Burnt flesh. Smell the subject’s burnt-human-flesh. Whimpering? You’re fucking-pathetic. “Your time slips away.” Slayer’s Raining Blood on continuous-loop; LOUD; keep’s him and his men focussed; drowns-out the screaming and power-tools. The subject is bound to a steel-chair: hands and feet. Drill-hole: knee-cap. Face smashed: smeared with dried-blood. Nose crushed: twisted, flattened, pushed-in. Eyes black; swollen nearly-completely shut.
“I can’t see nothin’; I gotta open my eye. Cut me Mick.” Rocky Balboa — end of Rocky-1.
The subject has been tortured 24-hours straight. Heat: charred-flesh; pliers: appendages removed; hammer: fractured and broken bones. The subject is losing consciousness. Should I let IT rest? War is hell.
“You can’t make an omelet, without breaking some eggs.” Jack Nicholson was the-shit as The Joker.
“MMMMM. Omelets.” Homer Simpson drooling. Fuck I’m hungry.
“Snap out of it!” Cher — Moonstruck.
Stay focussed. The subject is becoming unresponsive. He orders, with rage and black-chi in his voice: “Cut his eyelids completely-off; use an X-acto knife; let’s start there.” Now YOU’LL pay-attention to me.
He’s travelled a long-way to get here; exerted all his chi, all his passion; all his: Focus. Energy. Emotion. Philosophy, the occult, The Bible; ancient texts, modern theories — none could get him here to these magnificent-gates.
“La Porte de l’Enfer.” He smiles to himself: PROUDLY, HAUGHTILY, BOASTFULLY: I know what THAT means. The Path leading to The Gates: wide and black. The darkest, purest, most-brilliant black — magnificent in its absence of all light; a black-so-dark, it almost pulls the light from the air.
He started walking The Path many years ago. All those men who introduced me to this path, most have no-idea what, ‘La Porte de l’Enfer’ means. THEY have no-idea how to get HERE; I do! Stoners; clowns. They think their tattoos make them DARK? Their dark-clothes? Dark music? Morose attitude? Hedonism? Anti-establishment attitude? No. Your scary-looking book written by that organ-playing circus-performer? You’re against the man? I AM THE MAN! BITCH. I’m the blackest-motherfucker on the planet! That’s why I’m HERE, by personal invitation. They’re flipping burgers bragging about their ‘POWER’.
I’ve given EVERYTHING to get here! This time; this place. That’s why I’M HERE; that’s why YOU’RE HERE. 😉
I’m a descendant of Cain! So many books I’ve read; places I’ve traveled; lectures; late nights: studying; outlining; planning; writing — So much energy expelled! Wealth! Time in study! A fortune in chi; in sacrifice! Discipline.
So-many destroyed relationships, a graveyard of broken hearts. Honey: “Pay attention to me.” “Come to bed.” “You’ve worked hard-enough today.” “When are you coming home?” “You need to sleep sometime.” “You’re not validating my feelings.”
FUCK YOU. Honey. Been meaning to tell you, I’ve met someone-else. Someone: Who doesn’t NAG. Who doesn’t BITCH. Who doesn’t COMPLAIN. Who doesn’t WHINE. Someone: Who doesn’t DEMAND my TIME, when I have none left. Who doesn’t STEAL my FOCUS, when it’s directed elsewhere. Who doesn’t TAKE my ENERGY, when I had other plans for it. Who doesn’t TEAR my EMOTIONS, when they’re needed for other things. Someone: Who never tells me, “you’re wrong.” Who’s never passive-aggressive. Who’s never manipulative. Who never tries to sabotage my success. Who never yells, cries, throws fits. Someone: Who I can wake-up with every-day. Who WORSHIPS the ground I walk on. Who loves everything about me. Who always says, “you’re right.” Who never disagrees with me. Someone: Who never accuses me of cheating. Who doesn’t care if I sleep around, (actually encourages it.) Who’s complete in themselves. Who doesn’t need anyone else. Who’s always satisfied. Who’s only goal is to make me happy. Someone I love more than you…
I love ME some ME!
