Sakura Sweet Chapter 3 part 1: Fish Sticks

Done. Done with the world. That’s what he was; done. Done with the world. All the way done. Where was he now? All he could see were the trees of the Fangorn Forest. How did he knew which forest it was? He didn’t. But it looks like the Fangorn forest. All creepy and viney and full of Tolkeinesque evils. Like the giant spiders. He hated those giant spiders as they were described in Tolkien’s books. None of them. He didn’t want to see any of them. Any of them—if he were to see them he would crap his pants then, there, no matter where he was; in the bathroom included.

Hah. In the bathroom. As if such pleasures existed in this world. Where was he? He didn’t know.

Grass. Grass everywhere. The Fangorn forest in the distance. Mist. Mist that covered the ground and made his feet hard to see—but it did not go above his ankles—he could still see the tips of the long green shards which he assumed was grass but in reality did not know the true nature of in any conceivable way. He could be hallucinating. Probably was. He decided not to test it.

Bend down. Touch the grass. One, two, three, five and a dime and it’s done. He picked a blade of grass—it separated from its roots and pulled up a clod of dirt up with it. So it was grass after all. It really was grass. Grass was green. This stuff was green. He could touch it, feel it, breathe in its scent—he had it up against his nose. Grassy. The stuff of magic. Of course it would be the stuff of magic—but what did that matter to him? He wasn’t JRR Tolkien. He wasn’t anybody. Nobody at all. Just Johnathan the schizophrenic. No longer loved by Emile. No longer loved by everyone.

He sat down. He looked at his hands. He felt the cold touch of dew grass against his Golutius maximus shumaxiomus. His butt. But he was wearing pants. Was the grass really that wet? He picked another blade and sniffed it.

I should be going now. He got up and looked around. Where should I go from here? Help was probably on the way. Probably. Unless he had entered another universe. From there he could see the stars, see the night sky as it rotated above him. He looked and he sighed at the beauty of it all. Maybe he wasn’t crazy after all. Maybe it was his own fault for doing something so stupid in the first place—did he really do it? Or was it thrust onto him? Maybe both. A little of both.

He didn’t like to think about it hat way. He liked to think about it in his own way. The way that he had always been taught—the way it was supposed to be done, the way that people had always done to him—the way that he hated which included mental hospitals and shock treatment and the stench of grey death on the hardware with which they killed people and treated schizophrenics—all the same chair. Just different doses of electricity. Different doses. Did they kill him? They might have. He might be dead. This might be—

Heaven. Maybe he was in heaven. It certainly looked like heaven. But it was very open, happy, a nice place to be in. Not at all like the heaven he imagined. Full of rude people who thought they deserved to be there. You don’t deserve to be there either. Shut up. No you shut up. Begone.

He listened. Was he gone? The voice in his head? Maybe. I think so. What made him think so? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.

Things stayed the same. He had let everything go. Hadn’t he? A long time ago. He had given up. That’s why he didn’t take his medicine. Not because he forgot. But because he was tired. So tired. Tired to the bones—chilled to the bones. All the way down to his innermost being—the marrow, the place where his blood cells were created and the place from which everything else grew, his body, his head, his mind—all of it was blood.

Good going. You got through it. He thought. They were definitely his own thoughts. His own thoughts. He had control. Control over what he would do with his life. Where was he now? Where was this place? What was this place? How did this place come into being? Was it all in his head?

No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t in his head. He could feel the grass. Smell the glue that held the world together—was it the fog? What was it?

“Hello there.” A traveler. Dressed in a black clockwork metal suit with night-like absorptive properties and the sheen of a carrot given all its peel removed. Or something like that. Johnathan had no meter with which to judge this man’s craziness. “Good morning.” The man spoke. He also lifted his arm at the same time with a gun in the palm of his hand. Not aimed at Johnathan. Not aimed at all. Nowhere did Johnathan see any probable thing which might occur at this moment of a consequence of his contact with this man. In other words, he felt as if this man could be given a trusting spirit without the fear of its abusive relationship becoming snarled with hope. Hope was the real word here. Hope was the thing which Jonathan most desired. Did he have hope that this man would be friendly? Would be an ally? He looked at his feet—they were bare. He spoke.

“Who are you?”

The man in the black suit gave no reply for a long moment. Then he moved. Click, clack, his armor went. Clickety clack like an insect train on horse racing day. Shumorse racing day. Who was it? Who could they be? Johnathan needed to find out. He spoke.

“Can you please—“ he was cut off.

