NaNoWriMo--Part 2
Continuing my previous post about my NaNoWriMo entry, here's about 3000 more words of it, most of which are from yesterday. I'm going to keep posting here, just because. So nyeh. Any violence and/or comparisons to Alice in Wonderland are coincidental and I am not disturbed.
I also can't be held responsible for grammar so nyeh.
Like I said, it all has to do with abstract art. That is because abstract art is a good place to begin the telling of my story, and the beginning ultimately has some of the largest effects on the end possible. So, I will begin.
It happened, not in an art museum, but in a cafeteria. I was in an artsy fartsy mood, looking for the meaning behind everything, as if I didn't do that already, I did sort of explain that that was what I do. Anyway, I was eating lunch, and the lunch of peas. Peas. Well, not completely peas, but those were the relevant part.
I was talking to the kids at my lunch table. We were talking about the sort of things we usually talk about (this was back in that same naive post-puberty phase of my life) which were pointless things, like the weather and nerdy things like well, nerdy things. Those being video games. I tried to turn the conversation to something philosophical but I had no luck. No one wanted to talk of such amazing things as the seemingly coincidental cause and effect.
"No, no," I said, "I'm not saying that there is a god, I'm just saying that everything happens for a reason." I ate a pea at this point and pea juice slobbered down my neck in the kind of way that you don't pea juice to slobber down your neck.
The idiot sitting to my left by the name of Bob said, "But didn't you say that everything happens for a reason because we interpret that it happens for a reason?"
"Yes," I said, not seeing his point.
"Well isn't God as good a reason as any?" He asked.
"But no, no, no. It doesn't work that way. God may be a seemingly logical reason but he isn't my reason."
"So, you believe that everyone can interpret things differently and find different truth behind life, the universe, and everything." He asked.
"No, no, no. I think I'm correct," I said. "I know I'm correct actually. I know I'm correct because I have to be, otherwise my life wouldn't have gone so well these past few months when I was using this philosophy." At least three or four heads turned to stare at my blackened eyes and bruised ears and everyone saw the bloodstain on my shirt.
"So, you're a masochist?" I didn't hear who made that comment. And it's a good thing. I was feeling rather impulsive (it goes with philosophical and artsy fartsy) and I would have pounded them to New Jersey where they would suffocate to death on a bad joke about New Jersey.
"Look," I said. "Everything has a reason, not mandated by God, but mandated by the random effects it has on the world."
"Oh, okay." Bob said, but he didn't really mean it. "So, if I were to kill you right here, right now, it would prevent...?"
"Prevent him from killing you later, surely," said a guy from somewhere around me. At that point though, I was losing focus of the situation. The room was swimming around me and everything was starting to drool away into nothingness.
"Look," I said, as I had many times in the past minute, along with "No, no, no" (don't you love repetitive speech patterns?). Then I stopped. And then I punched him square across the nose.
I can't exactly trace how being a hopeless, hormoned romantic directly led to being a completely violent person, but I do know what I did, and what I did was punched him. This had the curious effect of spilling all of the peas on the table over onto the floor.
Then, we got up off of the table and landed in a huge fight. I dodged an uppercut and cut in with a huge sock to right below the knees. Each of us got hit in the crotch at least seven times, and by the end of it, I couldn't tell where I was bleeding, or if it was even my blood. It was that crazy of a fight.
However, and quite fortunately, the whole affair ended with my foe, Bob, laying unconcious on the floor, and me, his victor, standing over him, dazed confused, and only semi-conscious. It was at this point that my art-hungering philosophy-crazy egotistic maniac (did I say egotistic maniac? I haven't described that part of my psyche yet, wait a bit please) was satisfied.
I saw there on the floor: ART! In it's finest form it was art. Art, art, art! Yes!
I saw my arguable friend who was no longer a friend laying on the floor, and around him were peas grinded to paste and mixed with blood. It all blended in with his gray clothing to create an almost amazing spectacle. It was all so astounding. It was all so amazing. And there is absolutely no reason that I should've gotten suspended for it. Absolutely, no reason, at all. The end.
