The Jerk Manifesto

The Jerk Manifesto - Chapter 1 (Part 3)

We were somewhere fairly east of the city, in the middle of some industrial estate.  Vintage slowed the car as we came to a vacant lot, edging onto the river bank.  Gravel crunched under the tires, headlights casting long shadows into the night briefly before being switched off.  There was the faint tang of pollution and metal on the air, and hundreds of points of light piercing the darkness from factories and streetlights.  It reminded me of every mobster movie I’ve ever seen, in fact.  The problem with that however is that I was certain that most of those movies ended up with somebody being shot and dumped in the river.  Some of them even started that way.

I cleared my throat.  “Bit out of the way, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Vintage agreed.  “They always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Make me meet them in the middle of nowhere, like they’re Keyser Soze or something.”

“Yeah, I was getting the impression that they probably watch too many gangster movies.”

Vintage nodded.  “And they’re always late.  As if I don’t have anything better to do than wait around for them all night.”

He shook a cigarette out of his packet, offering in my direction.  I slid one out, holding it to my lips as he sparked it for me, then dropped the pack in the centre console.

“Damn you smoke a lot,” Vintage begun, lighting his own cigarette.  “You should cut that shit out.  I hear it kills you.”

There was a long pause as he breathed deep, cherry flaring as the air was sucked through it.  He exhaled slowly, filling the car with smoke before casually winding down his driver side window.

“Problem is,” he continued, “that these guys consider themselves to be a bunch of heavies.  Wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t coked out of their minds half the time, but there you have it.”

“That’s reassuring.”  I gingerly daubed the crotch of the panties to my lip where blood was beginning to congeal.  It had bled down my face and onto my shirt, which fortunately was black, so at least it wouldn’t stain.  Small mercies, eh?  Grimacing at my reflection in the mirror again, I made a mental note to book myself in for a herpes test first thing in the morning.  “I just hope they’ve got some rule that prevents them from beating up somebody who’s already been beaten up that day.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Vintage agreed.  “So, you know.  I doubt it.”

We sat in silence for a while, music filling the empty space between us while my mind wandered.  There was a chill breeze blowing in off the river, and the water seemed eerily like glass the way the lights reflected off it.  I found myself absently wondering how many bodies had been dumped in its dirty brown depths.  How long would it take to find them?  Would the sharks be all over that shit?  You’d probably have to tie them down with something.  Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you come to unprepared, that’s for sure.  You’d need a rope, at least.  These guys we’re waiting for better not have any fucking rope, ‘cause I sure don’t have anything to cut it with if they do. 

“How much force do you reckon you’d need to break a decent rope?”  I mused, unintentionally voicing my thoughts. 

“Sorry?”  Vintage shot me a confused look.

“Let’s say you’re tied up, right?  Some dudes are about to throw you in a river.  How are you going to escape?”

“Do I get to have a knife?”

“Nah.  Let’s say you’re a reasonable person who doesn’t carry concealed weapons for no apparent reason.”

“When have we ever been anything you could consider ‘reasonable people?’” he shot, arching an eyebrow.

“Fair point,” I conceded.  “Do you have a knife on you right now?”

Vintage laughed.  “No, what the fuck would I want with a knife?” 

“Why would you even bring it up then?”  I shook my head.  “No knife.  If you haven’t got one, don’t bring it into the equation.  It’s just you, a couple of really pissed off dudes and a bunch of rope.”

“What are they pissed off about?”

“Jesus.”  I shook the panties that were still in my hand towards his face.  “Maybe these belonged to one of their sisters or something?”

“Yeah, but you’re the one sniffing them.  Shouldn’t they be pissed off at you instead?”  He shrugged.  “These bad guys of yours don’t sound too bright.”

I stared at him, open mouthed.  There really is no arguing with some people.  I thought I’d start again, slowly.  “There’s two angry dudes.  You’ve got no idea why they’re angry.  They tie you up and throw you in the river.  No knife, no nothing.  How much strain do you need to break through the rope?”

“More than we’ve got, I’d say.”  Vintage sucked the last of his cigarette and flicked the butt into the wind.  “Unless you popped, like, the world’s hardest boner.”

“I dunno,” I mused.  “It would have to be a pretty wild boner.”

“It would have to be the Incredible Hulk of boners.  Real trouser busting shit.”  Vintage gave a few enthusiastic pelvic thrusts to emphasize his point.  “The rope wouldn’t stand a chance!”

“So it’s probably green too, if it’s like the Hulk?”

“Oh shit yeah.  It’s definitely a radiation boner.  Normal boners just don’t have that kind of fortitude.”

“You’d be forever spending a fortune on pants, though.”

“Fuck pants, dude.”  Vintage spat at his feet.  “Why would you want to hide something like that?  Walk around with it flailing around, and if anybody says shit you’d beat them down with it.”

“I can imagine the judge going through the list of charges now,” I laughed.  “Indecent exposure to radiation, assault and battery with a concealed weapon..”

“I told you, it wouldn’t be concealed.”

“That’s true,” I chuckled, suddenly distracted by a set of headlights in the distance.  I nudged Vintage and pointed in their direction.  “Oi, you reckon that’s the gangsters we’re waiting on?”

“It would be about fucking time,” he replied, mood instantly shifting.  I finished off my smoke as he gulped the rest of his beer, tossing the empty onto the back seat. 