“My name is Arl,” said the man in the black armor suit. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“What do you mean?” Johnathan asked. He continued to stare at the ground on which his feet stood, the place where they resided when he wasn’t looking at them—what kind of a place was that? Was it a good place? Did his feet like it? I think they do. My feel like gold, I don’t want them to fall off. Will they fall off? He shook his head. They wouldn’t. They love me as I love them. Nice feet. He had nice feet. They were very warm and nice feet. Even though it was cold. How could that be?

A sword. The gun in the black suited man’s hand turned into a sword. His name is Arl. His name was Arl.

“Arl?” Johnathan said. “Is that you name?”

Arl simply tilted his head. “It is if you want it to be.”

Johnathan shook his head twice, then three times. “I don’t know. Do you know what I want from life?”

Arl did not respond for a very long time. Then he shifted on his feet. “Come,” he said. “I will show you the true nature of your being.”

Come? What kind of come did this person expect from him? A sexual come? That would have been nice in the moment. Jonathan couldn’t remember the last time he had a sexual come. Was it ten years ago? Twenty? With whom, Emile? Definitely not her. They were all out to get him. All of them. But not. Not anymore. He was safe. How did he know that? He didn’t. Not at all did he know what was going to happen from here on out—but he had the intuitive feeling that he was safe.

I can come out now. I can do this myelf. I no longer need my shield. My shield has come off. It is me. I am this world’s king. Are I not? You are.

“I am,” he said, and looked the black-shouldered man in the eyes. “Arl. You said that was your name, correct?”

Arl simply gave a single nod and did not say a word. “And who are you to say it isn’t?”

“It is.”

“Very well. My name is Arl to you, then.” Arl shifted on his feet again. “And you may still call me what you wish. I will call you master.”

“From now on?”

“From now on until the end of that which has no end. Until the end of time.”

Arl tilted his head to the left. “Will you come?”

“I will come. With you. To wherever you are going, I will come with you.”

Arl bowed his head and his shoulders. “Very well. You may come with me if you wish.”

He didn’t move an inch. Neither did Johnathan. They stayed in that position for a very long eternity momentarily transfixed by each other. Who was he? Thought Johnathan. To himself. No proxies needed. Who was this man who stood in front of him in full black armor, so much armor that he could not see his eyes. Who was he then, that he could imagine someone like Johnathan to be the ruler of the world? Why did Johnathan need to think that way? What happened to his life? His old life? Emile? Where was she? Was she gone? . . . Help me and you will find peace. That is what Gerald said to him as he died in the mental hospital of a drug overdose—they overdosed him with lithium and then as a punishment for an unrelated “crime” put him in solitary with no food or water for three days. And lithium does not play nice with the dehydrated. Not nice at all because of who it is and who it represents. Not that Johnathan knew much about brain chemistry. All he knew is that Gerald had died. All the way. Dead. Never to be seen again. Because he trusted the doctors.

You can’t trust doctors.

And why can’t I?

Johnathan looked the black-suited man in the eyes through his eye slits. He could see them. They were green. Quite feminine as a matter of fact. Why were they feminine? Was there a reason? Or was it just another delusion. Another delusion? Johnathan had had enough of those in his lifetime. Not just one too many but thousands to many. The first one was the worst. The last one was the biggest. And now he was trapped in a strange blank world with a man in a black suit of armor at his side who called himself Arl but whose real name he did not know—perhaps the man really was named Arl. Perhaps. Did it matter—no, it did not. Johnathan took a step forwards. “What are you doing?” He said. The man looking at him bowed his head to the ground. He then looked up from his position and hung his head in a statement of humility.

“You are my king.”

Johnathan said nothing. He only knew in his bones that the man in the black suit was right. Arl. He would be called Arl from now on. “I christen you Arl.” Arl shifted and looked at his hands.

“I suppose you can call me that after all. It’s not what people usually call me but I think it’s worth it to at least try. Keep going with it and you might find something useful to come out of it. Keep going and then you will see what kind of a place you have entered. You do know where are, right?”

Johnathan answered: “No, I don’t.” He really didn’t know where he was. Why was he here? Where was he. He asked that question of himself again, and then again. Where was he?

Arl abruptly turned around. He began to walk away. Johnathan reached out his arm—Arl stopped. He turned around.

“Come. That is all I can tell you at this moment.”

Johnathan began to walk, slowly at first, and then quicker as Arl increased his step.

“Are you okay with an information dump?” Arl said.

“Dump?” Johnathan asked. “What do you mean by that.”

“You’re the king. You need to know some things before you go on your quest.”

