Post by Jack "The Crack" Schlongson on Aug 21, 2016 13:38:44 GMT -6
"Argh" he exclaims, "we be takin' that booty!" Richard "Dick" is decked out in the cheapest of Party City pirate rags that money could buy, filling out the clothes with all the authenticity of a Dub Step Beethoven remix. I watch in passive resentment as he stands over me, slipping ungracefully into his portrayal of Long Schlong Silver: the Ass Ravager of the Seven Seas. The handheld peers up from my position as the obnoxious camera man tries to capture the 'daunting' presence of the Halloween-esque Pirate watch yourself you little shit, you clock me with that camcorder, I will bash it against your teeth. Peering down at me and the one eyed electric beast, Richard grits his teeth and proceeds to make underwhelming pirate noises. No nuance. No style. Richard is a marvel of poor acting. The camera pulls away, revealing the two of us upon a shipwreck of a set (both in concept and in design). Richard pulls my legs onto his shoulders.
To feel nothing aside from the physical contact in the act can be a blessing at work. Muscle memory takes over and it becomes an automated system of responses and reactions, the recurring shadow of a million performances coming to life in place of conscious movement. Oh yes, babe, give it to me. The backdrop is of no consequence as the words rarely change. Just like that, mmm, feels so good. It is all just the part of a bigger piece of work that is the porn culture, a reiterating cycle which echoes back on itself as we use the same positions, techniques, and stories of those before us, with only the evolutionary mutation of modernization altering it ever-so-slightly, but at its base, it all breaks down into the same movement man has relied on for years; back and forth, back and forth, thrust, release, empty shallowness and shame. That's right, cover me, I love it.
As far as directing debuts go in our world of repetition, Bran's "Land Ho and Sea Men" was Par-For-The-Course, the average swing, a push for the familiar if there ever was one; a target which Bran aims for gleefully. Resembling his demeanor in every facet, the production is as straight forward as one would imagine, showcasing a level of hollowness I once only thought capable of lawyers and accountants. Oh dear, sweet, simple Bran; how you look at opportunity with a shrug. To you business is business and business was Eh.
Crack, its just a typical production, I'm not gonna bother going out of my way for this.
Bran, deary, this is your step forward. Why not seize it by the dick? We could make this so much more interesting than a couple of cheap nautical jokes. Could make this an actual production.
We don't have enough time for that.
Seijun Suzuki could shoot a movie with ten days of pre-production, twenty five days of shooting, and three days of post-production!
We're behind as is.
Demand more time!
No.
This can be yo-
Crack, I know you mean well, but I have no real money on this winning awards. I ain't no Scorsese or Tarantino. The director gig gets me some extra beer money and helps pay rent, that's all, buddy.
I just think all it would take is a little more work and it doesn't even have to be Shawshank Redemption, just interesting enough to catch some eyes.
Then you produce one of these things when you get the chance, with YOUR crew, and YOUR neck on the chopping block. I'mma just do what the producers tell me. We're about to shoot, Crack, so please just work with me and get your costume on.
Bran knows I couldn't direct, not with how I lead my life. I'm wearing myself thin as is. Wrestling, porn, travel, Jeff, sleep. Wrestling, porn, travel, Jeff, sleep. Wrestling, porn, travel, Jeff, sleep. A routine I risk pulling my hair out over on a daily basis. And with Thor Balfore looming over like an ungodly monolith of grief, the best I can do is direct my friends to direct better pictures; alas, the trials of being the artist among humans.
With the completion of my scenes as the coyly credited 'Castaway', I retire momentarily to the bathroom to change out of my clothes and gain a moment of peace. With the stripping of dirty and stained clothing, I drain away from the busy body of Jack Schlongson and obtain the rights to be the tired Peter Fitts which must re-enter the world of familiar boundaries and traditional standards with each night comes a persona death, birthed to another self, who will then die again when past songs come a-calling.
I dwell in a limbo-esque existence as my solitude in the bathroom becomes a fortress of ambient echoes and dense reverberations. With no immediate distractions, I breathe deep with a mantra of personal morale: inhale positivity, exhale negativity. In... out... in... out... This is a time of in between, where nothing immediate can occur and I am without obligation or duty, I simply am. However, in the absence of a train of thought, two names begin to fill my mind with static; Jeff and Thor Balfore. Both creep in at the faintest of suggestions and seize hold, clawing for more ground and attention until I submit my consciousness to the relevancy of both their existences; one warm, the other bitter.
Jeff, the shinning example of a...
With a loud bang, my thoughts scatter as someone enters the bathroom, invading my isolation, driving me out of my own mind and into the present. I resent the interruption and immediately direct my frustration at whatever soul unwittingly made his way in. I hear the door to the stall next to me open and close as I sit in silence, hoping that the mystery intruder will complete his business and be on his way.
"That you in there, Petey?"
"We have a rule about talking in the bathroom, Richard."
There is a pause. I press my temple against the cold steel of the stall walls, feeling my attempts to avoid a headache growing increasingly in vain.
"...not to?" Richard responds cautiously.
"Very good. Now, if you wouldn't mind, hun..."
"Oh, I don't mind, you can talk all you want."
"I wasn't...never mind."
"Whats got up your ass today, Petey? I mean, besides me."
"As always your tastelessness is unbound by the laws of man."
"Not sure what that all means, but sounds impressive."
"I'm leaving."
"Bran said you were kinda bein' a cunt today before shooting. You get bit in the dick earlier? Happened to me once. I was working on this one movie..."
Note to self, find Dearest Bran, and politely murder him. I'm damn near tempted to bash my head against the tiled wall behind me as Richard continues. To be a subtle soul surrounded by unknowing individuals, to have nuance in the heart and twists in the gut, its a curse all its own. To explain the darting thoughts pulsing through me would be met with a frightening silence from the other side, but this separation between them and I has proven an insurmountable obstacle. I stand from my seat and exit the stall.
"...And he says it was an accident, but saying so don't make the teeth marks go away."
I continue my way out of the bathroom, leaving my more oblivious compatriot to his own devices. Making my way through the scene of the next disaster looking to hit restricted DVD store shelves and locked cabinets, I see Bran in my periphery. My fists clench and I bite my tongue, hoping to strike him with my refusal to acknowledge him as I pass him by.
Don't even look at him, Peter.
We'll see how he likes it to have his feelings ignored.
Just walk past him and move right on out that door.
"See ya, Crack." he says as he packs up equipment. I stop in place, my face turning red while my continued attempts to keep my breathing regulated is disregarded.
"So, I'm being a cunt?!" I scream at him.
Bran sighs. "In retrospect, telling Dick anything is kind of a bad idea. Not sure why I did that," he looks up from gathering wires.
"Yeah, am I a bit fucking hard to work with at times?" spitting the rhetorical question, I can feel eyes start to center on us, but I remain undeterred, "Yeah, I know I am, big fucking woopty-doo, you raging ass!"
"Crack, just cal-"
"No! I'm not gonna calm down. I come to work each day, both here and at UCI, and do my best, but guess it seems I can't find respect anywhere!" Richard walks out of the bathroom, realizing I had left him mid-story, and joins the watching crowd. I try not to take notice as I can see Bran is embarrassed by the spectacle, "Maybe I'm being such a CUNT, because I've got a bitch of a match coming up. Ever think of that? If I'm being difficult, its because I've gotta spend a little extra brain power trying to figure out my strategy against the big retarded lug Thor Balfore instead of focusing on HOW I'M GETTING FUCKED IN THE ASS TODAY!"
"You're facing Thor? Saw a picture of that guy last night. That fucker is gigantic." Bran's casual response sends me into a renewed frustration.