Not the end of the story, just of the paragraph. Not even the end of my explanation about the incident, although that's really all of the abstract art I'll be discussing tonight. Too bad.
At that moment, when I was standing in awe above the kid I'd just severely beaten up, administrators began pouring into the room, and nurses, and doctors, and people that wanted to see what all of the screaming was about.
It took a little while before the heat of the moment faded and I realized what I had done. I had killed someone (he was actually still alive, but severely beaten, very severely) and I was in for some serious punishment. I was going to be sent to one of those places where they send children who don't behave. I was going to be fixed. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
I was half-dragged, half-carried, half-driven-in-an-ambulance out of the school and to the hospital where I stayed, painfully, for about six months. Then, I was sent to court.
My lawyer decided that it would be extremely foolish to mention my philosophies, i.e. the reason I'd punched him, and we decided to plead insanity. As far as everyone was concerned, I was insane.
It was about this point that I swore off my philosophy. It was a strange thing to do, and I would be furious at myself, if I didn't end up going through a whole series of...well you'll find that out later, won't you?
Time passed. Expert witnesses testified about rare adrenal disorders, about environmental affects on developmental psychology, about chicken nuggets and corn flakes. Expert witnesses testified that country music encourages suicide, and that my mother was a horrible parent (my parents were actually fairly okay, and it's not their fault I had amazing philosophical ideas).
Time passed. I was clapped in irons. I was put in jail. End of story, right? Juvenile delinquent rots in jail. What is the reason for it? He is a danger to society. Everything has a reason after all.
And I guess my story so far is already full of holes like swiss cheese. And swiss cheese is full of holes like that desert in the novel "Holes." And that desert was full of holes like, like, like these metaphors.
Perhaps, a better explanation is in order. If you cannot truly understand the development of my psychology and it's relationship to insanity, violence and all such things, perhaps you cannot understand anything else. So, I will summarize it.
After my first black eye, I did not immediately become violent and rotten and a spoiled miscreant. No, no, no that was much later. At first, I merely interpreted and watched things happened. That little bit of boldness scared me, for months, one or two only though. I watched. I looked at what had happened, decided what I thought would occur, what should occur, and when none of it did, I went and looked at why. I dissected, I rearranged my theories, and I developed them even further. Even if I interpreted during, I could never truly be correct until afterwards.
And realization that truth did exist but was hidden drove me to teenage angst. Now I didn't start smoking pot, or drinking, or even cutting to balance out these horrible feelings of anxiety. No, nothing that simple. I just let it all go. And was a miserable wreck. I went around, trying to figure out how I could essentially predict the future not realizing that I didn't need to.
The next fight I got into was essentially the turning point. It wasn't even completely my fault--my opponent was a nihilist.
"Nothing has a purpose," the Nihilist said, and I very strongly disagreed.
"No," I said, "everything has a purpose. You just can't interpret the purpose until afterwards."
"Fine," the Nihilist said, "Interpret this." And he punched me in the nose. Let me tell you, nihilists punch like they have nothing to lose. So I was bleeding pretty bad through my nose; I'm sure it was broken though I never actually got it checked.
I couldn't just let it go. "Maybe," I philosophised, "the reason you punched me was so that I would be encouraged to hit you back." And I kneed him hard right in the stomach. This was almost like the confrontation that had been going around in my head for weeks, except it felt great what with all the adrenaline, and I didn't even feel like I was schitzophrenic.
"No," the Nihilist said, grabbing me by the waist and slamming we to the ground. "I punched you because that was the motion my hand chose. There is no reason. There is no reason for anything."
"Oh yes there is," I combatted, twisting whatever I could grab, as hard as I could manage. I hope he was hurt by the end of it, because I tried like crazy to damage him. Then, I made my philosophical comeback to match my physical one. "Life has to have a purpose. There is a reason I'm here, otherwise, I wouldn't be here. Nothing happens without a reason."
The nihilist laughed. "Except for everything." With that he got up and backed away from me. After my breathing slowed and bleeding slowed, and we both became rational human beings. He extended his hand and introduced himself. I now knew the nihilist, and the nihilist was named Neil.