I had to admit, I was nervous.  I was acutely aware that I had never met these guys. With no idea what we were actually doing out here, and very much no clue what to expect, I hoped to God they weren’t the psychopaths that Vintage made them out to be.  He had a tendency to exaggerate things if they made for a better story; I hoped this was one of those times. 

Glancing down at the panties that were still inexplicably in my hand, something in my stomach twisted hard.  With my luck, they probably would belong to one of these guys’ sisters.  It occurred to me that the kind of nut job that moonlights as a gangster and can recognise his sister’s unmentionables at a glance is probably the kind of nut job I’d prefer never to meet in my entire life.  I could have been sitting at a table full of beer, committing verbal atrocities with likeminded felons and generally enjoying an uneventful evening.  Instead I’d lost my watch, nearly been run over by my current companion, punched myself in the face with a beer and given myself herpes with the underwear of a woman I didn’t even sleep with, but whose psychotic brother was going to tie me up and throw me in a river just the same.  Shoving the panties into my left pocket, I desperately regretted that they weren’t something more useful.  Like a knife.

The other car was getting close now.  Man those headlights were bright.  The light from them was reflecting right into my eyes courtesy of the side mirror.  Something about that didn’t seem quite right, though.  The car was at the wrong angle for that to be possible.  What was that, some kind of spotlight?  Who the hell has spotlights in their cars? 

“What the hell is going on with that light?” I asked Vintage. 

Suddenly the mirror was full of flashing red and blue as the car turned off the road towards us, siren chirping.

“Oh fuck.  Fuck.”  Vintage was panicking.  “It’s the cops.”

A quick survey of the empty beer bottles coupled with the cooler in the back seat told me that we had good reason to panic.  Even a cursory glance was wildly incriminating.

“Fuck,” I concurred.

“Dude, I’ve got half a pound of weed in here.”

“What?”

“Half a pound, right under your seat.”

“Half a fucking..” I pulled a very large, very full bag out from under the seat and froze. 

“What are you doing?”  Vintage hissed, leaning across and cramming it back under the seat. “Hide that shit!” 

“What, under the seat?  Under the seat that I’m sitting on?  In the car that’s filled with empty beer bottles?  With the cops about to search it?  You want me to hide half a fucking pound of weed under my seat?”  My head suddenly felt about six sizes too big for itself.  I was pretty sure I was about to be sick.

“Mannon, if you have any better ideas of where to hide it, I’m all ears!” 

An amplified voice crackled across the air.  “Please step outside the vehicle and put your hands in the air.”

Vintage looked at me, an unspoken question in his eyes.  Pulling the bag back out from under the seat I considered, not for the first time, how my life was little more than a series of increasingly poor decisions, lubricated with alcohol and punctuated with moments of sheer terror.  It stood to reason that a person could only get away with that kind of life planning for so long before having to face some serious consequences.  I just always hoped that I wouldn’t be facing them in a prison shower one day.  I know, technically that’s not ‘facing’ them so much as having them crammed inside my unwilling regret hole, but semantics aren’t much of a comfort at times like that.

Meeting Vintage’s eye, I nodded.  “I’ll deal with it.”

The voice crackled through the night again.  “Step outside the vehicle with your hands in the air, I won’t tell you again!”

I cracked my door open a little, and Vintage did the same.  As he stepped out, I shifted the bag to lean against the door so it would fall as I got out.  I breathed a deep sigh of prayer to whatever benevolent deity might care to answer then, placing myself between the bag and hopefully the cop’s eye line, I stepped out myself.  In what might have been my smoothest move all night, I kicked the falling bag under the car as it fell, hoping like hell that nobody was watching me too closely.  

The Jerk Manifesto - Chapter 1 (Part 4)

The headlights of the cop car were blinding; I couldn’t see anything behind them. 

“Hands behind your heads, and lie down on the ground!”

“We haven’t done anything!” Vintage yelled back.

“I said get on the fucking ground!  Don’t make me tell you again!” The amplified voice pitched with feedback.

My gaze met Vintage’s and I shrugged.  We were fucked and we knew it.  No point making the situation any worse than it was going to be.  Slowly placing my hands behind my head, I sunk to my knees, then face down onto the ground.  Looked like I hadn’t kicked that bag far enough; the edge of it would be visible to anybody who got close enough.  God damn it, I couldn’t even do that right.

“Stay where you are and don’t move!”  This time, the voice wasn’t using the loudspeaker.  I could hear boots scraping through the dust and gravel, saw two silhouettes walking towards us through their headlights. 

My mind was racing.  Ok, the carload of booze could be explained.  I could probably claim I drank them all, God knows I’m drunk enough to be convincing.  I reeked of beer after I spilled that one all over me, and if Vintage could keep his mouth shut they might not give him a breath test.  As long as they don’t see the bag under the car, and as long as they don’t ask us what we’re doing out here... I really didn’t have any kind of excuse for those that wouldn’t involve midgets or ghosts. 

Oh man, we’re screwed.

“Don’t fucking move.”  The voice was right by me, moments later a knee dropped into my spine.  Air went out of my lungs, and my stomach gave out.  I twisted on the ground as half a dozen beers made their way back up my throat. 

“What the..  Oh God, that is just disgusting!”

