Face To Face With Dog Bricks

Perhaps I'd had one too many. Yet I was unaware of any untoward effects upon my speech or bearing. There was not to lead me to seriously consider the possibility. I did try a little, but it was difficult to tell. Besides, I was taken up most joyously with the ancient but familiar old refrain spilling forth from the color changing, five foot tall music box on the floor; K C and the Sunshine Band seemed almost to be there in person, and once again, like they used to do so long ago, were urging me on to come out and shake my booty. I only smiled and declined. I do not like to dance alone particularly, though I will do it if I really have to.

That would not happen on this night. Something much stranger was on the barkeep's menu. Something most unusual, quite bizarre and practically speaking, rather impossible was already taking form.

I was standing at the edge of the parquet dance floor, gently swaying to the melody. "She's a BRICK!, house." There was nobody in the whole place but myself. Excepting two other persons, an elderly man, seated two yards from my person with a younger man attending him at his side. They both wore suits, and expensive ones. They seemed an odd couple, and a bit jumpy. I paid them no mind, nor did I give them hail. I simply stood and gently tapped my little pump clad foot in a most ladylike fashion along with the music and memories they stirred. "Play that funky music white boy, lay down and boogie and play that funky music till you die."

In the midst of my tiny sing-along I felt suddenly compelled to gaze straight upon the two men seated nearby. A misty halo of white smoke was lazily curling around the old man's head, 'though no one in the place was smoking, and upon each end, on either side of his balding crown, arose a point, much like a little pair of horns. Upon perceiving his smoky "horns" I could not help but let out a little giggle.

The old man's head quickly snapped around, his face intensely searching the only three potential gigglers in the place, and it obviously wasn't the bus boy or the Latvian bartender, Boris, who weighed 250 pounds and had a voice as deep and gravelly as his frosted chest length beard. That pretty much left me.

The old man's eyes fixed on me and squinted hard. Without taking his steel cold gaze off me he spoke something to his aide, who quickly nodded, arose and approached me.

"My lord would ask of you to come and join us briefly for a cup of ale. He is lonesome for his home and you remind him much of his eldest daughter. Would you do this for an old and sickly man, nearing the end of his days and rightly missing the home fires on this full moon eve?"

"I was just about to leave," I lied in reply.

"Oh do delay, won't you? It would make him much less grim this evening. And forgive me for saying so this directly, but my lord is a man of very great means and tremendous fame. He gives not such invitations lightly. Very rarely indeed. Such has only happened twice before in the length of my service to him this many long twenty and two years. It would be understandable to feel complimented".

"I see", said I. "And whom pray tell is your lord. I recognize him not."

It was at this moment that the young man leant over to my ear and whispered into it a name so frightening, so very rich indeed, so revealing and shocking and unexpected that I nearly fell off my heels. The young man instantly reached out to steady my stance, which I quickly rebuffed. He then glanced at his master who was summoning him with a single crooked finger in the air.

"Think on it won't you?" he said, then quickly stepped he back to the master's table. As soon as he arrived there the old man arose smartly and began to walk out the tavern door, out into the lushly appointed lobby of the Grande Marquise Hotel.

As I am generally up for an adventure, especially on a full lit moon eve, I decided there was little to lose in taking him up on his offer. He was after all so rich and so famous and so completely, horribly, murderously, criminally dreadful that I hated him deeply. I thought I might have the unique opportunity to tell him so directly to his face. How could I pass this up?

Keeping several paces behind them, I followed the men to the gilded elevator and we all rode up to the top most suite together. Never had I seen such luxury and wealth. Everything was covered in silver and gold and shining beveled glass. The finest furniture appointed the parlour, and though I did not see the other rooms I am certain there were several more. I was thus forth queried as to my choice of beverage and graciously offered a seat in a rather resplendent white leather chair, which I don't mind saying suited me rather well. The old man sat in the matching chair to my own, mere inches away from me, only a small table between us, and we began to talk.

At first the talk was light and pleasant, but it did not take long before the tone took on a much more serious tenor. Shortly we bit upon a hard bone of contention, he and I, but to his credit he did not act rudely. Indeed, as the fine ale purified and enriched my courage I was soon doing precisely as I had come to do. The old man sat and listened. He did not interrupt. What follows is what I said to him, as closely as I can remember, once I had hit my stride. I did ride my anger and disgust for this man like a bold white stallion. I was fearless.

