Serotonin Cowboy

Our hero finds himself almost perfectly where he means to be. His heeled boots click-clack in time with the fall of his cane, click-clack, click-clack. His overcoat is thick, jet black, and if you ask me, rather the mystery. The kind of coat a secret man might wear to do secret things at precise times, moving concealed with only the click-clack of his secret mind to reveal him. His coat obscures what was once no doubt the brightest wool suit you’ve ever seen, the sort one might exclaim was worn by only the dapperest of tick-tock click-clack men. Time has made it more secretly loud, more quietly pronounced. And in the front pocket of his vest, a pocket watch with no tick-tocks left but the ones he gives it. Atop his head rests finery of the sort no longer seen, a most crisp top-hat darker than the hearts of a handful of villains. This cleverly coifed gentleman of his own era smiles as he reaches for his quiet companion, the skin tearing ever-so-slightly from his most beautiful Chelsea grin, the knife pattern arcing gracefully from lip to ear to mid-cheek in a loop. If one asked me and demanded my impression, I would perhaps say that it was the brushstroke of an artist on his most personal canvas. Or I might just giggle.

“The most perfect time to be exactly where I mean to,” he says with his wide smile, looking up in time to see the grille of the van.

He does not feel the impact, nor does he take note of the way his feet sweep ever so daintily off the sidewalk. He certainly can’t hear the crash of the glass doors, little bits of art tinkling across the stone lobby floor like dancers in a final number. He does not notice the horrified, frozen quiet of these silents, these gallery critics that don’t know brilliance when it lands at their feet. They don’t have click-clack minds at all, just schemes and clumsy knives and smiles full of fake teeth.

The truth is that our hero perceives not a bit of this, as he is much too busy preening for this display, bones snapping dramatically, blood rushing to be in place, skin tearing dutifully for this mad show.

The van skids to a halt and the driver, his stage hand and partner, his enormous Russian man with sad eyes and a rather masky frown, his Dear Alexei, exits the vehicle and promptly goes to work. Opening the rear doors and removing an enormous sledgehammer, long and heavy and loaded with all sorts of ill intent, bearing the faces of his unloving mother and overly amorous father, their theatre now closed. With a swing he rearranges the face of the nearest guard, too conflicted between trying to act and trying to grasp. His body falls in a limp bow, another actor making his exit.

Our hero pulls his body, unbreaking and sadly losing beauty, back together again and says, “I’m looking for the green-eyed man.”

The other guard, the ignorant, the cretin with symmetrical terror reaches for his fire-arm. He means to be the show-wrecker, the tomato-flinger with lungs full of ill phrasings. His face delightfully fits oh so perfectly in our hero’s hand. As though that’s exactly where it was always meant to be, a piece of clay in the master’s hands.

“BEGONE, said the traveler to the distraction,” he says before ushering this Philistine off-stage.

Yet before he could query the fool-gallery again, he finds a troupe of faceless men with faceless intent, rushing to join the show. They carry rifles, which proceed to click-clack with far less glory than a mind such as his. They so long to introduce our hero to the lonely bullets within.

He raises his arms to greet them with a warm smile and they embrace him, intimate as lovers. He laughs genuinely, his paint covering oh-so-many canvases. Some now screaming, intolerant of such virulent art. The bang-bang serenade ends and he claps graciously and bows, before moving past them towards the lifts. The faceless men stand in dumb-struck poses as he bids them adieu, for this was not the show they expected to perform.

“Come, Dearest Alexei,” he says, and the enormous man follows in silent piety. But then our hero has a change of heart. He pivots on his heels and snaps his hand down, the head of his cane falling loose from the shaft, secured with a concealed length of glittering wire. He promptly whips his hand in an arc, and the wire, propelled by the head of the cane, hurtles through the crowd, passing gracefully through flesh, Kevlar, and indignation. The faceless men now lay rather more headless, in a pile of rapidly-growing beauty. Ink pools at his feet, rosy and fresh and delightful. Our hero inspects the closest mannequin and from it produces a single plastic card, which bears some words and a picture of what has recently been removed. This he slides into a receptacle in the lift, and shortly thereafter he and his Dear Alexei find themselves whisked skyward.

It is not long, however, before the machinations of some unseen man become apparent. Red lights rouse from slumber and the vinegar screech of klaxons fill the modest mobile room, which promptly grinds to a halt. Dear Alexei replies with a hammerblow to the ceiling. The roof blossoms out like a steel flower, shrieking delightfully in bloom. He holds his hand out palm up, and closes around the boot of our hero. The gloved hand reaches for the lift cable; the other outstretched gaily, fabric-covered fingers clenching clever cane. He extends this to Dear Alexei, who politely declines before leaping with great force, straight up. He straddles the opening before wrapping his massive hands around the lift cable, kneeling as he does. The sledgehammer rests between his teeth. Our hero places one leg, two legs over Dear Alexei’s shoulders, then sits lightly and wraps his legs around the mountainous neck.

“Proceed!” he commands with glee. And hand over hand, Dear Alexei becomes a mechanism of ascension. The base of his cane planted firmly at the top of his partner’s head, our hero throws his head into a regal pose, the head of his steel trickery resting against the head of his tricky body, rubbing against the concealed playground within.