The cop jumped back as I did my best impression of that scene from The Exorcist, complete with contortion and cursing as I spasmed uncontrollably on the ground.  Even as I was giving the side of the car a questionable new paint job, I had the presence of mind to kick the weed a little further under the car.  Chances were they wouldn’t be spotting it now. 

“Get up!  Get the fuck up, both of you!”  This was punctuated by a brutal kick in the ribs which sent my stomach into further paroxysms. 

“Jesus,” I coughed.  “Up or down, which fucking one is it?”  I tried to ignore the pain shooting up my side as I crawled to my knees, focusing instead of not being beaten any further.

“Officers, please!” I heard Vintage protest, sounding remarkably unbrutalised.  “We don’t know what we’ve....”  Choked silence, then, “Oh, you son of a bitch!” 

At that moment, I figured the part of Vintage’s brain that dealt with diplomacy had misfired horribly, so I was pretty confused (and a little disappointed) when he started laughing instead of being beaten.  “Seriously, you guys are fucking pricks.  You totally had us going then.”

I attempted to get up off my knees, spitting remnants of vomit as I tried to steady myself.  A large hand reached down and pulled me to my feet much faster than I was prepared for and I lurched sideways into the car door.

“Oh man, Knoxville!”  The officer nearest to Vintage was whooping with laughter.  “You should have seen the looks on your faces.  Priceless!”

I looked about groggily, trying to wrap my mind around what was quickly becoming the strangest arrest of my life.  Vintage was laughing with one of the cops, a massive Mediterranean looking man, although he still seemed a little on edge. 

My assailant was, almost impossibly, even larger.  His uniform seemed about six sizes too small for him, but in fairness I wasn’t sure anybody actually made clothes big enough to fit a tractor.  He was grinning down at me, mountainous shoulders rolling with mirth.  I wasn’t sure what the joke was, but I was pretty sure I’d missed it.

“It might be the concussion speaking,” I started, “and I’m not suggesting we back to go back to kicking the shit out of me, but I don’t get what’s funny.”

“Oh, sorry man.  These are the guys we’ve been waiting for.”  Vintage gestured towards them.  “Mannon, this is Markus and that behemoth next to you is Stav.”

Markus nodded, the rhino man clapped me across the back and shook my hand. 

“Was the beating really necessary?” I asked.

Stav shrugged.  “Made it more convincing.”

“Oh, it convinced the shit out of me.”  I wiped some blood and spittle from my mouth, wincing at the stinging cut on my lip.  “Most of my stomach, too.”  I would have preferred a pantomime, honestly.  Marginally less chance of internal bleeding. 

“You guys want a beer?” Vintage asked, already reaching inside the cooler.  He tossed a round out, Markus and Stav opening theirs with their teeth.  Figuring I’d already racked up enough dental surgery for one night, I used the bottle opener instead.

“Vintage, you didn’t tell me we were meeting cops?”  My head was spinning faster than I could manage.

Stav laughed.  “Oh, we’re not cops.”

“Oh, ok... what?”  I waved vaguely at the uniforms and the car.  “What’s with the police gear then?”

“Oh that?”  Markus chuckled.  “We got pulled over earlier, didn’t leave us a lot of options.”

“Wow.  That’s... wow.  Definitely something I was better off not knowing.”

This night was spiralling seriously out of control, even by my standards.  I was already accomplice to a lot more felonies than I usually cram into an evening’s worth of entertainment.  The idea of even remotely being involved in... whatever it was that had landed the elephant twins a police cruiser and the rest... I’d get less jailtime if I’d sexually harassed a judge.

“That does explain the uniforms, though,” Vintage observed. Markus and Stav both looked at him, confusion written across their faces.

“I think he means the fit.” I volunteered.

“Yeah.  It’s like you tried to squeeze into a blue tube sock.  Speaks volumes about whoever stitched the buttons, though.”

“I hope they gave that guy a promotion.”

“Honestly though, I’m curious to know where you shop for clothing, Stav?  It must be like trying to dress a firetruck.”

“I get ‘em made, mate.”  The man-mountain tossed his empty bottle into the river.  Damn, he inhaled that pretty quick.  You probably had to feed him ethanol intravenously through a high pressure pump to get somebody that size drunk, though.  You’d need some kind of custom built drunkening machine.

“Anyways, Markus.  You said tonight was pretty urgent, lots to move?”

“Down to business eh, Knoxville?  Alright.  Yeah, we’re doing a special delivery, new client with a no questions policy.”

“So, not the usual then?”

“Nah, mate.  Bit hush hush, really.”

“So what are we moving?”

“I told you, mate.  No questions.  We get paid extra to not ask questions.”

“Is it in the car?”

“Not yet.  Haven’t picked it up yet.  We need you two for that.  This is the guy, right?”  Markus nodded in my direction. 

“Yeah.  What’s it all about?”

“Dunno, mate.  No questions, remember?”

If I had been less drunk, less concussed, or even simply paying attention to the conversation instead of trying to figure out the physics keeping Stav’s police shirt in a single piece, I might have been more prepared for what would happen.  I might have turned and run.  I might have avoided the shitstorm entirely.  Wishful thinking, I know.  Reason and logic had deserted my decision making process years ago. 

At least they won’t be roping us up and throwing us in the river, I thought.

“You guys don’t have any rope, do you?” I found myself asking.  What the hell is wrong with me?

“Rope?”

“Yeah, rope.” 

“Nah.”  Stav jerked his thumb towards the police car.  “We already used it.”