"That's all I've been hearing! Oh Jack, that guy is huge. Looks like he could smear you with a swipe of his hand. Sure you wanna fight that giant? As if, somehow, I over looked the fact that the person I'm facing is OVER SEVEN FEET TALL! So yes, I'll be a bit of a cunt if I want to be, deal with it. This is the first time ANY of us have ever been undefeated, and I want to keep it that way, and if it gets taken away from me by that over-hyped hack son of another hack, I'm not sure I'll ever stop hating myself.
"Where is Pete, you've got this! or Crack is gonna wrestle circles around that sonuvabitch!? No, all I hear is the same 'take it in the ass' jokes since I started wrestling. Its always the same, day in and day out," The backdrop is of no consequence as the words rarely change.
"Well-"
"Bran, if you even think about reminding me how its because I'm a porn star, so help me God! I haven't forgotten, nor do I think I ever will. And no, not just because I'm a porn star, its because I'm a GAAAAY porn star, because if I walked into that industry talking about slamming pussy and having a dick big enough to smack bitches in the face with, I would be getting patted on the back and told how much of a bad ass I am, like all the pieces of shit to ever come from that rat country PoonGuinea. Fucking gag me.
"they come in talking about being 'thick' and 'getting pussy' while being surrounded by naked women, and what does the world do? Give them titles! Give them glory! Life itself almost gets down on its knees to suck their diseased dicks. Just...ew! I walk in as a hard working member of my industry trying to make a break for myself, its all HAR HAR HAR, TAKES IT IN THE ASS! MUST BE SUCH A FUCKING POOFTER! and then I have to come here and get told that I'M being the cunt? No, bullshit, I call bullshit. Where is the ref on this? If I knew those were the rules from the beginning, maybe I would have played by them from the beginning. THICK THICK THICK! POON! PUSSY! There! Where is my reward?! Tell me, Bran. I've done everything within my abilities, so where the fuck is my glory? When are people going to see me on the card and think Oh, I feel sorry for the sonuvabitch who has to face him?
"Know what, Thor might be a giant, he could be built like a tank with a cannon for an arm, but I'll bet you anything that blonde-headed ogre has a head full of rocks and enough room for air to pass through his ears. What makes him so goddamn scary if he can't think himself out of a wet paper bag? I'm the architect behind Rekt 'Em, a rare mix of mastermind and beautiful, and I've got us over every bump we've hit so far!"
"By the way," Bran manages to get in edge-wise, "how is convincing UCI to sign us going?" He couldn't know, could he? Impossible. Who would tell any of them? No, he is making a point. Of course. He is illustrating he knows all too well the draw backs of being a gay porn star. He wants me to realize I got the lucky break and while I GET to bitch about my matches, they have to sit and watch. I don't flinch. No, can't. I feel my cheeks heat up as I try to think through the haze of ranting and anger. What a sobering blow from no where.
"I," paid off officials to suspend possible contracts? I purposely kept you out of the loop so I could focus on spot lighting myself without interference? I feel a sense of superiority so great to the rest of you that I am constantly embarrassed to be associated with your antics? I stand there, seething, looking at Bran, unable to take umbrage, unable to speak the truth, "am working on it." I snort and turn away, refusing to look back as I push the exit open and walk off.
-_-_-
Need to get home.
Need to get away from all of this.
Need to get to Jeff.
Jeff is my haven.
Jeff is my fortress.
The AC is at full blast, but I can still feel the heat on my face.
"Miasma Sky" by Baths plays over the speakers and I'm absorbed in its melancholy. Tall rock shelf, are you here to help me hurt myself? Lyrics wrapped in warm synth tones and soft clicks, taps, and snaps.
Goddamn it, Bran. Why did you have to go and work me up like that for, hun?
You know I can't handle criticism. Miasma Sky will you swallow me alive?
You ass, I know you meant well, but you know what kind of tight spot I'm in.
Oh deary, will have to apologize to you when I see you again.
For now; to home, to Jeff, to his arms, to the calm away from the stupid... idiotic... ridiculous storm I left behind me. God, how could I have been such a bitch? I look like a total douche-hound now.
My car tempts me to race along this empty road as I can feel its rev beneath my body. Oh, to speed home, uninhibited by the realm of man I seem to be drowning in. 60 Miles Per Hour. I keep at a steady pace, resisting the temptation to angle my foot down a little further. Vroom Would be so easy. No. How sad of an image would it be for Jeff to peer down at the paper, a mind frantically wondering where I had gone off to, just to find my name at the top of a report of a car crash with one eviscerated body at the site. The police believe that the car was speeding a long the highway when the driver lost control and veered into a tree, killing him on impact.
Get there safe.
That is essential beyond all else.
No matter how long it takes, he will be there.
The rest of the drive home becomes an agonizing wait.
-_-_-
"I really wish they didn't have you behaving like such a... stereotype," Jeff sighs as he strokes my hair, my head resting in his lap, allowing me to stare back up at him. To be under his impeccable gaze is enough to wash away the boiling peeves which crawls under my skin. His soft blue eyes connect with mine and breathing becomes effortless and rhythmic inhale positivity, exhale negativity: in... out... in... out..., letting me sink into the comfort of his presence.
"A gimmick is a gimmick, honey," I smile as I pull his hand in and press it against my cheek. My argument with Bran might as well have never happened with how centered the universe feels around Jeff and I, "You know how marketeers are, they see or hear something, and it becomes all about that. They want you to stick out, so they give you some sort of colorful personality to act out. In my case, I have to pretend to be a porn star from week to week. I would have changed it before going to UCI, but once you become known by a name, its hard to shake."
"Can't it be enough to win," his frown manages to break my heart and warm it simultaneous. What a naive little wonder I've paired myself with. His hopeful demeanor is a joyful spread which I can only hope to wake up beside each morning. He knows nothing about me.
"Oh, soon it will be, dear one," I reply without a hint of sarcasm, "once recognized as a legitimate competitor, I will be able to discard the ugly name of Jack Schlongson and turn the world's eyes onto Peter Fitts."
"To have them know you as I do," what luck to see such a preserved sense of optimism.
"Well, not quite how you do," I playfully reach up, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him down to my level, "to them, I will be a FIERCE warrior, and to you I will be your hero."
"Oh, you are such a lame romantic," he laughs.
Makes you sick, right? Perfect to the point of being disgusting? Sure. I can't count how many times in a week I've seen wandering couples immersed in their love and I've wished I could somehow roll my eyes even harder than usual, or just plain find a way to break them up, but let us not lie to ourselves by saying we haven't wished for such a relationship, at least beyond the facade of one, to actually feel the sweet touch of something straight from a sappy dramatic romantic flick, where everyone is crazily in love with their lead opposite. To have someone where you feel no cynicism, no need to use sarcasm, the conversations are delightful, and even when arguing there is something so irresistible about them.
This is why it hurts to lie to him.
"Peter..." the caution in his words puts a pin in my veins.
"Whats up?"
"About this Thor Balfore."
Goddamn it. "Nothing to worry about. He is as good as forgotten."
"Well, I was looking at the Dirt Sheets..." Goddamn it again.
"C'mon, Jeff," I frown, "Remember what I told you? There's no reason to go digging around those cesspools, its a bunch of nerds clucking about nothing, and doing it rather poorly." A bunch of nerds who might tell you something about me that you didn't know.
"Its not what they said. I saw a picture of Thor, and the guy he was standing next to looked like a toy."
"Most do compared to a lot of these guys." I want to tell him to rest his mind and let his worries wash away. Every time I hear Thor's name, I flashback to my fight with Bran, invoking an anxiety that I rushed out of a studio to get away from. Jeff is supposed to be my escape, something I can hide in when I no longer want to participate in the buzzing landscape outside my front door. His arms were meant to create a mote between reality and myself, but it seems the fortress is showing its wear and its beginning to scare me.
"But, this guy, he's..."
"A goon."
"Dangerous."
