It’s Called A Victory March

Something I crapped out. I am utterly pissed that I try to actually use MySpace for the first time in fucking ever and the god damned thing is erroring like crazy.

“This is how you break people.” My hands tensed on the podium. “How you get them to curl up and die. This is how you get people to quit washing. Quit shaving. Quit getting dressed. Quit. People are easily broken, and it doesn’t take a lot to do it.” Everyone in unison stopped looking at me. Everyone knew that I blamed them, and everyone knew they blamed each other.

Behind me, Jennifer laid nicely in her mahogany casket. She once made me watch a show on the Science Channel about casket making. They talked about building the unit, and the difference between wooden and metal coffins.

An airtight coffin fosters decomposition by anaerobic bacteria, which results in a putrefied liquification of the body. A container that allows air molecules to pass in and out, such as a simple wooden box, allows for aerobic decomposition that results in much less noxious odor and clean skeletonization.

“I don’t want to be goo, Dexter.” She said, “I want to be a skeleton. It’s only right.”

I cleared my throat. I’m not sure if it was a smoker’s cough or if I was choking back anger. “So when you pull someone seven different ways, and they’re a known fucking mess, you’re doing more good than harm. Especially when no one asks what’s wrong.” The Father shot a crooked eye at me, visibly annoyed at my use of the greatest word ever conceived in St. Potamiana’s. My Narcotics Anonymous sponsor sat in the front row worriedly watching for signs of lack of sleep, suicidal tendencies, anxiety, toxic psychosis, seizures, angina, “zombie demeanor” or any of the other side effects that would lead him to believe that I was back on Adderall. I was fucking with the skinny little bastard, though, by taking ether from the silver silk hankerchief in my jacket pocket.

I quit using Adderall six weeks ago. That’s a bold faced lie, but I live with it.

Jennifer’s mother sobbed meaningfully just opposite my sponsor, loud enough for all of the important people to hear her. Anna-Maria James, ex-wife of the late Senator James sat behind her glaring at the body of my best friend making sure she was dead. Brockton Moore, director of “Defamation of Character” and “The Leap-Six Story” sat in an expensive black suit, with his expensive black hair cut, wearing expensive black sunglasses working over his speech to the media about how we’ve lost another “Great mind of our time”.

I think there’s an ant crawling on my neck. I scratched at the side as I leaned in closer to the microphone. My voice deepened and became clear.

“You’re all cock suckers. Every last one of you.”

I pushed back from the podium, straightened my tie, and held up the two biggest middle fingers I could muster. I walked forward, off of the dais, and reached in my pocket for my pack. I pulled one out as I walked cooly down the aisle, slowly and calmly pressing it between my lips. The gawkers, the media hounds, rubbernecked as I walked by. The fuck-ups who passed for Jennifer’s friends sat stone frozen, fearful that I might come back for them.

As I came out of the church, the lesser things – the journos who couldn’t get in swarmed for the story. I stopped and light my cigarette, and took the most satisfying drag I had taken since my last cigarette, and rolled the Marlboro between my thumb and index finger. I exhaled and leaned into the first TV camera I could find.

“Yes. My name is Dexter Wilgefort, and every single one of you watching this is a cock sucker.”


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Mike Black is…

A writer, reader, commentator, music lover, art lover, futurist, tech lover, pragmatist, romantic, DepDecoist, and a bastard. Hopefully you enjoy.

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