Neil and I became the kind of friends akin to Xavier and Magneto. The disagreeing compatriots who respect eachother but beat each other to pieces about it. We fought like crazy, verbally and physically and many of my following injuries were inflicted by his hand.
We fought so often, you would've thought we were perverted lovers with the most sadistic fetishes. But, as I said, I'm not a masochist. I only got lots of physical pain because it was meant to happen, and because that was where my life took me.
Through Neil I learned to take out my philosophical anger on human beings. This was perhaps not the best of lessons and precipitated more violent arguments. I remember the time I almost smacked my history teacher for disagreeing with my statement that absolute truth exists in the form of human opinion. Fortunately, I managed to control that one.
If only I'd known that I'd end up in a cell, I might've tried to control the violent outbursts more. I should've guessed that would happen, after what happened to Neil.
One day Neil got into a violent philo-physical argument with a rabid religious psychopath. When he declared that there was no truth in the world his adversary decreed that yes, there is truth in the name of God and that you, Neil the Nihilist, are a heathen and the antichrist. Neil said that that couldn't be the truth because there was no truth and almost killed a member of the Catholic Church (about whom I have perhaps exxagerated, and I greatly apologize for the way I spoke about them).
The last thing I want to do is build up bad karma now, although, if I did, it would surely bring me to greater things, and if it didn't I would die for some important and obscure cause.
But that is all irrelevant. Neil was in jail and I was--not heartbroken because we only had intellectual normal friendly bonds, remember--a little shocked and angry. I didn't have anywhere to focus my violence, and that was when I started getting the reputation of being the one who fights like crazy for no reason (although, of course, everything has a reason).
That was where it went downhill and I think I can skip the rest of the boring exposition to the interesting part.
I was in jail. I was sitting there rotting in jail or whatever they call they jail for minors I don't care. When I heard a voice from across the way.
"No point," it said, "No point in anything."
I recognized the voice, I did. It was Neil the Nihilist.
"Neil!" I said.
"Yeah?" he said. "I've been expecting you. I realized that eventually you would do something as crazy as I did. Was it another nihilist?"
"Nah," I said, "just Bob the idiot."
"Oh, right. Still have the same beliefs?"
At that point, I was seriously doubting my philosophies, although my meeting Neil in jail did give a good reason why'd I'd been sent there in the first place. "I'm still insane, as the case may be."
"Insane?" he said. "No, you're the most rational person I've ever met. And don't lose that."
"Neil," I said, kind of scared, "You speak like you're not going to be here much longer. Are you getting released?"
He shook his head, which I somehow managed to see perfectly well in the dark of the jail. "No, I'm just getting melodramatic and executed."
I gasped and fell down onto the ground. "Why? WHY?!" I cried up to the heavens.
Neil answered. "No point really. I'm actually not getting executed, but that would be the reason if I was."
"Then there's no meaning behind your speech?"
"There could never be meaning to anything," he said, and we laughed together, two friends reunited.
We talked the whole night about what had passed and I told him about the abstract art.
"If I ever get out," he said, "I want to do that."
"Beat up a person into a pile of peas?"
"No," the Nihilist said, "I'd paint it and sell it for millions. It's a brilliant work of art."
"What's the point though?"
"Isn't one really."
The night went on with petty chats and arguments and before long we knew what had gone on with the other person while we'd missed out on eachothers lives. Several times we got so violent we were banging our heads against the bars. If we'd been in the same cell, we certainly would've been all over eachother. But hey, not in that way. Eventually, I hit my head against a bar one too many times and passed out.
When I woke up, my cell was empty. Everything was gone. Every piece of furniture I mean. Then I noticed that all around me, people were missing. There was not a person in sight, nor could I see any objects left behind. No chairs, no bars, no nothing. Just the building around me.
I was startled; I was surprised; I was wondering if I'd ever get to beat the shit out of Neil again. That was the moment when something took a huge chunk out of my rear-end or dare I say "ass". I think I do. Something took a huge chunk out of my ass.
I ripped whatever was biting me off, and turned around to face it.
It was feline. It was a ninja. It was a ninja cat that had bit me in the butt. "What the hell?" I said out loud, and I shouldn't have because the cat nearly jumped two feet in the air before landing to stand upright on his hind legs.
