Moku
By
Nicholas Becher
It's
an island
where
everyone dies
still.
In sunlight
water
falls
from
mountains forming
rainbows
of tears
Would
they cry for anything less
than
an honest days' work
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Vultures
Vultures
By Nicholas Becher
The desert sun is melting me. I woke up here
with my hands bound and my legs bleeding. I am pretty beat up. I’m here laying
on my side with a black and white flannel button up shirt. Completely
unbuttoned and ripped at the armpit. My black ADIDAS sweatpants allow a gentle
breeze to flow through a hole in the back of my right knee. Barely enough to
distract me from the sweltering heat. The sun, as I mentioned before, is blistering.
And these fucking pants are just making it worse. I’m not sure exactly where I am, but I know I
am somewhere in Nevada. I know this because I remember why I am here. I
remember how I got here.
Two days ago, my fiancés father found out
that I proposed to her and she accepted. This man, a police officer in the
great state of Nevada, was not happy. I was sitting in my apartment when my
buzzer rang and I got off my squeaky rusted futon to press the button on the
wall by the door. Hello. Yeah come on up sir.
When I said this, I made sure to sound condescending. Snide. Rude. Almost
obnoxious. I unlocked the door and he punched me with a heavy fist right in my
abdomen. I was breathless for a moment. And at that time he threw me by my
neck, sending my head through the vanilla white wall that my fiancé had just
coated a few weeks before. As I hit the wall I pushed my head out of it and
fell limp onto the floor. This man is a monstrosity. Bald head with a
policeman’s mustache. Six and a half feet tall. Hands that felt like splintered
wood and years of manual labor. He tied my hands with a bungee cord and threw
me over his shoulder. Because I am only 120 pounds, he was able to do this very
easily.
The desert sun is relentless. I open my eyes
and see a snake moving sideways at me. He comes close to me and looks at my
hands. He slithers and hisses and rattles his tail, moving closer to my face.
He must know I am hurt. And that I need help. I would ask him, but I have
staples in my lips, and when I move my mouth I feel them clinging inside my
skin. So I peer into his eyes and hope that he will not bite me. But I see a
sense of caring in the beady black eyes on the snake’s face. As if he is
concerned. Telling me that I am not alone in this after all. And I start to
drift off into a memory.
Four years ago I met my fiancé at a party. A real cluster-fuck of a gathering. The way I remember it, or more so the way I don’t remember it, was that we traded phone numbers and fucked the entire night. Through all the distortion in this memory, I can still see the shadows behind her as she moved up and down on top of me. I can still see the way her hair became an ocean on the walls and made me forget about time and space for a few moments. This was ultimately the reason I am here today. In this God forsaken desert.
Four years ago I met my fiancé at a party. A real cluster-fuck of a gathering. The way I remember it, or more so the way I don’t remember it, was that we traded phone numbers and fucked the entire night. Through all the distortion in this memory, I can still see the shadows behind her as she moved up and down on top of me. I can still see the way her hair became an ocean on the walls and made me forget about time and space for a few moments. This was ultimately the reason I am here today. In this God forsaken desert.
After he carried me out to his truck, he
told me in a burly old man voice, that he is not fucking around anymore. I
could tell he was pretty serious. But when he looked in my eyes I made sure
that I did not appear afraid. In fact I recall raising my eyebrows, as if to
tell him to go fuck himself a few times. He drove me somewhere hot and dry.
Like I said it could have been anywhere. I was pretty disoriented seeing as my
head went through the drywall in my apartment. When he pulled me out of the
truck, an SUV the size of a military tank, one of those oversize Hummers that I
can’t believe fit into parking spots, and that I resented this man for owning,
he punched me twice or maybe three times in the stomach to make sure I wouldn’t
try to run away. I was slung over his shoulder and carried into a garage that I
did not recognize. A place that I was terrified of the moment I looked at it.
The door was shit brown from the years of dust being thrown against it. The
outside walls of this garage were missing slabs of siding exposing the skeleton
of the building. Exposing the sick twisted mind that owned the place. Exposing
everything about the upcoming events. I looked at this building and knew that
Death himself was inside waiting, smoking a cigar and sharpening his scythe.
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