"Goons usually are," I turn my head to stare at the wall, "but at the end of the day they aren't anything more than goons. He isn't his own man, he owes a debt to so many lineages that he's more a walking avatar for them than he is any sort of sentient being. Shares a name with the 'hackneyed legend' Odin Balfore, comes from a long line of competitors associated with that septic landmark Poon Guinea, and on top of that, is one of many to kiss the toes of that insufferable Bobby Cairo. In that messy pie chart that is his story, there is only a tiny sliver of space for him and the ground he's taken in this world. No claim he makes is for Thor, but for all the weight these people have selfishly placed on his shoulders. For Bobby Cairo! For Poon Guinea! For the All-father!"
"That's tradition in some cultures, dear" Oh, my oh-too-understanding better half, I would love to be as accepting as you. To lack the cynicism and suspect gaze that keeps me distant from so many.
"Tradition," is cultural poison, hun, I finish the thought in my head as I smell his sent creeping over me, its the literal antithesis of progression. If it were a matter of paying one's debt, that would be something else, but the idea of tradition is that the debt owed to another is too great to be freed from. Blood isn't thicker than water because you'll fight for it, but because you'll drown in it; becoming stronger the more you feed it. I feel his warmth against my back, I would love nothing more than to not have this conversation with him.
Thor has killed his own bloodline by letting Cairo's legacy become more important than his. Even from just seeing his twitter handle @poonhammer it was obvious. He wraps his arms around me, waiting for me to finish my statement, I clench my eyes shut as words continue to flow through my head, failing to reach my lips. He bows to Cairo, his kids will bow too, and then their kids after them, until, generations later, it just becomes a crowd of thousands standing at the feet of an inanimate monument to a dead man that they've never met and they don't even know why. By making that insignificant corpse his idol, he has made his family Cairo's bitch. Can you respect a man who is that mentally perverted? If he was worth being an idol, he would still be breathing wouldn't he?
"What about tradition, Peter?" he asks, Tradition is a gateway drug to habit and societal assimilation. Muscle memory takes over and... Nothing is ever made better with tradition, only made second nature. the recurring shadow of a million performances... Just a bunch of scared man-children hollering 'was good'nough for mah fatha and his fatha before him, so's good'nough fer me'. The backdrop is of no consequence as the words... I feel a building need to scream raging deep in my chest. How long did people like Jeff and I have to hide in fear of 'tradition'? it all breaks down into the same movement.... Its all an empty void we pour our sentimentality into so eventually people can die on us and leave us partially empty. It drains us from the inside out and gives nothing. We do everything for the sake of nobodies, for these other people, and our efforts are rewarded with meaningless gestures.
"Tradition means very little to me," I reply, sighing as I kiss his wrist, "I'd much rather be my own man. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. Would be working in a repair shop like my father, so far away from you. Don't worry about Thor, or UCI, or how big anyone is, because it doesn't matter right now."
"As good as forgotten," I feel his face dig into my shoulder.
"As good as forgotten."
I want him to get his mind off of it, so I rise from my spot. Turning to face him, I place my arms under his body and pick him up. He struggles for a moment.
"Peter, you know I don't like it when you do this," he exclaims. I suppress a laugh as he ceases to fight it. He says he hates it, and to a degree I'm sure he does, but he has never made it a point to actually stop me. His resistance is always minimal. The trip up the stairs is a bit tricky, but I manage it without faltering, strolling into our room and placing Jeff on the bed.
To feel nothing aside from the physical contact in our bedroom is a hell all its own. Unable to bring intimacy into an act long since beaten dead by a career, it becomes a fight against a seizing gloom, to try and pry myself out from under its falling shelf. Each minute movement is a struggle to find consolation while immersed in our colliding rhythms. I focus on his suppressed voice and shallow breath as a way to see the act different when juxtaposed against the outrageous hollering and gyrations of my co-stars. This isn't how its supposed to go. On the set, its business. In here, it should be personal. He deserves better.
Interlinked with him, I am startled by how distant I feel. A few times he tells me I need to relax as I begin to over compensate in my aggravation. He is unsuspecting, but I can't help feeling I should be lost in this moment with him, that the lack-there-of is a betrayal I can't fix.
The shower afterwards clears my head, but fails to release me from the series of shadows that overlap me; all my problems converging to a single point, driving my heart around in laps as my thoughts lay scattered across the pavement. Even while laying in bed, waiting for the calm of sleep, I remain restless. The different conflicts in my life interject on the argument in my head as one fights for attention over the other. From Jeff to Bran to Thor to Bran and to Jeff again, it all fractured in a stream of unbearable consciousness until I manage to
drift
off to
sleep
down
down
down
into
the depths
of the subconscious.
A dream is rarely an intellectual experience, yes? The subconscious is an animal, and thus its ideas are bare, touched only with instinct and generalized sensations, yes? You fall into it, stripped of pretense, you face yourself without the safety of a mask. It is all raw, an exercise in psychological confrontation through honesty. None of this comes to mind as it happens to me, I am removed from context, placed into the onslaught of its happenings.
Undefined surroundings. Open, wide and endless. Several steps forward. Echoes carry on forever. A box. Safe. Peering down at it, it invites me. A slight tug to keep moving. So much else to see. Almost too much. It suggests again. Come in. Put a hand forward to it. Drifting inside, everything is finite, bordered, contained, limited. A repeating noise.
Jack. Pete. Jack. Pete.
The box fills with it.
Jack. Pete. Jack. Pete.
Touching the walls, the world outside dissolves, leaving where I stand. Roads are now closed. Regret. What was beyond the box? Could I have looked? Why didn't I explore?
Jack. Pete. Jack. Pete.
The sounds become crushing blows as the walls begin to constrict. The box does not care about me. Its ends come to meet.
Jack. Jack. Jack. Jack.
Can't breathe. Plummeting into distress. Going to crush me. The space between edges shrinks. Clawing. Scraping. Can't breathe.
Jack. Jack.
A piercing shine.
The light rips through my subconscious and forces me awake with a jerk. SONUVABITCH! Upright in bed, I clutch my chest. Regaining my breath and my bearings, I slide out before making my way to the bathroom. Upon reaching the door, I peer back and see a sleeping Jeff at peace with the world.
There is no Jack here.
The water feels startlingly cold as it hits my face before I look into the mirror back at a sorry looking piece of shit. Fuck Jack Schlongson. Fuck Rekt 'Em. Fuck this industry. Goddamn it, choking on this existential crisis bullshit. Looking back at myself, I can only sum up curses. Surrounded by it, the nightmare ripped through my soul, but now as I contemplate it, it serves to piss me off. People suck, work sucks, home sucks. One glimmering speck in the shit storm and my inability to share its entirety is almost worse than everything I hate.
No.
Dear audience, we shift our gazes away from a narrative of location and event, but to one of mind-set and internal structure. We loosen ourselves from the linear cause and effect of movement to watch a more stream-lined progression of thought. I look deeply in the mirror with a sudden defiance.
No. Its not me or Rekt 'Em or my shortcomings. Its Thor.
The mirror disappears and the plane takes off. I watch as the World shrinks below me, and empty image I use to occupy my line of sight as I sink backwards into my own head.
Thor.
The colors of the plane morphs, a whirling palate until I land in a hotel room, staring blankly at the white paneled ceiling.
Son of the Allfather.
He becomes the meaningless idol I structure in my mind as I slam my fists repeatedly into the heavy bag. A side kick sends it swinging. The gym is a hum of activity, but I will it all away, channeling myself into my craft. Kick. Kick. Punch. Kick.
Ambassador of Poon Guinea.
Rekt 'Em plans its next production. I sit in silence as they joke with each other. To them all is well, unaware what ride my mind is taking me as they fail to notice that I'm really a million miles away.
Cairo's Student.
