A Real Mess, III

I hereby offer my apologies for this absurd delay, again. I hope this doesn't suck.
-----
Stern face, fists clenched, piercing gaze. That unmistakeable crown of horns. Warmth seemed to leave my body out of the absolute fear that I was drowning in. Or was being suffocated by, or just overwhelmed.

There he stood.

Marwood.

Not at all satisfied with the scene in front of him: corpse and all that. It's bound to make one upset (at the very least), among other less happy-go-lucky things.

The look on his face and the way he breathed deliberately only supported this thereby making whatever baseless assumptions I had, get base. Time probably stood still for what seemed to be eternities. If I blinked, it was very slow. Every time my eyelids shut, there was a faint prayer that Marwood would disappear and everything would be normal, or as normal as things were before Donald kicked the bucket. Or before the frying pan hit Donald. My eyes and hope betrayed me because I was unable to look away from Marwood. I wanted to look away but every time I thought about looking away, my eyes snapped to the same crowned figure of sternness that was our basement-dwelling repairman.

He never moved from when I closed my eyes and opened them again. He only shook his head in disappointment every now and then but neither of us actually said anything. I was too scared to move, and he- well, I don't know what his deal was.

I wanted to scream or make stupid noises, just to break the silence. I wished he would say something, a cryptic joke, a dirty limerick, his variation of a recipe for some Peruvian dish, anything! Instead, there was silence for at least 4 eternities. Well, 3 and a half.

Finally, he cleared his throat, and I began to tremble. I was partially glad for it but more terrified than anything. Silence was broken but it did feel like that cliche of a calm before a storm. Sure, things were quiet but now that he was about to speak it seemed like shit would really hit the fan.

He cleared his throat a few more times and sniffed before finally speaking. He seemed to relish the moment before speaking, as evidenced by a slight but noticeable smirk he wore for a brief second.

"You call this a clean murder?" was the first thing he said when he finally finished clearing his throat.

I was baffled; I thought he would have said anything else. Asked about the weather, asked if I was having any problems, anything else at all! Who critiques a murder like if it was some sort of term paper?

"For starters, look at all this blood! Anything so damned messy cannot be considered clean. Logic, boy!" He walked around, as if to inspect the place for loose ends and flaws. Critiquing my form and execution. Baffling! He should have at least asked why there was a dead man in my home! I wanted him to ask so I could have a reason to legitimately panic.

"Are you listening? Get something to clean this bungled operation with! This will not do! Not at all!" He paced around this time, as if thinking and judging. Somehow, I made my way through the baffled ocean of bewilderment I was in and managed to get in a word.

"Marwood, this man is dead." I croaked and stood once more, in fear. Knees shaking, bladder on the verge of losing control.

"And the sky is blue and water is wet. Thank you for stating the obvious! Is this the rest of your plan? To keep telling me what I already know?"

I know I've used "baffled" a lot already, and it must be somewhat painful to read the same word over and over and over and over and not have the context change. As such, I will use a different word to convey what is essentially the same thing I felt. Qronfuzzelleworpified!

"Are you just going to stand there and let this corpse decompose or are you going to restore the sanitary standard of living for this unit? We aren't a graveyard or some mortuary, you know. We can't have corpses everywhere."

And he repeated this same thing in four different languages. Each time, I understood that I really needed to open my mouth and say something else. Anything. Well, not my love of chunky peanut butter or anti-jokes, something more relevant. So I did, after summoning courage and collecting my head as best I could. At the top of my lungs, I shouted:

"Enough is enough! Marwood, this man is dead! Bereft of life! I didn't do it! I just want to get him out of here and away from me. The longer he stays the bigger the problem becomes! I know this is stating the obvious but goddamn it, I'm terrified of your presence! Especially at this very tense point in time! Your crown of thorns scares the hell out of me!"

I wished he would have slapped me or something. I almost longed for another eternity of silence. Things did not go as I wanted them. Instead, he applauded and smiled. He went to my bathroom and closed the door. The next sound I remember hearing was running water and a tub being filled up. In the meantime, I stared at Donald's body. There would be no more strife from this cad.

But where would I be without his zany antics? With less gray hairs and a horrible habit of looking over my shoulder every few minutes. Fear, mostly, and checking out my ass. For wet paint or other hilarious pranks Donald tried to pull on me.

Mary was also making a ruckus of some sort which put me on edge. She had made her way to the kitchen, to hide, presumably. She wasn't in the mood for cooking, to my dismay. She was probably just as scared of Marwood as I was. And with good reason, this time: she apparently believed he was the devil incarnate and asked if it was too late to go back to England on the Mayflower. I'll admit that this isn't a very good reason but I would imagine that it would be for a 17th century pilgrim having just landed in a "new world".

"Mary," I began, "snap out of it or I'll slap you out of-"
"Out of what?" she said, straightening up defiantly. She had returned.
"Nothing. Never mind." I said, relieved that she had returned to her comparatively normal self, but dreading the next words that would come out of her mouth.
"If you lay a hand on me, I will feed both of your hands to the garbage disposal." She was serious. Not that she had done it to me personally but having thrown me to the wolves was more than enough proof to know that she was crazy.

But why be with her if she was crazy? We all need someone. You don't really get to choose who you fall for. You meet a person, they make an impression and it begins. You find yourself enthralled by the way they play with their hair or by their little smirk and the way they lower their head and look at you. Eyes shining brighter than an overused cliche. Soon you become rapt with a desire to be around them even though their first impression was less than spectacular and more clumsy and ordinary than anything. And then you find yourself wondering why. Why she had to go and clobber a man with a frying pan.

"Are you listening?" she asked. I wanted to say yes but I really couldn't because I wasn't even in the room, figuratively speaking. My mind was elsewhere looking for solutions out of this mess. And still trapped by memories of our first meetings, when we were much younger and still stupid. Well, we remained pretty stupid since meeting but less so. Marginally.

"Boy! Have you stripped the corpse of his clothing?" said Marwood through the closed door and running water. "I know I should have said something about that but I figured you wouldn't be able to think correctly so I let you talk to the woman so you could regain some normalcy. She seems to have that effect on you."

He was wise. Sure, she made me go crazy and wracked me with guilt and all sorts of non-groovy feelings but at the end of the day she did help me. I felt responsible, at peace, not alone, and to some degree normal. She was an anchor of sorts. Or a foil.

Realizing this, I had no choice but to agree with Marwood and relieve Donald of his clothing. Though Marwood failed to give me any reasons as to why I should do such a thing. But I didn't want to question his motives and actions because he seemed to know what he was doing. Still, I couldn't help but feel wrong about this. Sure, Donald tried to kill me on several occasions but something about reducing his dignity, especially in death, seemed wrong. I tried not to think about it as I pulled his shoes and his socks but-

"Hurry, boy! The portal won't hold for very long!" roared Marwood. A sense of urgency underlining his quivering roar.
"Portal?!" Mary shrieked.
"Yes, a portal. We're getting rid of the dead by way of portal. It's the safest alternative. Anything else would-"

"Son of a bitch!" I shrieked this time.

Donald's feet were scaly hooves! Marwood rushed over and stomped on Donald's face repeatedly. The fact that Donald's feet were actually hooves froze me in shock long enough to not notice that Marwood collapsed Donald's face in with such aggressive force that there were cracks in the floor now. Marwood stomped enough to make himself sweat and pant. He leaned against a wall and slid down to the floor. My eyes jumped from Marwood to what used to be Donald's face and back. I couldn't understand what the hell was happening anymore.

"You're wondering now." Marwood said, after taking a deep breath. "Mary, a lot of water, please." He wiped the sweat off his brow and quickly gulped down the pitcher of water Mary gave him. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath before sitting up and finally starting an explanation.

"Donald isn't human, as you can already tell by now. To be honest, I don't know how to classify him. He can be a number of things. He has hooves, scales, and a tail, among other things. He could be a satyr, a merman, a freak, or something else entirely. Maybe even all those things. The point is, he isn't human."

And this made sense. What human could survive-

"... that fall made me skeptical. I didn't think he was human after that. I initially thought he was just very lucky but it made no sense for him to be human. All that hatred he carried, it didn't seem natural or normal. Or 'human'. Whatever that really means. Not being one myself, I can't really say. I can only assume."

When he spoke, he seemed to be more human than anyone in the room. Mary, was indeed human, and so was I. But neither of us ever took the time to be human or reach out or do anything worthwhile or substantial. We were just really caught up in our own bullshit most of the time. We never did anything to help anyone, in any significant manner. Sure, we gave change to beggars but never offered more help or volunteered at soup kitchens or anything. We were content in a rose colored bubble we called "us". Our neighbors seemed to be more human than us and they were squids or just cardboard boxes. But they got involved in things that I never did. Not because I never had time but because I never saw the point.

"... so much cynicism for one human. Its high concentration is what led me to investigate and ask questions and generally fear for everything and everyone in the building. If Donald was around, who's to say there weren't more? I had to get to the bottom of it somehow but I couldn't. My crown of horns doesn't allow for easy communication with anyone, you know."

Thinking that something was possibly wrong with me, I took off my shoes and discovered

"You're human, boy. Just because you're a bit of a fuck-up every now and then only makes you human. Your hissy fit over Donald only proves it. Any other creature would have eaten his corpse or done something equally awful like eat his soul, if he had one."