Mark narrowed his eyes at me.  “What do you want a rope for?”

Me and my big fucking mouth.  Why can’t I just keep it shut for once? 

Vintage broke the tension.  “We’ve got some shit to take care of later on.  It’d save us a trip to Bunnings.”

“Dunno when we’ll be done with it, to tell you the truth.”  Markus nodded towards the stolen police car.  “Like Stav said, it’s currently in use.  Speaking of which, you wanna give us a hand?”

“Oh, fuck no,” Vintage and I chimed in unison, but apparently it was a rhetorical question.  Mark and Stav were already guiding us over to the vehicle.  I shot Vintage a panicked look; this was way outside of my comfort zone.  I had no fucking business being in this situation and, ignoring the fact that I’d voluntarily tagged along, it was entirely Vintage’s fault we were here. 

Out of the headlights, Mark and Stav seemed even more imposing.  Red and blue flashing lights cast deep shadows into their features alternately as they lead us to the back of the stolen car. 

This is by far the worst thing I’ve ever gotten myself into.

“Over here.”

We were shunted to face the trunk of the car.  Mark turned the key in the lock and the hatch opened slowly to reveal...

Nothing.

The trunk was empty. 

“What are we doing?”  I asked, frozen with shock.

I turned toward Vintage, confused.  He opened his mouth.  “What the hell is going on?”

Markus laughed.  “We’re picking up the cargo, mate.” 

He lashed out with the handle of a baton and Vintage went limp, slumping as Markus went to shove him into the boot.  I panicked and turned, but found myself face to face with the great wall of Stavros who seemed in no mood to be fucked with.  He told me so with his fist, splitting my lip right again where the bottle had done earlier.  Everything was swimming as a follow up to the stomach confirmed that he could indeed punch as hard as he could kick.  My world span and gravity went wrong as a knee came up to meet me, then everything went black.

Intermission - Moonlight and Razorblades

**Major assessments for the next few weeks, so updates will consist of older prose I've written.  This is something of a mood piece; certainly not comedy, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless - Jake**

He lay awake again, one more night to add to the tally.  The moonlight trickled in through the window, cautiously making its way past the frame as if it wanted not to be noticed.  It bathed all it touched in a soft blue glow, birthing ghosts in the shadows.

Spectres of the moonlight mirrored the ghosts of his memory tonight.  He rolled over, as if he could banish the spirits of his imagination by burying his head.  Into her pillow.  It still  bore the lingering scent of her perfume, her enchanting scent. It was almost like having her there again.  The awareness of her absence ran him through like a sword.  Choking back a sob, he breathed deep and surrendered to the memories.

She laughed as he wrestled her on top of him, bed sheets flying every which way.  His fingers gently made their way through her hair, and she smiled as she lay her head on his chest.  Such a radiant smile, reflected in her eyes.  God, if he could only hold on to this moment forever…

The salt in the breeze mingled with her perfume in his nostrils.  The moon mirrored itself across the black vastness of the ocean, broken by the gentle white surges of the waves.  She was pointing at the stars, making her own pictures in the night sky.  Some of them even made sense.  He pulled the blanket around them a little tighter and buried his face into her mane, whispering his love.

 

Deeper he buried his head, tighter he held the pillow, as if by squeezing hard enough he could stay forever in his memories or bring her to rest by his side.  Her scent was almost lost now, washed away with tears.  Every memory was slowly stealing away all he had left. 

Sometimes it was as if she would make argument just for something to do.  This time it was something completely trivial.  They yelled their contention, words cutting through each other like razors, tearing along emotional arteries and veins.  She screamed at him through tears and stormed out into the night.  He heard her car door slam, and the hum of its engine as she drove away.  Let her cool off a bit.  It was best that they both calmed down a while.  Already he was regretting words spoken in haste, already thinking of ways to apologise when she got back.

A knock on the door.  She must have forgotten her house keys, she did that every now and again.  As he made his way to open for her, his mind was searching for the first words, a way to let her know how much she meant, how thoughtless he had been.  Opening the door, shock and surprise at the uniforms that greeted him.  Red and blue lights broke the darkness from the driveway.  His world fell apart in that moment, crystal shattering into fragments across cold hard concrete..

Tears bathed the pillow he was buried in.  The frightened moonlight offered little comfort, choosing instead to hide itself behind some cloud.  Soon it would leave him to the mercy of the dawn, where the uncaring sun would offer no opinion.  Another day, as an indifferent world carried on without him.  Another day.  

Intermission - Midnight Rain

*** Another intermission this week; I'm hoping to get some more Manifesto done towards the end of the week, assessments permitting.  Until then, this is a piece I've been reworking for a while now.  I think it's finally finished.  I hope you all enjoy it. - Jake ***

Jonah opened his eyes and the darkness gave way to an explosion of light and neon.  From up here he was aware of the sickly dome of light encapsulating the city, like some covetous unseen guardian.  Within its domain the stars in the sky were enshrouded from view, something that went largely unnoticed by the teeming masses. Not that they missed it, he thought to himself.  Nobody ever looked up anyway.  

A gust of breeze ran groping fingers through his unkempt hair, punctuated momentarily by a drop of rain on his forehead.  He frowned, brought out of his reverie and back to reality.  A second frigid drop landed on the back of his neck, prompting him to consider the indoors a prudent next move.  He swallowed the last remnants of scotch in his glass, chewing thoughtfully on the ice, and surrendered his position on the balcony to the midnight rain.