All these words I begin to associate with my frustrations. Talking to management about future plans for the Pay-Per-View, I answer emptily. Its not Bran there in the swirling eye of my mental storm, nor Rekt 'Em, nor neither industry I worked in, but these series of ideas and concept that make up the Giant which stands as an imposing figure before me on my time-line to success. Yes, he is as daunting as the cameraman tried to make Richard look on that half-finished ship,
Balfore, the son of the many Balfore's before him.
but with each vibrant pulse of hate that rips through my heart, the impulse to run from his intimidating stance grows less potent until I WANT to fight him, until I can't wait to dismantle him, until I feel that its my match to lose.
In Jeff's arms, I come to the conclusion that this match is as good as won. In bed that night, I feel at peace looking at my sleeping sweetheart. The morning comes and I smile.
God versus man: unlike common folklore, man will win.
The frantic sea of thought and shifting temporal zones comes to rest. I settle into the moment and let the second linger as I form jokes about Gods in my head. and then... An idea. It comes to me in the bath. Too good to wait for I leap from my soak and wrap a towel around me, darting out off the bathroom and through the house to my desk, opening and closing drawers with frantic speed. Jeff comes walking along, hesitantly peering in, cocking an eyebrow to my strange appearance.
"Everything okay, honey?"
"Perfect," I reply absent-mindedly. With a pen and a pad, I jot it down in quick notes, the barest of images along the paper. Pillars. Pedestal. Togas. Extras. White backdrops. With that the idea has its base. I can't stop smiling. Yes, perfect, that description fits it to a T.
"What do you have there?"
"Don't mind it, you'll see soon enough," I practically burst into laughter, "the stuff of myths and legends." I walk right passed him and over to my phone on the coffee table, calling Bran and filling him in on the details.
"Crack, your mind works in mysterious ways."
"Never mind that, can it be done?"
"Sure, I don't see why not." he responds, I can almost hear him shrug over the phone, "I know a couple of places I can check for all that stuff, left over pieces from other shoots and what-not. Sure you wanna do this though. I mean, if it were me, I'd probably just use a camera and a locker room."
"Its called flourish, dearest Bran, I like a little artistic merit with my beat downs."
"Whatever works for you, man. I'll call you back when I got most of this stuff together."
"Good, see ya."
Friend. Nearest Balfore. How I wish you could have said something about me through the week, to at least a friend for him to share with a friend so that it might eventually have made its way to me, because I feel bad for how relentlessly I plan on wailing on you.
-_-_-
A close up. One of my face painted white, looking off into the distance while wearing golden leaves upon my head. The camera pulls backwards in a slow and smooth movement, revealing the farther reaches of this planted image with careful precision. Every reveal giving more context. Behind me is a marble wall with banners with Greek letters hanging downwards, flapping in the artificial wind. Upon my person is a white toga with golden lining hanging loosely off of me. One hand is pressed over my heart as the other reaches off to an unseen being. As still as a quiet night, I hold my position, fixing my glance upon a red X off set so not even my gaze is caught shifting.
Beside me stands two muscular generic brunettes in garb that barely covers their nether-regions, they hold spears, keeping their eyes straight forward. In front of me, a giant line of people walk up to my Altar and leave gifts such as fruit and bread, one coming in after the other, quickly setting down their basket, and rushing out of view of the camera. Two giant mounds on either side of my pedestal until finally the last person drops off their offering and vanishes from view.
A second passes in silence.
Then another.
A little movement. My outstretched arm lowers until it lays limply by my side. My neck slowly turns until its staring into the camera. I let out a light chuckle.
"Such silly little things, aren't they?" my eyes fix in the direction where the last man ran off to, "they come, in fear or praise, and leave these treats. Its adorable how confused they are." I step down from my pedestal with slow methodical steps, winking towards the camera.
"It can make one feel real special to serve a higher purpose, doesn't it?" I place my hand lightly on my lips as I let out a light (and atrocious, ugh) giggle, "to feel as if their lives was intertwined with some greater cause. Like, say, a destiny, or, in many cases, a father you want to make proud. I'm sure you're all too aware of such things, aren't you, Thor-ny? I compare the two, because they are the same. Its all to feel important. They think its for praise or tribute, but its honestly because otherwise they'd be directionless, right?"
I reach out and caress the cheek of one of the guards. He drops to one of his knees and looks up at me with a wanting glare.
"Where would they be if they didn't have someone else to serve?" I reach out to the other and do the same, he responds identically like the first, "Questioning ourselves? Questioning the point of our existence? Tell me, Mr. Hammer, does it make you happy? To not have to carve out your own purpose, but to rely on the past of others to make it for you? No hard decisions. Must be a plus. Just get to follow a trail cut out and hacked. But, does. it. make. you. happy?
"With no decisions to make comes limits, little-god. What if, suddenly, you find your own...urges trying to break out? What then? You have to keep them locked up deep inside, right? What do you keep in your closet?
"Oh, baby, how I would just DIE if I couldn't be me, hehe. I tried hiding it, but when you are so filled with personality, how am I supposed to keep that locked away?! No, hun, I had to be my own man, but I can tell you its so much more fun. No hiding, its all out in the open. No pretense, my mind is on full display, as are other parts of me." I flutter my eye lashes for emphasis.
"History is noble, but what happens when history can't provide answers? If you spend your whole life trying to please someone, what happens when it leads you somewhere where you have no answers, where these paths end and the jungle of life begins? You'll just start wondering aimlessly, scared and alone, making you even more human than myself.
"Building your own path takes a special kind of muscle, deary. And while you have a lot of your own, stud-muffin, its one I don't think you've worked out in a long time. See, as long as I'm here, these people will be happy. They will place their baskets here, and smile, because for another day they will have purpose, but what if I were to...walk out? Disappear forever? My my, they just might devolve into chaos, the poor things. It seems you and these little pathetic cretins aren't so different. For all your size and lineage, a weakness fills out that shell.
"Me? Well, I don't have to live in fear of such things. Been living my own life for a while, and babe, let. me. tell. you. its just been a B-L-A-S-T BLAST! Don't you wanna be happy like me? Open like me? Accepting like me? Wouldn't it make you feel better to let a real man show you how amazing this world is when you OPEN yourself up?" I gently lift both my guards, my hands delicately under their chins until they are both on their feet. Then I guide them to each other until their bodies meet, their arms wrap around each other, and their lips are locked, passionately entangled among themselves. I step back and a pleased look spreads across my face as I walk around them to meet once more with the camera.
"See, I could easily spend my time spewing senseless trash talk about how I'll beat you senseless, but what would that gain anyone? See, I know what its like to be lost in a world, and there was no one there to guide me, but I managed, and now I'm living in a dream world where inhibitions are gone and life is embraced to the fullest. I can open so many doors if you heteros would just let go of your egos and open yourselves up to moi.
"Don't make the mistake of thinking of me as nothing more than a joke and then walking away when I could show you sights you wouldn't believe. You could be happy. You could be free. You could be wild. SUBMIT to me. Look up with puppy dog eyes and admit what you want, what you NEED. Admit that I'm the only real man out of the two of us, and one day you might be just like me, bae-bae."
Sleep, camera, fade to black and let the last image these people see before Sunday be of me and what I promise. Sleep, and wake not until it comes time to witness the fall of Poon Guineas favorite son and the rise of The Crack.
-_-_-
Cut. Thats a wrap. Bran rises from his chair with a smile and approaches me.
"Not gonna lie, Crack," he looks around, "that was actually pretty interesting."
"Never doubt me," I smirk as I wipe the white paint off of my body, "See what I little finesse can do when a vision is involved?"
"Right, right, though I do have to ask? Why the Greek set-up? I mean, a lot of cultures have Gods."
"Thor, in essence, represents a slew of cultures that aim to dominate, right? They come in, ravage, and leave. The Greeks are the figureheads of intellect and culture; democracy, philosophy, math, science, writing, acting, sculpting. They used their minds to reign, adapting to any given situation. Thor and I are diametrically opposed. It only seemed nature to use visual short hand to stamp the idea down to the theme." I look over at the two guards as they keep making out with one another despite the cameras and lights having been turned of, "plus, not many cultures I could have used that would let something like that happen and remain on point."
