Dialogue for a Video: “As If There Were Ducks”

As If There Were Ducks

 

The torture room was to my left.  They didn’t tell you that they had one.  They never told you stuff like that, the good stuff.

Straitjackets.  A hundred of them, a hundred and fifty of them, and the pill drugs, the pink ones and the blue ones and the brown ones and the orange ones and the mango ones.  And the ones that are the color of the Dracula moon and The Stranger sun.  There were 300 shelves of them, the pills, manufactured by one of the four writers of the Gospels: Luke and Mark and George and Frank Zappa.   A corporation making billions of U.S. dollars, while professedly saving the lives of the psychotic, the moronic, the depressed and the hundred billion lonelies abandoned by God.  Practically, the pill manufacturers sucked off the brains of the suicidal.

And there was the electric chair gurney.  It was an ancient priceless antique electric chair gurney, imported from Paris from the days of the guillotine.  It was, in fact, the bed a hundred million Frenchmen who were guillotined on, their Charles deGaulle heads lopped off like tomatoes into tomato baskets, and now they brought the electric chair gurney here for me.  They were going to electrocute or lobotomize my brain on it, I knew it, though they wouldn’t tell me, but it didn’t matter: I wasn’t going to let them.   I was going to break out.

The chair had sockets and 200 billion ganglion electrodes from the local electric company, which too was making a profit off the near dead.

I was frightened to enter; no one was allowed in the torture room, they might bring the muscle boys in on me, the big boys: Mike and Ernie.  They were both dull-witted guys, college football players that never made it to the NFL.  The only thing they made was the dozen or two Nebraska cheerleaders who succumbed to them like pregnant baby ants after the keg parties after the football games and the 100,000 touchdowns.  A linebacker and a pulling guard.  Now they worked here, in my ward, miserable failures muscling me and the 49 other quiet, desperate clowns here like me, all of us meek, and therefore destined for heaven.

The door was straight ahead.  I had been spying it out for weeks now, perhaps months now, perhaps years now.  I don’t know.  I don’t know how long I have been here.  I have no concept of time.  Not since they started forcing the big pink pills down my Irish Catholic throat, with their thugs Mike and Ernie standing behind me, threatening me with their Billy clubs and hand grenades if I didn’t swallow the pills.  The pink pills thicker than bloated frogs.

I could never comprehend why the door was there.  It was a humongously incomprehensible molecule-like fact of the universe, a Sherlock Holmes mystery, right here in my ward, my fluorescent shimmering ward, which God had given me, along with a bucket of incense.

It was an emergency exit door, the ones that read Emergency Exit.  And if you push them open, alarm bells ring louder than the bells in the hunchback’s cathedral.  And the doors can be easily opened, there’s that silver bar handle thing across them which you punch and thud and release a little like good sex, and the door pops open, and you are free, like immoral hippy lovers in Hait Asbury in 1968.

I steeled myself like immortal No. 12 New York Giants quarterback Y. A. Tittle.  I thought maybe I should start my run from a three point stance, like I did three years before when I was the fullback on the St. Aloysius’s Grade School 100-lb. football team, when I was MVP gold and 14.  But no, I thought.  I wasn’t a jock.  I was Holden Caulfield.  I read about him two years ago when I was at Saint Ignatius Prep, where the Jesuit priests drank Scotch like fish and bourbon like fish and then, chastely sex-deranged and drunk, they asked you: “Does God exist, like Descarte said?”

Shit.  I broke into a sprint.  I thrust my leather cowboy boots first like a broad jumper, jamming the bar handle like violent sex and the door blammed open like Dirty Harry shooting the faggot sex offender and the alarm bells went off making me, Quasimodo, mad in my Notre Dame sacred church.  They were screaming screeching, the bells, and I had bumped my head bad on the cheap stiff carcinogenic plastic floor, causing more trauma to me than my childhood.  But I got up, and I took the stairs down.  I ran pathological, paranoid, because for this, my escape, they would electrocute and lobotomize me.  My adrenalin pumped my veins, my corpuscles, and my erotic body fluids.  Down the stairs, down the stairs, down the geometry stairs toward death.  Then the kitchen, the endless kitchen with 200 fat French chefs beating the yellow hollandaise sauces in their 205 silver shiny pots with their whisks, their auto eroticizing whore-fucking whisks.

The balcony prison rail stood before me like General Patton and his delusions, high and overlooking the hospital lobby.  I thought of Shakespeare and Juliet and the movie I saw her in.  Her breasts were strapped tight to her chest, and I wanted her breasts, but mostly I wanted to know how large they were.

I took the steps down to the lobby, this time walking gingerly, majestically, triumphantly like a king, or like some fag shepherd in the French countryside, writing poems about love and Plato.

I could see the limousines out front.  Black, 10 or 12 of them in a line.  They were going to drive me to the airport for my flight to Moscow.  The limousines were going to protect me with their canons and Gatling  guns.  They were going to protect me from the bad angels, for I had to get to Moscow safe.  My mission, my holy intransitive mission, was in Moscow.  Or maybe it was in St. Petersburg.

 

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