 

The ground looked so far below.  The urban sprawl seemed endless, motes of glittering lights stretching out from horizon to horizon.  Headlights were persistent specks, slowly pulsing and coursing through the congested arteries of a bloated metropolis.  Everything ran, night and day, in an endless cycle for which nothing was of any real consequence.  The city grew obese, the result of decades of sporadic and directionless development.  Millions of lives flared in and out of existence, swallowed and consumed in the concrete bowels of this diseased juggernaut. 

Soaring above it all, there was no need for a sense of self.  It was easy to become lost amongst the endless expanse of stars, stretching into eternity.  The wind caressed him like a child, held him aloft, bore him through the cool night air.  The moon hung overhead, gazing approvingly over the cloud banks.  Its light clung to the shifting tendrils of mist and cloud, bathing them in its luminous splendor.   

Up here there was escape.  Release from the endlessly grinding machine below him, the meaningless pantomime existence of its inhabitants, and the deeper knowledge that their charades mirrored his own.  

When it all became too heavy for his mind to bear, he flung himself into the night sky.  To lose himself in the depths of eternity was bliss, was freedom.  Here he knew nothing more than the stars above, the ground below, and the wind that ghosted through his soul.  Here was where he belonged.

The thought flittered through his mind for an instant, the words suddenly filled his being, becoming as heavy as lead in his veins.  It wasn’t like falling.  It was like drowning.  The words filled his lungs, and he was gasping for air...

 

The walls of the cubicle were a nondescript shade of grey.  They loomed tall and oppressive above his workspace, defining clearly his small piece of corporate captivity.  They were packed and ordered with precision, a bastion of uniformity in which drones hurried about their tasks.  They were slaves, all of them, to the faceless corporation.  The rigid enforcer of conformity that offered them the currency to indulge whatever vices gave them imagined relief from their mediocrity.  All that it asked in return was their hopes and dreams; a mental abortion of all the aspirations that had carried them from adolescence into reality. 

Jonah tapped away at the keyboard on his computer absently, having forgotten what it was he was meant to be working on.  His mind was elsewhere, grasping at tendrils of a dream almost forgotten.  He was never able to relive the feeling during his waking hours, but longed for it every moment of every day.  Only when he slept did he know how it felt to be alive.  
He suddenly became aware that he was being spoken at by his manager. 

“Jonah, are you listening to me?”” 

“Of course, sir.”” 

Jonah watched his manager’s lips forming the words which spilled from his mouth, an auditory quagmire that simply refused to become intelligible in his mind.  The man’s complexion had developed a blotchy red tone, as if his capillaries were struggling to emancipate themselves from his face.  Jonah vaguely understood that the man was irritated, seemingly intent on venting his frustrations on him.  The greasy office patriarch had been taking exception to Jonah’s increasing detachment in regards to his corporate obligations.  Jonah was behind on deadlines, his commitment less than admirable. 

Jonah was finding it difficult to concentrate on his superior’s wheezing drone.  His focus was drawn to an adventurous piece of spittle that had launched itself from the man’s thin lips and was now clinging for dear life to an immaculate, yet malnourished looking goatee.  It lent a ridiculous air to whatever it was that the idiot was harping on about, Jonah thought.  He found himself beginning to imagine what the man would look like were he a goat, being molested by other goats.  He felt the smile forming at the edges of his mouth but by the time he tried to cover his amusement it was too late.  

“Do you think this is funny, Jonah?  Your job is on the line, and all you can do is laugh about it?”  If looks could kill, Jonah’s ancestors would have keeled over retroactively.

“No sir, I don’t.”  Jonah realized he had forgotten this man’s name.  Had he ever known it?  It was a distracting notion.

“I don’t think it is amusing in the slightest, Jonah.  This last month you…”…”  

The words sounded muffled in Jonah’s ears.  He could not comprehend what was happening again; the sound of his manager’s voice was humming like some mosquito on the edge of his mental periphery.  His gaze settled on the little dictator’s eyes, saw malicious satisfaction in those darting orbs.  It occurred to Jonah that this was exactly what the goat-man loved about his job.  He would have been right at home organizing some great medieval slave cartel, brandishing a cruel and bloodied whip.  Here and now, however, this was the best he could hope for;  a paper crown in a rat’s nest of corporate slaves, brandishing imaginary power over those too timid to call his bluff.

Jonah stood abruptly, stopping the little man mid tirade.  The manager whose name he couldn’t remember flinched and Jonah saw panic flash across those sunken eyes.  He met the goat-man’s gaze and held it defiantly, noticing the tiniest beads of perspiration on his oppressor’s brow.  The manager’s mouth was flapping like some fish that suddenly found itself on dry land, gasping for words that refused to be conjured.

Jonah left the man gaping as he stalked off down the corridor that separated the cubicle cells of his fellow inmates.  He felt a savage sense of triumph knowing that he would never return.   

 

He opened the door of his apartment, kicking it with contempt.  It yielded, colliding with the adjacent wall furiously as if to sympathize with his mood.  Jonah almost tripped over the bag that was packed and waiting in the hallway, cursing loudly as he dropped his own belongings.  They thudded against the cold ceramic tiles, sliding away like some startled creature interrupted in the night.  

