My love for you is like the collage of a lunatic.
The way I've loved,
The way I've lusted,
Oh, the way you make me . . . tick.
My love for you is like the deranged delusions of
a ... a schiz-schiz-schizophrenic.
The way I'm annoyed,
The way I'm paranoid,
Oh, the way you make me sick!
My love for you is like . . . the sterile mind of a cynic.
The way I smell,
The way I yell,
Oh, the way you make me eat my spinach.
My love for you is like the malevolent doctor's pinprick!
The way I' d send it,
The way I'd bring it,
Oh, the way you make me wanna lick it.
My love for you is like the collage of a lunatic.
The way I'll siiiighhhhhh . . .
The way I'll diiiiie,
Oh, the way you make me wanna want you, chick
*snap, snap, snap*
COLLAGE (an introduction)
Bertram Willard Schitt. Yep, that's me, Mr. Schitt, the seventh son of a bootlegger; you can just call me Bert, though: everyone does. I tell you my name not out of the need for recognition, but because it's proper etiquette to introduce oneself at the beginning of a conversation or the telling of a tale, even if the tale is not one's own.
Uh huh, I know what you're thinkin'. You're worried that this here's gonna be another one of them long indulgent narratives of some old fart who spent his youth helping his daddy operate the family business in the backwoods of Tennessee or about how that old fart grew up to be a traveling salesman with an ex-wife in every state and enough bastard children to fill a football stadium, am I right? Yeah? Well, relax, this ain't my life story. Hell no! This here's a story about love. Not lust, mind you, love. True love. Well, maybe a little lust. Sadly I was only an observer to this particular love affair, but I can tell you this: it was perhaps the greatest love affair to take place since the successful mating of the first two Homo sapiens, or, if you prefer, the first successful union of Homo sapien and Homo neanderthalensis.
Now the backdrop to this poetic and somewhat quirky love story is Pleasant Falls Sanatorium; don't let the name fool ya, folks, there wasn't anything pleasant about the place: it was a regular meat-grinder. Each day in that hellhole was like a week in the trenches! I should know, I spent most of the first world war buried up to my asshole in mud and dead bodies. But we're not here to talk about me or my asshole are we? No, we 're here to talk about love -- true love. You know, that rare kind of love that makes a person wanna forsake all others and change their religion.The kind of love that makes a person go get drunk and tattoo another person's name across their chest in big letters before running naked up and down the city's main strip, professing their love the only way they know how: with incoherent grunting and the occasional drunken shout.
That's right, folks, you get what I'm talking about. Of course, I've never experienced it personally, but I'm sure that one or two of you have, so maybe you can relate.
I would like to pause here briefly to clarify, once again, that the following tale is not that of Bertram Willard Schitt. However I'm obviously a main character in it, otherwise, I wouldn't bother telling it to anyone.
Let's see now ..., to tell a tale right one must begin at the beginning, and in this case, the beginning would be the day that a young poet by the name of Devin McBride was admitted to Pleasant Falls. If I remember correctly, I had spent that day, like most others, parked in my wheel chair outside of the gate that separated the criminally insane from the rest of us crazy bastards on the ward. To this day I can still hear the high-pitch girly cries of Dr. Weaver as yet another pair of his "fancy-man" shoes was lovingly desecrated on by a patient.
"Sparks, you crazy sonuvabitch! I just bought these shoes last week," whined the pompous little schmuck; then he lifted his leg like a dog and tried to shake the piss from his shoe.
Sparks, as usual, was standing naked in the hall on his side of the ward -- the criminally insane side. Two robust orderlies gripped his arms tightly as he smiled down into the face of the diminutive doctor. His expression then slid into something a little less comfortable, that intense focus that only someone with Sparks' abstract capabilities can throw on at the last second; a look that caused Weaver to retreat a few steps.
Sparks suddenly threw his head back and began to cackle while letting his body go limp at the same time. He hung there between the orderlies like a newly washed shirt, dripping the delusions of his schizophrenia all over everything in his presence.
The muscles in Weaver's face pulled together tightly, extenuating his ferret-like features. "Take him to the isolation cell," he told the orderlies before spitting in Sparks' eye and wiping his mouth. "And keep the light off."
The biggest of the two orderlies, Jones, nodded."Alright, Pendragon, you got an appointment with the Turks. Don't wanna miss that."
As the orderlies were dragging him away, Sparks began to scream: "No! No, don't put me in the oubliette; I don't want to be forgotten!" His screams were soon accompanied by the voices of his deranged brethren who began to sing "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy," a tradition for the inmates behind the gate when anyone was carted off to isolation. The sound of their voices drifted out of their cells, filling the corridor and echoing off of the walls which were chipped in places and stained with water in others. Some of the inmates sang with passion while the rest droned out the lyrics; all of them sang off key and out of sync with the man in the next cell.
When the orderlies reached the elevator, Sparks grabbed the wall on either side of it and began to buck against his captors. "No-one does this to Vlad Teppish and gets away with it," he screamed at Weaver."Do you hear me?! I shall have my vengeance, Lord of Flies. I shall have it!"
Jones balled up his fist and punched Sparks' right hand three times in quick succession, causing the lunatic to cry out in pain and release his grip.
"It was the Moor who did it." He stared up at Jones, accusingly. "The Moor."
Weaver waited until the elevator was on its way to the basement with his patient tucked safely inside and away from him, then he looked to the janitor leaning casually against one of the walls and said, "What are you smirking at? Go get your mop and get to work! I want this mess cleaned up right away." Then he turned smartly on his piss-soaked heels and marched off to search for a bathroom in hopes of salvaging his latest pair of overly-priced shoes.