Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

I think I’m dying. What was I thinking? My wife will cry. They’ll find me foaming at the mouth, filled to the brim with so much shit they will won’t be able to pump it all out in six trash bags, which would be handy to be a cow, right about now, ‘cause they could pump one stomach and I’d still have one they’d probably miss and I’d still die, cows were holy, once, too, they replaced Jesus Christ on Mt. Sinai as the most high and there was a cult once that thought their mothers came back to life in cow bodies, and it was a big cult, like a billion people, so you know you’d go to heaven if you were a multiple stomach cow who was not pumped properly, even though the paramedics would do the best job they could, and my wife would be crying, clutching my lifeless, big cow body, although she might not have married me if I was a cow, unless, of course, say if I was a prize-winning cow that they decided not to cut up for family dinners because I was loved by a woman who would cry over my dead body, should I mistakenly take a buttload of pills at the office one day. One day I’ll buy her a cow so that she’ll have a companion after I’m gone, it will be a black and white one and she’ll never ask me to go out for milk ever again and we can just slice a nice piece of steak off the cow anytime we want, it will just make sort of a pleading mooooo sound that we’ll think is mighty cute as we pass the gravy to little Jimmy Somebody, our child of five years, except we’d probably get in trouble with the police for cruelty to animals, which I can understand, if the cow was still alive and I was cutting pieces of meat off of it, and they’re really serious about that nowadays, considering all the work the Graham’s have done, there’s even a special task force for it, which I should probably be quiet about, here I am talking about it and they could be listening to me right now, some sweaty guy with a tape recorder going in a lonely hotel room and my digital voice saying all sorts of negative things about cows. Of course they’d have questions about the pills, too, which I totally forgot about, my god, if they’re not pissed about the cow comments they’re probably sending people over right now since I’m abusing the drugs, I’m not even prescribed most of these pills, and I’ve been blabbering about it. Now, what did I say, exactly?

How long till they get here, is what I want to know. I should hide, run into the men’s room and make myself scarce for awhile, but that’d be the first place they’d look, it’s in all the movies, shit, I should have never started blaspheming those cows, I really wouldn’t like a steak if it was off of my pet cow, my wife’s companion, that’s not right, people who do that aren’t right in the head, and I didn’t take any drugs that weren’t prescribed to me by a certified doctor, which, oh god, now they know I’m lying, since I’ve just been sitting here talking about it for like four hours and now I’ve got that staged voice of someone trying to fool a tape recorder and they’ve probably got polygraph machines anyways which can tell when you’re lying and they know it already, I’d fail one of those as soon as they asked me my name, which is not to say that I use a fake name or alias or anything, oh god, Joseph, shut up, now they think you’re some sort of fake name using criminal who’s snuck into corporate PANGEA to extort somebody or steal or break something important, like a fax machine or the copier, can you imagine the havoc there would be without a copy machine, if all the buildings didn’t have one, ‘cause at first you could just go next door, cup of sugar please, kind of request, really, and there’d just be some inconvenience, but what if they didn’t have one either and neither did the next building and then, by that time there’s a parade of document holding pilgrims all on a quest for copies, and you see, I’ve done it again, now they know my plan, but it’s not my plan, that was Franco’s plan, he’s the anarchist, I’m just a director of keep goinghood, here, there’s a guy name Franco you want to speak to if you’re worried about the copy machine plot, they won’t believe me, I wouldn’t believe me, I’m lying, they just heard me come up with it, and now Franco’s probably pissed, he knows now that if anything were to happen I’d rat him out and he’s not even a bad guy, no he’s just the person I’d prefer to have go missing, but I’m sure he’s not missing, I’m not going to have him go missing, I had nothing to do with him missing, I was just speaking, um, rhetorically, I have no intention, nor have I ever caused someone to go missing, god Franco I’m sorry, I got carried away with it, I hope you’re okay, I hope they don’t pin it on me, this is just like that movie with that guy from that site, that was a good show until he left, anyway, just like it, you know the one where the guy threatens him outside the restaurant and then, the guy ends up dead the next day and all those people heard him threatening the guy and the cops arrest him and he goes to jail, it takes years for them to figure out he didn’t do it, oh god, they’ll be here any moment, and I’ve asked for it, I’m cutting chunks of live cow off, I’ve strangled my wife during a hardcore sex fest, I’m involved in a copy machine genocide plot and poor, poor Franco, he never saw it coming, but, but, the bastard was sleeping with my wife, that’s what I’ll say, yah, he was fucking her, and that’s why I strangled her, that was real, too, she’s probably still wrapped up in our bed sheets, the kids are sitting at the table waiting for her to fix breakfast and it’s afternoon, those stupid cow pinching leeches, those little demanding bastards, who’s going to take care of them once I’m in prison, with big mean men who want my ass for a vagina substitute, the pain of it, the sensation of that foreign object in your bowels, poor Franco got off lucky, I’ll tell you, the kids’ll just have to go live with the grandparents, old fuckers that they are, it will be perfect match, old fuckers and little bastards, they can all hate me in a collective cuss fest for what I did to mommy and daughter dearest, that was such a requirement, she deserved it, oh shit I’ve got to stop talking, this is my confession, he’s recording the whole damn thing and the jury’ll hear this later, what will I say then, it was the pills, those god damn pharmaceutical companies, they don’t care about side-effects, all they care about is the almighty buck, look what it did to me, it distorted me and now I’ve killed my wife, carved up my pet cow, god knows what happened to Franco, and something else, I can’t remember, you see, those pills, those fucking pills, except now they know my defense strategy, shut up Joe, shut up until your lawyer comes and gets you, this is going nowhere.

