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Monday, April 19, 2010

Favre

Madness only needs an outlet. Anything can be a fuse.

Any given Sunday.

Any given Sunday you can win the lottery, get a raise, buy that huge plasma TV you always wanted or, if you really want to be corny, find the love of your life. Any given Sunday you can lose your mortgage money, wind up run over by a drunk driver, end up with a pregnant teenage girlfriend or get killed over a pocketful of change and a bus pass. The world out there revolves around an axis of causality, that engine that makes bad things happen to good people and vice versa. You surely have told yourself before that life is not fair; I’m going to have to say you are wrong. Life, in essence, just is, even if it needs vessels to exercise its mysterious ways.

In my case, just now I have submitted my will to those incomprehensible forces, ready to provide Murphy’s terrible warnings with a purpose. Like a biblical plague, I shall destroy a charlatan, a despot masked as a saint, and I will turn his life into an eternal disaster. I will do it because he deserves it, because I want to see what it’s like. I want to see him suffer and whine. I want to remind him he’s no more than a man.

You may be asking yourself what drives me to follow this noble undertaking. I am not afraid to answer, though by doing so I will surely lose the interest and attention of some of you. The truth is that, just a couple hours ago, today in December 22nd of 2003, quarterback Brett Favre has played one of the best damned games in the history of the NFL, leading the Green Bay Packers to beat the Oakland Raiders 41 to 7. This is just one day after his father passed away.

Can you believe it? A man defeats the agony of mourning, leaving his best on the field, if not more. There is no doubt that the death of a loved one is a shackle, a suffocating pain that destroys and ravages like many others; yet, knowing that someone flew past that heavy burden of regrets and bitter goodbyes, becoming something superhuman and peerless has undoubtedly inspired me. I want to follow his example and break the same chains weighing me down.

And so we are here, outside the fenced fortress of the enemy, cloaked by the dark of night, me and my loyal squire Carl. Even if he had little to do with the decision I now take, his unquestionable support is comforting. It exalts me. He calls me brave and fearless in his coarse neighborhood kid language. I pretend to ignore the effect of those words, but in reality I love it. A dark and unknown part of me wants more, using false modesty to bring out more praise.

In a a manner of minutes I’m Samson, Spartacus and Dirty Harry all at the same time. My body sings vengeance and justice, while Carl’s only anxiety. The feeling returns to my right hand. I remember the heavy and porous brick that I have been carrying from three blocks away. Parting ways with it will start this night.

For some reason, I start to balance it in my hand instead of throwing it. The weight distracts me; so does the texture. Both are an omen of destruction.

“Throw it, goddamn you! Stop horsin’ around.” Carl scolds me almost. It’s obvious he desires this with the same fervor.

I laugh. I pretend to find his impatience amusing, when in reality I am losing control of my arm. It refuses to obey me.

“Throw it!” He repeats.

Enough. I grit my teeth, pull back my arm and make the brutal pitch. The sudden motion makes something snap and croak in my shoulder. I pulled something.

“What?” my lackey asks incredulously. “Fuckin’ throw it!”

A frown comes up on my face as I get ready to remind Carlos of his place in this war. Then I discover that the brick has not left my hand. Somebody’s playing a trick on me.

Hardy har. I’m dying here.

“Let me throw it.” suggests Carl with a touch of authority I’m not going to allow from him.

“No.” I answer, pretending to be in control. My head spins and my thoughts get cloudy. Shit. He doesn’t need to know this. “Step aside.”

And there comes my order. I put some distance between us with my free arm. Carl obeys, not without difficulty. I don’t care. I have better things to worry about. Things will get sorted out later.

Another pitch is prepared in spite of the protests of my arm. It goes by ignored. This will end soon.

Another violent swing, another twinge of pain coming from my arm. It hurts and it’s pleasing at the same time. The brick has finally left my hands, ready to fly through one of the windows of the house before us.

Or at least that’s what I thought. The noise I hear comes from the dull sound of impacted steel. I missed and didn’t make it past the fence. Brett would have laughed at me.