“Oh my god. I didn’t realize you were coming home early, Jonah.”  Charlotte stepped out of the bedroom, a pair of jeans dangling from her hands.

“What’s going on?”  Jonah gestured at the luggage that had caused him to stumble.  The words hung between them momentarily; Jonah felt as if he had just knocked a glass off some table and was watching it fall in slow motion, waiting for it to shatter when it hit the tiles.  Charlotte looked somewhat taken aback, but gathered her composure quickly.

“I’m leaving, Jonah.”  She shifted uncomfortably, like some cornered animal that had suddenly found itself no way out.  She was waiting to see how he reacted.  

Jonah felt his will drain away from him, his shoulders slumping as the weight bore down on him.  His mouth seemed like a desert, his tongue like sand.  His mind had already detached itself from the unfolding scene as his feet bore him to the couch.  His head was reeling as if some vengeful goliath had dealt him a hammering blow.  He was barely aware of Charlotte’s voice through the klaxon of thoughts assaulting him.  The world was spinning out of control with colossal centrifugal force, and he was powerless to stop it.

She was standing in front of him, her mouth moving.  Her voice slowly came into focus once again, and she appeared to be furious at his lack of response.  

“Doesn’t this mean anything to you?  Don’t I mean anything?”  She was screaming at him.  Feeling a headache growing in his peripheral vision, he lifted his eyes wearily to meet her accusations.  He held her wounded stare for just a moment, deciding not to give her any satisfaction.

“Does it matter?  You’ve made up your mind already.  Just go,” he sighed.  

She shot him a look filled with hurt and fury, then spun on her heel to where her bags lay packed and waiting.  She swooped upon them both, collecting one in each hand, and without another word stormed through the front door.

His head was pounding.  Thoughts roared through his consciousness, tearing apart his reality with explosive force.  He felt himself trembling, his hands shaking uncontrollably.  What was it that he felt?  He wasn’t even sure.  There were so many conflicting emotions battling for dominance, resonating in his head like a swarm of furious wasps.  It was all too much.

Jonah walked purposefully to the cupboard where he kept his liquor.  He gripped the bottle of scotch almost tenderly, lifting it from its perch and placing it on the counter.  He dropped a handful of ice cubes into a whiskey glass, and began to pour.  The ice cracked softly as it began to swirl in viscous amber.  The fiery malt etched trails of heat as it went down his throat, his trembling hands began to calm themselves almost immediately.  He took another sip as he shuffled to his balcony door, sliding it open and stepping outside.  

The events of the day unfurled in his mind, competing for attention, hammering against his senses.  He drank, allowing it to soothe his troubles momentarily, and closed his eyes to listen to the sounds of the city.  They echoed in his head, bringing to mind an image of gears turning in some colossal machine, a hideous bloated construction designed to imprison its inhabitants in their own designs.

Jonah opened his eyes and the darkness gave way to an explosion of light and neon.  From up here he was aware of the sickly dome of light encapsulating the city, like some covetous unseen guardian.  Within its domain the stars in the sky were enshrouded from view, something that went largely unnoticed by the teeming masses. Not that they missed it, he thought to himself.  Nobody ever looked up anyway. 

A gust of breeze ran groping fingers through his unkempt hair, punctuated momentarily by a drop of rain on his forehead.  He frowned, brought out of his reverie and back to reality.  It was a reality he never wanted, a reality he never asked for.  He stared out into the gloom, straining to see the stars that were his salvation in his dreams.  He strived to remember the feeling of freedom they afforded him, the feeling that eluded his every waking moment.

A second frigid drop landed on his neck.  He swallowed the last remnants of scotch in his glass, chewing thoughtfully on the ice, and placed it on the ground.  Another drop, then another.  The sky opened, showering him in the sum of a city’s regrets. 

Jonah breathed deep, tasting the rain on the air, and stepped onto the ledge.  His mind seemed clearer now for the rain.  It would one day be the salvation of this city, he thought.  One day it will fall, heavy and thick, and wash away the many sins of its inhabitants.  One day.  He thought to himself for a moment, and realized that one day may well be too long to wait.

Jonah closed his eyes, breathed a prayer, and flung himself into the night sky.

 

 

 

 

 

The Jerk Manifesto - Chapter 2 (Part 1)

My life has generally been a series of disasters, one after another, brought about either by my own stupidity or that of my friends.  You eventually get used to living in a permanent state of damage control.  When you get tired of the effort it takes to constantly repair whatever you’ve done this time, most people start trying to live better lives.  Stop drinking, get a career, find a nice girl, settle down, have some kids, get a mortgage, take up drinking again and become an abusive alcoholic.  The circle of life.  It’s a rational, sane decision for rational, sane people. 

When it came time for me to make that choice, I can only assume I was hideously drunk.  I probably mistook the fork in the road for a urinal, pausing long enough to relieve myself before enthusiastically stumbling down the much less viable “if it doesn’t repair itself, it’s not worth repairing” school of thought.  The result is a retarded trail of devastation, like a bull in a china shop if the bull was epileptic and had Down’s syndrome.  Sure, there’s gonna be destruction, but if you bring a camcorder it makes for some fantastic YouTube uploads.

If you travel through life in an inebriated state, wearing your underwear on the outside and hurling abuse at children, you can probably expect to end up as a cautionary tale of some description.  That’s where my irrational fear of hobos comes from, at any rate.  Still, every trainwreck has that point of no return, somewhere between missing all the warning signals to derailing completely.  My story is no different. 

