fromanyalley

Hell may be many things, but it is not repetition. Hell is the same people, day after month after wearying, horrible year. This year was terrible…and the next will probably be worse. Hell,(Virgil and Dante aside) is populated by every malign, malicious, self-centered, cupiditous, concupiscent cut-throat abomination who has ever crossed your path only to make your life even more miserable than it already is. And to take something from you…love, knowledge, compassion…and turn that into something so incredibly foul and disgusting as to be completely unrecognizable. They beat plowshares into swords. They rape and plunder the helpless, hopeless, voiceless who are taxed beyond all measure by the avaricious and the smug, the sanctimonious and the self-righteous. From the original school-yard bully through the not-so-closet pedophile of a right reverend, through the hundreds of flabby, pig-eyed pukes wandering aimlessly around SatanMart with a plastic, tricked-out name tag announcing their direct lineage to Genghis Khan, they repeat and repeat and repeat. Not in dreams, which can be washed and deodorized by the various legal and the casual drugs we swim in. These monstrosities appear as fully formed, solid entities, taking up air, parking-spaces, that stool at the end of the counter with a red cracked plastic seat. The one you sit at EVERY morning. The grotesques are everywhere you want to be. They get there a few nanoseconds before you, and then look at their watches, tap their feet, assume that looking-down-the-nose posture and proceed to flat-out fuck with you in every way imaginable for as long as possible.
And, and!, there are always at least two. Because you might be a 5′1″ 97 pound 23-year old single mother of two (eighteen months and four months respectively) and you may have just recovered from an end-over-end-over three cows and a cultivator, and your scuzzy boyfriend may be stalking you night and day, it doesn’t matter. You ARE the enemy. You scare what little reasoning power those hideous excuses for humans may possess completely out of their square, cement-block skulls. There are two,( in my case either two very large ones or three little broke-dicks, all called Fred), in to do the job, because they know they are about to be bad human beings. They are going to do something wrong to someone. And the fat gonadless wonders, who thought they were going to be NFl stars, or the buttugly mobile sperm receptacles who just KNOW they could sit and chirp on the View, sweat masochistic bullets while they attempt to mindfuck you because they fear that you can see right through them, and will one day announce to the general world, “That guy, that tank of shit, and that brainless lardbutt alcoholic who is trying desperately for the honor of being the town pump,(known as AssmessAndrun to one and all, which is to say, many at once) are the weakest, most revolting, disgusting, vile, worthless pieces of cosmic trash to ever appear on the face of this earth. They make Jeffrey Dahmer look like somebody you would want to invite over for dinner. They will cut your throat, stab you in the back, blackmail, coerce, and terrify by animal cunning and skulduggery simply because they are so stone-cold scared, so infantile and so nauseatingly proud of their fundamental ignorance. They hate those who are capable of original, authentic thought.”These rapacious, spineless cowards only respect power– cruel , unvarnished, unrestrained power. Civility is for them a con game and revenge is their one true motive for action in a crowd. They are by any and all measurement absolutely worthless.
And they are not brave enough to be truly evil. They are merely the waste products of evil. They are the turds of true evil left behind to foul the atmosphere and stick to the soles of your shoes. They are the same ones you keep seeing, meeting, working with, working for, attempting to avoid, trying to run over and make it look like an accident which was all their fault. They mean nothing. The puny little gutless wonders who invented erectile dysfunction, the pitiful overaged, garbagegut jock suffering from a near-fatal case of cryptorchidism, the tank-of -shit bullies, the brainless, arrogant, self-pitying ground-pounders who missed being ho-of-the-year by this much, all repeat and repeat and repeat in your life. They literally spew out of the mouths of their wretched little hells and demand to be feared, loved, liked, adored, worshiped, blown, elected, married, and treated like gods who stride this miserable planet with purpose, conviction, power, strength, and the grace of pure, elegant thought.
Hell is never repetition. Camus’ Sisyphus found meaning and purpose in the boulder and the hill. He found success in denying the pitiful who feed on vengeance and the pain of others. He continued to roll his boulder up, follow it down, roll it back up, because he had made it his boulder. His meaning was to never allow the cruel, the ignorant, the unjust, the arrogant, the immoral to ever push him into the insanity of those in charge– those who live by their Master’s cruelty. Sisyphus found the honesty at the core of meaning, and did not back down. He remained unique, authentic, and true.
The heaps of shit masquerading as human beings are forever tied to their Master. They are colorless copies of evil, of the Lie which is the black, beating heart of all true evil. They will squander the time, empathy, compassion, money, and love of the authentic people around them. Then, bloated with hatred and malice they will find their own boulders waiting for them, meaningless and agonizing. True evil, the real evil, is at least unique and frighteningly powerful. Those copies, those repetitions do not and cannot even console themselves with that. They have boulders to move, they have fetid pools of self-pity in which they will wallow and whatever wail they might send up will be lost in the noise of the Lie as it seduces and betrays and brays to the skies.
I write this for Matt. His boulder and his hill have depths of meaning which give him true power. He is a graceful and elegant thinker disguised as a thick-fingered fist, slamming counter-tops and the hoods of ancient Blazers. Every single goddamn day he stands up to those who are the filthy leavings of evil to protect those who cannot, or out of fear for themselves and their children, will not. He does not care what any one thinks of him; he cares that they think at all. He will champion and sacrifice and burn as a branded heretic, and the ones he defends will hate and desert him. He knows, and he goes on. The big fucking rock is Matt’s boulder. He owns it. The hill is his and he will occupy it. His courage is this: everyday he will push the same boulder up the same hill. But for a moment, the time is takes to tell one truth, he will be happy.
Then the boulder rolls back down and my brother Matt, a tired silhouette in the face of the sun, will walk behind it, head down, thinking of that one instant when he knew he had done the right thing. And winner takes nothing.

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