Tuesday, March 6, 2012
I might have a story to tell you.
But it will be up to you whether you want to listen to it or not.
Now I know what you’re going to say once I tell you this so I thought I’d rather just put it out there right away….
I am a hammer. My name is Bosch.
Right, what kind of story could a hammer come up with that could capture my attention at all, you may think.
But if you listen, you may notice one thing…
I am a murderer.
I did not choose to do this. This was not my fault.
That is all I can say about that…
It was a busy morning in the hardware store’s aisles, the dusty light cascaded down through the slatted clear-corrugation ceilings as usual. Many people hustled down the aisle, as they always did on this day. We’d all heard it was called Satoorday, once. On this Satoorday, large banners were hung up from the high rafters that apparently were in aid of something called ‘Election Day Special -Two for One!’.
The store owner -the large-bellied, moustached Mr. Moccasin- had said in the staff meeting the night before, after closing time, that
“People take the day off on Election Day and then go home and fuck around there for the day…”, and that, “…seventy-six percent of suburban males spend the day fixing shit around the house. And where do they come to when in need of shit to fix up their lives with?”
When anyone failed to respond or even interrupt a nose-picking, he exclaimed,
“Us! Here! Tomorrow! Six fuckin AM to six fuckin PM! People people…!”
Some guy in a peak cap walked past and picked me up on ‘Election Day’. He seemed undecided and distracted, not even looking at me as he held me. He finally put me down on a shelf in the middle of the shop by the Grinding discs. I could see everything. Everyone buzzing around, all the Satoorday discussions. No one even noticed me there. Life in the shop seemed harder for the ones who could move around, they all either frowned or seemed pensive and slow.
I stayed there all day and even after the shop had closed. When it became dark, I could see a semi-opening in the corrugation work of the ceiling. The sky was deep and a kind of blue I had never seen before. Far away, I noticed a tiny, tiny light
Suddenly I felt like that tiny speck out there, far away, that mere speck of existence in the vast open night sky. It was amazing. I lay there on the shelf in the moonlight, and felt like I was in the prime spot out of everyone else in the shop. I was a happy hammer.
Then came, what we all had heard was called Soonday. And the shop was busy again. Something Mr. Moccasin had also predicted in the staff meeting when the shop closed on Satoorday. Much to the dismay of his disgruntled employees. He seemed happy, however.
I was happy too.
Until, in the Soonday rush, some friendly looking young man picked me up off the shelf, along with the grinding disc behind me. He chortled about his luck at finding the two items he was looking for right there to Mr. Moccasin. This was it. I felt like I could be that speck going out there into the world, making a difference to someone life somehow, just like Mr. Moccasin promised we all would ‘at some point’.
I was placed in a car with blue lights, and we drove fast. When we stopped, I was taken out of the packet and handed to another person in uniform, who also didn’t even look at me. He knew what I was already. It reminded me of something odd but nice I had seen during my time on the shelf at Mr. Moccasin’s hardware store…
On occasion, a ‘buyer’, ‘purchaser’ or ‘hungry little wallet-fruit’ -as Mr. Moccasin referred to them when no one was around- would stop in middle of the aisle and be so stricken with surprise that they’d found the item they were looking for, that they’d greet and address it as if it were one of them.
Some young lady had seemed clueless one Satoorday, and Mr. Moccasin himself, helped her find the item she was looking for. Only it wasn’t, because she couldn’t remember the name of what she was looking for so she could only say what it did. Now Mr. Moccasin knew almost everything about all of us. He knew what we were all destined to do for ‘people’, as ‘tools’ and ‘appliances’. When the lady asked for ‘something to put a poster up on dry wall’; he handed her a metal ruler with state-of-the-art built in leveler; a ‘top-of-the-range’ dual-power drill and the little case of golden drill bits for ‘dust-free drilling in drywall’; a ‘copy’ of ‘Drywalling for Dummies’ and two pairs of safety goggles. It wasn’t the right thing for her, and she dumped all of it as soon as he finally turned his back and rushed to help another ‘wallet-fruit’.
Then she stopped right infront of our aisle, right there, and smiled brightly as she walked forward, toward the lower shelf, grabbing Stanley the hammer and Bosch, the packet of thin nails. ‘Hello there you!’ she said as she took them. We all hoped we’d get someone who’d talk to us or at least just acknowledge us someday.
