2 Minutes. Go!

You are not the sum of your experiences any more than you are the result of some cosmic confluence. You are inherently random. You are the result of a sweaty, grunting communion and nothing more. This is not an attempt to devalue you. Think about it; there is beauty in the chaos. Of all the flesh cells in the universe, you became you, and you will be you until you die.

No angels sang. No devils danced. It's all molecular biology and chance. So, you can view this two ways. Either it matters or doesn't. Hell, you can view it a million ways. Don't let me limit you; I'm just a sack of blood and goo. 

Like you.

If you want to believe that you are sprung from a supernatural fountain, be my guest. Put an old sage on a mountain and light some candles. But, to me, you're trying to simplify the magic. Is it not more amazing to know that you are one in a billion, and that the only reason you are here is because you got lucky? Or unlucky. That's up to you. 

I'm no prophet, but why not profit?

Why not make something of the ordered disorder that is you?

2 Minutes. Go!

It was the smell that first put his hackles up. A pungent, sweet smell of rot and decay. It was faint at first, but his body knew that there was reason to be wary. His brain did not. It quickly grew stronger, and he found himself inhaling deeply, pulling the smell inside his head where he could tumble it and smooth the edges. But it wouldn't smooth. It grew more pungent and, gradually, he came to realize that something was drastically wrong. 

He was struck by an urge to turn around and head back to the cabin. Pretend he had never smelled it. Pretend he didn't care, that morbid curiosity didn't compel him to keep walking, keep sniffing. Some deeply buried part of his lizard brain was taking over. He could feel it happening. He wanted to rut the smell out. He wanted to roll in it until he was a part of it, and it was a part of him.

Still, beneath this curiosity there was a growing terror. He knew that whatever he found would demand action. There would be phone calls to make. The whole day would be burned into his memory. It would become something he dreamed about. Something that lived inside him. He wondered briefly if the smell itself would make him ill, corrupt him. Scramble the wires in him.

He was so focused on the smell, that he didn't hear the shuffling sounds - the reordering of dead leaves. It wasn't until a branch snapped that he realized he wasn't alone, and by then it was too late. He had time only to think, "I should have turned the fuck around and went back to the cabin." Then, there was a flash of pain, the sound of bone rending. 

And he became part of the smell. 

2 Minutes. Go!

Man, don't tell me you don't like money because I can smell it on you. You got the stink of it, like old dimes and tit-sweat bills. You got that look in your eye like you taste blood - like you're working the gristle out of your teeth with that forked tongue of yours. Speaking of which, I saw your bitch barking down by the bowling alley, chasing spares and looking for a dick to suck. Don't worry, she didn't suck mine. I don't dig on horse teeth.

You're the kind of guy gets a hard-on when his cousin sits on his lap. I know you got magazines under your bed that I ain't even heard of. Four-eyed-tit-fucker Weekly. Drunk, Horny Dwarves. You're probably half-chubbed right now looking for a tree to go rub yourself on. Scratch that itch. Before you even go home, which is probably good cause you know your bitch is tired. Throat worn straight out. Sperm in her teeth.

That car you bought is a woman's car. Got them soft leather seats so your vagina won't chafe. You got pinstripes, and you probably got a box of tissues in there, too. Air freshener making that shit smell like strawberry bubble gum. You got one of them little trash cans that hangs off the back seat, and you got Mardis Gras beads dangling off the mirror like you're hoping to throw 'em at the first pair of tits you see. Four cylinders of tepid bullshit, boy. Might be a tricycle would do you better, if I'm honest. 

It was good seeing you, though. Good to chew the fat and whatnot. Life ain't been kind to you; that much is obvious. Keep your eyes on the mediocrity prize, kid. Keep humping, and you'll get somewhere eventually. And when you do, write me a letter. Sign it Shitface, so's I'll know who sent it. 