Johnathan said: “Quest? What Quest?” He paused and waited for an answer.

The answer came. “You will see.” Arl quickened his pace some more as if he were in a hurry to get to the place he needed to be at that moment. However, Johnathan didn’t sense any impatience seeping out of Arl’s body. He was calm. Strangely calm. As if his armor were blocking Johnathan from getting a read on his emotions. Was it even true? Was it even possible for things to be this way? Arl stopped. Johnathan stopped with him.

“Where are you taking me?” Johnathan asked.

Arl answered: “Your quest begins here.” A door shot up from out of a trench in the ground and filled with a shiny liquid bubble that pulsated orange, red, orange, purple, orange, orange orange and sunshine and little bits of darkness swirling around in their complicated dance patterns—the patterns which for some reason Johnathan found oddly appealing. “I will now let you in. Step forth. Johnathan. I now christen you Christ.”

Johnathan—Christ—stepped forwards. He took off his hat. Had he been wearing a hat before? He didn’t know. Actually, he most likely wasn’t. Because the hat was made of gold and he would have noticed if it were there—gold was heavy. Very heavy.

Arl motioned towards the door. “I am the gatekeeper,” he said. “I will protect you in this realm. I cannot guarantee you anything else. Do you wish to put your life in danger for the sake of an unkown amount of people you have never met?”

Johnathan did not need to think about that one. “Yes.” He stepped through the door.

Bonus Post: A reinterpretation of Revy as the "Real Tsundere"

Here is a link to the first episode of Black Lagoon.

My favorite character is Revy. You should probably know why if you know anything about her. Look at and you can see at a glance how badass she is. She's really badass if you were wondering. Badass level one million to hot to even touch.
She's screwed up. Got a lot of problems on her hands, enough PTSD to put the worst Vietnam vet into a state of grateful relief, saying "Wow, I'm glad I'm me and not her." That's just the way she is. She kills without hesitation with a gleeful look in her eye, she sits comfortably on the deck of a speeding, rocking boat while five bad guys spray her with point blank AK47 rapid fire bullet hell and shoots each one of them in turn bang, bang, bang, bang, bang all dead and she doesn't even have a scratch. Chuck Norris ain't nothin' to this girl. Chuck Norris can slam a revolving door. This girl can pull the whole building down with her teeth.
So why am I calling her a tundere (Sour-sweet in Japanese, kinda like a sour patch kid)?
Because she is. She's the ultimate tsundere. Look at her actions a little bit differently than the show would give to you on a platter and the "Whole Revy" begins to form.
For example. Revy likes to point guns at people. There are two kinds of people she points her guns at. Bad guys, and the people she loves the most. Can you guess which one she shoots? Yeah, the bad guys. But, then, why is she pointing her guns at the people she loves most? Because she wants to kill them. Yep, she wants to kill them. But not because she's Yandere crazy. Not because she wants to posses them. She points her gun at them and doesn't shoot right away to symbolize the fact that she trusts them wholly and completely and will always be there to protect them. How does that work out? Well, it works out really well.
Let's go in depth a little more about the previous statements. How can pointing and not shooting imply love? We'll answer first by describing Revy's relationship with her precious guns. They're really precious to her. Obviously. She carries them everywhere and never hesitates to rely on them in the toughest of situations. But, but but but, her attitude towards them changes as the show goes on.
You know who I think the main character is? Revy. She's the one that changes the most. She's the one that goes on a full, all-out hero's journey whose mission is to protect Rock and keep her freinds out of danger. A bad-ass hero's journey translated into a modern-day-pirate style story but in the end it's all the same.  She is the bad-ass hero archetype. The embodiment of that form. No hesitation to take action. No hesitation to kill. Heart as dark as the night but as brightly passionate as the sun. She loves, she lives, she kills and she will die and she knows it to be true and yet still puts herself in danger for the sake of her friends. She's the ultimate in character development. Really, the ultimate. Bang, bang, bang she goes and it translates into "I love you." Three people dead. Two people alive. One love for both of them bang, bang, bang. Bang, bang, bang, she goes up and down the rollercoaster of her emotions and throughout the entire ride wears a devilish grin on her face. She likes the blond-haired weapons-dealing nun with a pistol and sunglasses--so she points her gun at her for a whole minute and a half. No shooting. Just pointing. Saying, "I like you. A lot."
And then there's Rock. She points her gun at him. She shoots. She misses. Revy never misses. Ever. If she intends to kill she will kill no matter what. But then, in that situation--why did she miss? What did she do wrong?
She did nothing wrong. She let Rock cause her to miss. She trusted in him. She said, "If you can make me miss, I will love you forever." He made her miss. They loved each other forever. Then they kissed in the back of a cop car using cigarettes as proxies. None of that ooey gooey romance shit.  Neither of them have time for that. It's all in the head, in the interpretation. Interpretation is the name of the game and Reve loves Rock and Rock loves Revy because they be interpretatin' each other like husband and wife gone mad in a world filled with child porn suicide shooting, killing, death, disease, prostitutes, Roannapur, Roannapur, Roannapur. This shit's real. Her shit's real. She gonn'a deal with it and Rock's gonn'a help her ass get back in the shape it was meant to be.
Also, she's got some epic tats. Sweet smile too.