“Listen listen listen listen listen listen, just open your ears and listen…”

The 36^th elevator door is unremarkable and frankly in need of sprucing up. Dear Alexei is more than happy to oblige; he plants his feet firmly against the walls of the lift shaft before letting go of the cables, allowing his legs to bear the weight of two. Sledge in hand, he bashes the doors open with such force that the crash reverberates loudly down the shaft, easily drowning out the giggles of our hero. The doors fly into the private office, obliterating a chair and rearranging the contents of a table into a small pile on the finely-carpeted floor.

BANG! The shot rings out, round slamming directly into our hero’s forehead. He had hardly even noticed the woman standing just off to the side, let alone the fire-arm clutched tightly in her hands, and already she wants to play. Our hero’s head rears back with the recoil, top-hat flying off with a quiet woosh to reveal a gleaming pale head laced with veins full of blackest intent. He deftly swoops the head of his cane under the falling hat, catching it with a throaty laugh that soon ascends into a pitchy shrill.

“Mmm, feels like… .45ACP? The special kind they only let you Bastion have,” he says coyly, the paint rolling softly down the bridge of his nose, “and you’re rather too womanly to be anyone other than Jessica McTavish.”

The woman recoils at the sound of her name. Our hero leaps off his partner’s broad shoulders and lands a few feet from her stunned face.

“I’ve been so eager to meet your ilk.”

She promptly fires six more rounds into his face. He only laughs once more. He brings his wet, torn face even closer.

“Jessica, Jessica, Jessica. I was so hoping you’d be….more interesting,” he coos breathily. He snatches her hand and pulls her close, so close, much too close for her well-being. Her back pressed against his chest, he leans over her shoulder and begins to whisper in her ear.

“My father was such a delightfully loving man and oh so tender in exploring every inch of his progeny’s supple form. But one day I found his dedication to be decidedly dwindling, and I whispered into his ear to douse his despicable doubts. I said, ‘Don’t stop now, Daddy, I’m not done cooking.’”

Her nostrils flare, and then she drops to the floor, unconscious. He turns to face the man behind a massive oak desk, the self-styled puppet master. Across from the desk, a large, dark skinned man is already turned to face him, fire-arm resting firmly in his grip.

“And you must be Eli Xitavhudzi,” our hero says cheerily, “that’s quite a mouthful, you!” At this, the man raises his fire-arm, but our hero is much too quick, swiftly producing a long, silvery machete, concealed in his coat. With three swift strokes, he brings Eli to his knees, and three more ends his chapter. Our hero, now lightly sprinkled with another layer of fresh color, unceremoniously dumps the machete, for it no longer has value. The man behind the desk sits, unfazed and glaring hotly.

“Good evening, Mr. Sun,” our hero says in mocking respect, “I regret that I had to sever so many strings to see you.”

Daylight pours in through the massive window behind him, accentuating his most delightfully restrained rage.

“Who are you?” he demands.

“Mark David Chapman,” our hero replies without hesitation, the words rolling off his tongue in a high-stepping march.

“What are you doing here?! How dare you enter my place of business like this.”

This man has no fear in him, only disgust. He’s very much the sort of man who no longer believes in his own mortality, unshakably so.

“I go only where the wind carries me. It has no mind for the sanctity of your petty transactions.”

“What do you want?”

His voice never rises higher than a bird chirp; he so wishes to display his level of self-control, even now. He is simply working much too hard to produce the illusion of unaffectedness. It is a suit that hangs rather paltry on his form.

“Oh so many things, Senator. But more than anything, I am looking for the green-eyed man.”

With this, the puppet master raises an eyebrow. Our hero can feel the schemes, the calculations and considerations churning, the cogs in the machine spinning furiously in artifice splendor. How it disgusts our hero so.

“And you suppose I know where to find him,” he ventures.

“Mmmm….I can smell him in this room, I can…taste him in the air. Do not burden me with your schemy malapropisms, for I can hear the rattle of his call in your skull.”

“I see. And what benefit do I get from giving you this information?”

With this, our hero laughs, hearty and full. It breaks off just beneath a squeal.

“I know your kind. Bargaining, always bargaining. You think everything flaunts a tag, that nothing should deign to be unreachable to you. You plot, and you plan, and you weave your delicate little webs, hoping to catch the flies unaware. But the real spider is right under your nose, and his teeth will be at the fleshy fold of your neck. You’re nothing more than a gilded pretender. Too foolish to realize you’ve already lost.”

Our hero comes around the desk, leaning his head against the expanse before Sun Hong.

“Sssssshhhh, do you hear? It’s calling for you. Very soon I think you will be embracing this rather more roughly than you prefer.”

The man ignores all of this, as our hero knew he would. The walls of hubris are much too high to let the whisper of revolution through.

“I don’t know where your friend is currently, but I will see him again before the week is over,” he says evenly. Already he sees our hero as nothing more than a crude implement, a shiny knife in which to plunge into an associate’s unsuspecting heart. It relieves our hero greatly to know the knife could never find a heart to perforate in a fellow such as his prize.

Our hero reaches into his coat pocket.

“I eagerly await to hear from you,” he says, producing a pale, most cleanly severed ear, which he places upon the desk, “I do so hope to soon.”

The Senator looks upon the ear in disgust, and when he finally looks up again, he only catches a glimpse of our hero, his arm extended in a wave, top-hat in hand, bloody and beautiful magnificent with that familiar grin plastered across his face, before stepping into the lift shaft and plummeting out of sight. His Dear Alexei not far behind.

Copyright © Bryan Thaxton