Thursday, September 07, 2006

lord knows the devil, he only talk shit.

It's late and the Sheep Man is tired. He has his night cap on and his nightcap in a Dunkin Donuts mug I got a week ago. I'd swear he was drinking the finest whisky (McColl's, $14 at Liquor Warehouse, plastic bottle whisky at its finest) but I haven't had any whisky for at least five days.
A beer's another story and boy do I have stories.

"Turnoutthelightandgotobed," he says while fishing for his cigarettes. It's one thing to wear a Sheep costume, but certainly another when wearing powder blue jammies over that. Makes you wonder where comfort comes in. But I sipped my coffee and told him to just wait. I wanted to finish something. I was playing a game and I was shooting these guys who laughed and blew up if they hugged you.

Just like in real life, you goddamn hippies.

"Fine.Justdon'tgetanyideas."

Like what?

The Sheep Man pulled up one of the four chairs supplied by the dorm and sat beside me sipping rotgut whisky and now he was getting a bit peeved from the lack of nicotine because I could see this in his demeanor. He thumbed through an old Entertainment WEEKLY! and said,
"Thekindyougetafterabeer.Thebestideas,theoneswhereyou'recharmingandyousuggestamoviebecausethat'swhatyouknowandyoutrytodazzlethem.Youtrytotalkaboutpoliticsandstructureandeverythingyougrewupwith," The Sheep Man says. "You'rereallyfuckingtragicwhenyouthinkaboutit.Nolightsduringtheday,onlyhalogenatnight.Bettergetabettercoat.Winter'scoming."

The crust punk in the Villager article said the same thing. Said he barely knew why he still fought the Man while cooking the tea. They keep fighting and dancing and smiling and dying in the bathrooms of every trendy dark bar in the area. But they're living a free dream, right?

"Whateveryousay.Everyone'saslavetosomething.Yougetcaughtinthesametwo-stepjustcauseit'seasy.Can'tletthathappentoyou," The Sheep Man says as he magically reveals a lone cigarette between his fingers. He grabs the zippo on the table and lights up. A quick drag, a faster sip and a sigh.
"Mmm,s'tasty.Thinkit'soneofyoursthough."

Well, that's quite all right. Boom, head shot.

"Everwonderwhatit'dbelikeifyouwerebrave?"

Boom, head shot. Well, once in a while. What do you mean?

"Youknow.Talkingtoweirdpeople,beingsocial,thatsortofthing."

Being so--wait, what are you getting at?

"Nothing.Just,youknow,youseemlikeyoutrytodredgeyourselfinthesesituations.Couldacalledsomeone.Couldagoneoutforabeerdownthestreet.Couldagonearoundlookingforsomething."

And?

"Nothing. Justforallyourstories,youseemtostayinsidealot."

It's raining.

"Yep.WasrainingthatfirstnightattheEdge."

It's cold, too.

"Yep. Wascoldthatnightyouwenttothechristmaspartyandhadablast.Wascoldthatsamenightyousleptonacouchandsawthoseorangethingsandsuch."

I don't feel like going out. I go out enough. There are horrible and frightening things outside that command me to interact with people. I dislike people. They are loud and demand things and discuss current events.

"Youtalkedaboutshirtsandd&dlastnight."

Don't forget Magic Hat seasonal brews.

"Didn'tthinkyourememberedthatpart."

I remember all my stories. That's why I hate going outside.

"Justbecarefulwhenyou'redoingthis.Don'tgetcaughtupinthemechanics.Ifyoutwo-stepforeveryou'lllosethesoulandthenyou'rejustadork."

I'll keep that in mind.
Boom, head shot. And The Sheep Man took the last sip out of my mug, making his way to the window and flicking the filter toward the street. Boom, head shot.

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