A real tsundere and fuck all the rest.

Sakura Sweet Chapter 2: For Old Time's sake.

Raining. It was raining. There was rain all over the place in the gutter on the roof in the streets and on top of the cars going pitter patter pitter patter to the beat of the drum inside Jonathan’s heart, his head, his very internal state of being which he himself knew not to forsake for anything but the righteous command of the one who loved him, she who was no longer a part of his life and who had left him in the rain in the first place where he lay with his head against the concrete and his eyes open, listening, watching the rain fall down on top of the roofs of the cars which were parked in line ant-line like a big fat poboy filled with roasted sausage and sauerkraut and bits of roasted fish and roasted chestnuts and the things which he imagined were true as well as false; it was all false, he didn’t like it being false, he wanted it to be true drew ploo shoe inside the mind of this body which he inhabited because of how fake it was and how different he saw it as being. Not at all. No way in hell.

No way in hell.

He got up. From the ground. And tried to wipe his hands on his pants but they were wet. He looked at his palms and asked God for forgiveness of his sins. Why were they forgiven? Were they forgiven?

What had he done?

Why had he done it? You deserve it. You deserve it. You deserve it. You deserve it. You deserve it. You deserve it. And then he began to walk. Through the rain. Away from his house. But the parking lot was empty. It was an apartment, wasn’t it? Why had she mentioned mortgage payments? Was she real—see? She wasn’t real. This place didn’t have mortgage payments.

It had rent. Rent. She said mortgage payments and she meant rent. Rent bent crent. Cookies and cream on top of a salad bowl. Johnathan looked up at the stars. But they were not there. They were gone hidden behind the clouds the cumulonimbus up down quark skies which were really green because the aliens said so. Now he was wet. Had he always been wet? He wasn’t wet. Where had the wet gone?

Bright skies. Big trees. Lots of forest all around him. Where was he? In his head. Of course. He was there when she looked at him and now he was not there anymore.

. . . Hello, there.

. . . Hello, there. Someone said something. Hello, there. You there.

(You there.)

; ; ; He answered. He listened. He heard. This was his destiny. His real destiny.

The king of the world. He was the king of the world! Stand up! Listen! Everybody hear this message!

“Hey.” A hand touched his shoulder. “You okay there?” The hand gripped his shoulder tight. “I said, you okay there?”

English sminglish they speak English here in fantasy land. This is fantasy land. Good for me. I’m king of the world. Kind king of the world king of the world. Sming king bling ding dong the doorbell Christmas is here. Christmas.

“Hey, there, you, look at me.”

Maddening.

“Are you even alive?” he asked. The person behind him. Which person was it? Darth Vader. It had to be Darth Vader. Jonathan turned around. “Hello, Darth Vader.” Darth Vader did not look like Darth Vader.

A kid. Sweet kind eyes. The kid had sweet eyes. Very sweet eyes. Jonathan liked him the instant he saw him. Which was a couple of seconds ago. Seconds ablow with whale penis peni pinasaurus rex. Penis. The kid had a penis. But he did not. She was a girl. Girl smirl? Girl Smirl.  Why then had he heard the voice as a he?

Deep voice. Must be deep voice. Girl. She’s a girl. Nice breasts. Cool. Round. I want to suck on her nipples. Shut up. No you shut up. Go away.

The girl tilted her head and watched Jonathan as he stared back at her. She did not know what to think. She only knew that there was a person here who was not here before. In her cabbage patch. A rather short man. A rather skinny man. Obviously crazy. What would she do with him? Adopt him? Did he need a nice meal and some rest? She decided. He needed someone to talk to. She would play the kind card while she still had it in herself to be merciful. Merciful shumerciful. Me shumerciful. Johnathan thought not that he would be king. He wasn’t kind enough. He was broken. This girl. Could she fix him? Fix what? Was she broken?

