horrors2

murdered_by_owls.The_One_Ac.tex

  1\chapauth{murdered by owls}
  2\chapter[The One Act Remaining]{The One Act Remaining To Me In This World}
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  8I'm not sure how it is possible for me to sit here, outwardly
  9so calm, while a tornado is whipping around inside my brain,
 10flinging emotions about like bits of debris left over from an
 11explosion in a sex shop. The definition of surreal: digging dildo
 12shards out of your ears{\ldots} if only metaphorically.
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 16I glance out the window of the break room of the factory where I
 17work, and notice that the moon is full, gravid with cold
 18purple-white light. Why does it seem to be calling me? I want to
 19understand what it is trying to tell me. I know it's telling
 20me something, if only I could hear it through the endless,
 21soundless muttering of a million dying souls. They're everywhere.
 22Their sighs fill my head like a swarm of crocheted bees.
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 26My coffee is very hot, and tastes of metal, or perhaps the tears of
 27molested children. I'm not sure why that comes to mind. How
 28would I know what molested child tears taste like? A trivial
 29mystery to which I am unlikely ever to find an answer{\ldots}
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 33There is a part of me, deep inside, that is like a tiger with
 34foot-long blades for claws, and it wants to attack and rip and
 35destroy this violent feeling of whirligig that raves and rages and
 36rapes the rest of my brain like a lunatic conquistador. But the
 37tiger cannot fight an opponent so vague and ephemeral. It's
 38like trying to grapple with a fart, or wage war against a cloud of
 39gnats armed only with a Beretta or a bag of tulips.
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 43A solemn fog has grown out of the river just to the north of us,
 44and it is as though someone has thrown a gray blanket across the
 45fields surrounding the factory. The moon looks down on all this,
 46benign, but also wild and terrible, the face of a pagan goddess
 47with a cold and clear eye. This is somehow comforting.
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 51Two of my fellow night shift machine operators walk in the room,
 52get their coffee and candy bars, and sit down at the other side of
 53the room, not speaking a word. We ignore each other testily. The
 54silence between us is a sacred bond, unrelenting, immutable. It is
 55more than just mute testimony to our deep and abiding wariness, it
 56is a black and shapeless ocean, seeming to drown the words we do
 57not speak.
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 61It is all right; I have grown indifferent.
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 65As I pick up the sports page from the table, I feel a sudden surge
 66of terror, coming from nowhere and everywhere, as if I had been
 67shaving in front of the bathroom mirror and seen a reflection of
 68the tiger streaking towards the back of my neck with deadly, fluid
 69speed, claws outstretched to rend and destroy.
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 73Outside, I show nothing.
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 77I sip my coffee.
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 81My cock is hard as steel.
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 85Ten minutes later, I am once again at the controls of my machine.
 86It vomits polyurethane airmail envelopes in an endless stream. The
 87stink of burning hot melt has settled into my clothing, and can be
 88sensed faintly anywhere I go, like the ghost of cheap aftershave on
 89a shirt the day after a date. Here, in the factory, the odor is
 90strong and almost palpable, with a kind of chewy, yellow
 91resonance.
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 95My bagger stands at the far end of the monolithic, hissing metal
 96apparition and collects the envelopes as they are expectorated by
 97the machine onto a small table. He executes a kind of dance, the
 98steps repeating every thirty seconds or so. He watches the counter
 99over the cutter bar, and when it reaches 100, he snatches the pile
100out from under the next envelope with greedy, clutching fingers and
101slams it into the cardboard flat he has prepared. He folds the top
102over, slaps a strip of tape over the seam, and stamps the side with
103the date and shift, all in one long, fluid movement. He bends and
104twirls, deftly slipping the flat into a bigger box on a pallet.
105Then he returns to the table at the end of the machine and prepares
106another flat with economical, practiced motions, and places it
107before him, ready to enshroud the next stack of the machine's
108ejecta. Waiting the next few seconds for the next stack to be
109ready, he waits completely motionless, head down, his hands spread
110out before him on the table.
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114I watch him carefully out of the corner of my eye as I run my
115machine, and I wonder if he knows he is dancing. Could his
116insensate eyes, half-closed and empty, simply be looking within,
117seeing himself on some shadowy stage upon which he turns and
118leaps?
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122Actually, I think he's dead, and like a freshly decapitated
123chicken, he just hasn't noticed it yet. He's dancing,
124all right, but it's the same kind of dance a fresh corpse
125executes at the end of a rope after dropping through the trap door.
126The ballet of the damned.
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130When the sun comes up outside, near the end of the shift, it always
131seems to me like the whole factory and the buildings and fields
132that surround it have been cruising all night through another
133dimension, like a spaceship that goes through some kind of time
134warp and then reemerges, unharmed and unchanged, at the exact
135moment from which it departed. Nothing has changed in the world of
136our origin, nothing has changed in our isolated pocket of reality,
137but we have gone somewhere and come back nonetheless.
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141I know that when I leave the factory and drive home in my car, I
142will feel like an unknown astronaut quietly and without fanfare
143returning home after spending years alone in my ship. I will listen
144to the sound of no crowds cheering and watch as no tickertape falls
145to celebrate my arrival as I drive through still-slumbering
146streets.
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150I am home, but I am still isolated and alone.
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154When I walk out the front door, the fog is still there. It writhes
155its way down the length of the river, enclosing and concealing it
156entirely. I idly speculate that there could be some strange things
157going on in there, and nobody would ever know.
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161Anything could be hiding down there.
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165There's nothing there, of course. It's just idle
166speculation.
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170I throw a rock down there as I walk past, just to be sure.
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174Nothing happens. I stand for a moment, listening, and then laugh
175nervously and walk on.
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179I can feel the moon up there, smiling at me, even though it has
180disappeared behind the trees. That's one thing about the
181moon; you can count on it being there, even if you can't see
182it.
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186If you saw me now, a nondescript man calmly walking to his
187nondescript car at the end of another day at his nondescript job,
188you would never guess that I'm going insane.
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192The impending death of my rationality is overtaking me like the
193approach of a black hole, and within days, hours{\ldots} minutes,
194maybe, I'm going to cross the event horizon and succumb to
195the raging storm of gravitation spinning like a top within that
196infinite silken darkness.
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200But before the dissonance of that crazy awakening rea\-ches its
201crescendo, I'm going to perform the one act remaining for me
202in this world.
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206I'm going to wear a pair of Jessica Alba's
207panties.
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211Then I can finally die. 
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215\illustration{Part of Everything}{Scream in Panties}{art/Part_of_Everything-Scream_in_Panties.png}