I’m sulking. My disposition not so unlike the place I call my overly-humble abode.
Above, people talk. Newspapers proclaim. Everyone has a fucking opinion. None of them are gentle. None of them are kind.
No one asks the bullet how it feels. It’s just the extension of the gun, which is the extension of the hand, which is the extension of the sick mind that pulled the trigger.
So I’m the mind, arm, hand, gun, trigger, and bullet. I’m the blame in all directions.
I’m the fault line and the earthquake.
I’m thinking about Superman.
He could have ended it all, you know?
How many problems did the world have because of him? More than he ever solved. Villains showed up because of him. He never dealt with them appropriately. They came back. They did worse.
A dog with rabies bites someone, you gotta put it down. Cujo can’t be Mr. Cuddles anymore. No one wants to own that shit, but there it is.
And he could have put all the problems away. He knew the cure – it was kryptonite. He just didn’t have the balls.
I’m finding that I’m not so different.
I think about my own kryptonite. The thing that puts me down. The fucking off-button that I’m too chickenshit to push.
I’m sulking while the world above laments. I’m alive and well while countless others are dead.
I turn the details around in my head until I have a headache. Until it hurts more than I want to admit. I talk out loud – it’s the only conversation I get these days.
The time passes and the sound of water and rats plays for me like the world’s worst radio station. I’m on edge while I wait and wait some more. Wait for the message that I know is coming.
You don’t do this shit for as long as I have without knowing that some Lex Luther archetype is going to put the period at the end of the sentence that he started writing. It began with a capital asshole on building, punctuated it with a weakness that no one but me should have known about…and now…
I wait for the period and hope it’s not an exclamation point.
I hear the feet trudging through the water before I ever see a person. I can hear him breathing. I can tell it’s a he before he gets anywhere near me. I wait for him to do the classic movie villain schtik and stay cloaked in shadow – some shitty villain-of-the-week for some hack-written T.V. show.
He waltzes in, dusting his hands off like he’s just been touching all the things he must have touched to walk his candy ass all the way into my lair.
He doesn’t stop in a shadowed pose. He waltzes right in. Messenger boy of Mr. Mysterious. He’s got some balls on him, or he’s more afraid of the one holding his leash than he is of me.
But I’m not Leonidas. I’m not in the business of killing the messenger.
This isn’t 300, Sunshine.
“I’m sure you can already guess,” the man says.
“How do I know this is even legit?” I say. My knuckles are tense. I can feel the pressure of my entire body flexing. I want to pin this shitbag to the wall with my fists. The back of my mind is telling me that this isn’t some bullshit ploy. It’s telling me this is for real.
I don’t need him to know that.
“Next time you take in the view, pay attention to the flowers,” he says.
Right then, I know it’s for real. He doesn’t need to say anymore. I don’t need him to. I don’t want him to.
My teeth are clenching so hard I could sheer a steel rod with my fucking molars.
I’m not Superman. I don’t know what he would do. He wouldn’t be rattled if someone threatened his kryptonite. It would be like threatening him with a gold star sticker and a pat on the fucking back.
I listen to the man walk out as casually as he walked in.
This is how villains are made.
Villains…and sometimes…something even worse.