There were no ‘Hello there’s for me or -as it seemed- anyone else around that place, ever.
The uniformed man took me to his desk inside a buzzing office with telephones and ‘conversations’, and strapped me in with a now complete set of other tools. People called him ‘Saw-agent Cluster’. The only ones who didn’t call him ‘Saw-agent’ were ‘Saw-agents’ ‘Greepstahl’ and ‘Moyet’. Saw-agent Cluster laughed a lot and left his desk, with two other laughing voices as we remained there in darkness. The other tools seemed to believe that this was extremely important work, and I was excited. Apparently we were now officially part of the ‘Forts’, and that was good.
Sitting in that desk for days, we could hear a lot of talking and names and stories. Things that made us think and wonder, for most of it we had no idea what it was about. But they fascinated us because of that.
Or maybe it was just me, it was pitch dark in that tool-bag so it could have been a sensation I felt entirely on my own. Which, as I thought about it, made me feel even better!
This was me, the speck, out there seeking opportunity to enter this world.
The ‘Forts’ sounded like a great idea, until that word had first entered into it…
‘Humann’, ‘Humann campaign’, ‘Humannists’, ‘Humann Nation’, ‘State vote’ and ‘majority Humann’ were words I had heard a lot in those few days that passed, right before the day I was picked up out of that bag.
Saw-agent Cluster took me with him in his blue-light car, along with all the other tools, and we got out at what seemed to be what Mr. Moccasin had always spoken of. A house. Infront of the house was a smiling man with slick hair and smart-looking clothes. Saw-agent Cluster called him ‘Fred.’
His name was ‘Alfred Humann’.
I had heard the other tools speak of their work and their own destinies. Sanford had spoken of its work as ‘mostly screwing all day and all night’. Us hammers had always heard of the moving ones making things called ‘jokes’ while using screw-drivers. It always fascinated me, like it was a tribute to one of us. Us hammers never heard any stories of which we’d heard were called ‘puns’ -which were like ‘jokes’ apparently- made about us. It just never happened. No tributes. Just a handy tool for a moving being.
Alfred Humann seemed to be a very important man, and many people seemed to like him and wanted to protect him. Lots of large men with sunglasses and suits stood around with their hands folded wherever he went. When the tool bag had been put down Alfred Humann turned to Saw-agent Cluster and said,
“Fred the politician is on hold today, Sergeant Chester. Today I am Fred the builder. The office and the anticipation can wait until tonight. The votes will only be revealed tomorrow. So let’s take this time to not talk about business shall we…?”
“Sure yeah sure Fred, no problems pal. Let’s.”
“Besides, when I win this bid. I say when I win this bid, me and you pal… we’re going up to the cabin and we’re going to go get hammered.”
Then, of all moments, Alfred Humann picked me up, and I was in the middle of it all. Saw-agent Cluster laughed.
Alfred Humann had done it! A pun about me, a hammer!
I could see why people liked him so much.
The following thing ‘confused’ me a little however. The whole day had been spent with me hammering in hard bits of nail and correcting panels of wood, against the one wall of a hut in the back of Alfred Humann’s large garden. Both men seemed happy with the result afterward, and Saw-agent Cluster went back into the house, leaving Alfred Humann there alone with us.
The ‘builder’ man looked at me, right at me. As if he and I were reflections.
Then he simply just had to have me. He picked me up, and I could see he was going to hide me. He slid me into the compartment in his car door, and closed it.
When Saw-agent Cluster reappeared, he rolled up his tools bag and left, without me. Just like that.
Alfred Humann got me out of the door what must have been hours later, as it was quite dark. As he picked me up, I could see a peak cap lying on the backseat of the luxury car. It looked abandoned. I was abandoned, and Alfred carried me, along with some other things, into the finished shed, where I was placed in darkness once more, with other tools that I could see in the strips of moonlit streaks folding over the tiny room’s walls.
Alfred Humann hummed a low tune; everything was natural. And I asked myself there, hung on two rusted nails on that wall in the darkness,
‘Is hindrance part of a perfect destiny? Should I just accept this? How can I conquer confusion if I don’t know how to think?’