Marwood stood up and dragged the body out of its clothing and into the bathroom.

The door slammed shut and things got quiet again. I walked up to Mary, hoping she would bring me some normalcy. She sensed this and hugged me. She didn't say anything. She probably didn't have to. It was the strangest thing to have her hold me like this. I wanted to sob uncontrollably but I also wanted to scream and bash my head against a wall to end whatever suffering I thought I was enduring. Her sighing as she placed her head on my chest sounded like an apology because of the slight whimper she gave. She was really truly sorry for the things she had caused me. It was strange for her to apologize without saying anything. But if we both knew, then it was probably the best form of apology. One skips the usual shame that comes in an apology. I've never been one for shaming others into X, Y, or Z, or any letter of the alphabet for that matter. She looked up and the twinkle in her eye made me melt. I hated her for doing this but I knew she was being genuine in her unspoken apology. I forgave her.

We just stood there, in the kitchen, holding each other. We panicked and held each other tighter. We didn't know why we were panicking but it just seemed like the thing to do. Mainly because of the ruckus Marwood was causing in the bathroom. Shouting in various languages, some that were not of this Earth or were gone or would exist much much later in the universe's lifetime. The sound of blood splattering made us jumpy and the unearthly howling and growling and snarling made us tremble much more.

"I don't know anything but I promise you we'll be all right, Mary."

I couldn't believe myself. Talking without knowing (like some kind of moron) but I had to reassure her somehow lest she switch time-personalities so quickly that her real self would be trapped and I would only get fragments of her every infrequent now and then. I would never see her again.

She could only whimper as the surreal sounds of nightmares incarnate seemed to climax and- silence. So much silence, we could feel ourselves become deaf with every beat of our hearts. Faster and faster and getting slower as we breathed. Sounds of bones cracking as we squeezed ourselves tighter and slowly relaxed our grips. Finally, we were calm and collected as possible though still cautious enough not to let ourselves fall into a false sense of relaxation and thus be vuln-

Bleeding Marwood stumbling out of the bathroom! Bleeding everywhere!

"I guess I've been more handsome, eh?" he said. He explained that he managed to send Donald away but it obviously cost him most of his own life. Something about not being human and being so damned evil that it took too much energy. I wasn't really paying attention because I knew he was dying but I couldn't make myself calm or rational, even with Mary holding my hand to give me strength and support. We just knelt as he slumped to the floor, explaining how everything would be all right. Saying that his time was done. As he said this, I smelled something foul. Something far worse than anything I could think of. Death, rotting, decomposing bodies, rotting fruit, shit, unwashed reproductive organs, etc. Enough to make anyone vomit. Marwood chuckled and said to listen and not smell.

The sound of stampeding crowds and shrieks were clear as day outside in the hall.

I don't remember too much after watching him stand, saying that everyone was leaving the building because of the smell of his blood. Something about it releasing a foul smell because he was dying. Under normal circumstances, cinnamon. He stood up and told us to leave the building as soon as we could. I get fuzzy on the details because the smell was overwhelming but I have visions of him smiling and falling to the floor followed by a large crack as if someone had torn the sky open. Followed by repeated sounds of thudding so loud one would think the sky was collapsing until the entire building in its tattered majesty imploded into itself. Jaggedly folding into a memory of bloodshed, baked goods, concern, and a crown of horns that wanted nothing more than help people for over a century. Reminders of what makes us human, reminders of souls, frying pans, and poor story-telling.

A gentle wind blew on my face as Mary held me again. She was another ray of sunshine. I say another because the light from the sun was getting stronger. She rubbed my shoulder and led me away from the sight of humans, squids, chickens, and boxes were crying and bemoaning the loss of a building they never bothered to care about in the first place.

She reassured me that we were better off and convinced me by telling me that as long as we were together, we would always find a way out of any jam. "Mostly because you always think of some sort of escape plan. They just come to you. It's always, 'I have a plan!' when I'm all 'What are we gonna do?' And-"

I kissed her just to shut her up. I smirked and looked back at the rubble and chuckled to myself as a little plan began to unfold, thanks to Marwood. Who I'll never forget even if I tried.

The last thing I do remember clearly was asking him: "What happens to the soul after we die?" because I figured I had to ask something and that was the only thing I could think of. I could have just asked about the meaning of life but I suppose I wanted to be different and because his soul talk really stuck to me. And because Donald's lack of soul still struck a chord with me. How one can be so empty that they are full of hatred and evil and all that stuff. How sometimes we can be so self-absorbed and empty that something else will fill us up. An emptiness to fill a void? That sometimes being human is more than having opposable thumbs. Perhaps it means doing something and contributing to something greater than the self and thinking beyond the next minute or day. Thinking about things on a greater scale. Striving for more but not so much that you and your house of cards collapse into each other in a foul-smelling spectacle of jagged pieces of a broken yesterday barely held together by-

Marwood's response was very cryptic but it probably made sense somehow. I just had to think about it. "What happens to the soul after we die, Marwood?"

It becomes daylight.

Fin

A Real Mess, II

Passion plays a double hand. It lifts. It smothers, caresses, burns, bleeds, inspires, and motivates. It also confuses the hell out of everything and everyone, makes logic vanish, and makes reason disappear.

Mary and I knew this to be true.

There was a lot of conflict in her eyes as she gazed upon the scene before us. She wanted to rip my clothes off but she also wanted to rip my head off. Somehow, it was my fault that Donald was lying on the floor, dead, bereft of life. She seemed to forget that it was her frying pan that had connected with the back of his head and brought him to the afterlife. To be fair, I bought her that frying pan. In my defense, however, it became hers once she unwrapped the packaging. Also, in my defense, I bought it so she could cook dinner, not clobber Donald.

"What are we going to do?"

I couldn't take any of more of her shrieking so I raised my hand at her before reconsidering. She was capable of murder. If she could kill Donald, she could probably kill me as well.

"Let me rearrange my mind." I said, slowly.

She seemed to take this as a cue to finally stay quiet while I thought of how to get us out of this predicament. In all honesty, I just wanted her to stay quiet so I could relax for a moment. I had already thought of a plan. Sure, it was poorly conceived and sloppily put together but it was something.

"If you ask me 'what are we going to do' one more time, I will be very angry with you." I started as I sensed her mouth start to open. It's one of those things that you just know is happening. You can't really stop it but you'll try anything to slow it down if possible. Of course, it didn't work; in fact, it backfired on me. Because she backhanded me.

"How dare you interrupt me?!" she shrieked. Yes, she did shriek a lot. "I am a woman and this is the 21st century! I will not be ignored! I will not be sent to another room while you and your bearded compatriots play billiards and drink whiskey while discussing Tammany Hall!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" I scratched my head. Did she take another trip through time again? Or, more accurately, had her mind been transported through time yet again and had not fully readjusted?

"You men are all the same. Comporting yourselves with a wanton disregard for the fairer sex! I can't wait for the day we strong and powerful women take back the earth! I will not be silenced! You cannot oppress me! I will reclaim my rights that you have stolen from me!"

She made me pace quietly for a few moments because I was getting nowhere with her. She would go on like this for hours if given the chance. And Donald would still be the very least of her concerns. So, the best way to handle these things and most other problems: patiently and silently but above all carefully. I took these things into consideration as I spoke my response to her tirade:

"You can reclaim them after we get rid of Donald. How about that? And I'll even take you out for ice cream and I'll get you a bra to burn."

She looked at me, dumbfounded, and paused for a moment before squinting her eyes, tilting her head, and slowly (deliberately) saying: "Do I look like some proud woman warrior from the seventies? I would like a foot massage though."

It worked, she seemed to be in more rational state of mind. Or one more in tune with what I liked: appropriately modern with less shrieking and complaining.

"We can discuss all that stuff later. But first," I nodded over at Donald, still on the floor... dead.

"What's the plan?"

It was simple: drag him back to his apartment and place him on the floor of his kitchen to make it seem as if he died there and not been murdered (accidentally) here. A marvelous plan because it was so simple and effective. Sure, it was quickly conceived but it was logical and it took care of all the loose ends and all that nonsense that I didn't want to take care of over a long period of time.

Of course, she didn't agree and instead threatened to bash me over the head with the same frying pan she had used on Donald.

"So, that's what we're going to do? We're just going to drag him back to his apartment and place him on his kitchen floor and just leave it at that?" She was incredulous and failed to realize how brilliant and simple the plan was. "What about the witnesses? And the noise? And the autopsies?"

She had a point. I just thought of something quickly and hadn't even considered these things. Not like I cared though, I just wanted some peace again. When she saw me starting to drag Donald towards the door, she just stood there with her arms crossed. This was either a look of seduction or anger. I didn't dare leave this to chance so I just tried my best to shrug it off but the curiosity really started burning.

"Do you want to... you know?" I said, trying to wade carefully.

"We just killed a man and that's all you can think of?!"

I didn't even care that she said "we", as if I had played a big part in murdering some guy. Still, I soldiered on and continued dragging the corpse out the door until there was a knock that seemed to go on for ages. Hell, I was terrified! Negative attention at the door, a corpse in my hands, and a woman with a bloody frying pan very angry with me. What was I to do? All I wanted to do was get the corpse out, Mary calm, and enjoy the rest of my day and life. This wasn't too much to ask for. The knocking at the door did not take my dilemma into account, it continued.