The girl took his arm. She smiled at him. “Care for some sausage?” She began to drag him away but then she stopped. She turned around to look at him. “Are you okay? You sound a little muddled. I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Shumaying.” Johnathan wiped his free hand on his pants now suddenly dry. Now he took his hands and showed them to the girl. “Who are you? What do you want? Where am I?”

The girl smiled. “I’m you,” she said. “You, you, you.”

Jonathan blinked. “Haa . . .” He paused. “What do you mean by that?” His thoughts suddenly became clear. Very clear. Clearer than they had ever been before. He liked it that way. Shumay? No, no shumay. That wasn’t a word. Not at all. Where was he? Really. In his head. It must have been in his head. All of it? All of it. All of it. All of it. So where was Emile? Did she still exist? Somewhere? I don’t know. This guy doesn’t know. She. She’s a she. She is a she. She is a pretty she indeed. Shumeed it is not. Shumeed. Not a word. No word. Not a sentence. No sentence. Not. Wiped his pants on his hand. Goodbye, me. I’m alive. Goodbye, me. He took a deep breath. And looked around him.

He was alone.

He saw no one. The girl was gone. She had always been gone. She had never been there. She was not real. Nothing was real. Except what Jonathan saw. He saw it all, for the first time in his life. What was he doing with it? His life. Why had he come here. Why was he here. Those two questions he felt would be answered in a short period of time specially known only by him but not by him at all. He liked it that way shumay it was not. Shumay was not a word. No, it was not a word. At all. He wanted to go home?. He wanted out. He had been out his whole life. All the way out. In and out he had been going his whole life. Now he was free. Trees. Green trees. They were there and not thinking of him, not out to get him, not trying to kill him as he had always thought. He liked trees. Hadn’t always liked them. They were scary. Now they were not. Welcoming him. That was what they were doing. That was what they were saying to him—

We will help you. We will worship you since you are our king.

“I am?”

Yes, you are. Though you have not been chosen yet, you have not been put through the trials by fire. “Trials by fire?”

Trials by fire. The thoughts ended. The trees stopped talking. Perhaps they had been talking. Perhaps it had all been in his imagination. The imagination of the king. Perhaps. Jonathan did not believe them when they had said it to him just a moment ago. He had no reason to believe them. None at all. Somehow he could think straight now. Differentiate reality from fiction. Perhaps it was not fiction. He had no choice but to agree that it wasn’t, but he knew that it was. It was pure fiction. The world was not fictional, the way he saw it, but it was indeed specially made for him. It had to be. He felt it in his bones.

He felt it in his bones. 

Sakura Sweet chapter 1: Fish Salad.

Fish Salad (1)

He was running. He was always running.  Away from his chance at victory, away from his chance at love, away from everything, everything, he didn’t care, he didn’t want it. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t the one that decided to run in the first place; rather, it was his other self. 

Emile.  She was there. Always there, watching him, taking care of him—or so she said—but in reality she was not; she hated herself for that and pretended not to care that Johnathan knew at all what was happening. She hated herself too much to care about herself anymore—she hated herself.  Hated herself! What was she going to do about it, then? Was she going to try harder to win Jonathan’s love?  Was she going to know things, to find things, to look up at the stars and ask them for help?

Jonathan thought not.  Not at all was she going to change to love herself at any time in the near future, the far future, the near-far gap of a hole that he had gotten himself into. The middle future was his place. It was where he belonged. 

In the city of Diafoneus Macs he would run down the alleyways and look at all the paintings on the walls—the graffiti, other people called it graffiti but he saw it as it really was. Art. Art he liked to call by its name, which was something only he knew, for he was a sorcerer of information. A sorcerer who dealt with the magical art of inflation—that beautiful infinite complex from which his love grew. His love, his love for her would grow and grow until he saw it as beautiful, and then she would kill him just as he killed her for loving him too much.  In the end they both died a little bit when she passed—he was now alone in the world without a love to love him anymore than she had loved him. 

He wanted her back. He really, really, really wanted her back. His heart raced every time he thought of her. His thoughts raced, faster than his heart, and his legs raced fastest of them all. He wanted them to race--:what, then did he want to really do? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. All he wanted to do was bring her back. Bring her back into the living plane of existence where everything would be right once she awoke from her sleep. 

Her long sleep.  That sleep which only he knew the true cause of.  It was him.  It was him that killed her, he killed her when he meant to love her. And as such the cops were after him.  Of course they were after him. Not for his murder but for what god had given him—a gift, the gift of information sorcery applied to the universe where people would see him and bow down to him. But they did not bow down out of subservience; they bowed down because they were afraid of him. 

