Jan 30, 2024, 06:24AM

Mister Happy-Go-Lucky

Blink, and you’ll miss it. 

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Rough, tough cream puffs roam these unkind streets. Real pushovers are falling for the old switcheroo of the badasses. Unkempt urchins lurk in shady alleyways and deserted graveyards. Abandoned places where not even lost souls are found and never remembered. Another love-starved child of the fruitless revolution, miserable failures of uncouth youth culture. Nothing left, zero choices—Coke or Pepsi—do you want fries with that? Vietnam, Canada, the Middle East, or Mexico? Peace or love? NYC or LA? Belize or the Redneck Riviera? Who’s bringing home the bacon? Porcine merchants of greed. Pro-burger flippers? Paper or plastic Wait a minute. Plastic bags, you say? Bad for the environment. Your carbon footprint is muddy. Kicking aluminum cans down the sidewalk.

How I always arrive at this exact moment is beyond my comprehension. Blink, and you’ll miss it. These questions are better left to armchair philosophers, weekend scientists, and just-born medical professionals. Science versus fiction. My physical and biological stats suggest a well-seasoned gentlemanly demon growing close to ripening like a vampire, but not as needy. With one foot in a rank grave and the other dancing precariously on the edge. The thirst for virgin, immaculate conception blood. We’re crazy cool fools that way. A breezy attitude about everything is of no help to the wicked. Sleep when you're dead, you say. That’s rich for a corpse. Love never hurts in the equation.

It goes with the territory—no simple, follow-the-leader type of thing. Gone in search of personal emotional rescue from the ultra-modern civilization city blues. Even the devil needs a mental health break occasionally. All that trauma is taxing. Weighs heavily on even the strongest and most powerful demons. They get no respect from other underworld creatures. It’s a solitary life that Satanic types lead. There’s no moral high ground. It’s a desert at the bottom of the sea. Take the low road, and I’ll swim there before the road rises with you. The pure evil incarnate is so alluring yet misunderstood.

It only takes one doofus to muck up the whole serenity scene, for crying out loud. We’ll have plenty of time to consider the state of the state in conjunction with an adverse null universe of future political union impossibilities. Just ask anyone on the street, exactly how or why. What the hell’s happening? You'll get a million responses. No two replies are equal or even on the same wavelength. You can’t destroy the darkness. My provenance dates back to the Garden of Eden. A snake in the grass. An apple with a worm in it. Naked bodies are hiding their shame. I think I’m sinking down, strung out on goofballs on the outskirts of town. It’s okay, though; I’m a pro.

No need to introduce myself; I still have a king's ransom in royalty's wealth and the infamy some call fame. I do good deals all day long and all night too, at the crossroads; you sell your soul at a discount for immortality and a cheaply-manufactured electric guitar. Sex and drugs and rock and roll so fast and hard, it hurts, baby! I can’t think straight with this noise in my head. The clockwork unwinds. Turn it down. Only a devilish man could understand hungry ghosts. They never eat, but they’re always starving. An appetite for more life, perhaps, or less living. What chicanery is this to play possum with ghosts? It’s a very interesting devilry to watch spiders weave as snakes slither across your psyche. You may find refuge in the bosom of the Lord Almighty, or possibly, under a foot or an armpit. The Lord works in mysterious ways. His footprints vanish in the sands of time, like that old poster from the 1960s hanging in a folky church.

No lowly nobleman can lay claim to his majesty’s throne among my ranks. The aristocracy holds no sway over me. We can conquer the universe in one millisecond, merely by our very existence. The driver of a tiny car, where occupants exit the vehicle in a steady stream of buffoons and ignoramuses, crashing into walls of hellfire and brimstone. Cackling with fearless glee until the wheels fall off and sparks come flying out the bottom. The dull thump of bodies thuds under the conveyance, leaving a wake of bloody, unidentified limbs and meaty parts strewn across the road. You must repent for your sins or die a thousand roadkill deaths. The night has a thousand dead eyes. Death demands more death. The gods hold no bloody dominion over our kind. We’d rather rule in hell than become some patsy for benevolent beings. That’s me and you. I’d never be a member. 


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