"Right," Bran stands there watching them for a moment before clapping loudly right next to them to break it up, "shoots over, guys." The two men cease kissing and look around.
"Uh," one of them speaks up, "we still get paid, right?"
"Sure," Bran smiles, "you guys ever want to star in a movie about pirates?"
To feel nothing aside from the physical contact in the act can be a blessing at work. Muscle memory takes over and it becomes an automated system of responses and reactions, the recurring shadow of a million performances coming to life in place of conscious movement. Oh yes, babe, give it to me. The backdrop is of no consequence as the words rarely change. Just like that, mmm, feels so good. It is all just the part of a bigger piece of work that is the porn culture, a reiterating cycle which echoes back on itself as we use the same positions, techniques, and stories of those before us, with only the evolutionary mutation of modernization altering it ever-so-slightly, but at its base, it all breaks down into the same movement man has relied on for years; back and forth, back and forth, thrust, release, empty shallowness and shame. That's right, cover me, I love it.
As far as directing debuts go in our world of repetition, Bran's "Land Ho and Sea Men" was Par-For-The-Course, the average swing, a push for the familiar if there ever was one; a target which Bran aims for gleefully. Resembling his demeanor in every facet, the production is as straight forward as one would imagine, showcasing a level of hollowness I once only thought capable of lawyers and accountants. Oh dear, sweet, simple Bran; how you look at opportunity with a shrug. To you business is business and business was Eh.
Crack, its just a typical production, I'm not gonna bother going out of my way for this.
Bran, deary, this is your step forward. Why not seize it by the dick? We could make this so much more interesting than a couple of cheap nautical jokes. Could make this an actual production.
We don't have enough time for that.
Seijun Suzuki could shoot a movie with ten days of pre-production, twenty five days of shooting, and three days of post-production!
We're behind as is.
Demand more time!
No.
This can be yo-
Crack, I know you mean well, but I have no real money on this winning awards. I ain't no Scorsese or Tarantino. The director gig gets me some extra beer money and helps pay rent, that's all, buddy.
I just think all it would take is a little more work and it doesn't even have to be Shawshank Redemption, just interesting enough to catch some eyes.
Then you produce one of these things when you get the chance, with YOUR crew, and YOUR neck on the chopping block. I'mma just do what the producers tell me. We're about to shoot, Crack, so please just work with me and get your costume on.
Bran knows I couldn't direct, not with how I lead my life. I'm wearing myself thin as is. Wrestling, porn, travel, Jeff, sleep. Wrestling, porn, travel, Jeff, sleep. Wrestling, porn, travel, Jeff, sleep. A routine I risk pulling my hair out over on a daily basis. And with Thor Balfore looming over like an ungodly monolith of grief, the best I can do is direct my friends to direct better pictures; alas, the trials of being the artist among humans.
With the completion of my scenes as the coyly credited 'Castaway', I retire momentarily to the bathroom to change out of my clothes and gain a moment of peace. With the stripping of dirty and stained clothing, I drain away from the busy body of Jack Schlongson and obtain the rights to be the tired Peter Fitts which must re-enter the world of familiar boundaries and traditional standards with each night comes a persona death, birthed to another self, who will then die again when past songs come a-calling.
I dwell in a limbo-esque existence as my solitude in the bathroom becomes a fortress of ambient echoes and dense reverberations. With no immediate distractions, I breathe deep with a mantra of personal morale: inhale positivity, exhale negativity. In... out... in... out... This is a time of in between, where nothing immediate can occur and I am without obligation or duty, I simply am. However, in the absence of a train of thought, two names begin to fill my mind with static; Jeff and Thor Balfore. Both creep in at the faintest of suggestions and seize hold, clawing for more ground and attention until I submit my consciousness to the relevancy of both their existences; one warm, the other bitter.
Jeff, the shinning example of a...
With a loud bang, my thoughts scatter as someone enters the bathroom, invading my isolation, driving me out of my own mind and into the present. I resent the interruption and immediately direct my frustration at whatever soul unwittingly made his way in. I hear the door to the stall next to me open and close as I sit in silence, hoping that the mystery intruder will complete his business and be on his way.
"That you in there, Petey?"
"We have a rule about talking in the bathroom, Richard."
There is a pause. I press my temple against the cold steel of the stall walls, feeling my attempts to avoid a headache growing increasingly in vain.
"...not to?" Richard responds cautiously.
"Very good. Now, if you wouldn't mind, hun..."
"Oh, I don't mind, you can talk all you want."
"I wasn't...never mind."
"Whats got up your ass today, Petey? I mean, besides me."
"As always your tastelessness is unbound by the laws of man."
"Not sure what that all means, but sounds impressive."
"I'm leaving."
"Bran said you were kinda bein' a cunt today before shooting. You get bit in the dick earlier? Happened to me once. I was working on this one movie..."
Note to self, find Dearest Bran, and politely murder him. I'm damn near tempted to bash my head against the tiled wall behind me as Richard continues. To be a subtle soul surrounded by unknowing individuals, to have nuance in the heart and twists in the gut, its a curse all its own. To explain the darting thoughts pulsing through me would be met with a frightening silence from the other side, but this separation between them and I has proven an insurmountable obstacle. I stand from my seat and exit the stall.
"...And he says it was an accident, but saying so don't make the teeth marks go away."
I continue my way out of the bathroom, leaving my more oblivious compatriot to his own devices. Making my way through the scene of the next disaster looking to hit restricted DVD store shelves and locked cabinets, I see Bran in my periphery. My fists clench and I bite my tongue, hoping to strike him with my refusal to acknowledge him as I pass him by.
Don't even look at him, Peter.
We'll see how he likes it to have his feelings ignored.
Just walk past him and move right on out that door.
"See ya, Crack." he says as he packs up equipment. I stop in place, my face turning red while my continued attempts to keep my breathing regulated is disregarded.
"So, I'm being a cunt?!" I scream at him.
Bran sighs. "In retrospect, telling Dick anything is kind of a bad idea. Not sure why I did that," he looks up from gathering wires.
"Yeah, am I a bit fucking hard to work with at times?" spitting the rhetorical question, I can feel eyes start to center on us, but I remain undeterred, "Yeah, I know I am, big fucking woopty-doo, you raging ass!"
"Crack, just cal-"
"No! I'm not gonna calm down. I come to work each day, both here and at UCI, and do my best, but guess it seems I can't find respect anywhere!" Richard walks out of the bathroom, realizing I had left him mid-story, and joins the watching crowd. I try not to take notice as I can see Bran is embarrassed by the spectacle, "Maybe I'm being such a CUNT, because I've got a bitch of a match coming up. Ever think of that? If I'm being difficult, its because I've gotta spend a little extra brain power trying to figure out my strategy against the big retarded lug Thor Balfore instead of focusing on HOW I'M GETTING FUCKED IN THE ASS TODAY!"
"You're facing Thor? Saw a picture of that guy last night. That fucker is gigantic." Bran's casual response sends me into a renewed frustration.
"That's all I've been hearing! Oh Jack, that guy is huge. Looks like he could smear you with a swipe of his hand. Sure you wanna fight that giant? As if, somehow, I over looked the fact that the person I'm facing is OVER SEVEN FEET TALL! So yes, I'll be a bit of a cunt if I want to be, deal with it. This is the first time ANY of us have ever been undefeated, and I want to keep it that way, and if it gets taken away from me by that over-hyped hack son of another hack, I'm not sure I'll ever stop hating myself.
"Where is Pete, you've got this! or Crack is gonna wrestle circles around that sonuvabitch!? No, all I hear is the same 'take it in the ass' jokes since I started wrestling. Its always the same, day in and day out," The backdrop is of no consequence as the words rarely change.