But nothing helped. The darkness lasted a long time, in silence, and when the pale light came in, the door opened once again, and this time a younger Alfred Humann stepped in. His hair was gelled and spiky, and his face was riddled with freckles. He grinned all the time. He checked around, in search of something. Then Alfred Humann’s voice drifted in from somewhere outside…
“What do you need in the shed there, boy?”
The boy said honestly,
“…I’m looking for something here.”
“Get out of there, your mom says you didn’t pick up your clothes last night like she asked. Go do that before you do anything else.”
“Aww dad wait, can’t I just—”
“Now Roy! Do what I tell you…”
Alfred Humann appeared in the doorway and scolded his son, who marched out and back inside the house.
Other young voices appeared outside too. Alfred Humann peeked around and took out his cell phone. Before closing the door behind him, he looked out somewhere in the garden, and waved a quick and friendly smile to someone as he said,
“…Morning Shemaar, there’s coffee inside if you want.”
He held the phone to his ear as he idly ran his finger across the edge of the shelf, starting from the wall and running along as he waited patiently. He seemed sociable and respected and busy.
Mr. Moccasin always spoke of ‘wallet-fruits’ as leading dull and senseless lives, but Alfred Humann’s life seemed quite full of things.
It felt like the finger running along the edge of that shelf, was running toward me. I noticed all the other tools in the light again. All mismatched. They all seemed stolen. Like me. Alfred Humann seemed happy and purposeful. Like I wanted to be. He knew something in life even Mr. Moccasin didn’t seem to be able to grasp. How to be successful, ‘gracefully’.
Mr. Moccasin loved using the word ‘gracefully’ every so often.
He had always been talking about someone like Alfred Humann, I thought.
It felt as if confusion had been conquered, because it just wasn’t there anymore. The destiny of this all, for me, was busy being laid out right infront of me. I was happy that I had been able to land up being stolen from my previous existence, and placed into this one. I even felt, as if I could move, just like Alfred Humann did. At the moment his finger stopped and his hand grasped me and he idly held me while he waited on the cell phone, softly swinging me to and fro, I felt as if I had been reborn…
The sensation of being an inanimate object -something that is never destined to move on its own, or react out of its own accord- is a strange life I guess. We all feel each other however, us inanimates. I had heard a conversation in the hardware shop once between two people talking about ‘nature’ and ‘trees’, in the outside world. How they ‘lived in a different timeframe to humans, almost like a higher consciousness’. I had no idea what that meant back then, but it sounded amazing.
Swinging to and fro, it was as if I were controlling the politician’s arm, and it felt as if I could move. A world of thought opened up for me and I think I even did something I’d heard someone mention in the shop once called ‘imaging’ or ‘picturesquing’. I Imaged myself, ‘walking’. It seemed amazing and eye-opening to a whole new type of existence. Alfred Humann made me part of that, and his ‘timeframe’ seemed different to mine. This was when I first realized that I had just experienced the ‘higher consciousness’! Having felt it, I still had no idea what it meant, however.
All I knew was that Destiny was becoming a very fickle place.
I served in the Humann household for a while, and became part of the family in the shed, none of whom had voices or instincts as the others around me had had before. They were all just tools, but it seemed perfectly fine that way. Each had its own little place, and those that didn’t, were stashed in the box under the cupboards and hardly ever used or mentioned -but even that was ‘a place’. Alfred Humann used me often, and grew to like using me, which gave me infinite purpose and even something which I think was ‘emotion’, as they call it. I had become like the hammers I’d seen in all those pictures and posters and magazine covers and pamphlets that were all over the hardware store throughout the years. All those hammers glistened in the hands of their ‘utilizers’.
Alfred Humann had three children of varying ages and races. Two adopted, and one by his wife Mrs. Alfred Humann. His ‘campaign’ had been successful and he ‘won the Election’ -many voices and people traveled on and off the Humann estate. Alfred Humann used me less and less, but I felt good nonetheless because no other newer tools had been brought in to replace me or anything else. I felt indestructible, somehow. Alfred Humann had allowed his son to use me to fix his ‘go-kart’, until the dumb spoilt child struck his thumb and tossed me through a shattering window, into the living room. Alfred Humann removed a long black thing from his waist and hit the dark skinned tween passionately against his lower back.