They did not exist. Schizophrenia. That was what the doctors called it when they diagnosed him. Paranoid schizophrenia. What was he going to do about it? He didn’t know. At all. None. No where did he or could he find a place to worship in peace. Who did he worship? He didn’t know. Did he care? No, not really. He didn’t care at all what happened to him. 

Rain. The rain fell on his shoulders and sloughed off his back where it puddled into pools against the wall at his feet while he leaked his life blood onto the ground. Piss mixed with blood both of which he drew shapes in on the walls as he died slowly in a corner of the Diafonous block one hundred kilometers exactly from where he had killed her. A nice coincidence. One that he did not understand, wished to understand, but could not. What was it besides a string of coincidences that brought him here? He didn’t understand—again! He didn’t understand! Why was it that he couldn’t? Where did his understanding go? What was it even before he knew it, before he found it and lost it? 

Where was he? Why—why did he have to die?

Please, God! He thought.  Please, let me live! Let me see her another time—I want to wait before she has a chance to kill me again! End thought he. Of course it was the end, the end where he died. Why did he have to die? He didn’t—he didn’t want to! No way—no way!!!!!!! NO! Please, God. Don’t let me die. He gripped his handle—the handle that he placed himself on within the building with which he was now sharing his life. All of his life, he shared. All of it. It hurt. A lot. A whole lot. It, it hurts.

Where was he shot? Was he even shot at all? Where was the blood coming from—no, it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t his. Then why—why was it there? No—it couldn’t be. It wasn’t his but it was his—he was dead. He looked at his dead body from above. Now what? He thought. Now what do I do with myself?

And then she came. Emile. With a smile on her face and with her both arms, extended out to hug him or to perhaps squeeze the life out of him. To squeeze the life out of his death just as she had squeezed the life death out of his death life, in which he had mumbled his way about for the past fifteen years and some odd months. Some odd months meaning the time he had spent in jail before he had been released on parole. Fat lot of good that had done him. If only he had stayed. If only he had remained on parole. Without the thought of revenge.

Because it was revenge that motivated him—and then she touched him and lifted up his chin.

“Hello.”

She said. And then Johnathan looked into her eyes and saw kindness.  Where was the kindness coming from? Where? How did it work? Where was he, where was she, when they were both dead? They had to be somewhere special.

The Astral plane. Socrates. Were they the same? In his head Johnathan knew it was right. He was dead. He had been dead for a long time. Hours, maybe. Even a day was possible to explain his love for her in terms of dead logic. I mean, what is dead logic? That was the thought that bothered him as it ran through his head.

That was it. That was what he was supposed to know. Who was she? Was she someone he had met before? Was it her? That thing that he saw, that non-human presence? Was she dead too?

Of course she was dead. She had to be dead. Otherwise he would have never been able to see her.

“Come,” she said. “Let us be friends.”

Johnathan laughed. He laughed out loud. Loud enough to catch the attention of a passerby—two of them—but they did not know what they heard and only looked away after a second or two or perhaps three. Where were they, even? The Diatronubicedefs had not told him of this. Legion upon legion of men like him were trained for this exact moment. Should he kill her? It all came back. His training. The people he had killed, men, women, children, the unborn fetuses of the woman he had killed while they were pregnant with the children he had inseminated in them. All of them dead. One after the other.

Just desserts. What he deserved.

Fuck it. I don’t want to do this anymore.

He dropped to the floor. Then he took out his gun. It worked. Where was it? In his hand. His right hand where he kept his suicide tablets—under the skin of the left wrist. Where he had hidden them a long time ago. He had never thought of using them like this before. Perhaps it was for the best.

He bit into his hand and swallowed them along with a chunk of his own flesh and the blood that squirted out of his wrist’s artery. Stupefied, Emile watched in horror. No. No. No. That is what she thought. This can’t be real because it’s not! Hello there. You have entered the diaphonius zone.

Gah! Thought Johnathan. Gah! Gah! I’m not dead—but I am out! OUT!

Fist pump for glory. That is what he thought. He did not move his physical body because he could not. No legs. They were gone. When had he lost them? And yet he did move, eventually. And then he died. Not because he was wet with blood but because he had no blood. Out of the frying pan and into the fire—he went there because he had to. He swallowed the tablets. The tablets were gone. Not in his hand. No longer in his hand. They had never--:they had never been there. Where was he? In a dream?