"Well-"
"Bran, if you even think about reminding me how its because I'm a porn star, so help me God! I haven't forgotten, nor do I think I ever will. And no, not just because I'm a porn star, its because I'm a GAAAAY porn star, because if I walked into that industry talking about slamming pussy and having a dick big enough to smack bitches in the face with, I would be getting patted on the back and told how much of a bad ass I am, like all the pieces of shit to ever come from that rat country PoonGuinea. Fucking gag me.
"they come in talking about being 'thick' and 'getting pussy' while being surrounded by naked women, and what does the world do? Give them titles! Give them glory! Life itself almost gets down on its knees to suck their diseased dicks. Just...ew! I walk in as a hard working member of my industry trying to make a break for myself, its all HAR HAR HAR, TAKES IT IN THE ASS! MUST BE SUCH A FUCKING POOFTER! and then I have to come here and get told that I'M being the cunt? No, bullshit, I call bullshit. Where is the ref on this? If I knew those were the rules from the beginning, maybe I would have played by them from the beginning. THICK THICK THICK! POON! PUSSY! There! Where is my reward?! Tell me, Bran. I've done everything within my abilities, so where the fuck is my glory? When are people going to see me on the card and think Oh, I feel sorry for the sonuvabitch who has to face him?
"Know what, Thor might be a giant, he could be built like a tank with a cannon for an arm, but I'll bet you anything that blonde-headed ogre has a head full of rocks and enough room for air to pass through his ears. What makes him so goddamn scary if he can't think himself out of a wet paper bag? I'm the architect behind Rekt 'Em, a rare mix of mastermind and beautiful, and I've got us over every bump we've hit so far!"
"By the way," Bran manages to get in edge-wise, "how is convincing UCI to sign us going?" He couldn't know, could he? Impossible. Who would tell any of them? No, he is making a point. Of course. He is illustrating he knows all too well the draw backs of being a gay porn star. He wants me to realize I got the lucky break and while I GET to bitch about my matches, they have to sit and watch. I don't flinch. No, can't. I feel my cheeks heat up as I try to think through the haze of ranting and anger. What a sobering blow from no where.
"I," paid off officials to suspend possible contracts? I purposely kept you out of the loop so I could focus on spot lighting myself without interference? I feel a sense of superiority so great to the rest of you that I am constantly embarrassed to be associated with your antics? I stand there, seething, looking at Bran, unable to take umbrage, unable to speak the truth, "am working on it." I snort and turn away, refusing to look back as I push the exit open and walk off.
-_-_-
Need to get home.
Need to get away from all of this.
Need to get to Jeff.
Jeff is my haven.
Jeff is my fortress.
The AC is at full blast, but I can still feel the heat on my face.
"Miasma Sky" by Baths plays over the speakers and I'm absorbed in its melancholy. Tall rock shelf, are you here to help me hurt myself? Lyrics wrapped in warm synth tones and soft clicks, taps, and snaps.
Goddamn it, Bran. Why did you have to go and work me up like that for, hun?
You know I can't handle criticism. Miasma Sky will you swallow me alive?
You ass, I know you meant well, but you know what kind of tight spot I'm in.
Oh deary, will have to apologize to you when I see you again.
For now; to home, to Jeff, to his arms, to the calm away from the stupid... idiotic... ridiculous storm I left behind me. God, how could I have been such a bitch? I look like a total douche-hound now.
My car tempts me to race along this empty road as I can feel its rev beneath my body. Oh, to speed home, uninhibited by the realm of man I seem to be drowning in. 60 Miles Per Hour. I keep at a steady pace, resisting the temptation to angle my foot down a little further. Vroom Would be so easy. No. How sad of an image would it be for Jeff to peer down at the paper, a mind frantically wondering where I had gone off to, just to find my name at the top of a report of a car crash with one eviscerated body at the site. The police believe that the car was speeding a long the highway when the driver lost control and veered into a tree, killing him on impact.
Get there safe.
That is essential beyond all else.
No matter how long it takes, he will be there.
The rest of the drive home becomes an agonizing wait.
-_-_-
"I really wish they didn't have you behaving like such a... stereotype," Jeff sighs as he strokes my hair, my head resting in his lap, allowing me to stare back up at him. To be under his impeccable gaze is enough to wash away the boiling peeves which crawls under my skin. His soft blue eyes connect with mine and breathing becomes effortless and rhythmic inhale positivity, exhale negativity: in... out... in... out..., letting me sink into the comfort of his presence.
"A gimmick is a gimmick, honey," I smile as I pull his hand in and press it against my cheek. My argument with Bran might as well have never happened with how centered the universe feels around Jeff and I, "You know how marketeers are, they see or hear something, and it becomes all about that. They want you to stick out, so they give you some sort of colorful personality to act out. In my case, I have to pretend to be a porn star from week to week. I would have changed it before going to UCI, but once you become known by a name, its hard to shake."
"Can't it be enough to win," his frown manages to break my heart and warm it simultaneous. What a naive little wonder I've paired myself with. His hopeful demeanor is a joyful spread which I can only hope to wake up beside each morning. He knows nothing about me.
"Oh, soon it will be, dear one," I reply without a hint of sarcasm, "once recognized as a legitimate competitor, I will be able to discard the ugly name of Jack Schlongson and turn the world's eyes onto Peter Fitts."
"To have them know you as I do," what luck to see such a preserved sense of optimism.
"Well, not quite how you do," I playfully reach up, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him down to my level, "to them, I will be a FIERCE warrior, and to you I will be your hero."
"Oh, you are such a lame romantic," he laughs.
Makes you sick, right? Perfect to the point of being disgusting? Sure. I can't count how many times in a week I've seen wandering couples immersed in their love and I've wished I could somehow roll my eyes even harder than usual, or just plain find a way to break them up, but let us not lie to ourselves by saying we haven't wished for such a relationship, at least beyond the facade of one, to actually feel the sweet touch of something straight from a sappy dramatic romantic flick, where everyone is crazily in love with their lead opposite. To have someone where you feel no cynicism, no need to use sarcasm, the conversations are delightful, and even when arguing there is something so irresistible about them.
This is why it hurts to lie to him.
"Peter..." the caution in his words puts a pin in my veins.
"Whats up?"
"About this Thor Balfore."
Goddamn it. "Nothing to worry about. He is as good as forgotten."
"Well, I was looking at the Dirt Sheets..." Goddamn it again.
"C'mon, Jeff," I frown, "Remember what I told you? There's no reason to go digging around those cesspools, its a bunch of nerds clucking about nothing, and doing it rather poorly." A bunch of nerds who might tell you something about me that you didn't know.
"Its not what they said. I saw a picture of Thor, and the guy he was standing next to looked like a toy."
"Most do compared to a lot of these guys." I want to tell him to rest his mind and let his worries wash away. Every time I hear Thor's name, I flashback to my fight with Bran, invoking an anxiety that I rushed out of a studio to get away from. Jeff is supposed to be my escape, something I can hide in when I no longer want to participate in the buzzing landscape outside my front door. His arms were meant to create a mote between reality and myself, but it seems the fortress is showing its wear and its beginning to scare me.
"But, this guy, he's..."
"A goon."
"Dangerous."
"Goons usually are," I turn my head to stare at the wall, "but at the end of the day they aren't anything more than goons. He isn't his own man, he owes a debt to so many lineages that he's more a walking avatar for them than he is any sort of sentient being. Shares a name with the 'hackneyed legend' Odin Balfore, comes from a long line of competitors associated with that septic landmark Poon Guinea, and on top of that, is one of many to kiss the toes of that insufferable Bobby Cairo. In that messy pie chart that is his story, there is only a tiny sliver of space for him and the ground he's taken in this world. No claim he makes is for Thor, but for all the weight these people have selfishly placed on his shoulders. For Bobby Cairo! For Poon Guinea! For the All-father!"
