YOU DIED FROM THE UNRIVALLED ESSENCE OF LEADBELLY’S URINE COARSING THROUGH YOUR PANTS POCKET
"I just flew in using the propulsion of my own jizz shooting me backwards and boy are deez nuts tired!" he said pointing down to his crotch at the respective spoken cue with right index and pinky fingers extended, proceeding to furiously wave this gesture of ‘the beast’ back and forth in front of his genital area which was fortunately enough concealed by baggy blue jeans scrunched in heavy creases at the cuffs above shoes which extended twofold the perceived girth of his actual feet. His face behind the mic pulled into a cross between invisible vomiting and staring directly into the sun.
"Listen muchacho," his words directed to you at the bar some thirty minutes later after he’d door nailed five boilermakers. He spoke still clearly enough and maybe any flamboyant intoxicated sparks were residual echoes of the show or a rehearsal of something still to come.
"Listen now," on his sixth, "money these days," he slides his non-drinking hand along the bar away then back towards his barrel chest gesturing the acquisition of invisible currency.
"Some people are blessed in that they are ‘given to do. But my friend, there are those of us…those of us who have to not only chip away at it, not only the one thing—many things—in the hope of a nibble," he adjusts his crotch then raises his non-drinking hand to the bar and with the back of his fingers gestures a bowl of peanuts towards the bar waitress. He holds no particular qualms at staring down her top because if he were a geologist he would no doubt admire the shit about the perfect cubic nature of those titties against one another the way they were framed in that circle of over washed gunsmoke cotton, but that if he were to take her home he didn’t want to be running his hands up the notches of her ribcage so for heaven’s sake baby eat a thing…here…eat.
"We keep chipping until we realize that the rest of the picture is not even anywhere we ever thought it would be. It’s like digging up half a dinosaur skeleton in the Nevada desert then having your mom call you up years later telling you now you’ll never guess what but your father just birthed some kind of lizard skull up out of his rectum and now he’s doing a bit in the intensive care after trying to get him all sewed up right again."
"My point is that we have to be ready to collect it from all angles. My eyes are peeled so far back you can see the fucking stones, you dig? So I look at a guy like you and immediately my intuition tells me, just off my gut, I mean I could have my eyelids glued shut and I’d know all about you. Could sniff you out in this moldy beer trucker fart air a mile off. You been chipping away just the same as me brother. Not pissing in your pocket, but well, heh heh, that kind of brings me to this offer I’m bringing to you."
The guy lifted his Magic’s jersey to reveal a girdle, and attached to it several vials in a specially designed leather caddy.
"Without a shadow I can read a cat like you for being all about the Deep South. It’s not just in those eyes brother, but hell, I tell you what a lot of it’s in those eyes. Heh heh. Muchacho if you haven’t guessed it by now my hand is not placed firmly on your shoulder merely as some late-in-the-drink patronizing gesture. Yes, believe it, these are indeed vials of piss dating back to the very cardiac centrifuge of Delta Blues. Brother, I’m talking of none other than the Stella-pluckin’, stone smashin’, whitey shaftin’ left only now in the narrative pervading heavy through our souls brother, the Lead Belly hisself. The agua of ol’ Hudy’s very being saved by such good fortune as to be delivered into these very hands," flashing you the palms of his hands," by some on the skirts of Houston like Saturday yard sale. Hell was I even rolling awake in bed that hour of the A.M. without a dry-mouthed lady friend unstickying her eyes making those cute alveolar fish-mouth sounds, laying in the generous indent left by my whore of a teenage-sweetheart ex-wife? Nothing but fate on my side bro. Time to get the rock hammer out of retirement and start again the chipping, if you’re still all with me on the metaphor."
There was a crumpled twenty somewhere in your pants that ended up on the counter-top and one of the vials he had unhitched from his caddy was rolling to meet that twenty. He then brought out a photocopied document, stamped and signed to signify that it was in fact a certified copy of the certificate of authenticity for the urine proper, and so was as good as the genuine article, is what he spent too long trying to explain to you before dropping a balled up dollar bill in the peanut bowl as some unnoticed gesture to his underfed sweetheart and slinking out the doorway still circled in mostly dead Christmas lights.
You faced the warmth tumbling from sheet-metal boxes, perched naked beneath your Blue’s Clues bathrobe upon one of a series of skin tone polymer chairs slotted together to mirror the alignment of washer/dryers as one rigid accommodating centipede. The LED countdown minutes away from rewarding you with a new clean week redolent of fabric softener boasting fluffy ducks in blankets bathed in sunshine which remains life-affirming in all its gross excess.
The machine beeped and the door clicked unlocked for you to remove your favorite pair of jeans, your favorite because of the subtle shredding across the knees like someone had at some point blasted you with rock salt and that’s how much you gave a fuck. On that morning however you unexpectedly met the razor edge of a twelve-string blues god who left your denim coursing with fatal mythology.
You secretly relished the ritual of never checking your pockets before putting through a load, followed by the inevitable scooping up from the chrome cylinder, coins and notes and ruined memos of nonsense chord progressions footnoted with something like: Endless stoner throng/the days are short/but the notes are long. You then loved pretending the latter to have been something way more poignant and meaning-filled towards your development as an artist, giving you free reign to hate on yourself for allowing something so priceless to be lost to the ether. But after all there was only fate to blame for never giving you a break because life is, as we all know, one random love distributing motherfucker and you were clearly off the radar. The love radar. So Lead Belly’s urine or whatever it was in that stick of glass stayed in your back pocket through the full cycle and the cork on the thing coming unstuck for the fluid to free itself down the threads of your rocking jeans and diluting into the wash liquid, draining off somewhere discrete one can only pray after seeing the shit it was about to unleash upon you.
First 5 seconds: Oh god this is bad.
First 30 seconds: Oh god no, really, really bad.
One minute in: Now they’ve got him with a Cognitive Neuroscience textbook in his lap being super good at crossword puzzles jesus christ why am I even—
3 minutes: Super-hot co-star introduced. Ok hold on guys I think I can make it through this. Just pretend not to hear the pseudo-psychological diarrhea spurting from Rachael Leigh Cook’s angelic mouth.
5 minutes: Will Fucking Truman are you seriously trying to be a neuroscientist? (Yes it took me that long to realise who he was.)
"I can tell she’s innocent from a thiamine deficiency, also Korsakov syn—BATON THE HATCHES MOFOS I GOT A BIG ASS RIVER OF LIQUID SHIT COMING RIGHT UP THE FOODHOLE AUUUUUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH ALLLOVER THE WAAAAAAALLLLLLLLSSSSSSSSSSSYEAHHHHHHHHNEUROSCIENCEBITCHESSSSSSSSSSS."
FYI I AM A HYPER-SENSITIVE GENIUS AND I HAVE TO LISTEN TO CLASSICAL MUSIC WHILE STANDING ON A CHAIR BECAUSE MY BRAIN IS SO ENORMOUS CAN YOU EVEN COMPREHEND THE SIZE OF MY BRAIN NOPE DIDN’T THINK SO.
…OH HOLD ON…IMAGINARY PERSONALITIES YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Best new television TNT.