Ruminations, obscenities

I think it's funny that real life has a lot more in common with the Christian concept of hell than it does with the Christian concept of heaven.

Tells you something about Christians.

So, a Christian is supposed to, by analogy, be able to understand something about hell. However, they don't really know as much about heaven, because there is no analogy in real life. Suffering, people understand. Eternal bliss? Not as much.

So here's what it boils down to: people can conceptualize hell better than heaven. Therefore, what must the operating factor be in motivating people? Heaven? Or Hell?

Obviously it's the punishment that motivates. One only needs consult a Calvinist. One only needs to read or research any revivalist teachings. One only needs to sit and listen to Pat Robertson talk on a Sunday afternoon.

Fear of hell. Not desire for heaven.

So, the punishment more than the reward.

Punishment.

A religion based on punishment. Fear. Threats. Suffering.

Not a big huge surprise, or even a real original line of thought on my part, but I thought I'd detail it out since this stuff tends to come to me in the shower.

The Abrahamic faiths are one long legacy of religions that treat people like dogs.

Things in my life that have devolved into utter abstractions

1. Women - Beyond my ability to comprehend. They are like a physics equation with underiveable constants and unquantifiable unknowns. Only soluable to men who are better at guessing or luckier than I am.

2. Morality - Contrary to popular religious thought, religion's focus on an absolute and yet totally abritrary moral code has disintegrated the concept of moral behavior into an utterly unconvincing chimera. To my mind, without an intrinsic, human basis for ethics, morality becomes much the same as theology--a fancy construct with no foundation in reality. The religious have turned moral thought into a worthless academic exercise. The only answer is to regard morality with the utmost ambivalence and relativism. We call this a teachable moment.

3. Popular music - I can't figure out which parts, if any, are supposed to be interesting. The idea of popular music being either 'popular' or 'music' is something of a philosophical conundrum--a question without any real answer that probably only makes you more unhappy for having attempted contemplation.

Centipede that walks like a man

The two men are talking, oblivious. Spearle sits across from them while their voices lurch and strut, the snaky threads of an argument. The sound is like two phlegmy hagfish debating ownership of a rotting carcass.

He who produces the most mucus wins said argument.

The bar is smokey, and crowded. The clientele are quiet. The dark, chill air is hushed with muted talk of quiet money. Very very quiet money.

This is a quiet bar.

Spearle stares at his beer and listens to the conversation with little interest. The older of the talking pair, a balding man with a patchy beard named Asaph, is still slowly pronouncing his estimation of the relative worth of Spearle's offer. By Spearle's count, he has repeated the same line of thought three times in the past ten minutes, each time producing different numbers. The younger one, Wade, seems alternately anxious and bored. He vacillates between sharp, coughed disagreement with Asaph and almost baffled indifference.

Asaph's eyes drift lazily around the bar as he mutters. Spearle keeps his gaze on his beer, waiting patiently and without thought.

This is all academic.

This is all necessary, and yet totally unnecessary.

He flicks his eyes at Wade. The younger man sports a bewildering mustache. He wears the air of a coma patient recently awakened to find the entire world resurfaced with mohair yarn. He seems surprised and slightly irritated by everything that is transpiring.

Wade cuts into Asaph's monologue with a sour comment. Asaph's eyes momentarily focus. Without turning, he congeals his voice into a thicker spill of glutinous speculation, smothering the younger man's acid tone. Wade bites his interjection off. His viscid locution flowing momentarily to a halt, Asaph sets his gaze on Spearle, waiting.

Spearle continues staring at his beer.

"I think you're full of shit. Did you fucking hear me?"

Spearle finally looks up at Asaph. The two lock eyes momentarily. Spearle's clouded gaze imparts no meaning to the speaker. Neither acknowledgement nor ignorance.

"When did I ask whether you believe me?"

"No way...what you're saying is fucking horseshit."

"Did I ask if you believed me?"

"Look..."

"Did I ask if you believed me?"

"No, but..."

"I don't give a fuck if you believe me. That's not what I asked."

"Yeah, hey...."

"What did I ask?"

"..."

Wade watches the exchange anxiously. His boredom is frothing over into frustration.

"What did I ask?"

"You asked how much."

"Yes. How much?"

"Look, even if you had...like...captured...Chuck Lister...I mean, seriously...Do you know how that fucking sounds? I mean, do you know how that fucking sounds? But even if you did have the guy, no way Grissholm is gonna pay for him. No way those fucking guys will pay what you're asking."

Wade cuts in, "They'll chop your fucking balls off instead."

"Yeah, no shit."

"They'll fucking find you and they'll chop your fucking balls off."

