Stuck In The Pre-Stressed Concrete

Reads: 207  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: marclevytoo


An erratic wind fulminating at high tide deposited a swollen load of insolubles leaked after a dumpster fire in Okinawa on rocks guarding the coast of foggy Mendocino. The dumpster fire was caused by a drunken sailor of the U.S. Navy burning a spliff of moldy Jamaican weed, no tobacco. Balance by bungling bipeds is not easy to maintain on a rotating orb. As evidence, he was incriminated. Many of the well fed but fed the fuck up shore birds fled and flew south to form an avenging wedge above golden hills and shit on a Cadillac, a BMW, a Mercedes, a Tesla, and a Rolls Royce inconveniently stuck in the ornery traffic of grubby proletarians approaching the Golden Gate Bridge in Marin County. It was a typical Saturday afternoon, sunny and modern with snotty native chill for the duration. One of the grubs visibly overheated and raged right there on the road, exposed. He started out only trying to have a good time. He should have known better. At that same time, Big Sur was in flames, and birds were flying north to wait for the coming human demise by cooling out among the tall trees. In between, where dialectical forces were about to collide, a recent outbreak of mutant disorders was devolving among the latest breed of obsessive-compulsive dweebs, a quartet with no horns to blow, desecrating large patches of the Santa Cruz Mountains with toxic lawns, garish lights, and offensive ornaments. One looked like a ferret, another a stoat. Flaky skin was mottled in fashionable colors ranging from ashen to a beige commercially called white. One blew a snot rocket in a parking lot with one disgusting finger. Their shared malady began turning into a bright red rash, call it carmine or scarlet, in the vicinity of wobbly jowls and necks. It crept from cracks and crawled back into crevices. Explain that.

 

The Unpaid Internet Content Provider, an unwilling neighbor of interloping Craig, the one who looked like a red ferret, was immersed in the second day of a vigilant search for a first sentence to smite his ass and begin the current tall tale he owed Big's company blog, Mary Jane's. It was never as simple a job as it would seem to smoke experimental clones of primo weed, honor the lands of the Ohlone who honored it first, and philosophize like John Stuart Mill about the greatest good for the greatest number. Due to plummeting attention spans caused worldwide by the numerical superiority complex, subsidized trends in illiteracy, and ruthlessly misguided robotics, he was trying to produce no more than 300 words to be digested at a sitting, an embarrassment.

 

The all day goings on in the valleys and canyons of the mountains were, on the surface level he perpetually skimmed, disturbing. What was different? Something was happening, and he didn't know what, but there was nothing different about that. More of the same kept him awake at night, this thinking about what could be done, and not only about the obsessive compulsive dweebs like Craig and his icky ilk befouling air, water, and aesthetics. What he knew about vengeance was not a lot. What seemed to be crawling out of the cracks were white worms. They expanded like hot air balloons. They sucked like leeches. They possessed licenses and calling cards. They rigged votes. They received plaudits from churches. Explain that.

 

He complained, "I think I'd be better off if I quit for the day."

 

Big scoffed, "What have you done so far, eat breakfast." It was not a question. The best answer was ideally left blank.

 

"It's Saturday."

 

A feeble attempt, even he had to agree. A swing and a miss still scores zilch despite the size of the empty arena.

 

"But, still."

 

Unhinged practitioners of statistical analytics attempt to reduce by default the spin of synchronous events to an entombment bound by a dense, numerical language. There are lots of obtuse digits sticking up, parsed by bits of unpronounceable words only the anointed comprehend until popularized on You Tube. Too much sticking that sucks proved to be clogging veins and blocking passageways. Look at the size of those asses with no wiggle room to move. Suspiciously, several of the perpetrators developed sympathetic redness. Creams applied in bulk did not help.

 

"If you don't look in the mirror you'll never see."

 

"There's something stuck in my good eye."

 

"Stuck in reverse."

 

"It's gaining on me."

 

Events of synchronicity will continue to shimmy, sashay, bebop, swing, and toodle-oo along multiple paths of orbit, neither rare nor reliant upon skewed perceptions by doomed creatures with poor postures, myopia, hemorrhoids, and the hysterical belief a tree falling in a forest may depend on their limited vision to exist. There is no way to explain that. That very same afternoon, working overtime for a nominal stipend at a posh conference center in nearby Monterey, a group of esteemed scientists were examining the intricate construction of a beaver dam, another bunch of dweebs in total sync with the wallpaper. When asked by an outlier on a panel of expert peers if that did not constitute a sign of intelligence, they replied in unison, "Maybe." Jumpin' Jehoshaphat, not even the wacko Bible thumpers crawling with snakes and evil who worship douchey Drumpf are proud to be that dumb.