"Quiet!" he hissed. "Don't say that. Look. Look. We need to talk. We really do. But not here. Here there be. Onlookers!" Randomly and with several exclamation points ninjas jumped at us from all sides. The cat attacked them ferociously, so viciously and quickly I didn't even get a piece of any of them. And I was burning with the desire to rip them apart. GRRRRRR!!!! I didn't get a chance it was all over in a heartbeat.
The cat was standing on top of a huge pile of bloody ninjas. I don't think he killed any of them the same way twice. He didn't even bite any of them in the ass. I would have to ask him about that, because I was already thinking of him as some sort of bizarre guide to something or other. Who knew what? Well, the cat did. Duh!
"Where are we?" I asked.
The cat sighed, "Nowhere yet."
"Pardon?" I asked, confused.
The cat fiddled with his ninja head wrap a little then he mewed a bit and started walking away. "Follow me," he said, "I'll show you."
I followed the cat, who walked the way cats do foot after the other in a repeating symmetrical pattern. He had an interesting bounce in his step that made the ninja headress he was wearing jiggle with every motion. Fascinating that a can could be a ninja. And why had he bitten me in the ass?
We walked in silence down the empty jail hallways. All of the cells on both sides of the hall were empty, no furniture, no people, no rats, no nothing. It was startlingly empty and more than a little unnerving. The cells had been full of hardened criminals the night before and the complete lack of life signified a bizzare number of unsettling things to me.
Only one cell that we passed had anything in it at all, and all there was was a giant mirror all along the wall. I looked in the mirror and saw my reflection. I was still severely bruised and wounded, and there were marks where I'd pounded my head against the bars the previous night. My hair was thin and craggly, my body was thin and craggly, my prison jumpsuit was thin and craggly. The only thing shown in the mirror that wasn't thin and craggly was the cat. He was certainly impressive.
We reached the end of the hallway and turned towards the exits of the vile insititution. We continued walking until we reached the door. The cat, who couldn't reach the handle although I know that he could somehow have jumped up using his ninja prowess to open it, motioned for me to push open the last thing between the world of the jail cells and the open air. I pushed open the door and was startled to find more emptiness.
I also can't be held responsible for grammar so nyeh.
Like I said, it all has to do with abstract art. That is because abstract art is a good place to begin the telling of my story, and the beginning ultimately has some of the largest effects on the end possible. So, I will begin.
It happened, not in an art museum, but in a cafeteria. I was in an artsy fartsy mood, looking for the meaning behind everything, as if I didn't do that already, I did sort of explain that that was what I do. Anyway, I was eating lunch, and the lunch of peas. Peas. Well, not completely peas, but those were the relevant part.
I was talking to the kids at my lunch table. We were talking about the sort of things we usually talk about (this was back in that same naive post-puberty phase of my life) which were pointless things, like the weather and nerdy things like well, nerdy things. Those being video games. I tried to turn the conversation to something philosophical but I had no luck. No one wanted to talk of such amazing things as the seemingly coincidental cause and effect.
"No, no," I said, "I'm not saying that there is a god, I'm just saying that everything happens for a reason." I ate a pea at this point and pea juice slobbered down my neck in the kind of way that you don't pea juice to slobber down your neck.
The idiot sitting to my left by the name of Bob said, "But didn't you say that everything happens for a reason because we interpret that it happens for a reason?"
"Yes," I said, not seeing his point.
"Well isn't God as good a reason as any?" He asked.
"But no, no, no. It doesn't work that way. God may be a seemingly logical reason but he isn't my reason."
"So, you believe that everyone can interpret things differently and find different truth behind life, the universe, and everything." He asked.
"No, no, no. I think I'm correct," I said. "I know I'm correct actually. I know I'm correct because I have to be, otherwise my life wouldn't have gone so well these past few months when I was using this philosophy." At least three or four heads turned to stare at my blackened eyes and bruised ears and everyone saw the bloodstain on my shirt.
"So, you're a masochist?" I didn't hear who made that comment. And it's a good thing. I was feeling rather impulsive (it goes with philosophical and artsy fartsy) and I would have pounded them to New Jersey where they would suffocate to death on a bad joke about New Jersey.
