Vengeance Is Okay, I Guess.

Vengeance is mine. What do I do with it?

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.

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12 responses to “Vengeance Is Okay, I Guess.

  1. 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.

  2. 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

  3. There was a time when I would have preferred crushed grapes over sour grapes. Actually, no. I just lied. I would have wanted both, ceremoniously braided together like an evil twin macrame pot holder, and then doused in BBQ lighter fluid and torched like a Hendrix axe. And like the good alkie that I am, I enjoyed a good revenge fantasy like you wouldn’t believe. It’s like those Saw movies – a sort of revenge porn for the angry-and-soused set.

    Now while I haven’t had an arch nemesis like your cat there, I certainly had a grudge list, and I could tell you the exact order they were going to get lined up against the wall in my New World Order. There was no such thing as mercy in the NWO and the punishment nowhere at all fit the crime. Overkill. Swatting a fly with a sledgehammer. Or a Soviet KV-1S tank…fully loaded with ugly guys names Boris and uglier vodka not named Boris. So when you speak of the mental mayhem that you had built up in the noggin’, I get it. I super get it. I could have played that chessmaster thing with you all day. I would probably King you soon after your circumnavigate my Queen’s Gambit. Needless to say, people would get hurt.

    But like you, I too felt a twinge of sympathy or pity for some of the guys who had harmed me in the past. This was after much emotional gymnastics and a grapple-lock with certain steps that brought me to a cleaner line in life. I remember hearing about one of my high school tormentors having a difficult life…a sick wife, poor jobs and job prospects, troubled children, etc. At the time, I high fived the Universe and laughed away. Today, I am ashamed for such behaviour on my part. I was rather sick at the time, but still doesn’t excuse it. Today I send positive vibes to that energy realm and wish all well.

    As you so wonderfully portray it, sometimes it’s the teeth clenching sobriety at work. That change that people talk about when they toss the pithy and twee expressions like “nothing changes if nothing changes” and such. And this is that change. We don’t get to litter the Cosmos with self-serving trash like revenge and pitiful get-backs. It doesn’t dig it. It tosses it back to us in a different form. So I will play catch with the Unknown Comic there and hope that the curveball thrown in there will do some good. Who knows, I actually might feel better about myself and others. What a concept.

    Better than drinking swill and wishing harm on others.

    It’s hard on the liver.

    Genius stuff here, as usual, MG. I wish I could wrap it up in otter fur and send it to my old self through a time machine.

    Paul

    • Well that was a mad romp, Demon Eye. Oh man, dat’s good shit. Hoo-wee! Does part of me feel bad that the best writing in this blog comes from the contributors to the comment section? Yes. Of course. What idiot wouldn’t? But, am I also grateful for the window-dressing that distracts from the duct tape and cat hair? You bet.
      So thank you, my friend, for your dazzling contribution(s) spiffing up the place. I hope it’s as fun for you to write here as it is reading it.
      I kind of like it here in the comment section. I feel a little looser. It’s more casual. I can take off my sport coat. Loosen my tie. Take off my pants. It’s okay to type in your boxer shorts when you write in our comment section. Let it all hang out. There’s soda in the fridge, and I just called to get some pizza pies delivered.
      It’s not like upstairs. Up there in the post. Sometimes, I hate it up there, Paul. I do. It feels like what I imagined going to a military academy would be like. All those rules and shit. No. It’s better down here. In the comments.
      It’s a safe refuge. For oil-slicked survivors. And any other vagrants with some quality time to burn.
      Anyweeze, your fearless and funny honesty is ALWAYS welcome here in this party basement. Fuck yeah. Otter fur. Too good. Canadian good.
      I can always use some of that. Thank you a lot.
      Let me know if you score that time machine.
      Marius

  4. I have to admit that there is Phil Collins No Jacket Required feeling down here in the cargo hold of the SS Marius Esprit. Roomier, noisier by the boiler, with a little waft of BO to complete the picture. Full steam ahead kind of stuff, really. The comments section here is the fuzziest, most fun I have encountered out here on the high seas. The post is the navigation, the tone that’s set, the pouring of the cement for this patio furniture here to be set upon. Needed and necessary. the real deal happens upstairs – navigation, setting the course, steering wheel, captain’s room. That’s where the meat and potatoes get devoured. Down here, it’s the meeting after the meeting. As you mentioned, pizza pies making their way via Miami Vice speedboat. Tip extra.

    Thanks to you for creating this space for lunatics and ne’er-do-wells to say their say. I still cling to the title of the Kind Canadian. But that facade is wearing thin.

    I’ll take Hawaiian for my pie. And my destination.

    Saluting you
    Paul

    • 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.

  5. 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.

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