Chapter Three: Of Course. Bats.

A classic 911 story ending: The spontaneous revolutions are further apart as you get older and you need to experience the creative human spirit when it takes a hold of you. I believe in taking the picture when you see it, like you might not ever see it again, the now or never, and even when you’re chained you can run. Of course The work takes your time up and this is alright, you need to relax and count with the abacus more and more often than not, that is, if you don’t want to drop dead before you’re fifty. Once in a while though it snaps into place and you just have to go. So (Auden Wyatt, the character of my gonzo style) got six solid pages typewritten single spaced. I don’t know, many words later. And it was fun and I tried to make it to 9:11 on the Patio. Didn’t happen. It ended alright I suppose. The story ended The way it should have. I was getting to a real good part and then I heard them scratching and yawning…Two bats, not even nine yet, dropped out of the rafters and couldn’t find the damn door. Back and forth I keep trying to tap. It’s weird and I know, but it’s kind of scary because I don’t like bats too much. They’re flying around and so I go outside to collect my nerves. The sun is setting and it’s fucking beautiful for a second, but then a butterfly goes on a kamikaze mission into my face as the radio breaks from ‘you aint nothing but a hound dog’ to ‘breaking news about chemical weapons, the BIG O speaks within the hour’. I’m holding a book, it’s about free speech, another quote…but I can’t remember the source off-hand. It reads something like, ‘those that hold the law in mind hold the wolves by the leash’. Sounds good to me. One bat hits the screen door. Idiot. Who the hell is weed whacking right now? My lord…and so I light a smoke and I’m surrounded by old cracks and steps and  the savage cell phone use about bills and pills and broken coin operated laundry. Who are these people? Why do they want to scream all day long. It’s alright…it’s just that when I smile A dragon-fly is chasing a hummingbird and I think neither won…. It’s over. I know it. I’m tired and drunk and so I sneak in and turn the typewriter off…Bats still circling. Monkcap Pulled down like I’m in the Cosby Cartoon gang. It’s a sick joke. Need a bat zapper but I respect em’ too much. It’s weird. I respect everything too much and everything only wants to kill me. Peace. The last song on the radio is Nowhere man by the Beatles. The last line is, ‘making his nowhere plans for nobody’. That’s it. It’s over. That’s about right.  The end. That’s a classic 911 story. (There’s so much more…) 

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