 

On the other end of the eye chart, The Unpaid Internet Content Provider was known to ponder the veins in his mixed salad tossed with pebbles and sand. His swept floor was slippery when unwaxed and waning. Was he trying to recognize a pattern that did not exist? Was he missing a pattern that did exist? Was he blocking the hallway and jamming his lock in a sticky door?

 

Big advised, "There's no need to reinvent the third wheel each time. Your readers are stoned or going to be. Tell another of those Ohlone stories. I like the one where the hummingbird tricks the trickster coyote.'

 

"The trickster coyote turns into a pale bent over man."

 

"Everyone likes a good story about the far out Ohlone people."

 

Not everyone, though. The heedless dweebs, demonically disfigured by artificial light down to matching streaked underpants, spongy socks, and picked toes, and with solid engineering degrees to prove it, and who had much more in common than poor posture, pasty faces, lumbar stiffness, and red necks, were getting chafed. Every certifiable engineer, without prompting, will like a rooster crow about how much more he, she, it, along with their diabolical pet robots, know than you. That flag gets planted in pre-stressed concrete that doesn't budge. A little bit of delusion goes a long way when it comes to desecration. Monotonously, they met in a spiritless ritual early Saturday mornings at the Home Depot in Watsonville to slap backs and pat fannies. Each owned an identical Range Rover with John Deere decals stuck to the rear like botched nose jobs that smell alike. Push button stations were universally attuned to easy listening muzak from the nineties, Backstreet Boys, Ricky Martin, and Heart. Each coveted a seasonal roof rack to have and to hold for every season. They admired the modern lines of the petroleum based patio furniture in primary colors. They ogled Shop-Vacs and cordless drills. The left each week with pricey new implements of destruction to wield. Desecration costs beaucoup bucks, you know. Not much beats a two stroke engine or cement mixer for that. Unless it's slave labor. Later, each molehill of a man would enjoy the mouth watering mystery cream injected into Dunkin Donuts donuts and the mystery growth inside Subway's tuna. The monumental male bonding would stick like epoxy until cracked like ice.

 

The far out Ohlone people were a loosely knit nation of tribes who liked to hang out at the beach and fish for abalone and salmon, hang out in the redwood forests to gather nuts and berries, hang out under the stars to tell stories adorned in ceremonial costumes and dance around the fire. On Pico Blanco, the tallest mountain that grew from the bottom of the one world ocean to rise above Big Sur, there was bound to be something cooking. Their sweat lodges were fragrant with eucalyptus, rosemary, and sage. They paddled on streams and rivers flowing from the mountains to dive into the ocean and float for balance and inspiration. Except when the rotation was reversed. Humbly, they aimed to achieve purification, enlightenment, and empowerment. They valued hummingbirds for their speed and quickness, and eagles for their speed and power. They tolerated the differences among them. Spiritual powwows became a popular happening at a junction near the nexus of what became the streets, Haight and Ashbury. No toxic tobacco burned in those peaceful pipes. They lived in the here and now. They acknowledged the coyote spirit for who and what it was, clever, wily, lustful, scheming, greedy, irresponsible, and what the spirit turned into, hunchbacked humans. Coyotes also lived in the here and now. Here I am, now catch me if you can. The Ohlone maintained a distance from the slinking threat. Their world turned in circles and it ricocheted and echoed. You be you and me be me. Do no harm. Don't worry. Be happy.

 

Until they learned too late how tricky this new and dangerous enemy had become.

 

Later that Saturday afternoon, as the most basic building blocks of the multiverse, contradictions, clashed above the summit of Mt. Loma Prieta in the Santa Cruz Mountains, a typical moment as different and the same as many others that come and go among the neophyte bipeds who straddle the San Andreas Fault, and after the Unpaid Internet Content Provider returned home to reconsider the radical union of Surf City OG and Motor Bomb #10, not exactly explosive, but as close as a sativa hybrid gets under the strict dictatorship of gravity, the prideful dweeb Craig, a hybrid robot overseen by nominal mate Alexandra, a full fledged though highly flawed clunker of a robot, along with four robot thug dogs, who squealed like piglets in slop, overstepped too close to his crumbling edge. He lost his feeble grip on a chain saw he was wielding to fell another tree in the path of his golf shots when an innocent hummingbird got into his face, and he tumbled like a roly-poly pill bug in the loose dirt. He picked himself up but by then it was too late. His weak ass was stained a new shade of beige. Even the pug dogs were able to see what was coming next. What it was was no innocence. The moment turned as a new feint in a masterful play book. Lightning crackled, and sparked, and spit. Who knew a resurgent American eagle was going to be surfing a gnarly wave of wind from Big Sur to test his strength, adding heat? Even as those whirling building blocks turned into spirals, coils, parabolas, and gyres.

