiling like all those fictional sociopaths do in cinema. But I don't. A small salvo of laughter permeates from her.
"So, why are you here? Are you finally willing to give me what I wanted all those months ago?" she purrs bending her body over the posters of the bed.
"That depends. How much are you willing to give me for my services?" She punches her fist into my left pectoral with a duality about it playfully protecting herself from my advances and trying to indicate to me that her part is worthy of no civility. The funny thing is that it almost makes me feel my heart. And not in a biological fashion where her impacting blow makes the organ constructed from four valves that drives blood flow across the body, which in turn drives oxygen to necessary deficiencies, skip a beat. I mean the metaphorical, gooey emotional expression of infatuation. I feel like slicing my small intestine out of my chest and spilling it onto the stained carpet in protest.
"Look. As much as I enjoy this spontaneous appearance of yours, how did you find me?"
I tell her that I checked our old haunts. Found some associates. Progressively tracked her movements like a fox with a scent. She nods and tells me that she feels I should leave. That my presence only enhances the unsavoury flavour of this perverted realm. I fall into the chair I was sitting on prior to her entry. She has delivered a blow of greater intensity than anyone of my legal competitors have managed to achieve.
I tell her the truth. The truth that I refused to admit to. Even to the own nexus of consciousness where I defuse and debate the nuances of existences I see each moment. "I have not visited that place since I left. I haven't seen Jake's scars or the worsening of them by improper plastic surgery. The point is, is that even as I decried the cruelty of the universe and added to it under the moniker of 'Jack of Blades', I kept vision of you. Part of my contract was that they had to keep watch of you, notify me of their activities. And I took as great an interest in you as I did with any of my foils. I observed your decisions with as much veracity as I did to my competitors."
I find myself holding onto her hands, running my own fingers down her slender, thin digits and down past her darkly polished nails. She stares at me with lubricated eyes before drawing herself close to my ear. Whispering gently into my ear and over-emphasizing the use of the tongue, a trick I assume she learnt in her newest venture, she begins to commit.
"Half a year ago, I feel in love with a shy, improbably unlucky introvert who in turn, showed some affection toward me. But that is not you anymore and it won't be. Not until the next crisis affects your mental boundaries. Until your next muse is dispelled by another source, until you find yourself bored with your tired attempts at comedy, you won't be him. And when that moment finally happens, where you are amicable and socially ok to walk around in the streets, you'll know that I've changed. That I don't fit you anymore because of what you've done."
I draw her closer by her naked shoulders. She tries to fight the pull but it seems more of a struggle of temptation as opposed to resistance. I see myself infecting her with my sardonicism and Dadaism.
"Last year, you fell for a defunct pariah with improbable misfortune and all the prospects of the Bengalese tiger in fifty years. And I'll admit that maybe he fell for you. But now, now you're standing in the embrace of the ultimate evolution of the average man. A soon-to-be social uptake of fed up everymen and protracted failures. And I know, like you say, that there has been an intrinsic and irrevocable change in you that I invoked, but I also know that you have that lust to see his outlook further. To fully understand the working of my evolution and to revel in it?" I brush her hair out of her eye-line for dramatic effect. "So shall we go, get some gellato?"
She pants heavily in my ear. Vexed by my presumptions and ferocity, she doesn't take the bate. That is until she gently starts kissing and massaging the worn scars on my neck before drawing her eyes to meet my own. And, as I look into them, I finally see my mirror. My beautiful 'Dysphoria' allowing me to parallel the capital cruelties that the world has branded onto her. But more, the utter, pregnant realizations that I have brought to her and cause her to wish for blindness. And I know that the Jack finally has a Queen. And I know, that if, when the title is worn by me, I won't find that glimmer of hope that will bring a resolved, placated Blades. I know that in seeing the horrors of averageness that I have brought upon her, my actions, the carnage I will instigate will continue and be of both qualitatively and causatively greater. And with that, we both find our smiles...