To the best of my knowledge, the first link in this disastrous chain of events was a completely innocent misunderstanding, almost a week earlier. When I say innocent, I mostly mean unintentional.  Sort of.  In any case, I couldn’t have anticipated it ending with as many beatings as it did.  Seriously, it was a phenomenal amount of beatings in a short space of time. I’m amazed I came out of it with functioning kidneys. 

Like every questionable decision I’ve made in my adult life, this one starts with being drunk.  It was a Sunday evening in the Valley, and Vintage, Lex, the Birdman and I had been getting our drink on since ten in the morning.  In the interests of preserving what tiny shred of dignity I might still have in your eyes, I should point out that this level of public alcoholism wasn’t a regular occurrence.  That’s the sort of thing you would usually do at home, so you don’t have the embarrassment of forgetting how a cab door works in front of hundreds of women.

Lex was getting another round of drinks, while Vintage was on the dance floor, apparently trying to seduce several women at once.  The Birdman and I sat at a table overlooking the floor, making jokes at Vintage’s expense.  I’m not really the ‘dancing’ type; trying to coordinate my limbs to music has the very real potential for bodily harm to those around me.  The Birdman, on the other hand, once had actual paramedics called to the scene after people assumed he was having a seizure. 

“See that guy over there?” the Birdman asked, waving vaguely at some peacock looking guy putting his best moves out there.  Right out there.

“Yeah?”

“What.. what is he doing?  Why is he doing that?”

“I think he’s trying to do the Robot.”

“He looks like he’s trying to build a cabinet inside of himself.” 

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever... wow.  Wow.  He actually does.”

The Birdman nodded, satisfied.  “That’s why I don’t dance.”

“No,” I said, raising an eyebrow.  “You don’t dance because emergency services threatened to press charges if you ever waste their time again.”

“Hey, what do you reckon?  If a robot dances the Robot, is it still called the Robot, or just called dancing?”

“Ah,” said Lex, returning with a fresh round.  “Hard at work solving the mysteries of life again, are we?”

I set the glasses down on the table and started pouring from the jug.  “That’s us, mate.  Taking philosophy by the balls, one mystery at a time.”

“I’ll take your face by the balls!” the Birdman shouted triumphantly. 

“Oh my God, I hate you.” I glared at him as long as I could before laughing. 

“It’s much more off-putting when it makes no sense,” he shrugged.

“See, this is why we can’t have nice things,” said Lex, shaking his head.  “Like girlfriends.”

“Your face is why we can’t have nice things!”

“Much better,” I concurred, becoming distracted by a spectacular set of legs across the room.  They were attached to an equally spectacular torso and waist.  Also hips.  It was a woman is what I’m trying to get at.  I don’t want to give the impression that I’m a fan of disembodied limbs or anything. 

She was wearing stiletto heels and a bold red mirco-dress, dark hair pulled up in an oriental bun with chopsticks.  Standing at the bar, she carried herself with a look of authority and ownership.  And... right on cue.  Vintage had ditched the girls he was moments ago wooing, making a beeline straight to the mystery woman.

“So Mannon,” Lex began, trying not to let the Birdman gloat.  “What’s going on with that guy from work?”

“Hmm?”  I hadn’t heard a single word Lex had said.

“Who’s that guy you hate from work?”

“Fuckin’ Jeremy,” I swore.  Even mentioning his name made me want to punch the stupid clean off his face.  “Fuck that guy!”

“What’s the latest?”

“Oh, only that he’s apparently been writing my phone number in public toilets around the city.”

The Birdman nearly spat his beer.  “Seriously?”

“I know, right?  What kind of shit is that?”

Lex was laughing with disbelief.  “Oh wow, that’s rich!”

“You wouldn’t believe some of the calls I’ve been getting.  I’ve heard things that can never be unheard.”

“It’s probably karma,” the Birdman chuckled.

“For what?”

“For the time you anonymously ‘tipped’ the police that Jeremy was making meth out of his basement.”

Lex had tears coming out of his eyes.  “You seriously did that?  I thought you were joking when you came up with that one!”

“I was with him when he made the call.”  The Birdman gestured in my direction.  “Not only that, he made sure to warn them that Jeremy always hides a satchel inside his person.”

“Wait, wait... inside his person?”

The Birdman nodded slowly, smirking. 

“In my defence,” I responded, “the meth up the arse was the Birdman’s idea.”

We were all in stitches laughing now at the thought of it.  I had to admit, the Birdman really did come through with some masterful plans occasionally.  Then again, with as much free time as he had on his hands one would hope he was at least doing something productive.  There’s only so much pornography a guy can watch in a day.

“So he’s plastering your number all over the public bathrooms eh?” the Birdman asked, bringing his mirth back under control.

“You know,” Lex interrupted, “that reminds me of Sex Man.”

“Well that instantly took a turn for the worse.”  The Birdman’s eyes narrowed.

“Story time.”  I shrugged at the Birdman, raising an eyebrow at Lex. 

Lex adjusted his seat, positioning himself in the traditional ‘Story time’ pose, and cleared himself enough space at the table to allow for an expressive use of his arms.

“Alright,” he began, rubbing his hands.  “So, back when me and Jake were in high school, right?  Grade ten, maybe, sound about right?”