 

There are many lines of demarcation on the scratchy surface of a planet that contains the ammunition to transform indistinct selves into flammable parts. The Unpaid Internet Content Provider was wizened enough to remember fight or flight over long hair, short skirts, the love or leave it aftermath of endless wars. He had yet to acquire any more insight on the nagging subject of what was, is, and will be happening. He was hearkening to the indigenous call from New Orleans of the Soul Rebels who advised, "Free your mind, free your mind."

 

It was easy at first to dismiss the screeching from a militia of irascible scrub jays when another hummingbird breezed by and interfered with the snatch and grab of a dimwitted dragonfly, because that's what scrub jays do, screech. The harsh caws of delusional crows, though, attempting to dislodge a nuclear family of red-tail hawks from nests in a grove of redwood trees was something else. High flying birds do not usually stoop to countenance delusions, but the hawks simply rose above the din to observe. Did they know a performance of origami was about to unfold? Tellingly, those hummingbirds seemed to be acting in cahoots. Unless it was the resurgent American eagle altering the trajectory of the rolling stone that was gaining speed and bypassing all moss.

 

In short order, dweeby Craig hooked a tee shot from the AstroTurf stuck to his patio like putrid toilet paper that caromed and spun like a toy globe. Sturdy limbs from a red madrone and delicate blooms from a climbing pink bougainvillea were helpless in defense. Jolted by the shock of command from his handlers, the runt of the thugs dogs chased the ball into a gully. It was his chance to do better. A jury of his whiskered elders was kept busy conserving battery power under wraps. The runt turned a spazzy circle in pursuit and kicked up a cloud of pebbles, dust, and sand into his own dirty face. A hidden coyote on the hunt for easy pickings from the camouflage of a wild patch of strawberries seized the opportunity to snatch the stunned runt and scram. Nothing beats a clever deal from the bottom of the deck. That's what any smart coyote will do when an opportunity presents. Carpe diem or die, baby. Run and don't look back.

 

As the many false gods touted by devout schemers continued to slumber in velvet crypts, no heroic rescue was apt to occur. This was a job for a pseudo-real man and the trusty machines by his side. An alarm sounded from behind the concertina wire coiled by Craig and his kind, and a pair of surveillance drones took off and climbed above the treetops. The drones were equipped with video cameras, heat sensors, tasers, and a mini semi-automatic weapon each. The knockoff speakers affixed to the underbelly blasted Ride of the Valkyries. The air smelled like high octane gasoline burning bacon.

 

The Unpaid Internet Content Provider, prone to ponder and sift his facts of fiction from a sitting position, was knocked on his ass. But he quickly rebounded. He rallied his troops, gathered his resources, and checked his side pockets and zipper. It was not hard to underestimate the lone man. He came out equipped with ear plugs, sunglasses, and a baseball cap plugging Mary Jane's. He hefted a home-made slingshot in his bare hands. He followed the advance of the enemy with blurred vision, 20/80 in his good eye. The knockoff music helped in tracking blind. The slingshot was armed with one opaque noogie marble. He took aim as the enemy approached the unmarked line in his sand. He felt untroubled by smoke in his rear view mirrors. His chances of success teetered in the range of a zillion to one. That's how revolutions are won in myths. Dare to struggle, dare to win. Of course, he missed.

 

As he searched in a drawer under a nest of commingled Sharpies for the perfect marble to launch next, major reinforcements arrived. No bipedal neophytes here. He was never going to be either necessary nor sufficient. Even he knew that much.

 

While in a multiverse with no beginning and no end, where upside down is often right side up doing the slip and slide and the whoopee doo, and reversed, it may be difficult to point a judicious finger at who gets credit for starting what, and from which of many sides. No matter the side, however, it is generally agreed on the epochal record dwarfing mere human history, and contrary to the superficial and obvious embraced so blithely by such an immature species, that this specific swell of synchronicity began underground, in the shallow depths of the San Andreas Fault. The one world ocean was sitting pretty on the precipice. The mighty blue sky stayed aloof and lofty, right where it belonged. One thing for sure to this day is gases did not, do not, and will not give a shit.