‘Was that also a tool?’, I wondered.
The boy jumped up and, out of shock, screamed in mock pain. Two of the sunglassed men calmed the boy on one side and two others calmed Alfred Humann, who kept on complaining: ‘What will your mom do when she gets back and finds the house like this?! She’ll think the men are useless in this family!’.
Alfred instructed his teenage son Loyisa to ‘supervise anything and everything’ his younger brothers did ‘for the rest of his personal life’. His sons always respected him and laughed with him when the moments were apt.
Their own lives, however, were filled with complaints around every corner.
Poor young unhappy ‘movables’.
Lying there, tossed through that shattered window, in the room where I doubt any of the other tools had ever even been in before, I felt ‘freemdom’ -as I’d heard it called by the movables. Their ability and world was slowly becoming my own. I now understood ‘freemdom’, and it was all around me. The young movables however, seemed captured somehow by their freemdom.
Alfred Humann used every single minute of his freedom.
One day Saw-agent Cluster was on the phone, while Alfred Humann resided in the shed- wearing a leather apron, soiled with wet earth.
He had ‘considered’ himself ‘a humble horticulturist’. He had said on occasion, while walking about and entertaining prospector after statesman after celebrity after news reporter after after after… that he ‘loves the out doors, and spaces where he could have his family free of danger…’
Words that were ‘written for him’ by his ‘PIS’ or ‘Personal Immunity Spokesperson’ -Phillip Fripp.
Alfred Humann paced back in forth in the shadows of the shed, while looking at the various collections of tools he’d built up over the years. Right then and then I experienced something that Alfred Humann had always spoken about. I felt ‘proud’, as if my ‘presence’ in his ‘presence’ was doing me a ‘favor’. This was strange, but it felt ‘good’, which was ‘honorable’ and seemed to be the ‘birth of my destiny’. Belonging to Alfred Humann, dedicating myself to his works and existence, just like the hundreds of thousands of millions of people and movables who must know of his greatness and love him all the same. I even felt… that I would… ‘protect’ him? But I didn’t know what that meant, and I saw the man pacing there, seeming that all is natural, as he spoke on the phone.
‘The hammer…? You…? With…? …No pal, I’m looking here but I’m not seeing it around anywhere. Can I let you know when I find it?’
They never did go up to the cabin or get ‘hammered’.
As he spoke, Alfred Humann centered his vision on me and reached out and picked me up. He looked at me, but as if he was looking at the ‘future me’, the one who has already done his bidding. This made me feel so proud!
The world of the movables was so kind, destiny seemed to be as easy as a dream.
Alfred Humann held me as he denied my existence to Saw-agent Cluster, which confused me a bit. Yet it all seemed so part of the ‘noble cause’ that he and I fought in, together. The essence that was the force when I did his bidding. It made me feel as if he were -what I’d heard the movables say in various terms- ‘God’.
I was doing God’s work. I had become that tiny speck in the sky.
I saw many movables.
People, with their own worlds and their own ‘lives’ and their own ‘destinies’, come and go about. This was so ‘inspiring’ that I felt as if I’d had ‘limbs’ myself. As if I had helped build every single part of those dreams and projects in His eyes:
From the nail that got stuck in the bottom of His riding boots that had to be removed… to the large promotional banners that were built in his back yard.
Everything felt as if it was completing my entire ‘destiny’.
Old Mr. Moccasin was right about the ‘joy of destiny’, but he’d never said anything about it being this ‘awesome’!
During Winter time I was forgotten about. The shed was nearly off-limits, except for the rakes and shovels. Their ‘bowels’ hung at the bottoms of their ‘bodies’. I had seen some movables look like that aswell. They were usually nothing in comparison the slim and sleek ones. We did all the real work. As I’d heard Phillip Fripp say numerously, ‘people opinions are important’. Well, I also had myself one of these ‘opinions’. And it showed in my work. I’ve worked with excellence. ‘Clobbering with precision’ and shifting the weight through Alfred Humann’s body as if it were my own. This was when I felt free and most like a movable myself.
