The Mad One – Part One

The Mad One – Part One

The Mad One is a new series I’ve been working on that will be appearing on Tripoart. It’s about a delusional drunken dude, who has lots of personal issues and many wild adventures. It is intended for a mature audience.

 

Mr. Stevenson:

 

“Welcome to my weird,”

 

“Put those tiny bugs away, I’ve got a better weapon!”

 

When I came upon that huge pile of trash with the broken furniture legs sticking out, it was quite dark outside and I thought one of those wooden legs was going to reach out and attack me. As if it would morph into a living branch arm thing and the nails and sharp splintered ends would pierce my helpless pedestrian flesh. Injecting me with tetanus and other horrible diseases or possibly end me right there on the sidewalk by a stabbing or slow strangulation.

Every time I passed those disgusting heaps of rubbish they made my spine cringe within. It took all of my powers of self-control to continue walking without staring and panicking and almost becoming hypnotized as my mind imagined all its hideous contents. Their history and origin.

I knew that each odorous fragment had a story to tell and this thought at times would overwhelm. I imagined its previous owners. Their habits and the reasons why they dumped. Why had this item seen its “last day”? Who made the final decision and threw it to the pile? The questions. The answers. The complex history of it all!

Rotting maggot-infested scraps of food, broken chips of ceramic tile, chunks of unevenly mixed concrete and other building materials, feces, diapers, ripped apart condoms with thick liquids oozing out and every type of waste which people regularly toss into the filthy streets were laid out before me.

Dust and scum illuminating with a bright and foul aromatic shimmer. A shimmer which poisoned my very stride.

My natural god-given obsession for cleanliness and order are tested every time I dare leave my simple lab/apartment.

That’s why I hated walking through that neighborhood, but it was the only way to get to the station and I can’t afford a taxi. Damned city is expensive as shit. Fuck – I swear – Every year – Prices go up and things get harder. Food (real food) is practically unattainable. Only the richest of the rich eat well and the rest of us have to suck on artificially engineered crud masquerading as “nourishment”, hoping to gain a few healthy/useful calories from the flavorless slop.

– Oh well – such is life –

Times have always been rough & tough & rough. Each generation must experience its own set of unique Misérables.

Just think of the amount of complaining/suffering which occurred during history’s greatest catastrophic events. For example: the dark times endured during the epidemic of the bubonic plague which occurred in the fourteenth century across Eur-Asia. The murderous rampages of war. Which war you may be asking? All of them. And the starvation of both mind and body that is felt by rich and poor alike, to this day…

Sorry, I’m not here to complain. No. I’m here to talk about my daily experiences and habits. Rituals and Visions. I have them frequently, you should know. Why, just yesterday when I thought the trash was going to reach out and get me, I also envisioned a military group patrolling the streets behind me:

Slowly Getting Closer

Block by Block

Hundreds of soldiers dressed in camouflage fatigues. Marching in unison. Shaking the very ground they walked on with a rhythmic beat:

One – Two – Three – Four!

One – Two – Three – Four!

One – Two – Three – Four!

I could hear the Sargent’s loud directive speech edging them on through the city center. As they marched along and got closer to me, I was anxious to know why they appeared and what their mission was.

Withered old men came out from some industrial looking buildings pushing big wooden platforms lined with spikes out onto the streets. Some crooked spikes were more than a foot long. Each platform had at least twenty-five of them protruding out. Set up diagonally upon sturdy wooden supports. Placed about, at the end of the sidewalks, by the slow-moving civilians.

I walked on while listening to the army and seeing the old men nervously standing beside their mysterious platforms.

A young kid dressed in pajamas and gym sneakers dashed out of his home. I saw his mother’s sorrow filled eyes and dark frame in the shadows of the doorway; a long red rag held tightly against her face. He sprinted as fast as he could and after doing several spectacular somersaults and flips he twisted his body high into the air, spinning as an aerial top and landed at the center of the platform with a solid thud. Splattering blood and flesh. Killing himself by public impalement!

His young body hung there upon the vicious spikes –

my innards began to turn inwards upon themselves.

“What in the hell have I gotten myself into,” I muttered to myself.

I continued to walk along and saw another young man run out of a small book shop. Also performing beautiful gymnastic flips along the cemented road and ending his life across the iron spikes.

And another youth plunged from a balcony more than four stories high landing on a different wooden platform of death. It was absolutely gruesome, and I was in the middle of it all!

The army came closer. I was able to see the tall ruddy Sargent:

The Leader of Men

All of a sudden, more than thirteen soldiers came upon me and forced me to the ground. Yelling at me in a tongue I could not comprehend. I gave them my documents. They rummaged through my few belongings. Throwing my things about as I laid face to the dirt with a heavy boot pressed into my back. Keeping me down. Preventing any chance of escape.

One of them hunched real low and began to shout and spit in my ear. His acidic saliva burned my face. The other one pressed harder and stronger into me with his heavy military boot. I caught a glimpse of his youthfulness. At least twenty years younger than me he was.

The Sargent showed up. When he came the others moved aside. The boot left my spine. Then something worse happened. He picked me up off the ground. Held me, locking my arms from behind. Completely immobilizing me. He yelled some orders to the others and they began to punch and kick my ribs. I was helpless and had to withstand every blow.

I withstood the pounding for a while. Then they took out a flame thrower, set it up, loaded it with flammable liquid, and pushed me up against a brick wall.

These kinds of thoughts filled my mind; night and day and day and night. I always wondered how I would react in a situation like that.

This was a recurring vision which haunted me for years. Each time I saw it, it was a different version, or something new would be revealed.

For me, death always seemed like it was around the next corner. That’s how I lived my life for as long as I can remember.

Once when I was just a kid I witnessed a car crash. Up close and personal. I almost got ran over by an out-of-control vehicle. The thing smashed into a telephone pole early in the sun-filled day, just a few feet in front of me. My life would have ended right then if I had been where that pole stood.

I’ll never forget the sound of the metal crunching and folding inwards like a massive 3700-pound accordion. The memory of the lady driver violently bashing her head into the front steering wheel, bending it in half with her skull and her neck then snapping backwards against the car seat, while her hair whipped about, will always be with me.

It all happened in less than a split second, but it seemed like I had seen it occur in slow motion. Details are never forgotten. And it’s another one of those visions that’s positioned towards the front of my mind. Always there. Disturbing my actions and daily activities.

One of the things about me that’s special is my memory. I remember everything. Every day of my life is automatically recorded and stored away up here in my head. This is a blessing and a curse at the same time. I can never turn it off. That may be why I turned to drinking, to sedate some of the mental pain. It’s really the only time when my mind takes a break from the excessive imaginings and I rest for a bit.

But I know this self-sedation comes at a cost and my thoughts have been extra out of the ordinary lately. I couldn’t begin to tell you what I have seen or felt. Some of the visions are truly beyond description. What I can say is that it is in equal parts beautiful and inspiring and also ghastly and troubling.

It’s haunting. That’s the right word for it. I am haunted day in and out by all kinds of strange visions.

At times, I’m not even sure if I’m sane. The delusions and conversations I have in my mind are almost as real and lucid as the interactions I have in the outside world.

 

The Mad One – Part Two

 

Charles DuFont

Creator of Tripoart, the best art promotion site!

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