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I’ll start this with a character I name, tentatively, for this purpose, First.
First is executing a robber who just held up a bus. First has no job, but mysteriously, he can afford to go around killing people who kill people. He’s a vigilante. Sort of. I make him undieable. And gunslinger cool.
In this particular scenario, the bus robber is barely out of his teens. They’re all alone now. The air thick with comic book drama. The bus robber is on his knees, blood all over him, his face broken. First clucks his tongue and admires his handiwork: look at that piece of broken flesh, so destroyed by top-of-the-line Chuck Norris kung fu.
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First looms over him with this shiny revolver in one hand, and a piece of paper on the other. On the paper is written a Neruda verse. First recites the verse, and he asks the robber to recite it, too. Then he explains what it means.
First is weird like that. For him, it’s a ceremony. He thinks you can’t cut a motherfucker without first teaching him beautiful things, like poetry, love, no-strings-attached fornication.
So First wants, really, really wants, the robber to understand love. If love were a physical thing, like a sharp piece of steel pipe is a physical thing, he wants it, really really wants, to shove it down this motherfucker’s throat.
But the robber is breaking down, snot gushing down from every hole in his face because, one, he’s illiterate, and two, he knows he’s going to die. When you know you’re about to die, even a Neruda verse (if he understood every word of it) is the ugliest, most frightening thing on this God-forsaken earth.
Now stop.
I’ve been working on this bit for the past two years. I thought about it sometime in 2006, wrote something, left it unfinished and splayed like the carcass of some animal, and did things people do when there’s no trunk brimming with cold cash in the basement. I returned to it occasionally. Later, I added some “powers” to First’s persona. I thought I should make him be able to fly. Or wear something black and sleek and cool. I intended to give him opponents that become more and more insurmountable. Like what Commissioner Gordon said about “escalation.”
But one afternoon, some months ago, I looked at it again and decided everything had been silly. The First I had built up didn’t feel like a real person. He didn’t have real problems. He simply appeared where shit happened, kicked some ass, and that was that. I had been so enamored with awesomeness I totally forgot the other very important half: the half that sometimes looks at his shiny gun and thinks maybe he should blow his own head off. The half that is painfully aware of his phony-ness. The half that doesn’t really get that Neruda shit.
Fugitive Pieces dvdrip And maybe “First” isn’t a very good name at all. I think I’ll make him a woman next time. Then I’ll name her “Vulva.”
Comments 1
good name. vulva.
Posted 29 Apr 2009 at 2:24 pm ¶Post a Comment