When the cold season had started coming to an end, I spent a lot of time alone with Alfred Humann and Phillip Fripp. They spent a lot of time alone together aswell, going over papers and attending meetings and going away on ‘excursions’. ‘Duty called’. The Humann family was alone at home, ‘broken’, and I couldn’t fix it at all. But then again, I was right there, traveling with him, on those ‘excursions’ where he and the shorter man drove hundreds of miles away ‘under surveillance’, where we all helped bring to life the structures of new families of movables and newer and bigger dreams.
One such place was called ‘Drowning Springs’.
‘So yerra pretty successful fella…’
I heard one gap-mouthed, dusty movable say to Alfred Humann as he carried me to the site the first morning we arrived,
Alfred Humann waited for a completion to the dusty man’s statement (or question) -being slightly more complacent and dull than usual, as Phillip Fripp intervened,
‘Would you like an autograph sir?’
He said, getting ready to slip out a photo from his ‘concertina-folder’ and get this man on his way.
‘Yerr—I’ll take onenathose…’
He grunted happily, taking the signed photograph of Humann in black in white -copied by Phillip Fripp himself.
Alfred Humann just looked his PIS up and down and was ‘disgusted’ by the very sight or thought of him. So was I, and I knew why. This was ‘amazing’ and ‘sad’ at the same time. This man seemed to merely copy the essence of Alfred Humann’s destiny; ‘betraying his own right to exist’, as Alfred Humann himself would quote.
I don’t know why the movables haven’t found a word for that yet.
What would it mean to me though, if it were to become a word?
Would that make it real?
I was asking questions, and this made me realize things.
Existence and destiny must have been flowing forth greatly in fluorescent gushes back then…
Because after that, something happened, and the existence and the world and movability and questions and everything and it all suddenly became a ‘disagreeing’ place. Destiny, God and all that ‘shit’, died in Downing Springs, like the numerous little ‘plants’ I had seen rise and fall over my time in the garden and on the road…
Something started to waiver in the way that Alfred Humann swung his arm. I could feel it. ‘One clobbering too many’, and he’d put me down -right in the middle of work- waiting for someone else to pick me up instead. Even those strangers’ swings felt more familiar to me than his. That ‘scared’ me.
Alfred Humann became washed with pale expressions and a lifeless voice. At most he barked orders and confirmed what his personal PIS was saying. People seemed to ‘love him endlessly’ for this, nonetheless.
Alfred Humann faded slowly into merely just ‘the image of Alfred Humann’, and soon enough it was just strangers using me all the time for their work and their dreams. Other movables, whose passion I could feel and harness. It felt as if my destiny and purpose was dangling infront of me, waiting for me to ‘play with it’ -like one of those furry little creatures the movables are so fascinated with.
Weeks went by where the darkness of the Humann estate shed was my entire world. That’s where I ‘conjured up images’ of my ‘memories’. I felt my ‘greatness’. ‘Gracefulness’. I have never left a job undone. Never. It made me feel my own worth intensely, and in retrospect I noticed the worth of Humann and his kind. I had heard a word for that denial of freedom once… but it was one that escaped me there in the ‘night’. I was usually quite good with words, because the movables utilized them and they helped them progress.
I wish I could ‘talk’, other than through my actions.
Then it happened… Alfred Humann was ‘taken into custody’ by some men that dressed the same as all the other Saw-agents I’d ever known. They took us away, him in one of those blue-lit cars and me... trapped…
Phillip Fripp was the first person Alfred Humann dialed on his phone that night mere hours before, as he calmly ran into the darkness of the streets.
Alfred Humann seemed to automatically know where he was going somehow -as if ‘pre-programmed’- even when we were faced with dead ends.
Eventually we both landed up between the lights again, as cars flew past us and the promising neon lights of the places up ahead seemed like a haven.
‘Oh my god it’s Governor Humann!’
Many more gasped and stared in disbelief, looking at Alfred Humann, covered in blood with me in his hand.
He didn’t run, and instead collapsed onto his knees, and closed his eyes as if to fall asleep. He dropped me and finally the retched piece of soft skull shot clean off, although somehow, I could still feel it right there on me -what these strange beings, the movables, have named ‘sensation’.
Something which is also ‘bittersweet’. Whatever that Phillip Fripp really meant with that…
I didn’t know what anything meant anymore.
What made it worse was that I wasn’t confused by any of it. Everything fitted neatly into place afterward. I was locked up in a metal drawer, inside a plastic bag, in the darkness.
