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(Hed) Planet Earth Waiting To Die
That reaper fella is one fast motherfucker let me tell you. He’s been chasing me for twelve blocks now and I swear he’s catching up. There was a time when I would’ve stopped where I stood and ushered him on like Bruce Lee before a big fight minus the dubbing. Not now, he can’t get his spindly fingers on me, not while there’s breath left in my shell. Apparently he is a master of deception, with one hand he will tickle your chin and cut you off a generous slice of Battenberg while the other is midway through engraving your tombstone. That’s just how he rolls. It has never been any different, he has never had any intention of playing fair. He’s death incarnate, our date for ill fate, and the one dude you don’t sign a tryst with.
Ultimately we’re all just waiting to die from the day we are born agreed? What utter poppycock; I’ve known plenty of long waits, most of which have been spent inside a run down bus shelter. However, never once have I hung around for the reaper. Actually, that is not true, last winter I may have invited him over for afternoon tea just on the one occasion. But he stood me up so that doesn’t count. For the most part I have attempted valiantly to stay one step ahead of his game. I even make sure I get my 5-a-week; eating healthily is key when you approach middle age so you’ll always see me brandishing a clutch of bananas or an aubergine. Okay that isn’t strictly true either; I don’t eat any fruit or vegetables other than raspberries because I’m fond of their texture and the little pip. Fuck me lengthways, how the blazes am I still alive?
So we’ve ascertained that my diet is in need of a rethink. At least I don’t smoke. What do you mean I do? That doesn’t count either, it’s social smoking. Got no friends have I? That is an unfair assumption, sheesh, nothing is getting past you is it? Alright, so I only have a few close friends but that is the way I like it. I could know a thousand people and feel lonelier than ever if they aren’t sincere. It’s just running a tight ship. Fine, I smoke like a fucking chimney, happy now? I suppose you’re going to get on my case about the diminutive amount of weed I consume. It’s therapeutic. In parts of America you can get it from a dispensary so I don’t see what all the fuss is about. I know, I know; psychological problems later in life, yadda yadda yadda. I wish you’d change the record as this one is dusting up my stylus.
Where were we before I was rudely interrupted? Staying alive, that was it. I’m so gonna do it. What was it my dear grandmother taught me about everything in moderation? She lived to a ripe old 94 so I’ll just follow her advice. It can be troublesome moderating your intake constantly, I try and keep count of all the trash I consume and joints I smoke but my abacus is busted you see. I just round it down to the nearest 100, that seems to work just fine. By my estimations I have eaten no pieces of junk food all day and not so much as lit up a smoke. I have however masturbated 100 times and that may be cause for concern. Nah, what’s the point owning a rooster if it never lays an egg? Besides, I have heard it is good for one’s soul to release the endorphins once a day or in my case 100 releases.
Maybe I can wank my way to a long lustrous life? I was told it would impair my vision and that proved a bunch of hot air. I can still see fine, maybe not 20-20 and a little fuzzy round the edges, but I am nearing forty so cut me a length of slack. That has nothing to do with how many beans get spilled. Diet admittedly does pose a slight concern as does filling myself with noxious monoxide, but life is there for living after all. Take away my few creature comforts and I’m dementia waiting to happen. They said the first time I dropped acid I’d never be the same but they weren’t so quick to point out that it would open a previously inaccessible slither of my cerebellum. The way I see it, I’ve got a little extra stashed away for a rainy day, that must stand me in good stead when the evil mind pixies come to pilfer.
I’ve given the mental bailiffs the slip for the time being. Writing helps that process considerably. Every day, around brunch time, I awaken. I prepare myself a hot beverage, grab myself the first nicotine hit of the day and make my way to my office. The cleaners haven’t been in a while, that reminds me I need to get onto them as I have been under surveillance for three days now by a pair of slugs who should never have got past security. There is a canister of Slug Killer on the shelf if things get really hairy but it just seems inhumane to me. They’re staying out of my affairs so why should I get all up in theirs?