Silently, I am glad to be surrounded by scarce company. Carl, on the other hand, finally snaps. None of the sounds he makes belong to a human being.: growls, grunts, wheezing. In a matter of seconds, he does what I couldn’t. He picks up the now broken brick, grabs onto the fence to gain leverage and makes his toss without a second thought. The brown pieces cut the air and slam against of the windows in the enviable, cozy little home. The sound of crystal giving in and shattering sounds like music, pleasing my ears and exceeding my expectations.

Just in that moment, Carl has revealed I was never in control. We had a plan of action. A strategy. He ignores all of it and acts only upon basic instinct. First I whisper his name; then I shout it. No answer. He only has senses for the commotion taking place inside.

Meanwhile, I hear how the wife of Hector, my adversary, screams in panic. I can hear him trying to calm her while preparing to see what’s going on. He also asks her to call the police. Time’s ticking.

Hector comes out seconds later, baseball bat in hand. What does he think he is, a king defending a sand castle? I laugh very slowly. A man wielding a bat in a tanktop and briefs cannot be the ruler of even his own sanity. I enjoy watching him like this. Silly. Pathetic.

He calls out Carlos first. He ignores me and it bothers me, so I make another mistake. I call Hector by name. I don’t mask my voice; he recognizes it. Stupid. Fucking stupid.

“Adam?” he shouts back. It’s my name. In his voice there is nothing but the pain of bitter surprise. He lowers the bat and looks at me slack-jawed, like someone who has just seen the corpse of an angel.

I enjoy that complete idiot expression while I can. Carl takes advantage of that relapse and jumps the fence in one clean, perfect leap. He tosses something from his pocket at him –probably his lighter- to distract him and later tackle him with all the weight of his wiry, skinny frame. Hector has no chance.

The bat flies out of his grasp and rolls down the front yard, causing some strange grinding cacophony. Unarmed and defenseless, he falls and becomes the target of a rain of punches that Carl starts to bring down on him.

Something within reacts at the very moment that Hector’s head begins to slam against the cement of the porch. It rattles my knees. It accelerates my heart. It gives me a hard on like none I’ve ever had. I have to see this up close!

I jump the fence with less success than Carl. My sweater gets stuck, so I waste no time and take it off. The fresh night welcomes my skin with an electric sensation that excites my every pore.
Taking a couple steps forward, I can appreciate everything perfectly. I see Carlos sitting on top of Hector, beating the piss out of him with no science or grace, just like a wild monkey. I see my enemy yelling and trying to protect himself in vain, shoving his hairy and chunky arms in the way. I see a man at the complete mercy of another. One attacks and the other barely puts up a fight, doing his part flawlessly and suffering accordingly.

Carl’s face is purple from all the rage struggling to get out. Hector’s face steadily begins to bruise and swell, turning into a vile caricature that I laugh at.

Just in that moment, in some poetic flow of events I could not understand, the old bat rolls to my feet. I pick it up before even realizing. I know what I must do. With the wind against my chest and a weapon in my hands, I am the tragedy that devours the just and the meek, the nightmare of the pure. I am Satan brandishing a flaming sword. I am Conan and Kull, ready to cut my enemies in half in a blinding flash of barbaric fury!

Ignoring all the warning signs from Carl’s apparent psychosis, I grip the bat so tight that my knuckles turn the color of milk and I shove him aside. He does not fall properly and that no longer matters. I am only interested in knowing that Hector lies beneath my feet, ready to receive all the pain one person can deserve and owe me.

I don’t measure the strength of my strokes, nor do I play around. The bat slams on his ribs with all the might of my arms and back from the very first swing. Defenseless and agonizing he yells my name. I can’t figure out if he’s asking for mercy or cursing my guts with all his disgusting bile. There is no time to think about that either. I only know the hits on his side start sounding muffled and caked, so I start to work on the other.

Hector stops screaming while remaining conscious. Surely he must be thinking that it’s in his best interest to play dead. Poor little piece of dead meat.

The only thing vaguely distracting me is the scream of a woman coming from within the house, beyond the living room. I ignore it, but Hector can’t. He reacts to that with more anguish in his face than I’ve seen ever since we started crushing him. I demand his attention with a hit right on the hip. I feel something giving in and clacking inside him, and yet he continues to ignore me. Why?