Passing through the halls on my way to her room was a rather odd attack on the sensory perception of one Mr. Blades. Japanese business men being whipped, forty-year-old-virgins simply talking with their 'first' at premium rate, screams of 'Auntie, don't stop' pigmenting the general levels of normality. The rooms of iniquity each explaining a story of inadequacy and retaliation. And yet, there is some comfort in my ego that for once I am not the most fucked up person in this place.
The receptionist was nice enough about it if a little concerned of why someone of my appearance and vocabulary took it upon themselves to credit sexual intercourse with a wage. She explained it that I must be one of those people who want a 'special' or that I talk all women into a state of consummate befuddlement. Either way, when I told her who I wanted to see she was placated in terms of her ponderousness. Plus, she charged me an extended fee. Apparently, my girl has made herself a nice little income by sitting on the faces of adulterous spouses. I'm sure they don't pay her extra for the smile. My smile.
It was of relative ease to someone of my abilities to find her. Whether it be visiting that pisswater appartment complex we used to frequent to finding the exact dwelling of the carnal she found herself in. Note to me, it was of magnificent glory seeing that former roommate of mine cower in a corner as I strolled past, still bearing the scars of our most prior interaction, ha. I later learned that she had progressed from the place with the use of a close neighbour and that move I was taught in the Japanese tour after some 'broken heart.' I never had any attention of breaking her heart, in fact, it was rather to the contradictory.
The air smells of that cheap scent of candles obviously used to envelop her humiliation and the clientele's conquest. It matters little. At least, I know that there has been some activity within her. Some activity that has further driven her on the path that I proposed. The guidance that I tacked onto her with all the resolve and sinister obliqueness of a cultist on Xanex. I know she has been keeping up the schedule of degradation and iron solipsism that I set upon her. The candles tell me this.
The door rattles one way before finding its place in the other. Outsteps a confident, dashing caricature obfuscating from the shallow, uncomfortable misanthrope that really stands. Without even looking at her prospective punter, she moves away to the side of the enseamed duvet and lights those candles. She lights them in precision before reaching the embedded card.
"Tell me a joke", she asks still reserving all heed from my being.
"What do you tell a woman with two black eyes?"
"You've told me this before," she interrupts with a surprising monotone.
"It's actually nothing you haven't told her twice already but I'll give you that out of pity."
I crane my neck to the right avoiding the candle-cum-projectile that is propelling itself towards me after leaving her slugger-like pitch.
"Hello, dear."
"You bastard."
"Clown...Why doesn't anyone ever remember to connect its adjacency pair?"
"Oh, I know about the bastard and the 'bastard clown.' I did my research. Why don't we have a conversation?"
"Oh no, I'm not one of those impotent whelps. If you actually look down at my groinal area, you will see what can only be considered a 'raging erection.'"
She pulls out the slinky that had been used to emulate the rush of blood to the masculine organ. She throws it away. Without a smile.
"Jack Blaine Nolan, a professional wrestler by vocation but also fancies himself as a bit of a comedian. Originally wrestled as 'Johnny Mutation' until his history of mental anguish caught up with him and had a 'psychotic epiphany.'--"
She quotes me. I am tre impressed.
"Began calling himself 'Jack of Blades' and turned his career around. Developed a degree of acclaim that led to a temporary contract with the Wrestling Championship Federation. In his early months, he took great enthusiasm in torturing an urchin of a girl before relapsing back into sanity. There he met a prissy secretary and warped her into what you see today. Should I continue or is there anything you'd like to add?"
"Sarah isn't a fitting name for a courtesan."
"You know full well what they call me. You have your stage name, Nolan."
I should snap her in half for saying that. I don't. I need her.
"Euphoria. Have you honestly felt that much happiness that the term 'hyperbole' is imperceptible to your ecstaticism?"
"I'm called that. I'm known as that because that's what I give my customers."
"Customers? You make it seem as if your vagina is a grocers."