Mary simply left the room, leaving me to fend for myself. She had thrown me to the wolves before so I shouldn't have been surprised but somehow, I still was. She really had thrown me to the wolves. A local zoo had opened, and it featured a wide array of very fierce and dangerous animals. Among them, wolves that had been used in illegal dogfights and as a result had been extremely difficult to handle. Mary simply pushed me over the railing and I tumbled into their den. After some stitching and time to heal, and time to learn to walk again, all was well. Except I didn't talk to her at all for a while. She absolutely hated being ignored. Her tears were a great consolation to me. This does make me sound like a jerk but you would probably feel the same if someone you trusted thrust you into a small area occupied by fierce animals.

The knocking got louder. So, I did the only thing I could: ignore it. This didn't help because in less than a minute, the door swung open and I found myself face to face with a very disgruntled Marwood.

A Real Mess

Inspired, to some very very slight but measurable degree, by Union City Blue by Blondie.

---
Power. Passion. We had these.

Maybe we had too much, or we just didn't know our strength (collective and individual). That argument is invalid because the certainty of either is illogical and impossible to tell or figure out coherently much like this sentence that you'll finish reading right now.

What was certain was this: we were standing in a pool of blood that belonged to our neighbor. Streaming and gushing from his head which now looked like an oatmeal cookie does after a child takes an eager bite from it and hurls it to the ground after being disappointed by the fact that it's not a chocolate chip cookie. A real mess. Undeserved? Well, there are consequences for every action. Had he not tried to kill us, he would have been enjoying his oatmeal cookies in the comfort of his own home. There was really no problem with his "you don't belong here" ramblings: it was stupid and fluff. But that's all it was: talk. If given the opportunity, we wouldn't have rented out whatever "here" was since it meant so goddamn much to him. Since it meant so much to him that he was annoyed by our presence.

"Here" was an old apartment building in serious need of repair. Doors were falling off their hinges, stairs could crumble beneath the weight of a grain of rice, the pipes leaked liquids other than rusty water, and so forth. And the basement was the home of some humanoid creature with a set of horns that resembled a crown. We couldn't pronounce his name correctly but he allowed to call him Marwood. Marwood was prone to seemingly random acts of violence and aggression (whenever anyone stirred up trouble) but generally stayed out of everyone's way: a task easily accomplished since all he really did was stay in the basement, save for his sporadic appearances outside the confines of his room.

What nobody wanted to admit that he was among the nicest creatures in the building, despite the outward appearances of intense rancor and a physically unattractive appearance. What made him nice was the fact whenever somebody was in trouble, he would always manage to turn up at just the right time and save the situation. Or he'd bake you a pie or some other pastry if word got around that you were falling on hard times. I found a tray of brownies at my front door after people noticed me walking with a limp. The brownies didn't fix my twisted ankle but they did taste great, so that helped a bit.

He was the oldest creature in the building, too, having built it with his bare hands... and the help of his family who had long fled back to their home dimension. They left the portal open for him in case he ever changed his mind. This was about 120 years ago. He refused to return because he wanted to die with the building.

Still, Marwood was often the butt of many jokes and pranks. Such as attempted arson, rabid rats being set free in his basement, bad puns on his adopted name, and so forth. It's tragic how often we forget that things are built from the ground up. And it's disappointing how often we mistreat those who have helped us.

This building was in need of serious repair and Marwood did his best with the situation though it was beyond his capable hands. The same way that she and I were in way over our heads in dealing with a corpse.

This corpse, when living, absolutely despised us. There was no logical explanation for his hatred. We were just normal human beings. As far as I could tell, there was really nothing out of the ordinary about either of us. Well, she was a crazy woman. She had a relatively sane name, however. Mary.

The corpse, when living, always went out of his way to make things difficult for us even after Marwood stepped in. This didn't matter to the corpse whose real name was Donald. He would still knock against our wall while we slept, arrange for embarrassing things to be delivered to us like mannequins, adult toys, rare exotic animals that were illegal in our country, and octogenarian male strippers with some surprisingly good dance moves. Then there was the time he hit me over the head with a lead pipe. Marwood threw him out of a window for that but as luck would have it, Donald survived.

We live on a top floor, well above the 5th. To be thrown from the 5th floor is already certain death especially since the ground is nothing but concrete and abandoned shopping carts and various other very hard items- cinder blocks, abandoned big screen televisions, big wooden bureaus and dressers, abandoned cars, and so forth. And several rusty broken jagged pipes sticking out of the ground. By several I mean way too many. Marwood threw him against a few walls first and broke a few bones. He was going to leave it at that but Donald rose to his knees, took aim and spit on Marwood's face.

Marwood reacted very slowly.

A large blot of crimson adorned the space between his eyes (which remained opened and furiously stunned) and crawled down to his cheeks and met at his chin only to drip off drop by drop. The silence between Marwood and Donald was broken by each tear of blood hitting the ground with a moist thud. Thud. Drip. Thud. Plip. Plip.

He produced a handkerchief from his coat's pocket and wiped off Donald's blood. He took a long hard look at the blood stained handkerchief and threw it to the ground. Donald make the mistake of having stood up by now. If Marwood hurt you, and you stayed down, that was it. He wouldn't dare kick anybody who was down no matter how bad that person was or had been. However, if you stood up and continued to defy him, you were in trouble, depending on his mood. Donald had done himself no favors by getting to his knees and standing up (though he was leaning on a wall). Marwood marched to Donald and punched him in the stomach so hard air escaped with blood. He took him by the collar of his shirt and belt of his pants and heaved him out of the nearest window.

Witnesses say Donald landed on his feet and cried in pain. Others say he landed on the hood of an old Chevy, others say he landed on a tree stump, and there are many more reports. What is for certain is that he was left in a body cast for a month or two (lucky bastard) at which point he was back on his feet, though moving slower, and antagonizing us.

She slapped me. She did this to get my attention. It wasn't working. Well, it was but it was also annoying me more than anything. I tried to remember things again. Like my name. My name wasn't more interesting than Mary's. I actually forgot my name temporarily. This tends to happen when you're in shock, trying to take control of a messed up situation, and having a woman shriek at you at the same time. Roy.

She slapped me again. Now, I was a bit more aware of the situation. Donald was dead and had bled a river. Mary was hysteric. I was confounded. I had to try to remember what exactly happened that day.

Donald knocked on our door and Mary opened. He slapped her, she pushed him and he hit his head on the doorknob of the apartment across from us. I was already in a bad mood. Donald stood up and the back of his head was bleeding. He slapped her again, she called out for me. "It's Donald," she added. He shouted something hateful, yet again. I walked to them.

"Donald, what do you want? If you say something about us leaving, I'm going to have to break your face." I said, slowly, deliberately, angrily.
Without missing a beat, Donald replied, "Fuck you and everything you stand for. You're trash and so is she! Get the hell out of this place."
I rubbed my eyes and walked up to him. "Donald, do we really have to go through with this, yet again?" and before he could answer, he was tasting fist. Repeatedly.

Of course, it wasn't enough because he clawed at my feet while he was down. I dragged him out, or tried to anyway. But he stood up.

"Goddamn it, Donald, my knuckles hurt like hell! You've got pretty sharp teeth, man. Just go home."

Mary took a frying pan and hit Donald in the back of the head with it. He collapsed and hit his head on the floor pretty hard. And out poured the blood.

"Jesus Christ, Mary-" I started.
"and Joseph" she cut me off. I knelt down and checked Donald's pulse. Nothing. I checked again a few seconds later. Nothing. I kept my hand there and goddamn it. There was no fucking pulse. Mary pawed at me the way she did when she wanted some intimacy.
"Not now, Mary. You just killed a man!"

It surprised me how she could be in the mood for anything considering she just got slapped around and had just killed a man. And the sight of blood. Bizarre aphrodisiacs.

She burst into tears. Surprising, given she rarely shows this much emotion or humanity. I questioned whether she would keep crying like a normal human being or try to rip my clothes off. Of course, I couldn't question these things further because I was trying to figure out how to clean up this mess. Not just the blood but the fact that a man had been murdered in my apartment. Sure he had tried to kill me before but he was still human, a despicable human but still human.

She slapped me again.

"What are we going to do?" she shrieked at me. The eternal unanswerable question. Or the question that has many answers. Prior to that day, I had never actually dealt with death. Extreme graphic violence, yes. I'd seen my share of graphic violence through a screen and in person. Torture, yes. I'd always been the one who was stretched or submerged for information and savagely beaten and so forth. But death was as strange to me as television would be to Socrates. I couldn't concentrate with her sobbing and trying to feel me up.

"Oh, what are we going to do?!"

I loved her, I really did but sometimes I just wanted to bash her beautiful brains in with my fist, or a blunt object.

Bottle, Epilogue

Many many many mornings later, the creatures still remained quiet. Nobody missed or mourned the loss of the bear. Why should they? He had put everyone through hell and back. Some creatures had died and were martyred for it. A great and noble cause, some said. A violent bloodbath, I give it 8 stars up, others said. They all rebuilt in their own way. Collectively, everyone rebuilt slowly, and carefully.

The rest of his family packed up what little they had left and returned to the home country. There was nothing for them anywhere but the shame of being associated with the bear was too much to handle and it caused them to feel guilt and remorse and general shame. So much so that they just left, rather than rebuild in their own way what they had lost. Though one would argue that once your relative goes absolutely batshit crazy and destroys everything, it's really all over.

The fox had abandoned town to be on his own completely. Nobody but him knew where he was headed, which is how he liked it. He felt that if anyone knew where he'd go, they'd just bother him with endless songs of praise. He had nothing to be proud of. Of course, he would only admit this to himself. He wouldn't admit it to anyone else because there was no one else.

The cranes, who had suffered a great loss, moved on. They were absolutely devastated but accepted that life is fucked up and that some things just happen, no matter how hard we try to deny it. We will be nice, cruel, kind, vile, passionate, and so forth. This is a universal truth, we will always be something. Something consistent, something different, something. This cannot be denied. They knew this to be true and though they had disapproved of her behavior, they accepted it and took some degree of comfort in knowing that she had tried to do the impossible or what nobody else would do- be warm and kind in a cold cruel world.

The sun rose.

Fin.

Bottle, Part VII

Author's note: After so many months, this will probably feel very very anti-climactic. I apologize for it.

"I'm bleeding." the bear whimpered to the fox. The fox just sat there, rubbing his legs. He had grown tired of standing so he sat next to the bear. The crane on his other side remained quiet. "I'm dying." the bear continued. His voice like nails on a blackboard for the fox.

"I'm dy-" the bear started again but was cut off when the fox slapped him.

"Be quiet." the fox responded calmly. He acted as if he had been through death before. He really hadn't but one wouldn't be able to tell. In fact, they'd think by his steadiness that he had gone to some violent gruesome war as a child and in the midst of it all traded the child-like sparkle in his eyes for a shield that kept everything out- happiness, joy, laughter. One would think he came home an empty shell and let his entire life get torn to shreds like the countless of corpses he himself had torn to shreds in said war.

Others could see that he was just as scared as the bear, if not more. How they were able to deduce fear from his cold gaze was a mystery. Nothing in his present demeanor could give away such a clue. There were only calm and still waters.

Every time the bear tried to move, the fox slapped him. He did so to help the bear conserve whatever little strength he had left. He told him not to speak and to be patient. Death would be upon him soon, and if it wasn't, there would be some sort of escape for him, and a resolution for all. First, they needed time to think, to plan, to figure out how to fix things. Everyone was either injured, dying, or already dead. Explosions, violence, carnage, swords, and bullets. A ballet of brutality.

"Go away." the crane told the bear. She finally managed to say something other than just weep. The bear was shocked, but the fox more so. He expected her to stand by the bear for as long as it took, until he died, or any event. But he too agreed the bear would have to go away.

"Listen to her" the fox added, applying pressure to her wounds.

"I can't leave; I'm dying, too." the bear whimpered.

"Don't you think it's time you stop tihnking about yourself for once and do what's best for everyone else?" the fox went on.

"What about the b-"

"For fuck's sake! Can't you ever be quiet!?" the fox exploded, inadvertently adding an uncomfortable amount of pressure as he did. The crane cried out in pain at this. The fox adjusted the pressure and felt himself become infuriated at himself for letting the bear get under his skin the way he did. He shifted his focus to the task at hand: keeping the crane from death.

The bear pawed at the fox, weakly. The fox ignored him as best he could, feeling anger swelling deep within him.

"I was self-less, wasn't I?" the bear whispered.

"You climbed into an enormous bottle of wine, you alcoholic. Is that really self-less?" the crane started.

"Stop talking, both of you," snapped the fox, still applying pressure. He wanted everyone to just be quiet so he could think and do what he needed to in order to try to fix the situation at hand, if at all possible.

"He hurt everything around him because nobody wanted to-"

The fox closed her beak as if to tell her, without words (obviously) to be quiet and save what little strength she had. She took the hint and remained quiet.

There was a silence that hung uncomfortably in the air and was bent slightly by the quiet wheezing and breathing of the bear. Had he been quieter, one could hear a pin drop, or hear the fox blink. The silence among the three spelled out different ideas but only one certainty that only the fox was privy to. He came to it with a great degree of difficulty though he had long been thinking about it. There was the question of mercy and the cruelty inflicted upon everyone. Could anyone forget what happened here? Could anyone be able to move past it? Was hope in short supply? What was the right thing to do? These were some of the questions that had plagued the fox a thousand times over, not just that night but for many moons before.

"Get up." the fox said, very slowly. His eyes were closed but they were trembling beneath the eyelids. His breathing became rapid and shallow, and his veins boiling with anger and pent-up frustration. "This is it," he thought to himself.

The bear sat up as best he could and looked at the fox. He had a faint idea of what was going to happen but was too dazed and out of it to notice anything properly.

"It's time for you to go." said the fox, as calmly as he could.

"I don't understand." said the bear, genuinely confused.

"Don't play with me. It's not safe for you here anymore. It's not safe for anyone else here if you stay. So, it's time for you to go. I don't care where you go, what you do, just don't come back here. Please."

The bear had long confused their tenuous relationship for friendship and was genuinely perplexed that the fox was telling him to pack up and just leave. To uproot himself and abandon everything he had ever known was unthinkable.

"You're not deaf, you've got ears. Get out of here." the fox pleaded.

"I'm stay-" started the bear.

"No! Goddamn it! No more!" yelled the fox. He wore his fangs again and tore at the bear's throat, punching him wildly whenever he had a chance.

The crane looked on, listlessly, uncaring, unfazed, able to move but not willing. Part of her wanted to cry but couldn't bring herself to do anything anymore. She didn't even move when bits of flesh and rivulets of the bear's blood adorned her face. She knew nothing but this could save things- the bear, namely. She rolled to her side and felt more blood splash on her back.

The fox was tired but persisted in finishing what he had to do. He found himself on the verge of tears as he tore muscle, flesh, and bone with his fangs. Every now and then, he would pause for a few seconds to spit out the blood that had accumulated, and to look at the crane.

She had long stopped moving, or breathing but he couldn't do anything to bring her back so he took out his frustrations on the bear who had very little time left. Somehow, he was hanging on to life and just stared blankly at the sky. The stars had never looked brighter, and the sky had never looked cleaner than it did in his last gasp of life.

When the bear had finally died, the fox continued spitting out blood and tossed the fangs away from him. One solution had been found. The rest would be up to the other survivors, for whom the fox didn't care much for anymore. He had done what he set out to do, he was finished. There was nothing left for him to do at that point.

The weary sun would rise above the blood drenched land soon.

Bottle, Part VI

"You're not here on a mission of peace and goodwill, are you?" said the figure inside the bottle, dressed in a cloak. He was humoring the mob, and stalling; he knew his time was almost up but wished things would proceed to end differently: he wanted to die old, or at the very least by his own hands.

"You sound strange. Anyway, you know why we're here." shouted the fox, over the crowd's deafening roars of "grind his dust to dust!" and "we're gonna murder your ass killed". He was fighting with himself on how best to end this now. He had offered the bear a swift death but now his hand was forced: the mob was bloodthirsty and riled up. They expected mayhem and carnage. He wanted things to end quickly so he could leave all this behind him. They wanted to take their time for all the time he made them uncomfortable and irritated and angry and so forth.

"I've given this some though-" the cloak started, hoping in vain that they would listen to him. The crowd interrupted him. "We don't care! Off with your head! I'll wipe my ass with your fancy coat!" and they quickly moved forward, only to be stopped by the fox shouting "Stop, you stupid bastards!"

The response was disappointing but not surprising.

He had indeed given himself time to think. Moving himself past the tears he cried over the mistake he made regarding his only friend (or the closest thing he had to a friend), he came to the conclusion that he had in fact been a rotten creature. It was just his way, however; nobody took the time to make any effort to help him. And nobody wanted to help him now.

"Can I say something?" he started.

What happened next people chalk up to both idiocy and providence. Idiocy because it caused more damage and destruction than desired. Providence because it ultimately got rid of the bear.

A cat, who claimed to have been wronged financially by the bear, burst forth from the crowd with a sword in hand and leapt to the bottle.
The mob could only stare in shock as the cat flew, bloodlust and all the hatred in the world swelling in his large amber eyes. The fox closed his eyes in disappointment and turned around. The cat's sword hit the bottle with a strange clank sound. It made a crack in the enormous bottle. A sharp cracking noise followed which split the ear drums of various mob members. The crack spread throughout the bottle as every stared in silence.

"If that's how you want it." Before anyone knew what happened, the bottle burst into a thousand explosions. The shards letting loose liters of blood from whoever was unfortunate enough to be caught in the blast. The bright green grass drowned in the blood of innocents. After all the shards had finished raining and claiming victims, those who were strong enough surveyed the damage. The figure that had been inside the bottle was a dummy with a speaker; the bear had escaped. The fox took the cloak and ripped it up in anger.

