11 October 2009
There is a boy. At a young age, he witnesses the murder of his parents, the rescue of a small child, the burning of a building, the hitting of a homerun, the flight of the Valkeries, or Hamlet suffering. In the meantime, he falls in love with an angel, a whore. She is unattainable because of class, cultural, familial, or racial differences. Also she’s married to the king who is a villain. One day the boy and the angel / whore cross paths, have an argument, avoid each others’ glances, giggle because they brush hands when they both reach for the same comic book, or sneer at each other; subsequently, falling deeply inexplicably painfully in love for (let me repeat) no real good reason. He’s kind and gentle, rude and obnoxious, patient but realistic, romantic and inept, desperately pleading “For God sake notice me,” strong and silent, clumsy and adorable. He rededicates his life to earning her love. He lifts weights, runs thousands of miles, meditates for weeks on end, climbs the tallest mountain to find the rarest flower, practices swordplay and boxing marksmanship and martial arts and playing poker and flying the starship and enduring pain. Eventually, the villainous king leaves on a “hunting trip” but really has an affair with a lecherous woman married to his brother, who thinks so highly of the king that when he finds out about the affair, he kills his cheating wife and himself after writing a short poetic note regretting his never being a good enough brother to the king, but that’s all beside the point. When the king returns, he discovers whatever it is between the boy and his wife, and he decides to kill them and their families, etcetera. But the boy says, “Are you gonna bark all day, little doggie, or are you gonna bite?” The boy says, “Say hello to my little friend.” The boy says, “Fucking A, man. Are you talking to me? You gotta ask yourself one question, ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Yippe-kai-ai, motherfucker. I’m coming for you, Murdoch. I’m gonna save the fucking day. This is this; this ain’t nothing else; this is this. You can’t handle the truth. I must break you. You shut up, and don’t you fuck with me. I’ll bleed you, real quiet, leave you here, got that? I keep trying to get out, but they keep pulling me back in. Yes, it’s true, this man has no dick. Wait’ll they get a load of me. I’ll be your huckleberry. I will have my vengeance in this life or the next. Get your patchouli stink out of my store. All right you sons of bitches, you know how I feel. Get the hell off my spread. Get your damn paws off me, you ape. Losers are always whining about doing their best; winners go home and fuck the prom queen. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.” So the boy rescues the angel / whore by swinging in on a vine, jumping out of a helicopter, holding his breath underwater for a very long time, walking to hell and back, jumping into a helicopter, winning an unwinnable hand, driving the bus faster than 55 miles an hour the whole time, saving the planet from nuclear annihilation, or punching the king until he collapses; subsequently, bringing the king to justice. Needless to say, the angel / whore is impressed. Nonetheless, we know very little about how they spend the next thirty, forty years.