THE HOUSE OF MY ENEMIES

You can't say I didn't warn you...



Special Thanks to Engrish...

In the dreamtime, it was 1999. That year was pivotal, and active for me. I sowed many wild oats—nay, I practically stuffed my pillowcase with the down of ruffled fallen angel feathers, prickling like dope pins, needles at my neck. I worked a lot, and worked out, also. My schedule in flux, I saw most of my friends when at the gym.

I’ve mentioned my workout partner Mark before; we’d meet up after work, and hit the gym. I frustrated the hell out of him—we were never on the same page, workout-wise. When I stopped taking painkillers, I realized that working out actually hurt. Mark was much more fit than I; so I’d take tons of ephedrine in the hopes of keeping up with him. This backfired routinely, because now I was out of shape, and tweaking. He’d want to work on upper body, and I’d use up our time fixating on the treadmill, or the bike, for two damn hours. It’s a tweaker thing; you wouldn’t understand.

After we were finished irritating and disappointing one another, we’d drive through some fast food place, to undo all we’d worked for in a single greasy wrapper. It was fruitless; but it was clean, hetero fun. In the Clinton years, this had become harder to find…

But back to the life in slumber’s sweaty busom:

In the dream, we’d left the gym; we were mulling over where to eat. It was between Jack In The Box and Burger King—a rock and a hard place, really…the Greasy Devil and the Deep(fried) Blue Sea. Mark steered the car toward Burger King.

The drive-thru drool-cup dimwit took our order, never to return. We waited…and we waited…and we fumed, and waited more. Mark stepped out of the car, and went inside—to mete out meaty justice among the minimum wage depraved.

He also never returned.

Now keep in mind, that he is the dependable one. If Mark goes in a store, you could damn well leave the car running. Let me loose in a store, and…you might as well come back another day. This was inexcusable. He never took this long. He was either arguing, or dead. Either way, I’d been abandoned. Worst yet, my pills were wearing off, and I was hungry like the wolf. My patience was on low, but my hunger was on stun. I waited one more minute…then I left. I peeked inside as I walked past—nothing. He wasn’t even there. I walked towards the alternative…Hello Jack…get the fuck back in that Box, and make my food.

Jack In The Box is scarcely meat, and I am much afraid upon consumption that it consumes me from within. It does not digest in the gut, so much as gestate in a fatty womb. Their addictive White Trash Tacos are a fryer-trap delight…provided you define “delight” like Brando did. But it’s better than nothing at night’s end, I thought. I impatiently walked inside.

The smell of Death was all around. It was probably the chicken, or whatever misshapen lumps they deep-fried in its place. I approached the counter. And then I looked around.

I saw them. I saw them all.

I’d walked into bowels of hell itself, fool that I was. At this establishment, in every seat and eating fries, were enemies of all colors—foes from childhood up. My every adversary, schoolyard bully, overbearing girlfriend, asshole boss, and nemesis were seated in this place, and smiling like Syd Barrett at the wall.

Bastards-in-arms, with teeth gleaming like knives to slice my very bones…these were men who’d bugger Santa, with an elf tied to each leg.

I shivered in trepidation; stressing, creases crossed my brow like the worried, fearful smiles of NAMBLA’s boys’ choir. Every enemy I’d made or left behind…all here, before my eyes. It was an evil that fogged contact lenses, and mine had not been changed in months. I nodded, smiled, and slowly backed away.

An old high school jackboot jock approached. Gleaming with psychosis, his tongue slithered from lip to lip to speak. His eyes were glazed like donuts, holes wherein a soul might be…he was Satan’s grinning glazier, offspring of the King of Hell, and Dairy Queen. Then, in the dumbest Southern drawl, explained how he’d just beaten his old record for how long he could sit with thumb in ass.

This threw me off. Then another piss-ant spoke to me—an arrogant son of a bitch who edited a magazine I’d written for long past. He spoke in utter humility, and apologized with waves of sorries lobbed at my befuddled face like shit. One by one, they spoke; one by one, they jested or apologized, or acted like the dumbest men on earth. It was then I felt a certain shame, that I’d ever feared or loathed them. I had a revelation: My enemies were stupid. At least it seamed that way.

I smiled and nodded more, backing away one final time. I turned my back to order. I heard rustling and snickering behind. Had I made the right decision, then, to stay? Should I have waited on my friends, though they might fail me? Or take my chances that my critics lack good genes—though it all might be a game? A painful, sometimes hungry wait…or immediate fulfillment at the table of the Wolf? And knowing that neither option is low-carb? And where’s my fucking Horsey Sauce, you pricks?

Where's the beef?!

I awakened with a rumbling gut, and unaware which meat slab caused my curse…but I didn’t care. I lumbered toward the bathroom. I clutched my flab in hand. I’ve lost 38 pounds in the last few months, but I know it’s not enough. I’m still several pounds from healthy, and I drink myself to sleep too many nights. I clenched my fat in hatred. Fuck both places. Fuck ‘em all, I thought and swore.

I need a fucking salad. Nothing more.

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