"That's tradition in some cultures, dear" Oh, my oh-too-understanding better half, I would love to be as accepting as you. To lack the cynicism and suspect gaze that keeps me distant from so many.
"Tradition," is cultural poison, hun, I finish the thought in my head as I smell his sent creeping over me, its the literal antithesis of progression. If it were a matter of paying one's debt, that would be something else, but the idea of tradition is that the debt owed to another is too great to be freed from. Blood isn't thicker than water because you'll fight for it, but because you'll drown in it; becoming stronger the more you feed it. I feel his warmth against my back, I would love nothing more than to not have this conversation with him.
Thor has killed his own bloodline by letting Cairo's legacy become more important than his. Even from just seeing his twitter handle @poonhammer it was obvious. He wraps his arms around me, waiting for me to finish my statement, I clench my eyes shut as words continue to flow through my head, failing to reach my lips. He bows to Cairo, his kids will bow too, and then their kids after them, until, generations later, it just becomes a crowd of thousands standing at the feet of an inanimate monument to a dead man that they've never met and they don't even know why. By making that insignificant corpse his idol, he has made his family Cairo's bitch. Can you respect a man who is that mentally perverted? If he was worth being an idol, he would still be breathing wouldn't he?
"What about tradition, Peter?" he asks, Tradition is a gateway drug to habit and societal assimilation. Muscle memory takes over and... Nothing is ever made better with tradition, only made second nature. the recurring shadow of a million performances... Just a bunch of scared man-children hollering 'was good'nough for mah fatha and his fatha before him, so's good'nough fer me'. The backdrop is of no consequence as the words... I feel a building need to scream raging deep in my chest. How long did people like Jeff and I have to hide in fear of 'tradition'? it all breaks down into the same movement.... Its all an empty void we pour our sentimentality into so eventually people can die on us and leave us partially empty. It drains us from the inside out and gives nothing. We do everything for the sake of nobodies, for these other people, and our efforts are rewarded with meaningless gestures.
"Tradition means very little to me," I reply, sighing as I kiss his wrist, "I'd much rather be my own man. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. Would be working in a repair shop like my father, so far away from you. Don't worry about Thor, or UCI, or how big anyone is, because it doesn't matter right now."
"As good as forgotten," I feel his face dig into my shoulder.
"As good as forgotten."
I want him to get his mind off of it, so I rise from my spot. Turning to face him, I place my arms under his body and pick him up. He struggles for a moment.
"Peter, you know I don't like it when you do this," he exclaims. I suppress a laugh as he ceases to fight it. He says he hates it, and to a degree I'm sure he does, but he has never made it a point to actually stop me. His resistance is always minimal. The trip up the stairs is a bit tricky, but I manage it without faltering, strolling into our room and placing Jeff on the bed.
To feel nothing aside from the physical contact in our bedroom is a hell all its own. Unable to bring intimacy into an act long since beaten dead by a career, it becomes a fight against a seizing gloom, to try and pry myself out from under its falling shelf. Each minute movement is a struggle to find consolation while immersed in our colliding rhythms. I focus on his suppressed voice and shallow breath as a way to see the act different when juxtaposed against the outrageous hollering and gyrations of my co-stars. This isn't how its supposed to go. On the set, its business. In here, it should be personal. He deserves better.
Interlinked with him, I am startled by how distant I feel. A few times he tells me I need to relax as I begin to over compensate in my aggravation. He is unsuspecting, but I can't help feeling I should be lost in this moment with him, that the lack-there-of is a betrayal I can't fix.
The shower afterwards clears my head, but fails to release me from the series of shadows that overlap me; all my problems converging to a single point, driving my heart around in laps as my thoughts lay scattered across the pavement. Even while laying in bed, waiting for the calm of sleep, I remain restless. The different conflicts in my life interject on the argument in my head as one fights for attention over the other. From Jeff to Bran to Thor to Bran and to Jeff again, it all fractured in a stream of unbearable consciousness until I manage to
drift
off to
sleep
down
down
down
into
the depths
of the subconscious.
A dream is rarely an intellectual experience, yes? The subconscious is an animal, and thus its ideas are bare, touched only with instinct and generalized sensations, yes? You fall into it, stripped of pretense, you face yourself without the safety of a mask. It is all raw, an exercise in psychological confrontation through honesty. None of this comes to mind as it happens to me, I am removed from context, placed into the onslaught of its happenings.
Undefined surroundings. Open, wide and endless. Several steps forward. Echoes carry on forever. A box. Safe. Peering down at it, it invites me. A slight tug to keep moving. So much else to see. Almost too much. It suggests again. Come in. Put a hand forward to it. Drifting inside, everything is finite, bordered, contained, limited. A repeating noise.
Jack. Pete. Jack. Pete.
The box fills with it.
Jack. Pete. Jack. Pete.
Touching the walls, the world outside dissolves, leaving where I stand. Roads are now closed. Regret. What was beyond the box? Could I have looked? Why didn't I explore?
Jack. Pete. Jack. Pete.
The sounds become crushing blows as the walls begin to constrict. The box does not care about me. Its ends come to meet.
Jack. Jack. Jack. Jack.
Can't breathe. Plummeting into distress. Going to crush me. The space between edges shrinks. Clawing. Scraping. Can't breathe.
Jack. Jack.
A piercing shine.
The light rips through my subconscious and forces me awake with a jerk. SONUVABITCH! Upright in bed, I clutch my chest. Regaining my breath and my bearings, I slide out before making my way to the bathroom. Upon reaching the door, I peer back and see a sleeping Jeff at peace with the world.
There is no Jack here.
The water feels startlingly cold as it hits my face before I look into the mirror back at a sorry looking piece of shit. Fuck Jack Schlongson. Fuck Rekt 'Em. Fuck this industry. Goddamn it, choking on this existential crisis bullshit. Looking back at myself, I can only sum up curses. Surrounded by it, the nightmare ripped through my soul, but now as I contemplate it, it serves to piss me off. People suck, work sucks, home sucks. One glimmering speck in the shit storm and my inability to share its entirety is almost worse than everything I hate.
No.
Dear audience, we shift our gazes away from a narrative of location and event, but to one of mind-set and internal structure. We loosen ourselves from the linear cause and effect of movement to watch a more stream-lined progression of thought. I look deeply in the mirror with a sudden defiance.
No. Its not me or Rekt 'Em or my shortcomings. Its Thor.
The mirror disappears and the plane takes off. I watch as the World shrinks below me, and empty image I use to occupy my line of sight as I sink backwards into my own head.
Thor.
The colors of the plane morphs, a whirling palate until I land in a hotel room, staring blankly at the white paneled ceiling.
Son of the Allfather.
He becomes the meaningless idol I structure in my mind as I slam my fists repeatedly into the heavy bag. A side kick sends it swinging. The gym is a hum of activity, but I will it all away, channeling myself into my craft. Kick. Kick. Punch. Kick.
Ambassador of Poon Guinea.
Rekt 'Em plans its next production. I sit in silence as they joke with each other. To them all is well, unaware what ride my mind is taking me as they fail to notice that I'm really a million miles away.
Cairo's Student.
All these words I begin to associate with my frustrations. Talking to management about future plans for the Pay-Per-View, I answer emptily. Its not Bran there in the swirling eye of my mental storm, nor Rekt 'Em, nor neither industry I worked in, but these series of ideas and concept that make up the Giant which stands as an imposing figure before me on my time-line to success. Yes, he is as daunting as the cameraman tried to make Richard look on that half-finished ship,
Balfore, the son of the many Balfore's before him.
but with each vibrant pulse of hate that rips through my heart, the impulse to run from his intimidating stance grows less potent until I WANT to fight him, until I can't wait to dismantle him, until I feel that its my match to lose.
