Lit.Org - a community for readers and writers Advanced Search
 




Average Rating
0.00

(0 votes)

You must login to vote

I pulled this to change the category.

Balance Part 3

Now, I may sell drugs but I don't take them. So what I saw wasn't a hallucination. That cop had me bloody and half-naked, when right behind him I see a monster, a gargoyle, like you see on the churches. But this one wasn't stone; this one was real. It all happened in a bloody blur. The thing lifts the cop off me, just as I was about to lose my cherry, and twirls him. I swear that cop just came apart. The thing throws both the top and bottom of the cop in different directions. Then it picks me up by my foot and starts sniffing at me - all over. I have never been more terrified. I thought to myself, here was when I was going to find out if it really was dark on the other side, like the Emo kids say. Frankly, I wasn't ready to find out. Hell no - I started to scream like a girl. The thing spins me around and pokes at my back, just about where that birthmark is, and then drops me. I watched it pick up both parts of the cop and opens up these huge black wings and flies off into the night sky. I just sat there, again with my privates exposed to the air. Did you know you could still scream when you're torn in half? I threw up and passed out, with my pants around my ankles.

I woke up in a lean-to. The little guys from down in the park had found me, picked me up, and carried me down into one of the canyons. I never really knew how young they were; the oldest must have been no more than twelve. I guess I never paid much attention. It made me sick to think there were pervs in the world that would pay to do a ten-year-old boy. Worst yet that the stinking world would set it up for a kid to have to do it to survive. There wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. Where was God in this shit? I checked my jeans, which my new friends had politely pulled up. My money was gone. The oldest boy just stared at me. I understood without a word being said that payment was due for pulling me to somewhere safe and payment was rightly rendered. Hell, what's a few grand in the scheme of things? The way I figured it, these kids have had enough. They had taken my drug money so they could stay off the streets for a month - maybe longer. I was safe and when I gave it thought it seemed fair. Maybe God was paying attention. I didn't asked if they had seen the 'thing with the wings'; they weren't talkative. As far as the drug money thing went, I could handle the freak in the wheelchair. I got up, thanked the little guys for their hospitality and went looking for religion.

I had heard on the street about a Kid who was supposed to be a prophet. It didn't take me long to find him.

I was going through a dumpster behind this Italian restaurant. The owner of the place was a great guy. He would box up about a dozen pizzas at night and put them in the dumpster, for the street kids. There was one left; I had to crawl up and bend in to get it. My ass was looking at the moon. Someone tapped me on one of my cheeks. Given everyone's need to rid me of my pants, it scared the crap out of me. I fell in. Now I'm thinking itís either the cops, which is okay because I don't have any dope or money, or it's the crip-vet with some hired-thugs looking for his money - which I didn't have. Either way I was going to take another beating or worse.
"Come out my son! Be not afraid." This silky voice says.

I didn't know anyone but preachers that talked like that. Maybe the crip-vet is having some fun with me. I decided to get it over with. I climbed out, slapped the garbage off me, and looked up. There, in front of me. was this hippie-looking kid- long blond hair - small and skinny - wearing this long, beige, African style robe. I had seen 'Jesus Christ Superstar' and the guy reminded me of the lead guy. I smiled, knowing who he was, and introduced myself as Spike. It was a lie and by the smile I got back, he knew it wasn't my name. He turns and waves at me to follow him. I did, but I was still real hungry.

We went to a small shabby house up on 32nd street, one of those single wall deals built during the World War Two. It sure wasn't much on the outside. The door wasn't locked and we entered into a huge hall, maybe one hundred by two hundred feet, with polished wooden floors, high ceilings, and a raised stage with an altar on the back wall. At least three hundred kids were milling around all wearing robes. They all chanted a prayer to a low organ note. I freaked out and ran outside. The house was no more than fifty-by-fifty. I ran around it ten times until I was panting for breath. I sat on the dried out front lawn and shook. I had just about had enough of strange and unbelievable shit. I stood, still shaking and entered the house again, still huge and temple-like inside. All right, it was impossible, it was magic, it was a miracle. Why not?

I was handed a robe and put it on. Completely resigned, I was led over to a table with platters and plates of food. Without any embarrassment or shame, I stuffed my face like a pig, then with the urgency gone, sated I sat down munchig grapes and listening to the Kid droning on about the Father God and his concern for the New Israel. Apparently, all of us gathered here was New Israel; the Old Israel was not currently in God's good graces. After I finished eating I decided to leave. Any interest in the sermon waned with the bloat of a full stomach. I slipped out of the weirdness and headed into the deep night for a place to crash.

The park seemed the best bet. I could sleep out the night behind the Museum of Man. It was quiet there and, if I were lucky, there would be a plethora of large cardboard boxes to climb into. I was sore and exhausted and needed rest. When I got there all was still. As I started setting up a box I was bushwhacked - with a club - to the head. It was a glancing blow but it hurt like hell just the same. I turned around and there, with three trogs, was my wheel-chaired, legless, phrenetic friend.

I sighed over his tirade and sat down hard thinking 'What else could God cram into one night?'

www.klstoryteller.com


------
Why is doing what you love the hardest thing to do? Is it because failing what you thought defined you would be too devastating a thing from which to recover? If so, we stay where mere accident has left us.


Related Items

Comments

The following comments are for "Balance Part 3"
by jonpenny





Add Your Comment

You Must be a member to post comments and ratings. If you are NOT already a member, signup now it only takes a few seconds!

All Fields are required

Commenting Guidelines:
  • All comments must be about the writing. Non-related comments will be deleted.
  • Flaming, derogatory or messages attacking other members well be deleted.
  • Adult/Sexual comments or messages will be deleted.
  • All subjects MUST be PG. No cursing in subjects.
  • All comments must follow the sites posting guidelines.
The purpose of commenting on Lit.Org is to help writers improve their writing. Please post constructive feedback to help the author improve their work.


Username:
Password:
Subject:
Comment:





Login:
Password: