Vengeance is mine. Now what?
Three and a half minutes. That’s how long I can rub my hands together in fiendish glee, before even that gets boring. I just timed it. Kind of a let down. Doesn’t make sense to make a hobby out of it. Maybe I should get out the paints and see if being creative is still fun. Not tonight though.
I found out that an arch nemesis is about to be destroyed. The D.A. has him in the rack, and big iron bolts are clinking while he turns the crank. Financially he is ruined. All that remains to be seen is if he will do time. Regardless, it’s not too early to call it. Game Over.
The Blind Creature of Slime is crushed under the chariot wheels of Justice. Voltar is victorious! Time to leash the baying hounds. Light the woods with fire. Pour mead into our skull mugs. Throat lusty ballads of plunder and pillage. Invite the giant warlords to our victory feast.
Let us celebrate the smiting. Let us quaff from our joy eternal. While our foes eat flame in the Wasteland of Woe.
Drink up everybody.
Huh.
I thought I’d feel happier.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy. It’s just that I thought I’d be happier.
Eight years I waited for this news. And now, well, part of me feels sorry for the guy. What kind of bullshit is this?
Why oh Lord, must all my victories be Pyrrhic?
How can I expect to loiter among the gods with this stain across my suit? This hot dog mustard of Humanity.
At least this one is karma-free. I didn’t lift a finger, drop a dime, arrange anything. He did it all to himself. Like I knew he would. Eventually.
I’ve stood by and watched this guy pull some scandalous shit over the years. Screwed a lot of people. Like me. Most importantly. Because I’m one of those people that don’t like to be fucked under deres, Pally. Capezio?
I had all kinds of chances to sting back. Trust me. Figured out some good ones. Couldn’t help it. I slide into Evil Chess Master mode easily. And this guy seemed to be designed for the express purpose of goading me to engage. To bring down some Byzantine bitch slap. Teach him what blind worship of Moloch can lead to. Help him see The Light. Steer him towards better citizenship.
But I never deployed. Came close. Started to squeeze, but never pulled the trigger of my V-Weapon. Practicing restraint, you see. Voltar was in the lap dance booth, but he was keeping his hands on the couch.
I can blame that on recovery. The whole thing reeked of some kind of a spiritual test. Biblical life that I now lead, I can smell a rat trap. Too temping this cheese. No. My deal would require trusting that there would be some kind of justice. Even without my vigilante assistance.
What can I say? Voltar likes to experiment in his lab. He wanted to see if all this shit was for real. This spiritual angle.
It was hard. The little fucker was getting away with murder. So it seemed. Dodging every projectile thrown by the angry mob. Bobbing and weaving, but somehow remaining untouched. Irritating to witness. Frustrating to grasp. Double-U, Tee, Eff.
It’s exactly at times like that , I would have expedited things. How about we save the Universe all the trouble of arranging some karmic payback, and I just kick his ass right now? You know, cut to the chase-o, Pedro.
Alas, my only weapon would be patience. My only medicine a dyspeptic tonic of tolerance. None of which I’d mastered or learned to stomach. I would also have to holster my magic powers of cunning and deceit, and forsake any Machiavellian machinations. Nor would I take advantage of the pro-bono attorney I had on speed dial. Basically, I set myself up for an ambush.
For no other reason than it might keep me from drinking, which is my favorite thing to do.
Sounds perfect. -Ly bad. Where do I sign up?
He did fuck me under. Many, many, many times. And for the most part, I just took it. Looking back, it was nothing I couldn’t recover from. But he did make life harder. Especially when I let him.
All the torrents of poisoned-tongued venom I held banging behind my teeth. All the tight-lipped, wide-nostrilled attempts at civility. Eye-lid spaz-flapping from the strain. White knuckles stuck in pockets. Mumbling my motherfucker mantra. Trying to keep it together. Keep cool. Grip the imaginary neck. Then let it go.
Good old-fashioned clenched teeth sobriety.
It’s not like I was an angel. But the bad things I did do back to him, we’re downright saintly compared to what I had cooking upstairs. There was a decided dial-down on the Nob of Wrath. Whatever lashes I whipped back were involuntary. Like when a friend unexpectedly chops you in the neck with an ironing board and you freak out on them, before realizing they were only fucking around. Knee-jerk stuff.
Besides that, I would try to leave him to himself, and let what happens to him… just happen. His fate I would see, like Ozzy said. “after forever.”
I can wait.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tick.
I didn’t realize Eternity was so long.
Tick.
“He’s a creature of God. Perfect in his apparent imperfection. A pilgrim on The Path. Beloved by the Creator.”
And a total dick. His personality poisons our pool with plague. I strongly suggest destruction.
“Everything you hate about him, you possess within yourself.”
Yeah okay, sorry for giving the high-hat. Go ahead and destroy us both. Just don’t let him get away.
And so it would go. Back and forth. To and froward. The struggle itself felt futile. There didn’t seem to be any pay-off.
Until one day, we parted ways, and I forgot all about him. He became an insignificant ghost in my mind. Maybe I didn’t love him. But I didn’t hate him anymore. I had managed to climb as far as Indifference on the spiritual ladder. What’s that like, good for a bronze? Anyway, it was definitely short of Compassion.
Until today. Like I said, now I kind of feel sorry for him. A little. It’s weird.
I know. I’m getting soft in my old age. But maybe we’re supposed to. Ripen. It’s what makes grandparents better than parents. A little more of the unconditional love. A little less Hammer of Thor.
We could all use a little less Hammer of Thor these days. Shit is hard enough. For everybody.
Unless of course, you’re just begging for a hammer blow. And Thor really wants to deliver one. A real smiter. Something to make the anvil ring across valleys of Valhalla. It’s golden echo sending black birds up from their trees–into red skies streaked with lightning.
Then we’ll have to honor that. As well. Accept it. Like all the other stuff.
It’s just that some stuff is easier to accept.
You know what I mean?
V.
TRUDGING THROUGH THE FIRE 
Dostoevsky and Crowley have left the world but now we have Marius ! This is Sweet Powerful writing. I wonder who you are referring to but that’s because I’m lucky enough to have known you.
Mighty high praise there, Eye Tint. Thanks. Hey, we have donned tights and danced ballet together. How much closer do two men need to know each other? Speaking of luck, I think there was a moment of delight in my life that you might have played a part. Once or thriceish. Oh yeah, and co-signer of a diktat of some sort of metallurgic quality. So I’d say we know each other.
Nah, you don’t know the mark. He’s merely a shit-stain on my mind now. Oh, and a great teacher. Domo arigato, Mr. Paradoxo.
Let me ask you this- Do you think a man has ever wrestled with his demons? Sometimes they get the better of us, and we get an all-expense trip into Infernal Tormentville.
I hope it never happens to me. Any kind of bad feelings. Ever.
I think that’s reasonable. Absolutely vim-free. vim.
Hoping life dulls down to a blunt instrument, if not…
Test the pills out on der hund, first.
M.
I had exactly the same feeling when a conman, who ripped off my mentally-ill sister for £40,000 and then left the country a bankrupt, died recently. I felt sorry for the sad little fuck. The irony was that he fled to a colder, damper climate to be with his next victim – which aggravated a preexisting lung condition and led to his death.
I was over it all by the time this happened. I’d put away the maps, false passports and unloaded the shovels and tape from the car.
I’m so glad that I didn’t become the star player in his little drama. For what would that have that made me? Am-Dramtastic!
If I’d have discovered what he’d been up to whilst still within strangling distance, I may have been writing this from prison. But with the passing of time, a cooler head decided I would give the universe a chance to do the right thing. And it gladly obliged. Three cheers for the universe and all the slow moving justice it contains.
Three cheers for you too, you’ve just become its envoy.
Three cheers for the universe! A scoundrel’s end, Frater, to cough and wither in the cold dampness. With nothing to clutch but your fears. Grotesque-faced demons straight out of an absinth bender, snarling and snapping. An icy ball of emptiness rolling around inside, spinning him nauseous and dizzy. Death’s long white fingers reaching through the dark. Sitting up in bed screaming. Throat still cold from His grip.
A fitting end by my account, for a rake’s progress. Sorry to hear that happened to your poor sis. Yes, thanks be to the heavens for strangling distance. Keeping us out of, I mean. From theirs and ours. Two-way street, that one.
One way to jail. The other dead.
We better find a turn-off quick here, Johnny boy. Did you wrap your “chips” in our road map? That was the last exit before the border inspection. Fucking great.
I’m so glad you let me talk you into going to Tijuana while you were in California. Okay, I need you to play it cool while I let you do all the talking. Have a breath mint. Oh God, I’m too pretty for prison.
That’s going to be so awesome.
Counting the sunsets.
Happy Summer, Moon Bat.
Marius
Wish I had something deeper to offer, Since I don’t, here’s thanks for another great post, and here’s where my mind went: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aCtu7A9WGKs
Ah yes. The Coop. I heard he once drank a Budweiser faster than one per hour. Somehow made it out alive. I remember being very depressed when I heard he quit drinking. It used to always make sad to hear that some musician got sober. I mean, look at what happened to Aerosmith. Of course, it also made me sad to hear when they died of an overdose of vomit, so…either way, I was always so very sad.
Thanks for stopping by, Mugs. Sorry for the delay in answerving.
Love the way you write – & totally pictured your 3+ minutes rubbing hands with fiendish glee.
Expertly practiced restraint indeed.
I can fiendishly rub other stuff for longer. But again, one must practice restraint. Thank you for liking the way I write. I’m really grateful and glad. And, as you know, I enjoy your work as well. See you around, Aussie Lass.
🙂 You’re sweet… ‘Aussie Lass’.
We only need practice restraint where to not would cause harm, I reckon.