"Find him! Now!" he snarled, trying to hide his amusement and admiration. Unfortunately, everyone was writhing in pain or sobbing in mourning. Nobody paid attention to the figure standing behind a tree: the bear, obviously. The bear could only glare at this sight of creatures writhing and crying and cursing him for having "made a pact with Satan". He convinced himself that all this harm was their doing. He originally wanted the explosion to be small enough so it'd look like only he had died but their hostility and unbridled hatred made him crank up the explosion to 11, rather than the 2 he had planned. He wanted to leave them in a definitive and entertaining way as a way of not only letting them and the past go but to give them something memorable. "Remember when that fucker died?" "That was quite an exit." they would say, or so he th-

"Yargghhgh!!" A cry of pain laced with agony and rage. There was a sword sticking out of the bear's stomach.
"I got 'im! I got the hell spawn!" A weak cry of triumph.

The deranged cat had survived... mostly. He had been at the very front of the explosion and caught most of it. His amber eye now reddened with blood. The explosion had claimed a good chunk of his face leaving a war zone of cuts and gashes that no amount of stitches could put together.

The bear couldn't believe this. They weren't content with letting him die a false death. Nor were they able to get the message that he was indeed a dangerous individual. They wouldn't respect him in life or death.

He could not let this stand.

The bear placed a firm grip on the sword and pulled it out, letting out a terrifying roar of anger and pain. He took the blade in his paws and before the cat's eyes, tore it to pieces. He took the cat by the neck and squeezed as hard as he could, the cat turning all sorts of colors and spewing blood and spit and swear words like a broken fountain. When he heard the faintness of a crack beginning, he dropped him to the ground and stood above him returning the very same look of hatred the cat had given earlier.

"I beg of you, kill me." the cat wheezed, looking fearfully up at the furry killing machine. That anger from earlier had evaporated into something resembling a hesitant plea for mercy: the sweet release of death.

"I should tear you limb from limb with my claws. I can do that you know. You saw what I just did."

"Please... finish me."

"No. You're going to go back to them and tell them to leave me alone. I just want to be left alone, I want to harm nobody in any way anymore." the bear was trying to be as calm as possible.

"Kill me, please." the cat continued. He was too weak to do it himself, he needed the bear to do it.

"Don't be self-" the bear wobbled; the stab was finally getting to him. "Do you see what you did?" The bear picked up the cat once more. "I want to be left alone." and he flung him to the mob.

"Get him." the cat begged as he hit the ground, feebly pointing at the trees. The mob did not hesitate, despite the injuries and deaths. They charged, in varying speeds. The bear responded in kind.

"Why couldn't you bastards get it through your heads that I wanted to be left alone?!"

A massive paw broke a beak with tremendous fury. Said claw proceeded to rain down upon the beak's face, each time splattering blood and swears. As this went on, others gathered whatever energy they could and came to his rescue, hoping that strength in numbers would overpower one pissed off savage bear. It wasn't. The cavalry was crushed. The same paw that had flattened a beak now rained upon a shell. Each thud and boom inching closer and closer towards a great cracking sound which spelled death. The shell was on its back, unable to move or defend. The only thing it could do was pray and hope for the paws broke before the shell, or that death would be as swift as possible. The tatters of the cavalry gained a second wind and this time, almost toppling the bear over. They succeeded in keeping him in a semi-permament state of wobbling, but only truly pissing him off even further. A set of sharp teeth, belonging to a meek tiger, tasted the bitter wine-flavored hide of the bear, releasing not only cries of pain but blood. Each bite subdued and enraged the bear as another beak drilled into his hind legs, hoping against all hope that he could finally knock him down and bring his end closer and closer.

Surprisingly, and stupidly, nobody went for the stab the cat had made earlier.

The bear didn't actually want to kill anyone anymore but he knew he had to defend himself. He reasoned with himself that "the explosion was what they wanted! They brought it upon themselves!" He reassured himself so he wouldn't have to think about the 15 or so deaths and hundreds of lacerations. Was it really their fault? That particular moment: yes. The events leading to that particular moment: perhaps. Perhaps the populace acted out of fear and greed: a perfect opportunity to finally get rid of the scum that had threatened their comfort for so long was gone but he'd eventually return. He really had no intention or returning, not for a very long time anyway. That bottle was sort of a liberating experience, for everyone. They didn't have to put up with him, and he didn't have to see anyone but himself.

He was not falling down. Instead he was working on shattering another set of bones and giving out samples of his bitter flesh. And- KRAKOOM!! SPLFFTSHT!! "Yarrrgh!!!" another cry of agonizing pain. A heavy thud following by a cracking whimpering growl. More snarling as he realized he had been shot. He stood only to collapse with another deafening thud followed by a great torrent of pained wincing and groaning, not just his but those who had just been beaten within an inch of their lives.

"Oh, god, what have I done?" cried the weeping crane. She had betrayed her friend.
"You pulled the trigger, now I'm going to finish the job." said the fox.
Normally, the crane would have protested but she was stunned by the fact that she had actually shot him. She promised she'd do anything but she never thought she'd have to pull a trigger to prove it.

The fox sauntered over to the bear, stepping over and around corpses and wounded warriors. From his pockets, he produced a set of prosthetic razor sharp fangs and put them in his mouth. The glare of the teeth was sinister enough to make even the corpses shudder.

"It ends now." he said, with a mouthful of metal. As he proceed to kneel down to bite down on the bear's jugular, two claws came together and gripped his head with a powerful grip.
"You shot me." he whimpered. "Why?" he added, squeezing with more pressure.
The fox could only whimper and howl and make noises, unable to respond to his questions.
"Answer me or I swear by god I'll be able to touch your thoughts!"
Before the fox could answer, the iron grip was broken as the bear fell down again. He had been shot again, this time in the stomach, not the shoulder. And from close range. He collapsed onto his back and wheezed.
He felt his vision fade in and out but stayed conscious enough to apply pressure to his wound and see a crying crane walk towards him and kneel at his side. He had to turn away because he couldn't handle it. But when he did, he saw the fox, holding his head and snarling. She knew the bear was doomed but she couldn't collect herself enough to do anything.

Nobody stood up, they all lay still on the ground. Shards of glasses having torn many apart, opened many. There was a sea of corpses and seriously injured creatures.

And the fox towered above the wounded bear who lay sobbing blood and tears, trembling.

Bottle, Part IV

In the inky black silent corners of a hushed and drunken universe, the bear gurgled and vomited. To the uninitiated, he was simply vomiting for he had been drinking too much wine, as he was wont to do as of late. But to others (read: the bear himself), he was asking: "What does it mean to be isolated? Is there a difference between loneliness and isolation?" In all earnest honesty, he was losing his mind.

If there was any difference between isolation and loneliness, the meanings were all lost on the grizzly. There wasn't a real point in asking himself these questions because he'd just tell himself what he wanted to hear. Maybe, that's what he needed because nobody would go out of their way to console him, even in the slightest. That said more about them than him. Yes, he was a vile creature to be around but if nobody is willing to help him out even when he was dying, well that says everything. This was probably what was killing him further. He was already dying, again, and this didn't help. The self-inflicted torture of pondering the nature of ideas was killing him on the metaphorical inside- the mind and soul and all that stuff. The outside world was killing him, leaving him a soul-less shell. He had a warped and cracked soul, which the Devil himself appraised during his stay in hell.

"Isn't not worth much now but later on..." he coughed, stifling laughter. He was playing a cruel prank on the bear. He was a notorious prankster, or so said the prisoners.
"Really?!" the bear, beamed as he found a slice of hope in the least likely of places. Imagine the satisfaction of actually finding a needle in a haystack, and multiply that by at least 100. Add the fact that it's hell (or multiply that by 4 billion), now divide that by 8. And you're still not that close.
"Yes. Definitely. Now, run along, I just thought of something funny, and my laughter would make your ears bleed, go. Now!" but he couldn't hold the laughter back. He thought it was just too damn funny. The bear inched away slowly; a part of him felt his sliver of hope wither away.

The devil's words were used to torture the bear further; he knew the bear's soul wouldn't be worth anything different after its appraisal. What a prick.

What continued to prick and butcher the bear were the ideas of loneliness that he could not distinguish. Catsup vs Ketchup. Any clear-cut lines keeping the two ideas (not the ketchup/catsup thing) apart were now horribly mangled and blurred. Recording a car wreck through lenses covered with vaseline while the one recording has astigmatism.

Everything was ruined for the stupid bear now. Everything! The sky was a continuation of the sea which frightened not only the sailors who slowly crawled into the sky, but the birds who had spent eons flying above the clouds. Now, the birds found themselves struggling to flee from the Kraken as it made its way slowly, as if mocking the flightless creatures in their new plight. Sailors rained from the heavens day and night. Each one cursing the sky they were falling from. Each one bracing themselves for their plunge into the cold eternal wet grave filled with hungry mouths, and jagged daggers of white stained with red.

Though the bear had no sailing experience or skydiving experience, he had been bitten by a shark once. As such, he felt every set of jaws dig into him. And the memories of that ill-fated 8th birthday came roaring back. His mind knew that what he was feeling, at the moment, wasn't real but he couldn't convince his body otherwise. Horrible pain embraced him roughly, and thoroughly. So much that he somehow convinced himself to further destroy himself. He was, indeed, inching towards insanity.