This was my sentence. I was being ‘locked away’.
My destiny was to be involved in ending another’s future.
I heard voices looming outside of the darkness sometimes, but none of them ever made any sense. I wondered if I’d ever see Alfred Humann, Saw-agent Cluster or even just the light of day again. I thought it was strange that I should think of Saw-agent Cluster just then, when I realized I was experiencing the painful emotion that Alfred Humann’s wife and family felt in those months that we were away -I was ‘missing’ him.
I wished I could cry like I’d heard his wife and two remaining sons do when the police whisked us back to the Humann estate that night, so that the ‘procedures’ could be followed to ‘prosecute’ Governor Alfred Humann as a ‘Suspect of Filicide.
Strange, I thought, as calm and folded-handed as he looked in the back of that police vehicle, he did not seem like any kind of ‘Suspect’ of anything, as I’d heard the term referred to before.
Alfred Humann seemed incapable of any kind of movable resemblance at all, actually. A husk. It was if he had escaped from his own ‘body’ and was somewhere else completely.
There was nothing there but an empty movable, with moving parts inside.
It was at this time -while he became a ‘mollusk’ in a ‘dank cell’ somewhere- that I was enveloped in this darkness. I became my own existence again. None of the other tools and objects in the darkness were there with me.
They were all dead.
Each in their little sealed plastic bags with their little ‘sealed fates’.
Was I dead too…?
What was I thinking -I thought- I’ve always been dead! Yet I now felt all the life of the universe and the weight of reality float all around me there -still covered in blood, in the darkness… Forgotten perhaps, forever…
In this time since Mr. Moccasins shop, since those comforting beams of light first unfolded like the wings of welcoming arms, since that night up there on that shelf, overlooking all the new fields of possibility, longing for the life of that star -that distant speck- I had worked my way into existence. ‘Etched’ my way in, even. I had become a living possibility, just like any of those other movables out there.
And to do it, I had to take away someone’s life…
If this was ‘God’s’ work, then God favored death over life.
Then, the drawers opened suddenly, and I was moved to another cage, in another building, by more people whom I’d never seen before. It was as if I was having one of those sensations that the movables have when they sleep. Those ‘nightmares’. They ‘never seemed to end’, those things. This was like that. I was handled no more. I was merely passed around from hand to hand, then cupboard to drawer to box, inside of this sealed plastic confinement. I noticed a single ‘label’. These were the things that Alfred Humann always spoke against.
And now, I ‘had a label’: Exhibit 2C
“2-C or not 2-C… that is the question…”
I finally heard one voice speak of the new judged and defiled me, right before the box was carried into a larger room and I was placed on a table.
I saw everyone, including many I had never seen before. I was being judged for my actions.
So… this was what it was like being a movable.
Trial and judgement.
I longed for the simple days of shelf life, yet somehow, also I didn’t. What was here with me, in that room filled with familiar old faces, was a sense of universal fear. I felt alive.
Wasn’t that what I’d always wanted?
Alfred Humann stood up from a table, where he had been seated next to another man who was frantically writing away and making ‘notes’. He stood up shortly after Alfred Humann and that’s when everyone else stood up aswell, as a voice rang out across the room,
“All rise for the honorable Judge Misopedia!”
The process was ten times as arduous as any work or job that I’d ever done before, and no one used me even once during this ‘trial’. The whole thing was merely a reclamation of the outcome of my actions and existence. That was harder to sink into than any metal wood-nail ever was.
Harder than it had been to feel how soft and fragile that young boy’s skull was.
Alfred Humann’s body was there, Saw-agent Cluster and some of the other saw-agents I’d seen, along with the employee who had sold me to Saw-agent Cluster. The nose-picker that Mr. Moccasin secretly loathed so much. The man himself was nowhere to be seen. Probably back at the shop trying to make more ‘money’. It was a thing that seemed very important to his existence and purpose.
During the trial, one person claimed that Alfred Humann had killed his son for an offer of money, and both Phillip Fripp and Alfred Humann’s ‘counsel’ had refused that statement. People spoke- sometimes by themselves, sometimes across one another.
When everyone spoke together, Judge Misopedia would slam a tool that looked very similar to me, to create silence once again, as she shouted
“Order! Behave yourselves!”.