"Look," I said. "Everything has a reason, not mandated by God, but mandated by the random effects it has on the world."
"Oh, okay." Bob said, but he didn't really mean it. "So, if I were to kill you right here, right now, it would prevent...?"
"Prevent him from killing you later, surely," said a guy from somewhere around me. At that point though, I was losing focus of the situation. The room was swimming around me and everything was starting to drool away into nothingness.
"Look," I said, as I had many times in the past minute, along with "No, no, no" (don't you love repetitive speech patterns?). Then I stopped. And then I punched him square across the nose.
I can't exactly trace how being a hopeless, hormoned romantic directly led to being a completely violent person, but I do know what I did, and what I did was punched him. This had the curious effect of spilling all of the peas on the table over onto the floor.
Then, we got up off of the table and landed in a huge fight. I dodged an uppercut and cut in with a huge sock to right below the knees. Each of us got hit in the crotch at least seven times, and by the end of it, I couldn't tell where I was bleeding, or if it was even my blood. It was that crazy of a fight.
However, and quite fortunately, the whole affair ended with my foe, Bob, laying unconcious on the floor, and me, his victor, standing over him, dazed confused, and only semi-conscious. It was at this point that my art-hungering philosophy-crazy egotistic maniac (did I say egotistic maniac? I haven't described that part of my psyche yet, wait a bit please) was satisfied.
I saw there on the floor: ART! In it's finest form it was art. Art, art, art! Yes!
I saw my arguable friend who was no longer a friend laying on the floor, and around him were peas grinded to paste and mixed with blood. It all blended in with his gray clothing to create an almost amazing spectacle. It was all so astounding. It was all so amazing. And there is absolutely no reason that I should've gotten suspended for it. Absolutely, no reason, at all. The end.
Not the end of the story, just of the paragraph. Not even the end of my explanation about the incident, although that's really all of the abstract art I'll be discussing tonight. Too bad.
At that moment, when I was standing in awe above the kid I'd just severely beaten up, administrators began pouring into the room, and nurses, and doctors, and people that wanted to see what all of the screaming was about.
It took a little while before the heat of the moment faded and I realized what I had done. I had killed someone (he was actually still alive, but severely beaten, very severely) and I was in for some serious punishment. I was going to be sent to one of those places where they send children who don't behave. I was going to be fixed. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
I was half-dragged, half-carried, half-driven-in-an-ambulance out of the school and to the hospital where I stayed, painfully, for about six months. Then, I was sent to court.
My lawyer decided that it would be extremely foolish to mention my philosophies, i.e. the reason I'd punched him, and we decided to plead insanity. As far as everyone was concerned, I was insane.
It was about this point that I swore off my philosophy. It was a strange thing to do, and I would be furious at myself, if I didn't end up going through a whole series of...well you'll find that out later, won't you?
Time passed. Expert witnesses testified about rare adrenal disorders, about environmental affects on developmental psychology, about chicken nuggets and corn flakes. Expert witnesses testified that country music encourages suicide, and that my mother was a horrible parent (my parents were actually fairly okay, and it's not their fault I had amazing philosophical ideas).
Time passed. I was clapped in irons. I was put in jail. End of story, right? Juvenile delinquent rots in jail. What is the reason for it? He is a danger to society. Everything has a reason after all.
And I guess my story so far is already full of holes like swiss cheese. And swiss cheese is full of holes like that desert in the novel "Holes." And that desert was full of holes like, like, like these metaphors.
Perhaps, a better explanation is in order. If you cannot truly understand the development of my psychology and it's relationship to insanity, violence and all such things, perhaps you cannot understand anything else. So, I will summarize it.
After my first black eye, I did not immediately become violent and rotten and a spoiled miscreant. No, no, no that was much later. At first, I merely interpreted and watched things happened. That little bit of boldness scared me, for months, one or two only though. I watched. I looked at what had happened, decided what I thought would occur, what should occur, and when none of it did, I went and looked at why. I dissected, I rearranged my theories, and I developed them even further. Even if I interpreted during, I could never truly be correct until afterwards.