In a dream, answer. It must have been. That was it. That was what he felt. Where was he then? In bed? In his birthday suit? In his—in his own mind? Dead? Not dead? Where was Emile? Was she still there—she was, she was not. She was not where she was supposed to be. Where was she?

“Where are you?” he said. He shouted it again. “Where are you?!” He tore at his hair. “Where—“

Someone cut him off. A voice. In his head? No, at the door. Who was at the door? Nobody. It had to be nobody. It wasn’t anybody. Not anybody you know.

Not anybody you know?

“Are you okay in there?”

A voice he recognized. Emile? Was it really her? Was she—did she come back to life? Aahh!? Big—butts—I—cannot—lie—help—me! Help me!? Who needs the help? Me, I’m not me! I’m her! I’m Emile! Ha! You can’t trick me, reality! There she goes. She’s gone. The door is shut. No one may enter. No one may enter Mordor without a free chicken pass. Shicken path. Stricken path-monster. Shikano. Sai-kano. Sai. I like Sai. Is he a real person? Hello—

“Hey!”

“No!  Shut up!  Shut up!”

He tore at his hair.

“Shut up!”

No. He couldn’t answer the door. He could not. He would not. What would happen to him if he did?

“He’s crazy.”

“He’s just a schizophrenic.”

Shut up. Shut up. Grab at the ears. Now. Shake the head. Back. Forth. You calm now?

Shut it. I’ll go answer the fucking door. Shut the fuck up. Get out of my head.

Ha-ha-ha. Very funny. As if you were one to decide when I leave.

He got up and went to the door. Opened it. There she was, Emile. His wife.

“Hello there?” he put on a brave face. Not brave enough. She noticed it.

“Did you take your meds this morning?”

No. You didn’t. You forgot, didn’t you, you fool? You’re a fool. A fool. A fool. Fool-stool-pool-mool-phool-pool. Ha look at that I embedded a torus. Embedded.

“Johnathan. Speak to me. Johnathan, stop staring like that. You’re creeping me out.”

Look at you. She think’s you’re so creepy. Why is she married to her? You can read her thoughts, right? Stop reading her thoughts. She’s thinking about you.

She slapped him.

“Johnathan! Will I have to take you to the hospital again?”

No. No. Not that. Not that place that evil place the place where they gave me electroshock therapy cerapy merapy derapy derp. He laughed a little on the outside and a lot on the inside. Derp.

Emile sighed. “Look, honey. We gotta take you somewhere safe. It’s another episode. Just, follow me.”

She’s going to kill you. She’s going to take you into a forest and kill you. But there are no forests around here. She’s going to make one. She’ll use her superpowers she has them to, doesn’t she? Doesn’t she? Then why doesn’t she use them?

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

Johnathan shook his head. “Your mom.” He laughed.

Emile frowned. She picked up her Iphone and dialed a number—the hospital number, right? That hospital!? That one? Why—no, why? Stop!

Johnathan grabbed at the phone. Emile jerked back her hand. The phone fell. Twisting. Twisting shmisting dissing pissing cracked. Cracked all to hell you did that didn’t you. Cracked. You idiot. She hates you now. Get down and apologize. Apologize shmologize poligist poltergeist. A ghost. Is she a ghost? She’s a ghost. None of this is real. It’s all a dream.

She slapped him.

“Out! I say out! Shit, I can’t take this anymore! Johnathan. Johnathan, you know what?”

Johnathan shivered. He looked aside and then at the ground and finally made eye contact and then looked away and then a tear appeared in his left eye.

“Please.”

Emile snarled. She looked away. She brought up her hand. “You take it off.”

“Take . . . what . . .” Johnathan swallowed. He blinked. The world went fuzzy.

Just a dream. Just a dream. Please don’t leave me. “Please don’t leave me.”

Another slap. The sharp edge of the diamond cut a slash across Johnathan’s face. Johnathan puked. Onto her blouse, then coughed up a goblet of phlegm. It landed on her nose.

Emile grimaced and took the ring off herself. She threw it on the ground. Then she stomped on it. She turned around and waved her hand.

“You take care of the mortgage payments for me, won’t you, dear?”

She walked away and out of his life for good. For good. Shmood. Shood. Would. Could. Would stop it if you would. You will, won’t you?

Bring her back. Bring back your superpowers you can do it can’t you? Where is she? She’s—she’s over there I can’t see her anymore. Where is she? Where did she go? She’s not real,--not real,--not—she’s real, no, isn’t she, no, isn’t she not, no, she’s—she’s—blood. Shumud. Gud. Where is she now? Stupid. Stupid idiot.