2 Minutes. Go!

You open your eyes, and the light is so bright it peels back several layers of eyeball. Disoriented. You are lost in light, and the sound is like a mechanical nightmare. They found you. Just like you knew they would. And now, they will take their pound of flesh. And then some. Carve you out and leave you down by the boat ramps for the gators to snack on.

You knew to stay away from the swamp bars, but 'drunk you' thought what the hell, and now you're about an inch from oblivion and tipping closer to it. The birds will get the pieces the gators and the fish miss. Some kid will find your bones. He'll try to freak out his sister by saying they're human bones, never thinking it's possible. Human bones. 

'Cause you couldn't stay the fuck away from places you have no business going.

You feel the bite of the bolt-cutters, and then an ear is gone. You can feel the not-thereness. You feel blood slick the side of your face, and you mumble through broken teeth. Just fucking kill me. But they haven't gotten their pound yet. They're taking their time. Enjoying it. 

When they're done, they'll drive your car off a bridge and leave Iris Baumgarter wondering. Wondering what she did wrong to make you leave without a note and never come back. 

That's the real pound. This wasn't even about you. Iris fucked around and found out. 

There are worse things than death.

2 Minutes. Go!

  

You should be helping someone. You should care enough to reach out that hand and keep someone from slipping. I guarantee there was a time when you were about to fall off the edge, and someone pulled you back. You might have appreciated it. You might not have. 

But it happened. 

Think of it as an investment if you need to. Call it 'paying it forward' or make it like a t-shirt slogan. Golden rule if you must. Ideally, you just do it because it's the right thing to do. It's decent. 

It's hopeful. 

Check on a friend you're worried about. Ask the sad kid if everything is cool and understand that he might not have the language to tell you. It might take a little patience. It might be frustrating. Virtue signaling isn't helping anyone. 

Literally. 

Why not try being extra nice and see what happens. What do you have to lose? Worst case scenario, it just helps you because you start feeling optimistic. 

That shit is contagious. 

Don't put people inside cages. 

2 Minutes. Go!

Through the walls, you can hear them coming. You huddle together; try to create some feeling of safety - it doesn't work, but it is the only thing you have. The walls bleed with mold slime and rainwater. You can smell death every time you inhale, but the fear cuts through the smell, and you are overpowered by the scent of your own misery. You have lost control. 

Through the windows, you see rooftops. They are distant enough that escape promises a crippling death. Still, you are tempted. 

In the walls, you hear the fetid scrape of small animal claws. If you die here, they will devour you. Feast on your corpse and revel in your meat. You will at least serve a purpose, but there is no consolation there. You grasp the hand of the child next to you and hope that you are the first to die. 

Footsteps. They are coming. You can hear them dragging their feet as they close in. You can smell them now - the smell of them is mixed with the smell of you and your heart pounds. There is a crash as they break down the door. You close your eyes so you won't have to be a witness to your death. 

It comes swiftly. There is that.

2 Minutes. Go!

You can hear the bell ringing, but you don't understand the significance. Eyes smeared, you try to find some kind of purchase, something to make you feel present - like you really exist. Like there is reason to the madness you try to corral inside your skull.

It wasn't always like this.

If you reach far enough back, you can remember another existence entirely - lush trees, verdant fields, pastoral expanses that did not try to trick the eye. These places existed. You know this, but knowing doesn't always guarantee understanding. 

You don't understand, do you?

Convince yourself that these shadow memories will suffice. Warm hand on a cold, winter cheek. Stretching into consciousness with no agenda to yoke you to the moment. Try to slip back into that amniotic yesterday. The tension will, at the very least, make you feel something. 

It's hard, listening for those bells. Waiting for the other shoe to drop and understanding that it never really will. No love for the searchers; they just keep searching. Meanwhile, you circle around the thing and pretend like you could grab it if you really wanted to. 

This had all been an exercise. Nothing was solved here today. You are not any more prepared than you were before. So, cast your net and pull it in. See what you've caught and wonder about what slipped through - back to blackness, opaque wandering. It's what you do to fill the time, and the time must be filled. Otherwise, it will crush you.

Hear the bell toll.