"How many long and odious days have I sat and watched you enrobed in your never-ending lies? How many long and hot and sleepless nights have I tossed and turned in the unquietable memories of your words and acts of brutal deceitful betrayals? Certainly I have lost count. That is to say, I have never kept count.

I'd much rather have been able to put it all aside and out of my mind, out of my consciousness, far from my awareness. In a way the answer to how many days and how many nights is "one". One endless, seamless, repeating nightmare; from the very first time I clearly heard you speak one of your typical vile deceits to the trusting, caring, loving faces of those who invested their precious trust in you, it never stopped. Not a moment, not a single minute has gone by since that day, wherein I thought you were being genuine, being human, telling the truth, being real. It has never happened in the entirety of your life.

You are like a garishly painted circus clown, performing in the giant tent; absolutely desperate to be believed. I have wondered often if you truly believe your own broken down lies or if in fact you know perfectly well what a dishonest chunk of dog excrement you are. Again and again I find myself aligned, comfortably, with the belief that it is the latter; for certainly any brick of dog droppings has no illusions about what it is. It is what it is made of, and you are made of lies. You have at least the intelligence of a dog brick, I would expect then that you do know exactly who and what you are.

I pity you. I try to feel sorry for you but in all openness, that is still too difficult for me to muster. I don't feel much in the way of compassion or concern for your well being. Please, don't think so ill of me for this; after all, for as much harm as you have done, as you continue to do every day of your life, you don't deserve a hug and a teddy bear and a warm glass of milk with two cookies and a bedtime story. You deserve the electric chair, the hangman's noose, to be burnt at the stake,
to have your skin pulled off by vultures whilst you are yet still alive and fully conscious. As terrible, as awful, as cruel sounding as my sentiments toward you may be I assure you, they pale in comparison to the realities you have perpetrated on countless innocent others, and always, without exception, you have done so for no reason other than you enjoy it.

Yes it's true, I haven't spent this eternal night suffering the flutters in my chest and stomach, holding back the bile wanting to squirt up from my guts, keeping down the last meal I dryly chewed without a trace of enjoyment for the magnitude of the stain that you are upon this earth; I have not gone through all of that without finally figuring you out.

You are one sorry mess of a person. I will refrain from pronouncing you human for truly, I am far from convinced that you are human. It is much more true to my heart to think of you as some form of alien species for there is little in the way of any trace of humanity that you have ever shown. Quite the contrary. You are quite skilled at mocking the genuine, that is true, but once I saw through you I now also instantly see straight through your pale pretending jest.

But I do not need to wildly speculate and accuse you of actually being a reptilian creature with a forked snake's tongue and a scaly skin, cold blooded, unfeeling, concerned only with self and appetite, it is not necessary to paint any such literal pictures. The measurable, evidentiary facts of your being speak plainly for themselves. Whether or not you are a lizardine species from some nether place above our atmosphere or from below it is mere evidence in excess of all that is there in such great quantity that shows beyond any shadow of any doubt that you are indeed, at least inside yourself, a cold blooded insect intellect, heartless, compassionless, an anti-human being, someone who for so many reasons hates humanity and wants nothing more than to hurt it, as much as he possibly can.

Whatever happened to you when you were just a babe that caused you to become such a vicious, hollowed out shell of a person? What manner of humiliation, or fear, or suffering, what method of deprivation was inflicted upon you at such a helpless age, that made you feel so much rage and hatred for everything that moves upon the face of this earth?

It could not have been too many people who might have been responsible for creating the monster that you are. After all, how many infants have overflowing address books and appointments to keep? The only appointments to keep at such a tender age are going to the bathroom in your own trousers and demanding your next meal and nap. Although there was something else you demanded, something perfectly reasonable, something you deeply suspected was yours to expect. But it was not forthcoming. Was it. No, it was not. And on a very rare and few occasions when those closest to you seemed to have suddenly realized that you had been deprived of your due, that you had not received your fair share of limitless love and kindness and joy and acceptance and respect and appreciation, they thought, "It is time to give it to you".

Your heart leapt with joy and anticipation. At last, they will love you. They will say that they love you but more, they will act as though they love you. They will look at you with large warm eyes which will melt as they gaze upon your innocent baby soft countenance. They will call you some sickly sweet adorable name and wrap their arms around you, so tenderly, so truly, and they will pull you to their breast and stroke your hair, and feel the rhythm of your breathing, up and down upon the softness of that bosom, and you will fall asleep in the loving, caring arms of someone who thinks you are the most wonderful, beautiful creature in all the world.