In Jeff's arms, I come to the conclusion that this match is as good as won. In bed that night, I feel at peace looking at my sleeping sweetheart. The morning comes and I smile.
God versus man: unlike common folklore, man will win.
The frantic sea of thought and shifting temporal zones comes to rest. I settle into the moment and let the second linger as I form jokes about Gods in my head. and then... An idea. It comes to me in the bath. Too good to wait for I leap from my soak and wrap a towel around me, darting out off the bathroom and through the house to my desk, opening and closing drawers with frantic speed. Jeff comes walking along, hesitantly peering in, cocking an eyebrow to my strange appearance.
"Everything okay, honey?"
"Perfect," I reply absent-mindedly. With a pen and a pad, I jot it down in quick notes, the barest of images along the paper. Pillars. Pedestal. Togas. Extras. White backdrops. With that the idea has its base. I can't stop smiling. Yes, perfect, that description fits it to a T.
"What do you have there?"
"Don't mind it, you'll see soon enough," I practically burst into laughter, "the stuff of myths and legends." I walk right passed him and over to my phone on the coffee table, calling Bran and filling him in on the details.
"Crack, your mind works in mysterious ways."
"Never mind that, can it be done?"
"Sure, I don't see why not." he responds, I can almost hear him shrug over the phone, "I know a couple of places I can check for all that stuff, left over pieces from other shoots and what-not. Sure you wanna do this though. I mean, if it were me, I'd probably just use a camera and a locker room."
"Its called flourish, dearest Bran, I like a little artistic merit with my beat downs."
"Whatever works for you, man. I'll call you back when I got most of this stuff together."
"Good, see ya."
Friend. Nearest Balfore. How I wish you could have said something about me through the week, to at least a friend for him to share with a friend so that it might eventually have made its way to me, because I feel bad for how relentlessly I plan on wailing on you.
-_-_-
A close up. One of my face painted white, looking off into the distance while wearing golden leaves upon my head. The camera pulls backwards in a slow and smooth movement, revealing the farther reaches of this planted image with careful precision. Every reveal giving more context. Behind me is a marble wall with banners with Greek letters hanging downwards, flapping in the artificial wind. Upon my person is a white toga with golden lining hanging loosely off of me. One hand is pressed over my heart as the other reaches off to an unseen being. As still as a quiet night, I hold my position, fixing my glance upon a red X off set so not even my gaze is caught shifting.
Beside me stands two muscular generic brunettes in garb that barely covers their nether-regions, they hold spears, keeping their eyes straight forward. In front of me, a giant line of people walk up to my Altar and leave gifts such as fruit and bread, one coming in after the other, quickly setting down their basket, and rushing out of view of the camera. Two giant mounds on either side of my pedestal until finally the last person drops off their offering and vanishes from view.
A second passes in silence.
Then another.
A little movement. My outstretched arm lowers until it lays limply by my side. My neck slowly turns until its staring into the camera. I let out a light chuckle.
"Such silly little things, aren't they?" my eyes fix in the direction where the last man ran off to, "they come, in fear or praise, and leave these treats. Its adorable how confused they are." I step down from my pedestal with slow methodical steps, winking towards the camera.
"It can make one feel real special to serve a higher purpose, doesn't it?" I place my hand lightly on my lips as I let out a light (and atrocious, ugh) giggle, "to feel as if their lives was intertwined with some greater cause. Like, say, a destiny, or, in many cases, a father you want to make proud. I'm sure you're all too aware of such things, aren't you, Thor-ny? I compare the two, because they are the same. Its all to feel important. They think its for praise or tribute, but its honestly because otherwise they'd be directionless, right?"
I reach out and caress the cheek of one of the guards. He drops to one of his knees and looks up at me with a wanting glare.
"Where would they be if they didn't have someone else to serve?" I reach out to the other and do the same, he responds identically like the first, "Questioning ourselves? Questioning the point of our existence? Tell me, Mr. Hammer, does it make you happy? To not have to carve out your own purpose, but to rely on the past of others to make it for you? No hard decisions. Must be a plus. Just get to follow a trail cut out and hacked. But, does. it. make. you. happy?
"With no decisions to make comes limits, little-god. What if, suddenly, you find your own...urges trying to break out? What then? You have to keep them locked up deep inside, right? What do you keep in your closet?
"Oh, baby, how I would just DIE if I couldn't be me, hehe. I tried hiding it, but when you are so filled with personality, how am I supposed to keep that locked away?! No, hun, I had to be my own man, but I can tell you its so much more fun. No hiding, its all out in the open. No pretense, my mind is on full display, as are other parts of me." I flutter my eye lashes for emphasis.
"History is noble, but what happens when history can't provide answers? If you spend your whole life trying to please someone, what happens when it leads you somewhere where you have no answers, where these paths end and the jungle of life begins? You'll just start wondering aimlessly, scared and alone, making you even more human than myself.
"Building your own path takes a special kind of muscle, deary. And while you have a lot of your own, stud-muffin, its one I don't think you've worked out in a long time. See, as long as I'm here, these people will be happy. They will place their baskets here, and smile, because for another day they will have purpose, but what if I were to...walk out? Disappear forever? My my, they just might devolve into chaos, the poor things. It seems you and these little pathetic cretins aren't so different. For all your size and lineage, a weakness fills out that shell.
"Me? Well, I don't have to live in fear of such things. Been living my own life for a while, and babe, let. me. tell. you. its just been a B-L-A-S-T BLAST! Don't you wanna be happy like me? Open like me? Accepting like me? Wouldn't it make you feel better to let a real man show you how amazing this world is when you OPEN yourself up?" I gently lift both my guards, my hands delicately under their chins until they are both on their feet. Then I guide them to each other until their bodies meet, their arms wrap around each other, and their lips are locked, passionately entangled among themselves. I step back and a pleased look spreads across my face as I walk around them to meet once more with the camera.
"See, I could easily spend my time spewing senseless trash talk about how I'll beat you senseless, but what would that gain anyone? See, I know what its like to be lost in a world, and there was no one there to guide me, but I managed, and now I'm living in a dream world where inhibitions are gone and life is embraced to the fullest. I can open so many doors if you heteros would just let go of your egos and open yourselves up to moi.
"Don't make the mistake of thinking of me as nothing more than a joke and then walking away when I could show you sights you wouldn't believe. You could be happy. You could be free. You could be wild. SUBMIT to me. Look up with puppy dog eyes and admit what you want, what you NEED. Admit that I'm the only real man out of the two of us, and one day you might be just like me, bae-bae."
Sleep, camera, fade to black and let the last image these people see before Sunday be of me and what I promise. Sleep, and wake not until it comes time to witness the fall of Poon Guineas favorite son and the rise of The Crack.
-_-_-
Cut. Thats a wrap. Bran rises from his chair with a smile and approaches me.
"Not gonna lie, Crack," he looks around, "that was actually pretty interesting."
"Never doubt me," I smirk as I wipe the white paint off of my body, "See what I little finesse can do when a vision is involved?"
"Right, right, though I do have to ask? Why the Greek set-up? I mean, a lot of cultures have Gods."
"Thor, in essence, represents a slew of cultures that aim to dominate, right? They come in, ravage, and leave. The Greeks are the figureheads of intellect and culture; democracy, philosophy, math, science, writing, acting, sculpting. They used their minds to reign, adapting to any given situation. Thor and I are diametrically opposed. It only seemed nature to use visual short hand to stamp the idea down to the theme." I look over at the two guards as they keep making out with one another despite the cameras and lights having been turned of, "plus, not many cultures I could have used that would let something like that happen and remain on point."
"Right," Bran stands there watching them for a moment before clapping loudly right next to them to break it up, "shoots over, guys." The two men cease kissing and look around.
"Uh," one of them speaks up, "we still get paid, right?"
"Sure," Bran smiles, "you guys ever want to star in a movie about pirates?"
