2004-08-02 - 2:05 a.m.
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I'll sit here and wait for you until the bomb goes off
I feel tensions running deep and unchecked.
There's a death in us that won't go away, just will never let up. And it's in all of us. But that death can also exist in situations and events. Companionship and relationships all have lifelines, all have a start and end and when the end comes, will it come swiftly and clean or slow and bloody? Will you be able to tell the end from the ordinary?
There arises such a rift between personal want and personal need. The need will almost always be less than the want. The want will always be harder to satisfy no matter what you do because the urge to follow your desires is stronger than your urge to do what's right for yourself and nothing short of fulfilling your want will suffice.
But in a friendship, does want ever truly match up with need? There are some things that can be expected of friendly situations, a caring that will transcend all boundaries put up by discomfort. I will walk on burning coals for the people I love if it ensures their safety. There's really no situation I could imagine where that would be necesary...
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the clock is running out. The bomb sitting underneath two of my closest friends frantically runs out. They're bound and gagged, only muffled roars of immense suffering and fear can be heard, only tears can truly tell the horror. I stare in awe as one of them sees me. I had shaken off a handful of guards - they were chasing a dead body of another guard that I had swapped clothes for and tried to insinuate as myself attempting to infiltrate the base. I was the only one who know about Operation: Cheese Whiz and I would damned if I was going to let the government steal layers of the ozone so that they can shoot it into their eyeballs and get high for 15 seconds at a time. Not on my watch; not with Belmo at the helm. I quickly throw a small hunting knife that was holstered in the left boot, the blade spinning like the world around the sun as it buries itself into the cable, popping the brilliant red light on the top of the camera off. The red light having stopped washing over my face, you can only see two cherry marbles floating in the blackness as I step up to the smoldering wreckage in front of me. In my fights with the other guards, I had knocked over a huge cauldron of hot coals that were used to heat the generators for the Ozonoification Chambers, vast vats for 3 football fields in every direction sucking at the atmosphere like a vacuum as the ozone slowly litters these metal bulks. The only path I can walk is littered with burning hot coals and I can see my reflection faintly in the copper side of the vat as I look into my own eyes burning fire red from the wreckage in front of me, mouthing the words "Let's do this." I undo the laces because I know that if I leave these boots on, the extreme temperature would weld those boots to my feet and I would be in excruciating pain. But I've trained for this moment. I've trained for the time when I could use the 6 years I spent as a street performer in India, walking on coals for dinars a day, sometimes unable to afford meals but performing in front of entire villages to scrap by. The clock keeps ticking and I can see even more panic in her eyes as they gleam at me, as if they were praying. The 200 yards seemed like a lot of coals but I kept my composure, slowly taking off the last sock and wrapping it around my head to keep the sweat from throwing my concentration. I had studied under Barak MGhasthawhcaw, world renouned yogi and all aroud spiritual guru. He taught me the old ways, the anchient art to channel my angers and pains into positive chi. His Hindi-Asian conglomerate of old philosophies opened up doors to spirituality that most hallucinagenics strain to produce and I spent many a day watching trees crumble and reappear using only my mind. After avenging his death from a poisonous dart shot by one of the White Lotus to kill the one bringing dishonor to the Eastern philosophies by creating a bastard sun from two ways of life, I vowed never again to channel these energies as I believed it would serve my master best. Tonight, I was going to have to go back on my word to my fallen master. I pulled the sock over my eyes and began to step. I breathed through my nostrils only, keeping a rhythmic pounding in my temples as the air slowly but consistantly flowed in and out of my lungs as I braced myself for the initial sensation. You need to let in the anger, Barak told me. You can only create good from an evil to contrast it to. You can only improve when there's something attacking your actions. I raise my right foot into the air. I can hear the groans getting louder and louder - the timer must be within seconds at this point. The thumping of chair legs sounds as I figure my friends are trying in a last ditch effort to distance themselves away from the bomb, unaware of the mechanism to prevent such a thing. I hear a snap and the timer begins to beep in a sticatto ferver. There is precious little time for all of us now. These vats will all blow if that bomb goes off and the explosion will be great enough to see from space. Somewhere in the distance, Giovanni Puscetti, the international drug fiend and the mastermind behind this whole operation laughs to himself as he flys high above the area in a personal helicopter so that he can watch the end of his nemesis - Me - and can punish the foolish villagers in the valley below who fought with all they had to prevent the mercinaries from stealing the famous Ornath Diamond from the heart of a statue in the middle of their town. The statue represents the goddess of the hills, watching over them all. With her heart, it was fabled that the flowers blossomed when she was in love, the trees died when she was angry, the grass grew when belief in her became stronger and this diamond was her heart. The villagers knew nothing of global warming or genocide - just that the heart was missing from their god. I swallow sharply and put the foot down, the searing pain shooting throughout me and the sound and smell of cooked meat wafting up to my nostrils, making my stomach sick, as I take the first strides in an all out sprint. The sizzles continue but the pain subsides as I start full force on keeping it out and utilizing the anger to strengthen my body. At the end of the 200 yards, my inner chi is in turbo mode and I could pick one of the metal vats up and hurl it into space if I so felt. The beeping was speeding up, the clock speeding to closure. I rip off the sock, leap into the air, slide on my stomach with arm outreached and grasp the bomb, each bundled stick of nitroglycerin threatening me with every touch. Even the smallest of jostles can cause it to explode. With a few seconds left, I turn to see the helicopter floating above this all, circling like a vulture over a kill. With the remaining few bullets, I shoot the skylight out, glass raining down on me. "Suck on this." I throw the bomb. It flies up in the air and lands on his lap as a stream of fire shoots out of each door on the helicopter and it falls to Earth. I untie my friends and she kisses me, the one I came to save. He pulls a gun while we kiss, confirming my belief that he was the one who had double-crossed my partner when I was in a coma. He killed my partner in cold blood as I lay in a bed hooked up to machines. The report had pointed to a friendly fire mishap but I had inspected the bodies and noticed the angle he was shot at was odd. I kept digging until I found a small 15 year old kid who was playing hookey from school and hid because he thought the police were going to arrest him. As he sat under the staircase trembling with fear, he took his gun to the back of his head and whispered "Say hello to Belmo for me when you get to hell" before painting the walls with his brain. Before I can tell him I knew the whole time, a shot rings out and she falls to the ground. I run to her - she's bleeding badly - and I hear a click, followed by another click. "Oh, you forgot. That was my gun you had stolen before. And I only put one bullet in it," I say to him. "It's the last bullet from the clip my father used to gun down your father when he found out he was corrupt like you, smuggling pur Columbian cocaine into America by way of sticking up emigrant's asses. A sick game your dad ran there. And that last bullet was for you, for shooting Steve-o in the head." He looks at the gun, throws it down and pulls himself into his Crane stance. He had trained under Moraki Oko, the deadliest man in the world. A man only I could kill, after he had blown the dart into my master's neck. I went through a slew of White Lotus ninjas before I got to Oko and I even killed Oko. But could I kill this man, a man who was the father of my sister's children?
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You know what, this is getting really ridiculous. I started this serious and ended up with a fucking ridiculous story.
Fuck it, I'm going to bed.
BMC
What did you just say? - What's he gonna say next?