And they came toward you, arms extended and opened wide, and they smiled greatly, their eyes soft and glistening; "Come unto me boy" they said, and you ran to their arms. But just as you reached them they pulled away and spun 'round, leaving you running right past them and hurting yourself when you fell and hit your head on a table's corner, and then they laughed. They laughed at you good and long and hard as you bled. They howled and slapped their knees. Their laughter was not contained, the more they thought about your desperate hunger and need the more it amused them, the more they shouted out. They called everyone in the household, and then everyone in the yard, and told them all this funniest of stories and you were horrified. You were outraged. You were devastated, wounded, confused, betrayed, hurt, aching, you felt as if a knife had pierced your throat.

Everyone stood and laughed at you, at your foolishness, at your weak need for stupid love and tenderness. What an unfit, addlepated fool you were. You would grow up to be nothing and no one for you hadn't the right juice flowing in your veins. You needed ice and acid and you only had blood. You were the same as nothing. The same as all the rest of the fools, sheep and losers, those stupid bleating bleeding beating hearts out there. Inconsequential idiots with their wholly predictable insipid dreams, too soft to take the world by the jugular and choke it into submission, or to death.

It wasn't just that one time they humiliated you, and it wasn't just humiliation. They ignored you. They were never there. Not with you, not for you. There may as well not even have been a you for all they were interested. You had nothing to offer, you had only weakness and squalling and skin crawling need and they had infinitely better things to do with their perfect and special minds. They always had important work to do, or golf games to play, or time at the club, or with the boys, or the ladies, or the group or the dogs or the horses, or anything and anyone but you. You never even made it to their list. If you'd have been the last thing on it it would have been a huge step up. Indeed, you never even made their list.

There was no one to tell you that you were worthy, or wanted, or loved, or adored, or perfect or beautiful. They only showed up on rare occasions, unexpectedly and without warning or reason, to crush you, berate you, insult you, tell you how much you failed to meet their expectations. They regaled you with examples of your bottomless weakness and pointlessness, your questionable intellect, and the dubious nature of your future. You were a terrible disappointment to these people, not a joy, but an oozing scab on an embarrassing place visible to the public. How dare you?

I have not as hard a heart as yours so even as I speak these words I feel some rustling and movement inside my soul that tempts me to feel sorry for you. But I cannot. You do not deserve the slightest sorrow from me. Because you, like all of us, grew up and when that happened your life, your mind, your being, your soul, your beliefs, your actions, everything about you became your choice and your responsibility. And your choice was to become a liar and a thief, a murderer, thug and rapist, to eat the flesh of other people's infants, to steal the last few pennies from the old and sick and dying. Your choice was to make sure, absolutely certain, that no one, at no time, would ever be allowed to experience a moment of joy or pleasure or love or truth or sweetness; not if you couldn't have those things. If you had to pay the price you suffered then so shall everyone else.

You set your entire being, your mind, your body, your brain, to revenge long ago. You have spent every moment of your life seeking to repay, in pain, the pain that encompassed you and defined your miserable life. All the trappings and trimmings of wealth and prestige did give some physical comfort, some modicum of self-superiority and smugness, something to flaunt and waste in careless excess especially around those who never had enough. This pleased you somewhat, but not nearly enough. Not enough to fill the cavernous hole inside your chest where normal people's hearts reside.

Oh you protest, "I have a heart!", but you do not. That too is a lie. Your heart is an illusion, a mere hollowed out shell, like a crisp dried up leaf, curled in just such a way that it faintly resembles the shape of a heart. But if anyone came near it, if it were ever touched, even accidentally, that brittle empty shell would instantly turn to dust and fall to the ground. Much like the twin towers turned to dust on that terrible day but when it happened to them it was shocking and unexpected because unlike you they were solid and substantial. You are neither.

And I am sorry, but perhaps those who did you so much cruel harm were at least somewhat partially right. You may very well lack the ordinary brightness of the simplest soul because you stupidly take out your revenge on countless innocent others, those who have had not a whit, not an atom to do with the state of your life and mind and being, and they you punish relentlessly, demonically, and you enjoy it beyond the ability of words to describe. This is not vengeance you silly fool, this is your pathological, terminal immaturity at it's ugly best. For the only way you can ever reap revenge on those who hurt you so is to take it out on them. That is the only road to payback and the ghost of satisfaction you spend your every waking moment chasing with a net-less butterfly net. You'll never get there from here. You're not even pointing in the right direction. Clearly, if you had two functional brain cells to rub together this would be self evident. But it has escaped you entirely. Tsk, tsk.