I can make a good guess when I lift my gaze a little. Carl was no longer dumped on the porch, with his flexible body bent like an accordion. He is inside. It wasn’t hard putting the pieces together.

“Giovanna!”

Hector cries out the name of his woman while trying to drag his body with only the tips of his fingers. I keep his head in place with my foot and brace myself. It takes me three good hits to break his hand. A fingernail flies at me and hits me in the arm.

At this juncture I have forgotten about Brett Favre, the wonderful “plan” and the impending arrival of the law. There is no directive in my mind other than to cause pain, suffering and agony.

Judging from what I can see, Hector is not going anywhere, so I take the crooked bat over my shoulder and drag my feet to where I shall find Carl. I’m tired. It seems as though there is magma in my lungs; I continue in spite of this. Halfway through the journey, the feminine screams screech to a halt and make me stop. Carl gives his first frightened whimper of the night. For just a moment I recover my sense of self and digest the bad omen.

A shapeless shadow jumps out of the couple’s bedroom. It squirms and lunges at me. I have no chance in my present state. A hit makes the world flash and explode; then it dissolves, and I with it.

...

I have no idea of how long I’ve been out, but it must have been enough to make me lose my perspective of time and its passing. When I opened my eyes again, seconds, minutes and hours ran simultaneously.

Little by little I get my legs and feet underneath me. I turn and see that red and blue lights filter from the street through the broken window in the living room. I see badges and feel two pairs of arms lifting me unceremoniously by the armpits. Unable to break free or even resist, I allow myself to be dragged. I don’t know where these men are taking me, but at this moment their voices are no more than meaningless gibberish.

Soon we make it to the living room, where I’m forced to sit down on one of the chairs at the remains of a broken dining table. I have no way of straightening myself and looking forward; the policemen help a little by hurting the small of my back with their nightsticks.

The first I see from afar is the body of a woman, covered from head to toe in a white sheet, being taken outside of the house.

Carl. Overdoing it like always. At least you turned out to be swell company. They are going to find you tomorrow morning, you little rat faggot.

The officers call for my attention, threatening me with another hit. This time they make sure I’m looking ahead.

There, deformed beyond recognition, Hector lays on a stretcher. The policemen lead his eyes to mine with the help of the same nightstick they hurt me with. The eyes of my archrival tremble uncontrollably. Am I the only one who’s noticed one of his eyeballs went out of orbit?

“Is this your brother, son?” an officer questions him, holding the radio grafted onto the kevlar vest of his uniform.

Hector starts to cry with the resentment of a disappointed child. I like it. Most of all, I like the way he says ‘Yes’ like a beaten puppy. It’s funny how, right after he does that, he yells my name followed by insults and curses I’ve never heard before in my life.

Quit playing tough, Hector. The world sees you as the cowardly and stuck up swine that you are. The world knows. Keep showing off your jewelry, your Blackberry and your Ipod. Show them off, if you think it’s enough. Any which way I see it, every person in this planet will see you from now on as a pawn dragging the cape of a king. You are no more than a man and I have just reminded you. You’re weak and now I’ve run it by you. You’re nothing.

“You deserved it.” I kind of hiss at him through my teeth. I’ve never done that before. The words taste of blood and honey.

The cops get fed up with me and do their thing, handcuffing me. Meanwhile, my brother’s face is a mask of disbelief, of false confusion. My words probably sound like crazy talk to him.

Don’t sweat it, Hector. Enjoy your ignorance a little more. You’ll understand in due time. The humiliation we’ve put you through tonight is going to follow you for the rest of your days. You’ll see your face in the broken mirrors of your home and have nightmares about the well deserved justice and vengeance I brought upon you.

But most of all, you’ll understand that any given Sunday, life is going to be through with you and remind you how putrid and insignificant you are. It’s not karma. It’s not divine retribution. It’s life knocking at your door ready to collect.

Teaching you this lesson has been a delight. In fact, it has been an orgasm. I can't stop shaking.

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