And realization that truth did exist but was hidden drove me to teenage angst. Now I didn't start smoking pot, or drinking, or even cutting to balance out these horrible feelings of anxiety. No, nothing that simple. I just let it all go. And was a miserable wreck. I went around, trying to figure out how I could essentially predict the future not realizing that I didn't need to.
The next fight I got into was essentially the turning point. It wasn't even completely my fault--my opponent was a nihilist.
"Nothing has a purpose," the Nihilist said, and I very strongly disagreed.
"No," I said, "everything has a purpose. You just can't interpret the purpose until afterwards."
"Fine," the Nihilist said, "Interpret this." And he punched me in the nose. Let me tell you, nihilists punch like they have nothing to lose. So I was bleeding pretty bad through my nose; I'm sure it was broken though I never actually got it checked.
I couldn't just let it go. "Maybe," I philosophised, "the reason you punched me was so that I would be encouraged to hit you back." And I kneed him hard right in the stomach. This was almost like the confrontation that had been going around in my head for weeks, except it felt great what with all the adrenaline, and I didn't even feel like I was schitzophrenic.
"No," the Nihilist said, grabbing me by the waist and slamming we to the ground. "I punched you because that was the motion my hand chose. There is no reason. There is no reason for anything."
"Oh yes there is," I combatted, twisting whatever I could grab, as hard as I could manage. I hope he was hurt by the end of it, because I tried like crazy to damage him. Then, I made my philosophical comeback to match my physical one. "Life has to have a purpose. There is a reason I'm here, otherwise, I wouldn't be here. Nothing happens without a reason."
The nihilist laughed. "Except for everything." With that he got up and backed away from me. After my breathing slowed and bleeding slowed, and we both became rational human beings. He extended his hand and introduced himself. I now knew the nihilist, and the nihilist was named Neil.
Neil and I became the kind of friends akin to Xavier and Magneto. The disagreeing compatriots who respect eachother but beat each other to pieces about it. We fought like crazy, verbally and physically and many of my following injuries were inflicted by his hand.
We fought so often, you would've thought we were perverted lovers with the most sadistic fetishes. But, as I said, I'm not a masochist. I only got lots of physical pain because it was meant to happen, and because that was where my life took me.
Through Neil I learned to take out my philosophical anger on human beings. This was perhaps not the best of lessons and precipitated more violent arguments. I remember the time I almost smacked my history teacher for disagreeing with my statement that absolute truth exists in the form of human opinion. Fortunately, I managed to control that one.
If only I'd known that I'd end up in a cell, I might've tried to control the violent outbursts more. I should've guessed that would happen, after what happened to Neil.
One day Neil got into a violent philo-physical argument with a rabid religious psychopath. When he declared that there was no truth in the world his adversary decreed that yes, there is truth in the name of God and that you, Neil the Nihilist, are a heathen and the antichrist. Neil said that that couldn't be the truth because there was no truth and almost killed a member of the Catholic Church (about whom I have perhaps exxagerated, and I greatly apologize for the way I spoke about them).
The last thing I want to do is build up bad karma now, although, if I did, it would surely bring me to greater things, and if it didn't I would die for some important and obscure cause.
But that is all irrelevant. Neil was in jail and I was--not heartbroken because we only had intellectual normal friendly bonds, remember--a little shocked and angry. I didn't have anywhere to focus my violence, and that was when I started getting the reputation of being the one who fights like crazy for no reason (although, of course, everything has a reason).
That was where it went downhill and I think I can skip the rest of the boring exposition to the interesting part.
I was in jail. I was sitting there rotting in jail or whatever they call they jail for minors I don't care. When I heard a voice from across the way.
"No point," it said, "No point in anything."
I recognized the voice, I did. It was Neil the Nihilist.
"Neil!" I said.
"Yeah?" he said. "I've been expecting you. I realized that eventually you would do something as crazy as I did. Was it another nihilist?"
"Nah," I said, "just Bob the idiot."
"Oh, right. Still have the same beliefs?"
At that point, I was seriously doubting my philosophies, although my meeting Neil in jail did give a good reason why'd I'd been sent there in the first place. "I'm still insane, as the case may be."