Frantically, he clawed away at himself, confusing everything he ever knew, or thought he knew, with every drop of blood and bit of torn flesh. He hadn't a slight idea of what damage he was doing to himself. His thoughts were so twisted he thought he was digging himself out of some small confined space. He was killing himself slowly. He excelled at destruction. Self-destruction was his speciality, or specialty. His expertise. His strong suit. "Yes," said the writer reiterating a point, "self-destruction was something he was an expert at. Not that he was particularly bright about it, he just knew how to make things worse for himself."

And in that moment of searing pain, the bear saw something. Something inside his screwed up, jagged, blistered mind woke up. The light poured into the gash and it revealed to him his greatest mistake. He thought he had banished it to oblivion, as he did with almost everything he did. But it came roaring back with the fury of a thousand angry gods.

His biggest mistake, or the one that he could remember, had to do with a crane that had tried to befriend him. This mistake killed him more effectively that being bludgeoned in the face with a thousand lead pipes. He pushed away the closest thing he ever had to a friend. No, not pushed because that implies that things aren't beyond repair. He threw her away.

-
She was like other cranes, delicate (in comparison), and intelligent. But unlike them, she was merciful and kind. Towards the grizzly bear, at least. It remains a mystery how he got into her good graces. Some say it was because he was so pathetic that while everyone despised him for it, she took pity on him. Some say that somewhere someone had placed a curse of some sort upon her and her punishment was to be nice to the embodiment of everyone's bane. Anybody else, she would ignore or treat with horrible disdain. This was a custom the cranes had: to treat non-cranes with unbridled contempt. There would be a shred of mercy given to certain creatures, or those who were well off. Birds were acceptable in their book, for the most part. Some say because of the beak and feathers. Others say because of their ability to fly, which would explain why penguins were mocked and ridiculed. The latter theory makes the most sense.

The grizzly was a different case altogether. He was a vile bastard but she treated him with respect. He was his usual stupid miserable self but it didn't matter to her, she kept treating him with respect. Even after accidentally breaking her arm in 4 places, she came back.

On a bright green day, the bear sat in a cave, doing nothing. He sat on an enormous, cold, and gray rock staring at the gaping hole above him as it covered him in a soft blue light. The crane wanted to study the drawings in the cave and exclaimed a cheery "Hello!" when she saw him. She tried to hug him, as a friendly gesture but he stepped back and shook her hand, instead. His grip was too much for her and somehow the pressure forced a crack in four different parts of her arm. "A medical mystery," said the incompetent doctor (or duck-tor, get it? Incompetent doctor? Duck? Incompetent doctor? Quack? Duck? Get it!?) who had paid for his degree online, "this shall put me in the books for sure!" he added as he waddled to a phone book.

The bear stood silently, analyzing the situation. He had broken her arm because she tried to hug him. "And choke the life out of me! That bitch! I better finish the job..." and the other half of him said similar... in a less vicious fashion.

She stared at him. Not with content but with curiosity. She knew it was strange that anyone would show him any respect or treat him with any shred of decency. But she did not fight it, she went along with it. She was not in love with him, she was just friendly. Even if she had been, it wouldn't have mattered because the bear was so thick, he wouldn't know it even if she carried a bright neon sign that said so.

The two stared at each other while the quack quacked about quackery to himself. There was a bizarre silence between the two as their eyes met in confusion and awe. He was confused as to why she wasn't blasting him with every swear she had ever heard. She was in awe at how little he cared, and how she could still not look away in disgust. Every now and then they blinked but continued their staring contest of some sort.

"Why isn't she threatening to rip out my insides?"
"Why isn't he apologizing? Why do I care?"
"I should rip out her insides- no, I should. Fuck. What do I do?"
"I should be furious that my arm is broken... but I'm not. I should say something. But what if he rips off my jaw?"

Unable to take the silence and background quack-babbling, the grizzly stormed out, shedding silent tears. I mean, the grizzly stormed out. The crane was left shedding silent tears that only she could see and feel. The quack was busy praising himself.

Her family came for her, concerned and confused and telling her to stay the hell away from the bear lest he go feral and dismember her. She listened to them but could not bring herself to care about them. She was fixated on her inexplicable goal of staying the course and being consistent. She was going to keep being nice to him.

So she did so, as much as she could. She would frequent places the bear frequented, each time running into him; and confusing the fuck out of him. She would bring him food, keep him company and never insult him. He on the other hand would defy common sense and reason. It was baffling. Spitting out large chunks of food, and (among other things) spouting inflammatory anti-crane rhetoric which came from his anti-falcon talk. Still, she brought with her fried ham sandwiches, or anything meaty and disgusting she could obtain. Never did he say thanks. Though one could argue that his thanks was in the way he wolfed down the food she brought him.

The grizzly's family could not wrap their minds around this phenomena. For as long as he had been alive, everything he touched, he destroyed. They couldn't understand how she could continue to keep coming back to him. Injury after injury, she returned. They were afraid of offending her, so they never bothered asking what everyone was thinking. That and her family were very influential people, more so than their neighbors and the fox. They had their theories and even had a betting pool of when and how badly the bear would derail his gravy train.

If they had placed a substantial amount of money on this betting pool, they'd be in debt beyond the grave because nobody could predict what happened.

She was recovering from her latest injury- food poisoning. The tortoise at the shop deliberately gave her spoiled meat with the hopes that she would give it to the bear and he'd die. Unfortunately, she got curious and ate some of the meat. Violent illness ensued. The bear though not guilty by any means really got reamed by the family as he went to her home.

He was broken. Nothing could repair him. As he walked away and let it sink in, something clicked inside, for the worse. Hearing how she was sick triggered a horrible deviation. Rather than feel guilt, or remorse, he drowned in rage. Stopping in his tracks, he took a deep breath, turned around and charged at full speed. Tearing the door down he made his way to the crane. He didn't care if he destroyed anything, he was bent on doing whatever the fuck it was he was bent on doing. He tore the place apart, nothing was left unshredded by his furious claws and teeth. The bottom floor looked like a thousand war zones- devastated, crumbling, hanging on by a thread, air of hope gone.

Upstairs he crept- one shred of himself trying to keep him sane and calm. But it was no use when he got to the coughing and vomiting crane.

He stared at her with the evilest look she had ever seen. For the first time, she was truly terrified. Not solely because of his immense power compared to hers, but because she was confused and had no idea why he was suddenly turning into the embodiment of hopelessness and absolute evil. She had done nothing to infuriate him, or encourage any form of violence against her. She had been the closest thing he had to a friend.

"I brought you food." she pleaded, but he roared and charged toward her. She thought she was done for but thankfully, he slipped and cracked his jaw on the bedpost. She took this opportunity to hobble away, feeling the nausea and vomit brew inside her. Infuriated, he picked himself up and marched toward her.

"I never hurt you." she whimpered. The bear followed her, slowly. Quietly snarling with the tears swelling in her eyes.

"Please, talk to me. What did I ever do? All I've ever done was be kind to you." She was right and he knew it. He knew it but couldn't summon any shred of humanity or reason to make him see her point, or the fact that she was scared beyond description.

She fell as she tripped over the remains of some paintings' frames. She resigned herself to her fate.

The grizzly bear towered over her, glaring at her. She could not see reason in his actions and as she tried for one final act of kindness, hoping to mollify the maniac, she knew it was hopeless. For the first time, she stopped herself from doing anything. She was raised high above the ground and immediately felt his claws sinking into her, piercing not only her body but her mind. She winced and let out cries of pain intermittent with sobs, drowned out by ferocious snarls and growls. His primal side took too much control and she was paying for it. She bled, cried, and wished for death. But she never wished him harm even when he was destroying her, stretching her tender body to its breaking points, painting the ground with drops of her blood and demolishing her faith in everything she believed in.

"This is it." she thought to herself, writhing in pain. Every bone in her body was snapping, slowly and quite painfully. And loudly, but not loud enough to distract from the bear's snarling and growling, and stifled sobs. She felt herself come close to having her spine snapped when he set her down, and he began crying. He tore away at himself. When she tried to comfort him, he backhanded her; he retracted his enormous paw, now drenched in her blood and tears. He sat silent as he absorbed the sound of her faint breathing and coughing.

The air remained silent until he picked himself up and with the dulled rage in his eyes made his way to her. He lifted her into his arms and cradled her for a moment. The air remained silent but the moonlight bathed them both. Every bloodied detail on her face sank in and made him tremble with self-loathing and things he could not understand. So he did the only thing he was good at: destroy.

The crane is a creature of flight. She knew this and figured she could escape her fate but she also knew she was far too weak to do anything and it killed her to know this. She flew through glass, plastic, and wood at a speed she never pushed herself to reach. She almost blacked out from how fast and how far she was thrown and hit the wall of her neighbors house and then the ground with a heavy thud. No. In addition to the heavy thud was a symphony of shattered bones and dreams and a quick sob before she blacked out.

He, however, ran off into the moonlight and wasn't heard from in weeks. The crane's family didn't offer a reward for his capture because they wanted to handle things personally though their crushed daughter refused to let them do so. Even when she went into panic attacks at remembering how she almost died. When she calmed down a bit, all she could do was sob.
-
Remembering his mistake, all he could do was pray for death's bitter kiss but death would refuse. It was more fun to torture him especially for what he did.