I nodded, and Lex continued.

“Ok, so we’ve just come out from a movie.  Or was it at the beach?”

“I think it was down near the Jetty, actually,” I corrected.

“The Jetty, cool.  Anyways, we’re walking along and we go past this public phone.  Mannon here decides to look for change or something, and notices a phone number written right next to the phone in permanent marker.”

“Ohtwosixfivesixeightonetwosixnine,” I quoted from memory.

“Holy shit, you still remember it?” the Birdman laughed, amazed.  “That might be the most useless thing ever!”

“It gets better,” Lex assured.  “You remember with the old public phones, I don’t know if they still do it, but you used to be able to make a call with no money, and when somebody picked up you had about a second of connection before the line dropped out.”

The Birdman nodded.

“So, we’re bored right?  Jake decides it might be a bit of fun to call the number, and when the guy picks up Jake just yells into the phone until it cuts out.”

“What did you yell?”  asked the Birdman.

“Oh, nothing,” I shrugged.  “No words or anything, just noise.”

Lex smirked.  “So I think that’s actually pretty funny, and decide I’ll also give it a go.  So there we are, standing at this public phone, calling this number and just yelling every time the guy picks up.  Thing is, we’ve called like fifteen times in a row now, one after the other, and this guy keeps answering the phone! 

“So anyways, we look at each other and we both know what we have to do.  We’re gonna keep calling until he stops answering.  So we do; we keep dialling the number, we keep yelling into the phone, and this guy... he just keeps answering!”

The Birdman’s mouth was hanging open.  “The fuck?  How long did it take him to stop answering the phone?”

I laughed.  “We were there for something close to an hour and a half.”

“Oh my god!  So you’re telling me that because somebody wrote a number in a phone booth, you wasted an hour and a half just to ruin somebody else’s day?”

“That’s not even the best bit,” Lex chuckled.  “After an hour and a half of dialling, this phone number is pretty much seared into our memory, right?  From then on, any time either of us walks past a public phone we just have to do it.  We call the number and yell into the phone.  Five, ten, fifteen times in a row, whatever tickles our fancy.”

“Just for a quick laugh,” I agree.

“Then one day we’re with some people and we walk past a phone,” Lex elaborated.  “So of course we stop to make a couple of calls.  Naturally, everybody’s wondering what the hell we’re doing, so we explain the story to them.  Everybody thinks it’s hilarious and they all want to know the number so they can join the fun.”

“It ended up spreading like wildfire,” I nodded.

Lex nodded.  “Soon, there’s like twenty or thirty people in on it, calling this guy, just calling him and yelling into the phone.  Every time they walk past a public phone.”

“How long did this go on for?” the Birdman asked, incredulous.

I shrugged.  “I don’t know about anyone else, but I kept it up for a couple of years at least.”

“Same,” Lex nodded.

“Holy shit.”  The Birdman burst into peals of laughter, nearly falling off his seat.  “That’s one of the most batshit insane things I’ve ever heard!  So just because somebody left a number written in a phone booth, some poor guy you’ve never met has his peace destroyed for years to come?  Without ever knowing why?  Sweet Jesus, that’s one of the most fucked up, hilarious things that’s ever happened.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at the memory.  I don’t know if I should have felt proud or scared that we were getting up to shit like that well before we were getting into booze.  I guess growing up in a small town conditions kids for a lifetime of alcoholism; crushing boredom forcing them to amuse themselves in ways that they’ll have mastered by the time they become drunks or mentally ill.

The Birdman was winding down, still with tears in his eyes.  “So... Hang on.  You called this guy Sex Man?”

I cracked a grin.  “Yeah.”

The Birdman spread his hands quizzically.  “Why?”

“His phone number.  Last two digits were sixty-nine.”

“Well that’s pretty juvenile.”

“Well, yeah.  Teenagers, remember?”  He had to admit, I had a point.

Lex turned to me and asked, “So anyways, are you going to have to change your number thanks to Jeremy?”

“I don’t really want to,” I sighed.  “I got to choose this number, I don’t want to give it up already.”

Things were starting to get a little blurry.  We’d drunk a heroic amount of beer already and I was beginning to think my liver was going to protest shortly.  I shook my head, trying to clear my vision a little.

“You know what you should do,” said the Birdman, pointing at me. 

The Birdman came up with most of his best plans while apocalyptically drunk.  This was also the spawning ground of the worst ideas history has ever known.  The problem was that good and bad Birdman schemes were generally as batshit mental as each other.  This made it difficult to know which you were involved in until you were balls deep in the consequences.  Or they were balls deep in you, depending on how badly the plan had misfired.

“What should I do, Birdman?” I asked, inebriation overriding the fight-or-flight response that should have kicked in well before asking the Birdman for advice.

“From now on, every time you get one of those creepy fuckers calling about your toilet advertisements... you should organise to meet them.”

“Oh, good.  Gay joke.  Should have seen that one coming.”

“No no no, you didn’t let me finish.”  The Birdman took a sip of his drink before continuing.  “Organise to meet them, right?  Then give them Jeremy’s address.  Make sure to tell ‘em you’ll leave the back door unlocked.”

I stared at the Birdman in disbelief.  It took me a moment to remember how to use my mouth.

“Ricardo Birdman Dondor,” I managed, “you are an absolute fucking genius!”