Ring. Ground. Shiny. Gold. I pick it up. He picked it up. Ha look it’s not even real gold is it. You never got her real gold. She knew. Not real gold. Shumuld. Where. Is. It., it’s here. Your superpowers. Bring her back. Control her mind. Kill her with your mind. So she doesn’t escape. She. Escape. No. She, escape. Don’t let her. No. Let her. No. Don’t let her shut up my voices you are still there shut up.

No.

He sat down. It was raining. And cold. The weatherman said low thirties. Celcius? No, this is America. Am I—he turned around. The house. It’s locked. She took the key. She took the shumiki. Ki. Tree. Butts and I cannot lie. Where. Where am I. Who. Who am I. Where is my superpowers. I can’t kill her. No. Don’t kill her. Kill her. Don’t kill her. Die first. You pig. Pig. Shumig. Grig. Blib. Baby bibs on a treetop spiral tree three yi ki. Yi ki. Yi ki. Ki. Ki.

I am so stupid. Shumupid. Where. Where am I. Outside. So my voices say. My voices. That’s all they are.

He hung his head. Low. To the ground.

“That’s all they are.”

He looked down the street. Could he see? No, because his glasses were wet. Where is she. She. He. Emili. Emile. Where are you. Emile. Why. No that’s not the real you the real you is inside or at work or is dead she is dead are you dead I am dead help. Me. I love you. Please don’t go. Please don’t go. Please don’t shumo. Go. The game of go. I can beat you. I can beat you you know at the game of go I am a grand master go player shumayer I have never played go before in my life shut up. Shut up. But I am. I can play go. I can beat you at go. My voices they say so. Go. It’s all a game of go. The universe is a game of go.

The rain continued to fall. Wetting his shoulders. His glasses. He shivered. Locked out of the house. Locked out. House. Shumouse. Mouse. Computer mouse. PC Apple Microsoft I am a windows 7 man who likes windows eight shumaight where is she why can’t I see her I can’t see her because my glasses are wet they are very wet wet het wet het my bet is that they are wet

“Het bet wet quet my name is Quet” side to side, rotate the hips. “Quet ny name is Quet.”

Back and forth he rotated. As the rain fell he rotated back and forth. A car drove past. The passengers looked out the rain-streaked window and saw a man lying on the ground in front of his own house. Who was he? They wondered. Probably a homeless squatter, they decided. They drove down the street and disappeared.

Forever shurever Denver Colorado. Where I am living. Is this Denver? I want to get to CERN so they can hear my life’s work life’s smuwork it is my life’s work in CERN shumerm white hole black hole big hole little hole white black chessboard shumessboard. Physicist in training. I am a physicist in training with superpowers supershumowers showers are hot and cold at the same time they are superimposed! Superimpositionary! Expeditionary! Shumary! Canary! Where is my

“Canary!  Shumary! Hello there, canary!” He looked at the yellow figure in front of him. It was a Canary. A canary, right? “Canary! Shumary! You will listen to me will you not?” He cried. Out of the rain and into the frying pan. No key. Left the key in the house with my wallet and my pants. Locked the door. The door autolock. Ed. Autolocked. Why did she put that there? Emile—she’s out—no she isn’t—it’s Emile! Secret service Emile! “Wheee!” he thought to himself. And said to himself. “Whee! Whee! Whee!” He said. “Wheel of fire! Fire shumyer!”

He moved his hands in motion with the rain as if he were both conducting a symphony and directing airplane traffic. Perhaps he was directing an airplane. A real airplane. This was an airport. He was at an airport. Lots of planes. Shumanes. Bang drang pang planegorious glorious shyumorious laborious men in the coal mines in Japan during world war two. Two. The number two is “Pretty! Pretty funny shumuny! Get me to CERN! Right now, get me to CWERN! SHUMERM!” Me, me, me! Superpowers! Ha! Yes, superpowers! I can fly! Fly! Higher than planes! “Fly high! Fly high in the sky where my key—no, key . . . no, no key . . .”

I’m cold. It’s cold out here.

He shivered.

The weatherman. He said low thirties.

He hugged on his jacket. It was cold so he hugged it tighter.

Emile, Emile, where are you Emile I would like to marry you Emile you are my love I love you you can’t be gone can you.

You can’t be gone you aren’t gone.

Ahah.

Caught you.

Caught you with my mind. Come back. Shumack. Hit me again shumack.

Because I love you, Emile.

“Where are you, Emile?”

The rain did not answer.