by Jim Meirose.
Well—here I am. Okay. Ready?
Yes, but, first—care for a soft drink?
No, thank you.
A light snack?
No. Just get started. I am ready. Go on.
Fine, so. As for where we left off, it’s very simple to say only that, if pressed to speak further on under or over or even right into the pain of imprisonment, and, if that’s true, as well as the larger truth that all authority comes from God, well. It would be a sin to not state his words in that instance, but—especially not to you.
Wait, wait—I’m not quite getting that. Can you go over that again, but differently?
Oh, no, no. That is not necessary. All up to now has been fluff. Yes, really—but I do very well know that to you, and only to you, is owed only not the precisely exact meaningful string of what words had been said that very day, bu’; the reason I called you’s best expressed by recounting my further experiences, as a working girl, years previous, when no one mowed my grass but me, so to speak, or necessarily cared to throw up, or to cast down, even one or two dollars to see me safely from the womb to the workspace, ah, like—I learned that you scramble the samewise no matter which sex your c-coin got flipped down to, or which appropriately responsibilitied randomly grindstoned tightly up-down your nose, r’ whatever, out the to to to to to to, to; to obtain your daily feed. Get that better?
Not quite, but—go on.
Oh yes, oh wow. Nono problemo. Most getting this spiel, say so at this point, just as the Host of the Lambs put it, in their past old all big so-so beens, hit in tune t’ their own minds, which we were asked to join into also, pal, when you were less than a tyke even, as my voice got put in me full-bore angelic, but—those rails are not available for such as we to ride down at this time, but; here’s the big snitch, where my Dad, and his Pop, rode high ‘sides each other, very quite likely fully, ‘nd blindly; proud th’ my job at Monsoon’s box factory’d they’d drug up for me’d been hooked off my back one whole single’n solid’d year. Wow! The very memory, well, of their happiness, just ah, sends me. Monsoon’s box factory. The mere words—ahhh. Hear it; box factory. Sweet music, no?
Sure, yes, but; you worked in a box factory?
Oh, yah, ya, I may no’ seem t’ b’ ‘sso, but Monsoon’s cardboard box factory took me in, and set me down busy, all day, every day, for good pay. But; after a single solidly locked-in year, the Monsoon’s big shot u’ top d’ place waved me off the glue gun line, and told me he’d something else. An’ so—
Wait, wait. Glue gun line? What’s a glue gun line?
Oh, yah—yes, yes—every box factory’s got one. The ol’ Monsoon’s glue gun line’s where I earned my keep; I shot a glue gun. At my very own station. One of thousands of such stations down the factory line. Monsoon’s plant was all giant, but down the small mid of it, mine just was to, quite simply, pull the small trigger smartly back on my glue gun, exactly when the point of the gun lined up perfectly on the cardboard box joint to be glued. Boxes are just cardboard and glue, glue and cardboard; boxes have never nor ever will be anything more. That was my job; and the job of hundreds of others lined off to the left and the right of me. Easy, so easy. Even aiming was unnecessary. Just stay awake, watching the little red bulb under the gun, and the cardboard box joint slid over ‘til it’d lined up front o’ my gunpoint, and the red bulb lit bright, I pulled, it shot, and there you go, honey. The only real skill was to pull the trigger all s-s-s-smartly to instantly glue the work down right, all tight, all sweet. Job felt good a long while, yes. Felt sweet. Just the trigger, was my part. Slide over; line up; red light; pull; done. Over and over and over again just as planned by whomever she was came up with this whole deep-sea dive of a hyperchanical scene. A sure thing, it was. Each and every time. Yes but—The big Monsoon himself came by, and told me, Hey, kid, you do the trigger well, too well, actually. And what he didn’t tell me was that they thought my pay—being in line with one who just had what it took to pull the glue gun trigger as described above all day—was better spent on one to whom that job was the limit of their ability, and they reasoned how to solve this down two separate and discreet garden paths. These were, 1. Seeing as how the job seemed to more than suit me on just a triggerman’s pay meant that perhaps more pay was not required by me, and, 2. Knowing through some kind of divinely mystically occultish divination in the upper-reaching levels of Monsoon’s grand black and chrome very sterile and safe corporate office tower somewhere south of Abu-Dipsyslvania, this big Monsoon felt my mind was only working to less than point zero eight five of its God-given potentenetiality, so, he—1. Decided to shamelessly lick my butt happy, by slathering that my glue gun virtuosity was extreme, and that continual observation of me uncovered tha’ my future could hold larger levels of complexity than just hundreds over hundreds of identical trigger pulls each day, but to step back, and widen my scope to encompass the management of the entire Monsoon’s glue gun firing range battalion, which; made me in effect, a boss.
A boss? Wow. Being boss sounds—cool.
Oh yah. Cool. Yes, seemed cool then too. Note, in time, this big Monsoon said, I’d inflate from boss to Boss and no doubt would pump up further into BBoss. And from there to BBOss into BBOSs into BOSS which was the maximum achievable pleasure one could glean from rising to such a powerful position, and, 2. Saying yes to the boss job yyes yyees yyeesss yyeessss to the boss job was mandatory, or—or or or uh or or uh uh uh, huh. Okay. So. There we were hearing Monsoon say the job off to me like, hey hey, bud. Your biggest job now, as of this moment, is to listen up top of the fifty-seven or some hundreds or less of the Monsoon’s triggerpeople just slid down ‘neath of you, and. Under you. That caused warm to come. I do not deny. People being under you, does feel good. But, eh. The gut of the job came to be listening ‘cross over and back to the place top the triggerpeople, for things said by their kind, like, I need water. Or, I need to pee. Also, I am feeling sickly. And my trigger is jammed. Some weeks after this began, a longing for escape rose in me. But they kept on at me; they came, and came again flowing out through the days, with, My glue gun’s empty. My targets have stopped flowing across. My shot won’t stop shooting—the longing for escape deepened and broadened as the flow did not relent, just pushed me, and pushed, as they came at me harder and more, with such as, Hot glue leaked back in my eye. It squirted all in my mouth, in my mouth. My hands are on fire. The fumes seem poisonous to me—do something! I need to take a shit. I have heartburn. I have headache. Too hot back there. Too cold up here. I really don’t like you—inflating more mo’ my desperation to find a way up out of range of their clamor—it mounded still higher, as they said such as, I can tell you think you are better than me. We can tell you think you are better than us. I do not like you—no one here likes you! Oh! God be praised, and I retreated. I finally spent all days in my small hot locked office just ‘nder the high sunburnt tin factory roof—God yes, at last I rose into a height of silence from which to observe my assigned lowing herd far away down below—all became silence, as they silently said, She does not like me. He does not like her. It smells bad in here so. Thank God another day another dollar thank God the Times is updated daily thank God there’s something to do all day every day even though man is still in the forest poor Bambi-bon eucharistical prole, jazz! Don’t shoot that one, please! Not that small one! Jesus Christ almighty, spit! That’s different every time it gets done again over again and and et et et et, buh! Buh! Oh God no, ah—b-b-b—
Hey!
Sorry, sorry. Had to get that out. Rude to you I’ve been. Much too rude. Here; let’s rewind a few. Back to more like why we’re really here. Still no soft drink?
No thanks.
No light snack, still?
Yes.
Okay. So—hey, tell you what; here’s something for you. How about this…