That arachnid however is a whole different ball game entirely. He’s a beast, more body than legs is where I normally draw the line but I figure he has tenancy rights too so I keep a watchful eye on the gossamer trail. I’ve sussed out that’s the key to successful cohabitation with a spider. You’ve got to watch the webs. There was this one eight legged freak who made it his life’s work to intimidate me. He set up his stall at the bottom of the garden by the access point, around head height. This particular creepy crawly was a little more savvy than his brethren. He would set his trap each evening as the sun slipped away and wait at a safe vantage while I copped a mouthful of yarn every dusk without fail for at least a month. What a bastard. He really had it in for me and I fell for his trickery habitually until which time as the storms come and he found a new douche to torment.
Anyhoots, my shit is locked down here. There is a rake, a broom, aforementioned slug disposal kit, a rusty wrench, hacksaw and shears; who in their right mind is going to fuck with me? Incy Wincy? He can suck my dickie bow. He ain’t got shit and Muffet was a pussy wimp. I’m the Keeper of the Crimson Quill; not some putz in a pinafore. This can be my air-raid center if global terror ensues. I could charge a nickel to anybody that wants to share exhaust fumes. Thriving businesses all have to start somewhere. Until that inevitable day advances I shall keep clocking in for each shift, caffeine and tar will see me through.
I’m running my eyes down the check list and it would appear I have all bases soundly covered in my bid to stay two steps ahead of the reaper. But there is one thing in particular which keeps the blood circumnavigating my heart and that is love. I have pondered long and hard about this emotion and only one answer has ever been returned. It’s benign, take your phasers off of stun as it comes in peace. Love is the one thing which keeps the wolves from the door. It comes in many different guises and can surprise you when you least expect it. That is why we crave it so; every person can see its benefits if they search hard enough.
There is lurve and I live for lurve. I’m as soft as a marshmallow cello on the inside, please inform the conductor I’ll try my level best at keeping up. Forging a connection free of blurred edges is both intoxicating and freeing. Trusting one’s instinct is one thing but believing stoutly in another through thick and thin, whilst obviously a risk, is one I would gladly take without procrastination. That will never change; if a thousand pigeons shat on my shoulder in daily succession, I would still venture out of my house each day. What is the point in living in fear? To do so is no life at all right? Embrace that shit like a second cousin at a wedding reception. Lurve freely without question and ye shall reap the ultimate reward.
Then there’s the other love, life seen through the eyes of your own loin fruits. I spend midweek and weekends with a rather special little fellow. He’s like a miniature me, only without the bird feces on his lapels. This little blue-eyed cherub gives me every reason I would ever need to stick around for the long haul. We share a dynamic of such astonishing beauty that it brings a tear to the duct. That doesn’t happen excessively, I’ve stored up most of these wet weekends for the past twenty years or so and I’m beginning to wonder whether they are linked in to my masturbation in some manner. I shall have to perform a little experiment. I’ll swap Debbie Does Dallas for anything from the eighties starring Brian Dennehy and see how I fare. I should quit while I’m ahead as God only knows how I shall source the image for this paragraph.
I guess what I am saying in earnest is this. I live to love as it is all that has halted the slide. It counter balances any sickness caused by leading an unhealthy lifestyle. Clearly there is middle ground to find but I always confess to being a work in progress. Six months ago I would have murdered those slugs in cold slime. Now I’m growing attached to the little blighters. I think they deserve names as we are all firm friends now. Cornelius; that’s the one with protracted antennae. I’ll call the other one Clive as he is a great deal less inquisitive and sits back while his associate does his daily rounds. I take it they’re male, do slugs have genitals? Don’t worry I’ll Google it.
I’m doing just fine; forty years young and not a single white hair in my ears. If my prose can make you smile, even for a second, then I’m justified in my existence. If I can finish any level of Mario without plummeting from the wobbly toadstool then I’m still a hero in my boy’s eyes. If my love can spark a fuse then it’s all going to be just dandy. I shall not be waiting around anymore. Besides, Rambo III just started and I can’t miss watching one man take on the entire Afghanistan armed forces with a bow and arrow.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014