"Insane?" he said. "No, you're the most rational person I've ever met. And don't lose that."
"Neil," I said, kind of scared, "You speak like you're not going to be here much longer. Are you getting released?"
He shook his head, which I somehow managed to see perfectly well in the dark of the jail. "No, I'm just getting melodramatic and executed."
I gasped and fell down onto the ground. "Why? WHY?!" I cried up to the heavens.
Neil answered. "No point really. I'm actually not getting executed, but that would be the reason if I was."
"Then there's no meaning behind your speech?"
"There could never be meaning to anything," he said, and we laughed together, two friends reunited.
We talked the whole night about what had passed and I told him about the abstract art.
"If I ever get out," he said, "I want to do that."
"Beat up a person into a pile of peas?"
"No," the Nihilist said, "I'd paint it and sell it for millions. It's a brilliant work of art."
"What's the point though?"
"Isn't one really."
The night went on with petty chats and arguments and before long we knew what had gone on with the other person while we'd missed out on eachothers lives. Several times we got so violent we were banging our heads against the bars. If we'd been in the same cell, we certainly would've been all over eachother. But hey, not in that way. Eventually, I hit my head against a bar one too many times and passed out.
When I woke up, my cell was empty. Everything was gone. Every piece of furniture I mean. Then I noticed that all around me, people were missing. There was not a person in sight, nor could I see any objects left behind. No chairs, no bars, no nothing. Just the building around me.
I was startled; I was surprised; I was wondering if I'd ever get to beat the shit out of Neil again. That was the moment when something took a huge chunk out of my rear-end or dare I say "ass". I think I do. Something took a huge chunk out of my ass.
I ripped whatever was biting me off, and turned around to face it.
It was feline. It was a ninja. It was a ninja cat that had bit me in the butt. "What the hell?" I said out loud, and I shouldn't have because the cat nearly jumped two feet in the air before landing to stand upright on his hind legs.
"Quiet!" he hissed. "Don't say that. Look. Look. We need to talk. We really do. But not here. Here there be. Onlookers!" Randomly and with several exclamation points ninjas jumped at us from all sides. The cat attacked them ferociously, so viciously and quickly I didn't even get a piece of any of them. And I was burning with the desire to rip them apart. GRRRRRR!!!! I didn't get a chance it was all over in a heartbeat.
The cat was standing on top of a huge pile of bloody ninjas. I don't think he killed any of them the same way twice. He didn't even bite any of them in the ass. I would have to ask him about that, because I was already thinking of him as some sort of bizarre guide to something or other. Who knew what? Well, the cat did. Duh!
"Where are we?" I asked.
The cat sighed, "Nowhere yet."
"Pardon?" I asked, confused.
The cat fiddled with his ninja head wrap a little then he mewed a bit and started walking away. "Follow me," he said, "I'll show you."
I followed the cat, who walked the way cats do foot after the other in a repeating symmetrical pattern. He had an interesting bounce in his step that made the ninja headress he was wearing jiggle with every motion. Fascinating that a can could be a ninja. And why had he bitten me in the ass?
We walked in silence down the empty jail hallways. All of the cells on both sides of the hall were empty, no furniture, no people, no rats, no nothing. It was startlingly empty and more than a little unnerving. The cells had been full of hardened criminals the night before and the complete lack of life signified a bizzare number of unsettling things to me.
Only one cell that we passed had anything in it at all, and all there was was a giant mirror all along the wall. I looked in the mirror and saw my reflection. I was still severely bruised and wounded, and there were marks where I'd pounded my head against the bars the previous night. My hair was thin and craggly, my body was thin and craggly, my prison jumpsuit was thin and craggly. The only thing shown in the mirror that wasn't thin and craggly was the cat. He was certainly impressive.
We reached the end of the hallway and turned towards the exits of the vile insititution. We continued walking until we reached the door. The cat, who couldn't reach the handle although I know that he could somehow have jumped up using his ninja prowess to open it, motioned for me to push open the last thing between the world of the jail cells and the open air. I pushed open the door and was startled to find more emptiness.