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Unbeta'd. All possible mistakes are mine.
Love - some people say there's no such thing, that it's just a product to sell shit to 16 year olds and middle-aged, soap opera loving women. Like those medieval novels on chivalry Beecher once rambled about - a chick's invention to get those dumb fucks to stop killin' themselves over kingdoms and horses and start killin' themselves over pussy. Correction: over winning their *hearts*. Or handkerchiefs.
Well...tell THAT to O'Reily. Or myself, for that matter.
'Cause we're in Oz, and Oz is kinda like the Medieval times, ain't it?
So...here I am, slouching - like always - in a chair in front of the TV, watching and not *quite* watching, listening and *definitely* not listening - who the hell listens to Miss Sally anyway?!
And I can see Beech off the corner of my eye (the pe-ri-phe-ral vision), talking to Rebadow and Said - that's THE combination: God's little messengers, one ticket to heaven already booked - see him looking sideways back at me through lowered eyelids, just for a small second. (Not longer baby, who knows? God might get pissed or something.)
Said looks at him - and I know it's just some stupid conversation like any other in Oz, fed by boredom and lack of choice - but I can read right through him. (It's what I'm good at, right?) His little experiment gone horribly wrong, the little boy lost in the woods crying "help me, I'm SOOO confused" all the fucking time, just because it's easier to do so.
What the fuck is there to be confused about? (What is there NOT to be confused about?)
'Teach me about God; hey, let me gimp around with this BIG green book under my arm for a couple of weeks...' ('Don't I look *better* now?')
Well, it made you look like an IDIOT, Toby, if you ask me. But you're not asking ME, are ya?
(And that's what's gettin' to you, ain't it, Chris?)
See? Got lost there for a couple of moments - shit like that happens even to the toughest sonsofbitches in places like this. It eats away at your brain, every second you're breathing, every second you're conscious.
I sometimes wish I was unconscious all the time...or maybe just dead. Weird thoughts don't go through dead people's heads, do they? NO thoughts do, actually.
But Beech don't know that. He wouldn't even fuckin' *suspect* shit like that goes through my mind. (If he suspects *anything* goes through my head in the first place. Except fucking, probably.)
Nooo, that's the kinda shit that goes through HIS mind. By fuckin' de-fault.
And me and him - we're different, right? Veeery different. Otherwise continents would collide and oceans would overspill and the whole goddamn universe would fall to shit. It's what keeps the world balanced...
(It's the reason why he would rather prefer talking to Said than to you.)
But I know you, baby, yeah, I know you. And you can run, but...where you gonna hide? This is fucking Oz - the final frontier!... Nobody can hide in here, where the fuck are ya?
Inside that pretty little head of yours? Tried that before - didn't really work, did it?
You think Said over there don't know what you and me are doin' every goddamn night?
Think he don't know how you stuff the end of your (my) pillow in your mouth just to keep from screaming out loud when I ram my cock so far up your ass I forget how to breathe? Think he don't know where that Qu'ran spewting mouth of yours ends up after the lights go out? Think again, sweetpea.
Everybody fucking knows, all right? Everybody.
So stop acting like such a prissy bitch.
(Jesus fuck, Vern must've gotten *really* old! Or maybe Daddy just got tired of training his long line of bitches...)
Or maybe Beecher's just different.
(I know. Everybody knows.)
Oh, but what was I sayin'? Medieval times, yeah - L.O.V.E. You know, the kinda love you gotta work for, ride your horse, wear that stupid armor, fight with them big sticks. Act like the biggest, most neurotic imbecile to prove yourself, show you've got balls; and that you're ready to hand them out to your sweetheart on a fuckin' silver plate. (If she asks you to.) And...of-fucking-course she's gonna ask, that's what this whole shit's all about, right?
You wanna get into their pants? Prove yourself. Show them you're worth it. And once you've FINALLY managed to get your paws on the prize...well, the trick is how to keep it. (If you really wanna, that is.)
Well...some guys (sorry, O'Reily, didn't mean to *intentionally* bang my knee against yours; I'm a bouncy motherfucker, kinda like you - IMAGINE that) - some guys NEVER really get their prize. They try and they try and the kill themselves - or others - trying...and nothin'.
(That don't mean they stop tryin'.)
'Cause this is Oz - the very, very limited kingdom, the CASTLE - surrounded by high walls nobody can really climb over, no matter how hard they try. And in Oz your clothes, your toothbrush, your pod, your bunk, your bunkmate - they all turn into one thing, one very important thing: pro-per-ty.
Part of our nature, right?
So...you fight. Yeah, you damn well fight over whatever leftovers you can get your hands on - it's inside you, it's what you are.
Mr. Ryan-asshole-O'Reily over here can testify on that. Vern sure as hell would give a fuckin' 2-hour lecture over that particular item; prags are - after all - leftovers over which one is absolutely compelled to fight or cheat or lie or get shanked over. It's a fucking -- what's the word? NECESSITY.
(Though I ain't exactly convinced Beecher's learned that already...)
So I fight. 'Cause yeah, this is the Middle Ages; and Oz is just as fuckin' bad and just as rotten as the goddamn Bubonic Plague (didn't mention *that* in those chivalry novels). Pussies, assholes, hearts, fuckin' handkerchiefs - yours.
O'Reily knows that; Vern knows that too. I fuckin' know that. But for the LOVE of GOD, how come Toby don't see that too?!...
You lie and you break and you fight and you bend yourself backwards (over) just to have your own. And there ain't no fucking without fightin'...is there?
That's what it all comes down to. Probably always did.
And yeah, I've proven myself, I got that fuckin' handkerchief. And I wanna keep it, you know?
'Cause it's mine. What the fuck else have I got?
And that's your soap-sellin' love spew for the day.
Fuckin' chivalry or not.
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