Sorry for you, to add even more insult to more injury, those who deserve your wrath, those who have earned your hate and rage and overwhelming need to destroy all joy in this world, they are out of the limits for you, are they not? Is it not true that you fear them, that your body trembles at the sight of them, that the very idea of displeasing them in any way makes your stomach sour and curl up into itself? Yes it is true. It is unthinkable for you to approach them, to step directly in their path and put your face firm against theirs and tell them how you feel and what vengeance you will have. You could never do that. Admit why. Go on, I dare you.

Coward, you cannot. Then I will say it for you. Because you still, to this very day, decades after they murdered your spirit, even after the cruelty and the pain and the torture and the meanness and the abandonment, the disrespect, the mocking, the humiliation, the sickness of their own souls which they took out on you so effortlessly, even in spite of all of this, they have told you that they loved you even as they pulled your body apart and plunged daggers into your heart. Even as they backhanded you with the strength of lumberjacks, even as they humiliated you in front of servants and friends and betters, even as they laughed at you, taunted you, tortured you, rejected you with stinging insults, you still found yourself begging inside to feel their love for you. To really feel it. To really, for once, know what it feels like, to know that it is real, it is genuine, untouchable, unstoppable, unquenchable. You still want that so bad you can't bear to think about it. It makes you insane with anger and resentment and lunatic rage. You want to slash the face of the whole wide world, slice its guts out with the edge of your expensive knife, to spill it's innocent, beloved, respected, nurtured, appreciated blood, to waste it on the dirt of the earth, to spill it for no reason other than to watch the life drain away once and forever more. That, you believe, would feel good.

It will not assuage your tortured soul. It will not heal the festering wound of emptiness inside you. It will not provide a compass that will lead you to your salvation and reward. It will do nothing but leave more blood on your hands and even less chance that you will ever know how it feels to be cared for. You work against yourself every moment of your life, but will you listen to me? Ha. Of course not. You would rather die than listen to anyone. You are truly stupid. At least as stupid as you are despicable. I've had nicer scabs than you.

Do you know that you are like a hunchback amongst men? Truly, hear me out. Your hump is large and disfigured, perched there at the top and back of your bristle covered neck, swaying back and forth, to and fro, like an enormous glob of camel fat and semi hardened snot. A disgusting thing it is too. It cannot so much be seen as sensed, as determined to be there by default. All the required elements are there, therefore the hump is a given. But this is not just a simple hump of a simple hunchback, who through no fault of his own, some sad accident of birth, must go through his entire life with this extraordinary burden upon his neck and back which enslaves him forever and keeps him down underneath the saucy brows and fearfully unkind attitudes that shriekingly demand he act enslaved enough to allow others around him the comfort and security of feeling in control of him, and that hideous hump.

No, your hump is different than his, it is much more disgusting. And unlike his, if yours should touch another they would become poisoned and sick with the venom and pus that oozes constantly out of yours. That toxic, sticky fluid is your specialty, the product of your truest soul, and it bubbles up in endless supply in the sheer hope of infecting someone else every day of your life. Even though your hideous hump is not visible to the naked eye, you none the less have less than optimal luck in getting anyone to come near enough to you to be infected by a dollop of that dorsal putrefaction product of yours. Because its invisibility is made up for by its smell.

Oh Lord, the stench is overpowering. It is worse than decomposition, worse than a thousand toads vomit, worse than a million donkeys sweat and foul breath and infected oozing oral sores. It cannot be described, the stench is so foul that all those whose unfortunate nostrils are assaulted with the merest trace of that olfactory blackness feel their nostrils, of their own will, curl under and tighten with extreme prejudice as though their very lives depended upon avoiding that dreadful noxious odor. Unlike the ordinary skunk whose ripely unpleasant odor is merely a vehicle of self defense, yours is a warning to the soul of mankind. Let all those who aspire to heaven, who believe in God almighty, who defend love and honor and beauty and truth, loyalty and honesty and selflessness and sharing, be warned and run away as fast as you can lest you get some of this vile stuff on you and be made sick as a dying dog because of it. They instinctually know that they run the very real risk of catching the same infection of the soul and the mind and humanity that has so ravaged your being to the point of turning you into a gutless, cowardly, diaper-clad, obnoxious, cruel minded monster.