She slaps me across my cheek causing my face to immediately revert back into its neutral position of staring at her. I should be smiling like all those fictional sociopaths do in cinema. But I don't. A small salvo of laughter permeates from her.
"So, why are you here? Are you finally willing to give me what I wanted all those months ago?" she purrs bending her body over the posters of the bed.
"That depends. How much are you willing to give me for my services?" She punches her fist into my left pectoral with a duality about it playfully protecting herself from my advances and trying to indicate to me that her part is worthy of no civility. The funny thing is that it almost makes me feel my heart. And not in a biological fashion where her impacting blow makes the organ constructed from four valves that drives blood flow across the body, which in turn drives oxygen to necessary deficiencies, skip a beat. I mean the metaphorical, gooey emotional expression of infatuation. I feel like slicing my small intestine out of my chest and spilling it onto the stained carpet in protest.
"Look. As much as I enjoy this spontaneous appearance of yours, how did you find me?"
I tell her that I checked our old haunts. Found some associates. Progressively tracked her movements like a fox with a scent. She nods and tells me that she feels I should leave. That my presence only enhances the unsavoury flavour of this perverted realm. I fall into the chair I was sitting on prior to her entry. She has delivered a blow of greater intensity than anyone of my legal competitors have managed to achieve.
I tell her the truth. The truth that I refused to admit to. Even to the own nexus of consciousness where I defuse and debate the nuances of existences I see each moment. "I have not visited that place since I left. I haven't seen Jake's scars or the worsening of them by improper plastic surgery. The point is, is that even as I decried the cruelty of the universe and added to it under the moniker of 'Jack of Blades', I kept vision of you. Part of my contract was that they had to keep watch of you, notify me of their activities. And I took as great an interest in you as I did with any of my foils. I observed your decisions with as much veracity as I did to my competitors."
I find myself holding onto her hands, running my own fingers down her slender, thin digits and down past her darkly polished nails. She stares at me with lubricated eyes before drawing herself close to my ear. Whispering gently into my ear and over-emphasizing the use of the tongue, a trick I assume she learnt in her newest venture, she begins to commit.
"Half a year ago, I feel in love with a shy, improbably unlucky introvert who in turn, showed some affection toward me. But that is not you anymore and it won't be. Not until the next crisis affects your mental boundaries. Until your next muse is dispelled by another source, until you find yourself bored with your tired attempts at comedy, you won't be him. And when that moment finally happens, where you are amicable and socially ok to walk around in the streets, you'll know that I've changed. That I don't fit you anymore because of what you've done."
I draw her closer by her naked shoulders. She tries to fight the pull but it seems more of a struggle of temptation as opposed to resistance. I see myself infecting her with my sardonicism and Dadaism.
"Last year, you fell for a defunct pariah with improbable misfortune and all the prospects of the Bengalese tiger in fifty years. And I'll admit that maybe he fell for you. But now, now you're standing in the embrace of the ultimate evolution of the average man. A soon-to-be social uptake of fed up everymen and protracted failures. And I know, like you say, that there has been an intrinsic and irrevocable change in you that I invoked, but I also know that you have that lust to see his outlook further. To fully understand the working of my evolution and to revel in it?" I brush her hair out of her eye-line for dramatic effect. "So shall we go, get some gellato?"
She pants heavily in my ear. Vexed by my presumptions and ferocity, she doesn't take the bate. That is until she gently starts kissing and massaging the worn scars on my neck before drawing her eyes to meet my own. And, as I look into them, I finally see my mirror. My beautiful 'Dysphoria' allowing me to parallel the capital cruelties that the world has branded onto her. But more, the utter, pregnant realizations that I have brought to her and cause her to wish for blindness. And I know that the Jack finally has a Queen. And I know, that if, when the title is worn by me, I won't find that glimmer of hope that will bring a resolved, placated Blades. I know that in seeing the horrors of averageness that I have brought upon her, my actions, the carnage I will instigate will continue and be of both qualitatively and causatively greater. And with that, we both find our smiles...