The crane swore that if it ever became necessary to do so, she would come to his rescue, or kill him. Anything to save him.

Scattered Rambling Fable

Once upon a time, before time existed (or had any meaning), there was a boy who had absolutely nothing in the world but the clothes on his back and a stick which he used for walking and/or fighting. His life was a lonely one, for the most part; he spent his days wandering around, through rivers and over mountains and across deserts and out in space itself. He had a very active imagination which allowed him to breathe underwater, smoke cigarettes beyond the confines of our atmosphere, and change things deeply.

Every day, he walked through a small but generally fruitful bazaar in a city whose name is lost to the wind. This city might still exist but the name probably doesn't, or the place exists in memories and ancient texts nobody can read anymore.

There, the boy would gaze upon the various goods sold at varying prices. Fish, meat, ox skulls, leather, jams, spices, weaponry from "lands beyond our borders", and various useless trinkets. Hungrily, he marched through, leaving only with the dirty looks people gave him; he rarely had money to buy anything. When he did have money, it would generally go to one of three places: the local charity, a homeless person, or the stand that sold fruit. Despite his calm and comparatively gentle nature, scorn was always cast upon him. Unfazed as he seemed, every now and then, it stung.

In that same bazaar was a merchant who had everything a man in those days could need, or want. Money, power, respect, decent health, a harem of shapely beautiful women, food, shelter, and much more. They say that his home was made of pure marble lined with gold and silver so when the sun shone upon it at dawn, one could catch a glimpse of heaven, or go blind. This was not true. His home, despite his wealth, was a relatively simple albeit large structure. It was made of stone that had been painted to give the appearance of marble. Nothing was missing. He was healthy, rich, powerful, and surrounded by beautiful women.

He had it all.

Or did he...?

No.

He was unhappy.

He could not figure out why he was unhappy. By the standards of that time, he had no reason to complain. Everything was going well for him. But he could not figure out why something felt like it was wrong. He lost sleep thinking about what may have been missing from his life. This, in turn, only made things worse; not knowing was his ultimate torture. It made him feel even more miserable and poor. The cold bitter sting of desperation poured torrents of venom into his veins and into his heart making his soul writhe and wail.

On the other hand, the boy, despite his own misfortunes, was content. This was evident by the smile on his face that he carried through the bazaar. A true and genuine smile, or smirk. Not trying too hard to do anything out of the ordinary, just an expression of contentment. The merchant, curious and aching with desperation, stopped the boy one day. The boy simply walked, whistling and admiring the sights surrounding him when the merchant spotted him and sprang from his seat!

"You there! Boy!" he shouted, in a manic frenzy that seemed to terrify the world! "Stop! I need you!"

The boy was startled and took flight! Or he ran really fast. He was not fast enough to escape the merchant as his maniacal glee gave him energy he had not possessed since he was young.

"Come with me, boy. I must pick your brain for I do not know what to do and I need your help."

And the two walked back to the merchant's tent where he asked the boy all sorts of questions regarding his lineage, home, profession, sexual orientation, to what gods he prayed and so on. All this in the hopes of uncovering his secrets and possibly obtain the answers he sought to cure his unhappiness. It came to pass that the boy answered all the questions willingly but could not help but feel sorry for the merchant as he was unable to provide him with a cure for his unhappiness. The merchant felt slightly better but still the merchant was dissatisfied.

The merchant's heart grew heavier as his smile faded. But desperation clawed at him, nagging him, egging him on, pushing to the edge. He offered the boy his vast wealth in exchange for his secrets. Everything within his power he offered, and begged. Even stuff he could not offer, he offered.

"My women! Take any! Take them all! Take my money! Take my tent! Just tell me!" he sobbed.

"I hold no secrets," he replied, "keep your women and power if you like or abandon them. They matter not."

Confused, insulted, and furious, the merchant cast him out. He didn't have to say anything after that but that didn't stop him from yelling at him some more. Foul things he shouted, enough to make the wind sob, and the earth weep bitterly.

The boy took this in stride and walked into the distance. The merchant back to his tent, where he wept.

Weeks went by and the boy did not pass through the bazaar. The merchant grew sick and felt death embrace him at every turn. But with a tiny spark of hope and desperation, he cast off death each time. "Not until I know." he coughed.

One day, the boy returned much to the delight of the merchant. And some degree of delight for the boy, he was just too... proud, or lazy, to admit it. The merchant pulled the boy into the tent and fed him and gave him new clothes.

"I... well, this isn't easy for me to say, boy. I've never been in this situation before. You see, I'm used to answering to only myself and having others tremble before me. For the most part. I've also never... missed anyone's company. There have been women I've longed for but I've found that they are easily replaceable. Until your heart beats for just one and when she's gone, y- well, a part of you is gone, too."

The merchant sat across from the boy, who was ripping a finely roasted chicken with his teeth.

"I'm sorry." the merchant said. "I real-"

The boy nodded, accepting his apology and without saying a word told him he didn't need to say anything more. The merchant was humbled by this, he had never had to apologize to anyone before. And he had really hurt the boy but the boy forgave him.

They talked for hours. The merchant felt miles away from death's cold black shores. He understood why he felt warm and content. He made a friend. He had actually reached out and made friends with the boy.

"Thats what you were missing, sir," the boy said, "friendship."

Those words sank deep into the merchant's jewel encrusted heart.

Getting up and gathering his belongings, the boy said, "I thank you but I must depart now. May you find friends and happiness. May the winds of fortune guide your ship far across the sea of life to something great."

The merchant knew he could not stop the boy from walking, and as a token of their brief-lived friendship, gave him not just one of his many horses, he gave him his favorite.

"May your journeys be less perilous, my friend." he said as he handed the boy the reins to the magnificent white steed. "Find what you seek and may you find happiness that exceeds mine."

As the horse trod off on the soft golden dust 'neath its hooves and into the golden glory of the sun (as they are wont to do in these kinds of stories), the merchant smiled. He knew what to do now and was content.

They say he sold his tent and wandered the earth seeking more friendship. Others say he built an orphanage to try to fill a need. Others say he was taken by creatures from a planet devoid of friendship. Despite writing this story, I really wouldn't be able to tell you because all friendships vary and have differing effects on the obviously different people involved. But I can tell you this: the merchant was happy. The boy was happy. And the horse didn't care.

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Bottle, Part III

"What a fucking headache," groaned the grizzly bear, "I feel like shit." he said once more, stating the obvious consequences of having a headache.

The miserable fucking cur didn't realize his lungs had burst with so much wine in them. He had, in fact, drowned. His lungs burst with such ferocity. His ribcage exploded and pierced his body from the inside out. He looked so much like a dirty pin cushion with those jagged pieces of bone sticking out everywhere. This was all really unknown to him and had no idea of what had happened. Even the scars didn't tip him off. He shrugged off the excruciating pain he felt all over him. Rather miraculously he was able to do something like that.

"Just a headache." he said to himself, "that's all. It'll pass soon." But there was in reality much more than he could fathom.

He was unaware that he had died and had immediately gone to Hell. Or his version of hell: sharing a room with a raging alcoholic falcon. And given that he drowned, it all took place underwater, for the most part.

He was such a downer that they kicked him out and sent him back to the living world. Still stuck in his bottle. They gave him a powerful set of lungs and internal organs. Their intentions were to keep him from dying for as long as possible (without resorting to immortality) and thereby keep him out of Hell. Of course, he didn't get a clean break: once his organs started failing, they'd fail and really make him suffer slowly.

So the bear wallowed in his kingdom of wine, loneliness, and pathetic sulking. His majestic crown simply the matted down fur of the top of his head. His scepter... nothing really. His throne... none. There was nothing regal about him in this state, or even prior when he lived with his family. The very people who applauded his decision to leave. They now spoke with gruff and sore voices.

They cheered so loudly and so often they blew out their voices. They didn't care, they were glad to be rid of "2000 lbs of pathetic bitching." They were cruel in this regard but they felt justified and satisfied. He was drunk and depressed all the time and did nothing to help the situation. His employment, if any, was temporary and sporadic: he quit or got fired far too often. His education was lacking, as well. He dropped out during his last year of his post-secondary education. Never made any effort to explain his actions or return. He was absolutely fine with having everyone support him, though they couldn't support him anymore so it was a stroke of luck handed down by g-d in a neat fresh-smelling hand-basket that he climbed into that bottle.

The miserable cur was gone. The skies that day were a shade of blue previously unknown to any stretch of imagination. The wind carried a sweet scent of victory, joy, and love that day. Witnesses reported the clouds shaping themselves into smiley faces.

There was more breathing space and the family cherished that fact.

In some kind of desperation to rid themselves of his memory and presence, they took all his belongings and tossed them out. They figured the bear was never coming back, and if he did come back they figured if he had nothing there, he'd leave. "Call it insurance," said the sloth who lived across the street.

"If he does come back," chimed his brother- the one with a bad mohawk, "can I shoot him?" He continued to sharpen his fork. He was out of a job and had sold his knife to pay the rent.

The family pondered this on their comfortable leather chairs, eating the grizzly's cake and pastries. The only thing they liked about him was his ability to choose delicious cake and pastries without trying.

