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3:53 A.M.


J.H.C.
Nature, being the wicked thing that she is, endowed upon us a disdain
for darkness. Since the day we crawled out of the ocean, we’ve been
hopelessly trying to quell the fear, the rider that rides alongside darkness.
Check the locks, put on the porch light. Every night is a battle. The
outcome always predictable. Surrender unconditional. Our bodies enter into
a false stasis, hoping with more than a hint of desperation that if we say our
prayers and live like good people, no evil will find us. It’s all for nothing
really.
Look down upon thy enemies. Offer them no quarter. For they are beyond
forgiveness.
I need a night-light.
Immobilized by fear and rope. Wrist bound to wrist, foot bound to
foot, sweating like a pig, even though the room’s not the least bit balmy.
Cool and dry like a fall evening in southern Arizona. Sweat rolls down the
forehead forming into beads before drip, drip, dripping to the floor.
Coalescing into a coagulation of dirt and sodium and chloride and water and
whatever else perspiration is made up of. Miniscule puddles. Tiny transitory
ecosystems. Little salty souls, lightly corrupted, slightly corrupted, both foul
and sweet, waiting for their ascent into the heavens, ready at any moment
to be reunited with their creator. Normally he sweats like this when sitting
in the sauna after a gun-blasting work-out. There was no workout today
though, just the darkness.
His mouth is stuffed full of Subway sandwich wrapping paper, sealed
shut by duct tape. He can tell it’s from Subway because he’s eaten there a
million times plus one. Many years ago while fantasizing about right-wing
news channel anchor-women, a commercial came on the television.
Normally he never paid much attention to the commercials during his long
and arduous Foxy news masturbation sessions, but something was different
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