Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

“How about those sports scores?”

Joseph was alone in the elevator, rising in the belly of the building, being lifted up to the very pinnacle of Immunex’s supremacy. He walked out of the sliding metal doors and into the luxurious hallway that was the red carpet of the branches most important men. He passed secretaries and assistants as though he knew where he was going and did not need to bother them. They glanced up at the man in the bad suit, figured he was being called up by one of the fasces to be reprimanded, promoted, or fired, and went back to their tasks. Joseph came to the end of a hall and knocked on a door. No one answered. He opened it and peeked his head in. The lights were out, the executive had not arrived yet for work. Joseph snuck in and walked quickly over to the window. He pressed his forehead against the glass, he couldn’t see the ground, he couldn’t even see the next floor down. But he could see the other buildings, far below, only a few towering at the height of the Immunex building. He could see streets that were blocks away, he could see the tiny cars that looked like some of his son’s toys, he could see the colors of people, but not their shapes, sex, stature.

He was one thousand-four hundred feet in the air. He would not survive this fall. Joseph turned from the window and walked back to the door. He took off his camel coat, set down his satchel and pressed his left foot against the wall. He stared at the window, framing the cloudy, gray sky. He could only see the heavens, nothing awaiting him far below. Joseph bent down and put his fingers on a blue line in the carpet as if he was waiting for the starter pistol to announce the beginning of a race. In his mind, he determined when he should start and he sprang forward, he knew he would need a lot of speed to make it through the window. He felt his feet as they stomped down on the padded floor, he saw the desk as he ran by, the small two chairs and table, the fichus plant that needed water and then, only the window. He jumped and covered his head with his arms. He felt the pressure of the window, its construction resisting the force of his body, he felt it for a second halt his forward motion. Then, it flexed out from the building, its construction giving way at the point of first contact, at the second, third, fourth and so on, until Joseph felt the whip of the wind, the small shards of glass in his arms, chest and forehead, he saw for a moment the distance to the earth, and then, only darkness.

“Joseph, that was fuckin’ wonderful.”

“Flower? Did I do it?”

“Twice.”

“Did I kill myself?”

“You worked pretty damn hard,” she Kwannonly replied.

“No, did I die?”

“In an Emily Dickinson sense, we both did.”

“So, this is death, finally.”

“Don’t go to fuckin’ sleep, I don’t want it to be over.”

“Where am I?”

“In the hallway. I thought you’d left. I was waiting my turn. You’re more of a man than I gave you credit for.”

“Is this the afterlife?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know? Why don’t you just lay back and enjoy the remaining sensations.”

“Am I still inside you?”

“Yes.”

“I can feel it.”

“I can feel it, too. Fuck… you have energy, I don’t know if I can do it again, you stallion.”

“Did I take you?”

“We’ll call it voluntary…”

“Was it what you wanted?”

“Oh, fuck yes. It was all I’d hoped for and more. I came as soon as you grabbed my arm. I kept cumming while you kissed my chest. I came when you fuckin’ pulled my shirt open and bit my fuckin’ nipple. I came when you pulled my panties down. I thought I was going to spontaneously combust when you fuckin’ forced your fuckin’ dick in me.”

“I don’t remember,” said Joseph Kierkegaardly.

“That’s okay, I fuckin’ remember. I’ll always fucking remember. You’re the best I’ve ever had.”

“Really?”

“No, but I can feel you fuckin’ growin’ inside me. I was providing emotional support.”

“Thank you.”

“So are you going to start fucking me again or keep talking?”

“Are you my guardian angel?”

“Shut up and get to fuckin’.”

“Do all angel’s talk like you?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, Jesus fuck Christ, Joseph. Can you feel me fuckin’ against you, I’m practically begging for you, why don’t you quiet the fuck down. All I want to hear from you is fuckin’ grunting from now on, no more questions.”

* * *

Alas, in the great mêlée paddock of Galtish affairs, without six shooters or posse justice, per say, with such conventional conventions (purely miragical in their constructs), relying entirely on vintage notions of fair play, the costumed words of ambition (the only patron remaining of anyone’s humor) act in a theatre of perjury welcomed by the cast, the audience, and the playwright, who, as the architect of the fictional panorama, abuses the set for his own devices. No matter, never mind the ludicrousness of such barons seeking some paradise away from those shoulders, there are times of conflict, when two of the same, a Roark and a Galt, face off for the same title, as was the case when Graham was asked if he might be interested in a Senior Executive Vice President position in the firmament grazing structure known as HQ and a colleague (of sorts), a one, Arlo Ventrilli (Ventrilli Natural Spring Refreshments) got some low-down and went straight to the committee to toss his black/white hat into the dusty street of the duel — ungentlemanly in the broad convention, i.e. no ten paces, turn and fire, with seconds and standard armaments, but pure whisky bedlam. Graham of course heard of this rival with a smirk (Arlo was some upstart B-lister from questionable origins — he’d sold his name, not produced the name which became the brand) and set to disarm, if not dismember the challenger out of pure principle.

Graham may have got up every morning and dove off perfectly good waterfalls in sublime form, but Arlo was all anthem and ambition, failing to recognize the absurdity of challenging such a specimen in some kind of shoot-out, and sincerely believing Earp had a chance against Doc in that kind of L’Amour setup. The immensity of the complex delayed the meeting for some time, with Graham sashaying superior in the wild west and Arlo, all lone ranger out east, inflating his own sleight of hand amongst fellow rodeo clowns (collapsing the eight second drama just before and acting as something of saviors for the real idols).

And it didn’t help that his wife, a real Appalachian leather stocking with aspirations of estates and too much of that Grey-matter devoted to fancy, all Brand in prose length, without proper conclusions, gave Arlo the pep natter diurnally and sent him off with his thumbs in his loops, cow poke, sniffing the brim, looking dumbo Gene Autrey. Mrs. Ventrilli was, by all conclusions, about the least appealing in all appearances a woman could near without being branded in the rump, and as wide a posterior, which her husband fondly fondled through her ruffles and bustle, she knew only prone bites of bed sheets in nocturnal congress (lassoed and buckskinned), her consort ambition was wider, trading one for the success of the other, and Arlo’s only dynamic budge was initiated by this tit-for-ingress. So it was that he requested a meeting with the senators to be considered for a post Graham’s domain, and the One heard of the other.

But, Graham was patient… Easily he could have stomped over and slipped off a leather glove from his trigger-hand, returning it only after a quick, double slap, not even tossing it down before his rival’s feet in sign of parity. But he didn’t. No, Graham waited.

And then, by happenstance or some fortune diagram Graham entered The Stetson Oasis company eatery in the no-man’s land of the border badlands of between their VistaVision spheres just as Arlo was carousing with insubordinates over a last plate of spaghetti he had taken rather Bronsonesqly from a suit, and the cantina fell silent, only the whistle of piano man heard and probably some sort of prairie bush tumbling by.