"Plus, if DeBoyo finds out you're trying to sell his brother to the Lord, he'll fucking go nuts."

"Yeah. And then he'll find you and cut your nuts off, too."

Spearle relaxes. He takes one pull from his beer.

"So, let's just put this out there. No one will pay for Chuck Lister. Not Grissholm, not DeBoyo, not anyone. They'll just come and cut my balls off instead?"

"Yeah, dumbass, so I wouldn't go around telling people what you just told us."

"They'll find me?"

"Yeah they'll fucking find you."

"You're sure?"

"Fuck yeah I'm sure. Sure as shit stinks, I'm sure."

"How?"

"How what?"

"How will they find me?"

"Fuck if I know. They just will."

"Right."

Asaph thumps the table hard with his gaunt fist. One or two eyes shift briefly in the direction of their booth. No one actually looks.

"What the fuck is your problem, dude? I'm telling you this bullshit is gonna get your ass fucking dead. This is fucking bullshit. If you have a fucking deathwish, go somewhere else and fucking die. Get the fuck out of my face with this fucking crap. What the fuck? I mean, seriously, what in the fuck, dude?"

Spearle looks at Asaph, then at Wade. Maybe he smiles a little. The two won't be sure afterwards, but then, they'll never mention it to each other either.

"So you're sure they'll come after me and they'll know where to find me?"

"This conversation is fucking over."

Wade and Asaph slide out of the booth like meat rigged to a conveyer. Asaph throws a couple wadded bills on the scarred tabletop. The finish is scuffed. Spearle's unemptied beer stands sentinel over the soggy lumps of cash.

The two leave without saying anything. Spearle downs his beer, pays the tab, and strolls out into the dank evening.

Seventy Per Cent.

Hot thick air buzzing with insects. Fluttering things weaving around the cold fluorescent lights. The concrete walls smell of wetness. Auto fumes.

Asaph Whateley drops another quarter in the slot, hoists the heavy metallic wand. The rubber hose is reluctant. He fights it as he maneuvers around the car. Water jets out of the nozzle with satisfying pressure as he sprays the car down. The slowly clotting blood rinses clean from the scuffed paint, pooling into disconcerting shapes on the cold concrete flooring.

The car is covered with blood.

Asaph works quickly, taking care with the grille and the wheel wells. There is a lot of blood. And he doesn't have a fuck of a lot of quarters.

Wade sits in the car. For awhile he stares unconcernedly at the blood-coated windshield, the cold lights of the carwash leaking through the thick crimson sheet making it look like the glass is made of candy. Strawberry Jolly Ranchers maybe.

Then the blood is sprayed away, drizzles down the windshield in dissipating rivers, a froth of diluted scarlet.

Wade turns his gaze to the dashboard. His eyes are lazily drawn by the patterns of sawdust and cigarette ash. Traceries of another language. Something hidden. A meaning not quite apparent to him. He tries to decipher it for a moment, his mind poised to tease out the secret, before he loses interest.

He turns his gaze back out the windshield. Asaph is behind the car now. The water makes a comforting sound as it buffets the rear fenders. You could fall asleep to that noise. Wade closes his eyes a little and tries to relax. He listens to the sounds of the water as his brother carefully washes the coagulating blood off the beaten up police cruiser.

The water pressure fizzles out. Asaph spits a curse. Trudges over to the shiny steel panel, digging in his pocket for another coin. Pulls one out and shoves it in the slot.

Nothing happens.

He curses again and punches the panel.

Nothing.

Hits the coin return button.

Nothing.

Reaches into his pocket again, digging out another quarter.

Starts to shove it in the slot. Stops. Looks at it.

A fucking nickel.

A goddamn fucking nickel.

A god motherfucking damn motherfucking shiteating fucking nickel.

It sits in his palm, accusing. Mocking.

Asaph is out of quarters. He throws the metal wand on the ground. It clatters loudly and uselessly as he stalks back to the car. Blood pools thickly under the driver's side door. He splashes through it, unmindful as he heaves the door open and climbs in.

"Is it clean?"

"Yeah, sort of."

"You didn't finish?"

"We're out of fucking quarters."

"Oh."

"..."

"...so is the car clean?"

"Fuck if I know. I couldn't finish."

"Oh. Do you think anyone will notice?"

Asaph pulls the door shut with a resounding slam and stabs the key into the ignition. Grunts as the car starts up--coughing, angry, old.

The battered cruiser pulls out of the carwash port tentatively, headlights painting the night like the surface of the moon, like some airless asteroid. Living in the cold, disapproving glare of the distant Earth.