William Rose: The Seven Habits

And it’s so fuckin’ quiet, man. More quiet than this planet has ever known. Not even the birds are singin’… because they know something’s out there. Their instincts tell them to stay still, to hide in the cracks and crevices of our fallen society, to pretend they’re nothing but shadows clustered in ruin.

You know how ya step outside now, and you get blasted with a wave of smells? There’s the clouds of exhaust belching from cars and motorcycles and buses; the scent of fried food driftin’ from restaurants and minglin’ with cigar and cigarette smoke, and that hot asphalt odor from where they’re pavin’ down at the corner of Seventh and Emereson… On top of all this, you’ve got perfumes and deodorants and hairspray and sour sweat thrown in the mix. All that? Gone, man. In its place is this stench so thick it gets lodged in the back of your sinuses like a little nugget of rancid mucus. You wanna gag but somehow the air gets trapped inside your throat; like your body knows that once it’s been expelled, you’ll just have to breathe in another lungful of that greasy rancor.

It’s how those mass graves in Cambodia smelled the time I found myself lying in the bottom of that putrid pit of Hell, only a hundred times worse. Until you’ve smelled shit like this, words simply can’t describe it, man.

Again, I know what you’re thinkin’… everyone’s dead, right? Shit, man, if only it were that simple, but it’s not. Nothin’ ever is, right? ‘Cause there’s still a handful of people left alive, see. They’re burrowed down into the shadows like frightened animals, huddled together in little knots of humanity, and pissin’ all over each other because no one wants to risk going out in the open to drain the vein.

They’ve got these tattered rags draped over their bodies, all covered in grime and filth, only if you look close enough, you see these faded patterns—Hawaiian print, Nike swoops, images of rock stars manifesting like their souls somehow got trapped in this dry-rotted mess of fibers. And as shredded as these clothes are, they still manage to engulf the emaciated bodies of their owners.

See, these people have wasted away to mere skeletons, man. Remember that Ethiopian famine back in the eighties? That’s what these poor bastards look like. Bulbous heads precariously perched atop spindly necks, collar bones all sharp and angular above ribs that you could play like a fuckin’ xylophone. Their arms and legs are like shriveled sticks poking outta the remnants of their clothes and there’s always a swarm of flies buzzing around; those little bastards know they won’t have to wait much longer for the buffet to open its doors.

Funny thing is, despite all this these people still want to live… They’re starvin’ to the point that their cells are devouring themselves. They’re shivering in fear and knowing old age is as much a thing of the past as the corner hotdog stand. They’ve got so much shit caked on their ass it’s like someone took a trowel and spackled the hell outta that crack. But they find some reason to take another breath, to live for just a minute longer. And you think you’ve got it bad, because you don’t know how you’re gonna make that mortgage payment next month? Fuckin’ candy-ass pansy….

Yeah, that’s right, I said they’re afraid. They’re fuckin’ terrified , man. They’re not alone in this God-forsaken cesspool that used to be civilization, see? They know if they so much as even fart, their miserable little lives will be over like that. It’d be like tossin’ a goldfish into a blender.

It ain’t bad enough that these poor bastards are so hungry their own waste is startin’ to look good, or that something as small as the common flu could fill their lungs with pneumonia as fast as if their heads were bein’ held underwater. No… on top of all this shit, these sons of bitches have to be worried about being hunted , man. The wrong place at the wrong time and they’re bein’ torn into like barbecue at a fat-ass convention.

You ever wonder what it’s like to be eaten alive? To have teeth tearin’ your skin away like strands of taffy? It’s some fucked up shit, cats. Doesn’t matter how hard you fight… there’s just too many of those bastards clawin’ at ya. You can scream, but there ain’t nobody gonna come to your rescue. The more ya fight, the weaker you’re gonna get… ‘cause your blood’s gurglin’ out so fast that Old Faithful would hang its head in shame. If you’re lucky, you pass out before ya get to see your own guts eruptin’ outta the hole that used to be your stomach. They kinda blossom, man; like they’ve just been waiting for the chance to burst outta all that fleshy packaging.

I know all this because I was fuckin’ there when the shit hit that proverbial fan. I’ve seen things, man… horrible things. Things that would make you wanna duck beneath that cluttered little desk and never come out again.

But that’s not the worst of it. I ain’t just seen things. I’ve got first hand, eye witness knowledge. See, when that ‘ole Eye of Aeons pulls me in, I’m not just some formless puff of smoke driftin’ around like a lazy cloud. Believe you me, sometimes I wish I were . That ain’t the way this whole dimensionally transcendent thing works, man. Fuck no.

Once I’ve crossed over, I get drawn into another body, dig? Like water down a toilet. Just swirls me down and next thing I know I’m sittin’ in the back of this other dude’s consciousness and there’s a couple moments where I’m always real panicked like. It feels like I’m wrapped so tightly in wet gauze that I can’t so much as wiggle my big toe, and it’s because I ain’t got a toe, man. I’m like those perverted thoughts that go through your mind when you see a nice piece of tail struttin’ her stuff down the sidewalk. You’d never admit to thinkin’ this shit… all those humiliating things you wanna do to her, the holes and crevices you’d like to cram yourself into. But the voice is still there. Whispering in your subconscious this litany of phrases that start with Bitch and end in whore .

What if that’s not really you? What if that’s some dude who’s been stuck out in the ether so long that he’s forgotten what a real woman feels like? Sure, he might still be there when you’re putting it to your wife or girlfriend… but that’s a muted sensation, man. See there’s a difference between direct experience and something you’re feelin’ through someone else’s body. The perception’s all jacked up. It’s like trying to watch a movie through layer after layer of cheesecloth.

I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ more. Not unless you slide one of them there cigarettes my way. You give me a smoke and a light and I’ll tell ya more than you ever wanted to know. I’ll tell ya about survival, the food chain, infection…

If you throw in a cup of coffee, I might even tell ya what you really wanna hear. The reason you’ve got me locked in this little room to begin with: Clarice fuckin’ Hudson.

The wind moaned through the city like a collective wail from the spirits of those who’d died upon her streets. Though faded by time and the elements, blood still stained the sidewalks and alleys in a hazy testament to a history of violence.

When she was younger, Ocean used to squint at the splotches until pictures had begun to emerge; birds, rabbits, round faces with their tongues stuck out, and nice plump cats roasting over an open flame. They were darker back then, lending themselves more easily to the fallacies of imagination; now they were nothing more than vague, rust-colored blemishes.

Not that Ocean was able to fritter away her time with the games and distractions of childhood, anyway. Three moons ago, she’d felt the cramps seize what her mother had always referred to as her musn’t-touch . Days later, her first flow had begun; nothing more than a trickle really, but enough to drive home that she was no longer a child. As a woman, she was now expected to provide for her own needs. She could still shelter with her mother if she chose, but the older woman was free from the obligation of sharing any food or water that happened to come her way, and she was not the least bit shy in letting her daughter know this. The woman had grown progressively cruel ever since Ocean’s father had died; the fact that her little girl was now an adult seemed to free her from whatever obligations had previously kept the worst of her tirades at bay.