The Gates: magnificent in their construction; solid — Extending: PROUDLY, HAUGHTILY, BOASTFULLY; high into the air- Shiny; a mirror finish.
As he approaches The Gates, observes his own reflection. His reflection looks better than the original: perfect, flawless. He remembers all he’s accomplished; all that fills him with pride; every victory.
The closer he gets, the reflection becomes ever-more complimentary — a hypnotic effect. He remembers: his trophies — making varsity in basketball as a freshman — the only one. Having the finest-girl at the prom. All his most-memorable accolades from his whole-life to this point:
“You’re special.” Mom.
“How can you understand calculus You’re only 12.” Mrs. Riley, Math Teacher.
“You’ve got talent kid.” Pickering, Youth Basketball Coach.
“You’re good at everything you do.” Ms. Stanford, English Lit.
“You’re a natural! You’re really good! You should try out for the team! Bet you make varsity!” Neighborhood Friends.
“Your imagination is amazing.” Mrs. Abravanel, Chemistry teacher.
“You’re the best player we have. The guys respect you; you will be team captain as a Junior. All the big schools want you.” Coach Robinson, High School Coach.
“Your mother loved you best. You filled all her last-days with joy. She was so proud of you. She probably lived another-5 years, because of the joy you brought her.” Aunt Rose.
“Don Seraphini wants to meet you.” Uncle Ed.
“Your mother was a good woman. She did a lot for this community. I’ll pay for her funeral. No strings.” Don Seraphini, Kansas City Syndicate boss.
“I’ve heard good things about you. I need someone like you: Smart. Clean cut. No criminal-record. They won’t see you coming.” Don Seraphini, Kansas City Syndicate Boss.
“Capable. Fearless. Inventive. Talented. Gifted. This is what you were meant to do; born to do.” Cameron Gipson, neighborhood boss.
“Damn you’re smart.” Demard Henderson, regional boss.
“You’ve got the contract, congratulations! You must have friends in high places. A high-profile hit is rarely entrusted to a cherry. I want him killed in front of his family. Be creative.” VC Carter. Head Enforcer. Kansas City Syndicate.
“Welcome to New York! You got me here. You’ve proved yourself. I’ll be your new-mentor. I need someone close I can trust.” Don Seraphini, Head of The US. Syndicate.
“You’ve turned this whole-operation around. You’ve got a gift for leadership. You’re not like any of my other-killers. You’re very creative. Pliers? Never met anyone who’s preferred method of killing is pliers. We’re the most-feared gang in the nation. I trust you with anything. You’re talented without bounds. My most-efficient hit-man. You never cease to amaze. A child-assassin? God help us!” Don Seraphini, Head of Global Syndicate.
“The Don’s getting soft; the guys want new leadership. Are you with us? We’ll follow your lead.” Joe “The Killer,” Global Syndicate Underboss.
“You’re the only one he trusts. Plan the hit.” Braddock. Furai Lieutenant
“Thank you for your help with Seraphini. We’re taking over. We need someone capable like you; Joe will be in charge of the Syndicate. The Cell-Phone Game? I love it.” George. Furai General.
His accomplishments, impressive-enough to get him to The Gates; not enough to allow passage. Guard: “How many times do I have to tell you kid? Access to The Man is by invitation only. Come back when you’ve got an invitation; no invitation; no entrance.
He asks the guard: “How can I get in?”
Guard: “You have to possess something The Man wants; something to trade with; something He needs. Then, He’ll meet with you to make a DEAL. Very-few people have actually met with The Man. I can probably get you in to meet with one of His lieutenants — that’s the best I can do.”
He replies: “No. When I enter; I want to meet with The Man Himself.”
Guard: “You’re getting up-there in age! The Man only recruits the young; after 22 you’ll be too-old. You haven’t much-time left.”
When he invented The Cell-Phone Game; he was allowed to approach The Gates. When he betrayed and murdered his old-boss, his prior-mentor: Don Seraphini, AND obtained a new, more-powerful mentor: The Man sent him a personal invitation.
He approaches The Gates; they swing open, wide. PROUDLY, HAUGHTILY, BOASTFULLY; he continues his journey.
The Man awaits.