It is so dark this time of year. Are my eyes open? I think I’m in a coma. Oh god, I’m not going to die, I’m going to be stuck in a coma for two centuries, on a heart-ventilator and all I’ll hear is a beeping noise for the rest of my life, only I read once that coma people can hear what’s going on around them, so maybe I’d hear my wife come and visit me and my kids and my parents would come because they’d feel so guilty, who are you, I’ve never heard that voice before, but she’s weeping, she’s weeping so bitterly, and he’s trying to be a man, trying not to cry, only he can’t help it, you can hear it when he pronounces the beginnings of words, that short, sort of choking sound, it’s so difficult for them, they didn’t mean to give me up, they have met my wife and kids, they see now what kind of man I was, and they hate themselves for what they did, they can’t live with themselves, suddenly I hear a loud crash, they’ve held hands and jumped out the window, they felt so guilty about their leaving me, why did you do it, was I so ugly, was I too much trouble, maybe I don’t have a father, maybe my mother got knocked up by some roving salesperson of some kind and was kind enough not to abort me but she really couldn’t handle a child, not at the age of sixteen, or fifteen, or fourteen, that would be a disgrace, so she had me in a public restroom and dropped me off in front of the orphanage in a wool blanket and with a note that said ‘here is my lovely boy, I love him dearly but I can’t take care of him, please see that is treated well and that he knows one day how truly sorry I am’. Are you recording this? I think I’m on the floor. You see, I was under stress, none of this ever happened. I won’t be taken alive, damn you, do you hear me? I don’t think I’m making words. They’re probably inside my brain. They’re recording my thoughts, they know all about her. Run Flower, run for your life. They know, they know about you. She wanted it rough, I swear, it wasn’t rape. Tongue curved, against my lips. Soft skin, naked breasts. My fingers around her butt cheek. Other hand on lower back, her spine. She’s against me. Pushing. A bouquet in my nostrils, lying in a field of wild flowers. Her hand is on me, groping. She pulls me down. Rough. Fear nothing. Hurt me. More. Don’t stop. I want to scream. Hard. I’m wet. Make me cry. Fear you. Fear.