Ah, I see the curl of your upper lip. You hide a smile. You find this all quite amusing. You enjoy knowing how much you repulse me, how much I hate you, how much I wish you would die tomorrow. Why wait? Die today, won't you? At long last humanity would have reason to be grateful to you, for something. At long last you will have given a bona fide gift to this world, a gift that would keep on giving. Your absence from this earth plane is that gift. I ask you, do you truly wish to be here? Why would you? You despise every morsel of this place. Every blade of green grass offends you. Every new born lamb boils your blood with its innocence and sweetness, with its deservingness to live. Unlike yourself.

Tell me, what have you ever done to deserve all that you have been given? And it has been given to you, let us not play games. You've earned not a single thing, not a single penny of your immense, bulging, unnatural, unnecessary physical wealth. You're frankly too ugly to have so much for yourself, that alone disqualifies you. Yes you find that funny, but do you know why? I know why and will tell you why. You find it funny because it is so true. You know you are a piece of shit, but in your abstruse Picasso-like twisted essence, you are proud of being Feces Man.

That's another thing I've figured out about you by the way. While I'm here I may as well lay it all out and tell you all I know. At least all I care to tell. This much I also know, that you are obsessed with shit. I see it in your face, I have it right. You are endlessly drawn to shit, to human excrement. It excites you. You dream of it, you think of it, you want to touch it and smear it and smell it and eat it. You want to express your twisted sexuality in the anus of another, yes, that is your type. It is nothing new. You prefer young boys to women, that is also nothing new. You spend half the day away day dreaming the penetration of some young boy's greased and waiting anal orifice which you will jam and bang with rage and hatred and sick bottomless desire, pardon the unintended pun. You are hung up, completely and totally on butts and what comes out of them. It used to bother you but it doesn't anymore. It's been too many years and too much debauchery, too many rapes of innocent children, too much self satisfaction at the ruining, the torture, the defiling of an innocent. You are truly the lesser of an infected rat's droppings. They are your king. Trust me. You are despicable and should die. Soon.
As soon as possible.

Is there something I can offer to hasten that day? Any promise I can make? Any gift that I can construct with my own two hands, any words that I can say that would inspire you to go jump off the tallest building at your earliest convenience? To dive head first off the nearest tall cliff with shards of sharpest rocks strewn beneath you to soften your steadfast fall? Do you not wish to go down in history as the man who gave the most to the world in this day and age of history? Would that not go down better than being correctly exposed for the lying, cheating, betraying, twisted sack of dog bricks that you are? Your money will no longer shield you when you are dead. When you are dead your control is all over and people will say of you whatever they will. They will not hesitate to bring out their photos and written records and give oral testimony as to your depravity, the stench of your soul, the size and nastiness of your hump.

You are a pig, but it is an offense to lovely pigs to say so. There is as yet no word to describe the likes of one such as you, the lesser of a worm's puke, beneath the farts of Ebola viruses... it is pointless to continue. I only give you pleasure, in your sick preferred version of hate for life. You have not been so greatly amused for a long time. Few would dare say to your face the self same truth I tell you, not because these very same words are not on a hundred million lips, but because they have fear where I do not care whether or not you are pleased. In fact I duly hope you are not in the least bit pleased. It would leave room for hope if you hung your head in shame, if only just a smidgen. I might be convinced to believe you could regain your soul and turn your life around in the most amazing miracle of mind over matter. But I see that amuses you even more.

I also see you pulling out your blade and sharpening strap, so I will bid you adieu now. I will not become your next human pizza. Go find a dead rat to chew on, you are what you eat."

(I walked now quickly to my car, and hastened to lock the door while I turned the engine to be gone from this place of demon spawn and shit smell and anti-human carnivalia as fast as humanly possible. Does he come after me? Dare I look? The greatest serial killer of our times might be so inclined, especially since I may have pissed him off, just a tint. I do not see him. I floor the gas pedal because for all I know he can turn himself to stench and strangle me with my own nose hairs. That would not be a fitting end for one such as I. One who dared to tell the truth directly to the face of one of the greater infamous murderers of humanity and spirit and beauty and truth and justice. One who was able to call him a brick of dog doo and live to tell about it. But only, who will believe me? Witness, I hope it will be you.)