 

It did not take long before even the the standoffish scrub jays wanted in on the righteous retribution zooming down the pike. Red headed woodpeckers paused in stunning profile to enjoy the scene. A tawny owl contributed the head of a mouse to a brood of belching flies and hooted in three part harmony. An adorable yellow finch could hardly wait and freely peed. Unharmed worms surfaced and wriggled as bait only. Green tree frogs, in position to pray for rain, reared up. A squadron of brilliant hummingbirds conducted the orchestra like maestro Sun Ra.

 

In trying to get a grip while crossing the road, the coyote bit down wrong on a live wire. Shocked, he spit it out. He felt a stinging jolt in a sore, loose tooth. That was too much stress for a coyote with a sore ass and mange to manage. He took off in search of a higher class of meat. Even if there is no right way to bite down on a live wire. Of course he blamed a tricky hummingbird, but that was so wrong. That would be as wrong as a lying low down loser like the douche bag Drumpf blaming the winners of a fair election.

 

The coyote, though, unlike the crass and tacky Drumpf, proved to be skillful in the design of a well conceived stage overlapping the 3-D arena. Most humans are satisfied by two flat dimensions. Flat is so very convenient for stacking. Few humans have the talent, skill, or acuity to recognize a fourth dimension. Forget five. That's for gurus and kooks. Hybrid humans are no better, and according to the latest science, may be worse. Between swings and misses, coyotes are not nearly half as bad. Pill bugs too. Craig, by any standard one of the worst of the worst, no matter the ground to be tilled, came prancing on fuzzy gold slippers down the road to recover his damaged property. He was out of his element. He forgot to conceal telltale stains. Sputtering angst was the only emotion he was proficient in expressing. He turned his head, and coughed. He became concerned he was overheating. Something vile dripped from his crooked nose.

 

He sputtered, "This is your fault."

 

The Unpaid Internet Content Provider, relegated by transcendent events to no more than a looky loo, replied, "If I could take the credit, I'd be happy to."

 

"You'll be sorry."

 

"When pigs fly."

 

Craig was wearing baggy mom jeans that lightly caressed the fuzz on top of his slippers, and a faded MIT polo shirt the color of a mottled eggplant. Also latex gloves. He carried a Phillips screwdriver and a socket wrench. The mom jeans were held in the missionary position below his bulging belly by a stiff belt. He was reaching for the leaking thug dog as tenderly as a cross-dressing hybrid human was capable when the resurgent American eagle swooped down and beat him to it. The eagle elevated above the trees and shifted gears to take it up a notch. More leakage from the wreckage plopped and fizzed and plunked Craig on his nose and dripped down to blemish his fuzz.

 

He shook his fist and squealed at the sky, "You hold on you just a darn second, you."

 

The eagle carried the limp thug in one claw. Sure it was disgusting, but he held on. Until he no longer did. He was not merely showing off. This resurgent American eagle was not one to shirk from a terrible purpose both necessary and sufficient. Like a cooling pie on the window ledge of a fictional school marm, his targets were going to be easy pickings. He elevated above the hovering drones and gauged the variables in wind speed, barometric pressure, and moisture content. The doddering drones remained frozen in place, as smart as sitting ducks.

 

The resurgent American eagle shook a tail feather like a Tina Turner, and altered the direction and volume and velocity of the wind. A spreading tail wind shook back like a Ray Charles, and soared higher and higher like a Sly Stone. The old spinning wheel never stopped turning. The band snapped like a strop to the beat as the guided missile was launched. Ike Turner had to take a back seat on this ride. Even the blind man could see a twisted sister coming.

 

No weenie summer breeze was able to withstand such heat. Thrust into the fray, the mortal remains of the lone thug dog took out one dumb drone with a hollow thud, and caromed to perform a perfectly sassy pirouette and take out another non-smart device with pizzazz. There was a crash and a bang and a hiss and a grand sis boom bah. Next, there was a whole lotta shaking going on.

 

What are the odds you see a bowler make 7-10 split and watch the pins fly like pigs? You had to be there to see it to believe it. The Unpaid Internet Content Provider believed it. Truth don't lie. Truth don't die. He danced to some funky New Orleans music from The Meters and he clapped hands. From his spot on the sunny side of the street, sorry was nowhere in sight.

 

You better believe the hummingbirds beamed with their brilliance at a job so craftily done.

 

 


Submitted: August 04, 2021

© Copyright 2021 marclevytoo. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:


Facebook Comments

More Literary Fiction Short Stories

Boosted Content from Other Authors

Article / Non-Fiction

Book / Action and Adventure

Book / Mystery and Crime

Short Story / Thrillers

Other Content by marclevytoo

Short Story / Literary Fiction

Short Story / Literary Fiction

Short Story / Literary Fiction