"He wouldn't come home every night raving about falcons and screaming 'what do American beer and sex in a canoe have in common?!' and all that nonsense." the fox said, his head in his hands. He was remembering the night the grizzly bear took a swing at him. He wanted him to go away forever but at the same time could not bear to imagine life without that fool. He provided them with fun with his misery. Nevertheless, he began to take a long hard look at their history. Especially "that one night."
-
It was a very warm night, the moon was relatively full for it had just come home from a cosmic buffet and had to be thrown out after finishing all the shrimp, twice. The bear had gone drinking, as was his hypocritical way. Sometimes, the fox would join in drinking but that night he refused to go. He wanted to sleep. The bear was enraged by the fact that the fox was missing when he started a fight and found absolutely nobody to back him up.

Prior to actually going to the local watering hole, the grizzly bear sauntered over to the fox' shack, wearing a hat (as was his custom). The fox tried ignoring the knocking at the door but the grizzly's attempts at rhythm were making his ears bleed. He shot up out of bed and ran to the door, opened it and yelled, "The motherfucking lights are out, you miserable fucking piece of shit! I'm trying to get some fucking sleep, god-fucking-damn it! What the fuck do you want, you stupid lumbering bastard?!" which was out of his nature.

He tried his hardest never to swear, save for "damn." Prior to that night, it had been 4 years since he had last told his ex wife to fuck off. The grizzly stood stunned for a minute, while the fox seethed. He grew angrier and angrier knowing he had broken his record; he was not a fan of swearing.

"Do you see what you made me do?" the fox snarled.
"I'm sorry." the grizzly said softly, with a shame that would vanish quickly.
"Yeah, you're sorry. What the fuck do you want?"
"I wanted to know if you wanted to go drinking tonight."
"I haven't been home in 3 days, I'm bloody fucking exhausted, and you want me to babysit you?"
"We-"
"No! Fuck off and don't come back!"
With those words, the fox slammed the door in the grizzly's face (hurting his nose), and went back to bed.

The grizzly wrote off that burst of anger as dark humor and expected that night to be normal. He reassured himself with memories of fox playing cruel pranks on people (mostly him). What he failed to realize is that the fox had come back a different creature after divorcing his wife those four years ago. Nobody spoke about it and nobody dared ask fox. Whenever she was mentioned in his presence, even in passing, he would glare for hours at whoever mentioned her. It was truly a scary thing to see that sight. Not necessarily for the fact that he was angry but because he missed her terribly. Tears would sometimes well up in his eyes while his hellish glare tried its hardest to keep anyone from seeing a wounded and vulnerable fox.

The grizzly didn't care. And it was evidenced by his behavior at the bar.

There was an air of betrayal mixing with cigarette smoke and vomit. Made only worse as the muskrat and kangaroo stomped the hell out of him. The rest of the patrons willfully ignored what was happening. They were glad somebody was doing what others had only dreamt of doing. Not that the bear was a force to be reckoned with but he presented a strange dilemma.

He truly was such a disagreeable fellow that neighbors and family members dreamt of cutting off his eyelids and covering him in barbecue sauce in the middle of the desert while hungry rabid dogs feasted on him. And they also held the belief that he was so pathetic that punching him would be sad and a waste of time and energy.

Unfortunately for him, this apathy had made him believe himself to be untouchable. This could only go wrong when he decided to slap the muskrat repeatedly because of the obvious size difference. "You're shorter than me, shorty!" And use the kangaroo's pouch to store his alcohol, "Keep my drink ice cold, Bruce, and throw another shrimp on the barbie." These two, being strangers to those parts, were unaware that people put up with his idiocy because they didn't care anymore. So they did what sane beings do- beat some sense into him. He grew angrier not because of the beating he was taking but because nobody helped him.

How much sense was beat into him varies with witnesses. A barrage of punches to the ribs, repeated kicks to the head, lead pipes to the face, tied up in a chair and having his balls struck with a carpet beater, and so many more reports. The only absolute truth lay in the fact that everyone drank to celebrate somebody putting the grizzly bear in his place. He drank, too. Drank "being" a euphemism for "dove to the bottom of the whiskey sea. And then dove deeper."

While in his drunken haze, he stumbled back to the fox' shack and tore the door down.

The fox was sleeping until he heard violent vomiting and knew exactly who it was.

"There you are! You fucking traitor!" the bear snarled.
"Come back when you're sober." the fox yawned, walking to his closet to get his crowbar.
"I just got my ass handed to me by a fucking kangaroo! A fucking rodent!"
"I missed the part where that was my problem."
"And a fucking muskrat, man."
"Again, I don't care."
"Thought we were fr-"
"Don't you dare say that word."

The fox paused, not even grabbing his crowbar. If there was one thing he never wanted the grizzly to even hint at, it was any form of relationship between them- namely, friendship. The fox didn't care for the grizzly that much. He only stopped fights because he didn't want blood on his hands, or paws. And because he knew that he would be hurt financially from property damage by the bear. He owned a portion of the local watering hole.

The fox marched steadily towards the bear who was having a hard time keeping his balance. With each step the fox took, the more the bear sank into a combination of fear and rage.

"We are not friends, you miserable sack of shit. If I ever defended you, it was to keep me from getting blamed for your death. Nobody likes you. Nobody even wants you around. Hell, I want to bash your fucking brains in, to be honest. Get lost, you miserable bastard."

That last line snapped the bear into this alert murderous machine mode. He threw a left punch which the fox dodged, just barely. The bear kept swinging and swinging. Missing each time. The fox ran for his crowbar. As soon as he grabbed it, the bear picked him up and threw him clear across the room and out of his shack.

The bear charged with all his might which didn't faze the fox. He simply rolled out of the way, picked up his crowbar and snuck up to the bear.

As soon as he turned around, his face met with solid metal. Repeatedly. Finally, the bear collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud. The fox rolled the bear off his property and left him by the side of the road. A driver saw the scene and pulled over, only to congratulate the fox. And kick the grizzly.

The fox returned home and fell asleep, ignoring the damage the bear had caused to his home. Nobody would ignore the scars left by the bear anymore.

After "that night" which would be known as "Bashing Day" among the townsfolk, the bear had truly become a pariah. He was immediately ejected from all establishments. When asked why, they gave him a very long list of reasons.

"I'm sorry." he would offer.
"Yeah, you are sorry." they responded with an air of scorn and smugness.
-
The fox pondered this and decided he would destroy the drunkard if he ever chose to return.

Bottle, Part II

And thus he spake...

"The king demands his crown back!"
Thanks to that, everyone is under attack.
Missing his crown:
the gold, the silver, the bronze, the jewel
Missing is peace:
Never has the land suffered a wrath so cruel.

Unfortunately for him, nobody can find it.
Unfortunately for them,
he's beheaded just about everyone in his courts-
tennis, basketball, racquetball, of law, of rule, and so forth.

Running away
Scurrying
Hiding
Fleeing

Away
from the madman's gaze.

But they run into his labyrinth.
His maze.
His garden of forking paths.

Goddamn power-hungry tyrant
If I had the means and methods
I'd smash his face and crush him like an ant.
His entire army
his legions
his personal guard.
His wife, that voluptuous wench!
I- I-
fucking crown
I'd -wear it
all over town-

All this in a drunken haze
That's how that sack of fur
spent most of his days.
Miserable fucking cur.

Being trapped in a bottle, after all
will cause your mind to stumble and fall.
Cracked is your shell
It hurts to swim in that liquid hell.

Soaked in some chateau
miles away from his little mind
swimming in the seas of some ancient year gone by
Trying to come up with a way to continue his wretched life
but the grizzly bear
who climbed into a bottle
chose a fate too large for him to bear.

He drank himself stupid.

Tzoo y-yorrr mizurrry AN-AN-AND dissssp-AIR!

Collapse
Splash
Gurgle

Drown?

Bottle, Part I

The grizzly bear climbed into a bottle and never came out again. He wasn't an alcoholic or anything of the sort, he just wanted to climb inside a bottle and never return to the real world. He hated alcohol, which confused everyone given that he purposely climbed into a bottle of wine.

He tried to explain this choice by saying that wine didn't look like beer which looked like piss which he did not want to splash around in. Anything that didn't resemble beer was good, he stressed. Though his hatred wasn't directed at just beer but at alcohol in general.

"Alcohol is what's wrong with this country," he would roar, "and the birds. Especially those falcons! Goddamn winged bastards."

His ornithophobia was one of the "many valid" reasons for climbing into the bottle. His relatives all knew he was full of it but they just wanted him out of the way. So much was their contentment that it never crossed their minds to visit him, or even allow themselves to think of such a thing. Then again, they were business bears. Crappy ones at that. Their neighbors on the other hand, were financial geniuses, and bulls. Unfortunately, they had no interest in playing the stock market.

"And perpetuate a stereotype associated with my species?" they snorted. "No thanks!"

This caused much dismay to their other neighbors: an assortment of foxes, fowls, fish, and various other creatures, except for apes. They were on their own planet. Sort of.

All this and more the bear pondered from time to time from behind tinted glass.

He was oblivious to the effects of his exile.

"Am I hallucinating? Am I drunk? Is this space dementia?" echoed not only inside the confinement of the bottle but within the caverns of his recently cleaned-out mind; he caved after the first few hours and drank himself stupid.