Upon impact, I noticed a tiny crack shooting up the side of the tool -unbeknownst to anyone else, it seemed.
That was the first day of this trial.
Afterward Alfred Humann, the dull lifeless body that once had… well… life, was taken back to his dank cell. I was taken back to my dark cell too, back into the black whirlpool of thought and sensation for the night.
On the second day, we all were gathered in the room, and Mr. Moccasin was still not there. Saw-agent Cluster, Alfred Humann’s body, the man making the notes, the group of seated people that another man in a suit was addressing, the judge with her tool and ‘authority’… we were all there. I was back on the table, and many people, as they spoke, pointed toward either Alfred Humann or me.
Then Phillip Fripp came closer and seated himself next to the judge while the man in the suit questioned him. He reclaimed the call that Alfred Humann had made to him that night. The night that the blonde-boy, the one who had tossed me through the window all those years ago, was murdered in his bed -by me.
I lay there, in the sealed restraints, on that table, covered in the child’s blood for all to see. Alfred Humann’s hands were restrained, yet they were clean.
Phillip Fripp told a story that made no sense to me, as I laid there and listened. He spoke of how Alfred Humann phoned him in a frantic state, declaring how he’d found his child murdered in his own bed, and how he chased after the ‘real murderer’ after he noticed that the man had dropped me.
Other people were also questioned after Phillip Fripp.
A ‘Furry-In-seat’ named ‘Cremaster’ -who spoke in a very high tone- declared that ‘there were no traces of DNA or fiber that showed that Alfred Humann had ever been near the child with the weapon’. More people spoke, all of them supporting evidence that showed Alfred Humann didn’t do it.
That was the second day.
Although, I remember a different version of the night I first got blood on me…
The door opened and Alfred Humann came in slowly in the blackness, the bright beam of a torch beaming in -reminding me of the bright dusty beams that always shone down from the high ceilings in the morning inside Mr. Moccasin’s shop.
A place that was once my own world.
All those other tools… They had all found their own purposes by now, I thought. Some of them not, maybe. But none of them would ever have felt the greatness that I felt when I worked for what I believed was ‘God’.
I still respected Alfred Humann, even though he had grown ‘distant’ from me.
The bright beam of light shone on me and he took me from the shelf, almost automatically, as if he had come for me specifically.
I knew it!
This was going to be the big one! My salvation and purpose! I could feel it pulsing -from what I’d heard movables refer to be known as a ‘heart’- deep inside him.
But behind his eyes, in the semi-darkness of the moonlight outside I could see, there was nothing.
It was as if he had lost -what he claimed his followers didn’t have- his ‘mind’.
We entered the dark Humann house, where all was black and quiet. Everyone was ‘sleeping’ or ‘resting’ or whatever they call it. It was ‘strange’, as if no one had ever been alive anywhere in there, or anywhere else in the world, ever. It was like a ‘modern’ ‘cave’, as I’d learnt from the ‘satellite TV’ during my time of ‘inner-home DIY’.
I had never gone this deeply into the darkness before. It felt free to have all the silence. Just me and Alfred Humann, walking alone in the darkness of the empty, ‘soul-less’ house.
He opened the door to a room, softly, but with no intention or emotion in his face of worrying about waking anyone -or anything else for that matter. His eyes were dead. I could feel cold stale death in his hand, coming from his heart. The door swung open softly, and Alfred Humann took two steps forward before plunging me into the tiny blonde head of the boy, his son, now lying asleep in his bed.
This was not right!
His temples opened up and I could hear cracking and see the gushing dark black liquid erupting from his skull, spraying the walls and the ‘bed’. Alfred Humann’s swing felt like a copy of his own.
A distorted copy.
In essence, nothing.
It may has well have been the shadow flinging me about, killing this child in his bed in a ‘violent bludgeoning’. The job was done…
Alfred Humann breathed deeply as the rest of the house stirred.
Lights went on behind us and he ran from the room, and out of the house. When we reached the dark street, two blocks down, outside in the grey light, Alfred Humann stopped in his ‘sleeping clothes’ and flung his arms out, pointing me into the street. He was ‘sobbing’ and breathing very deeply.
As if he had completely forgotten about it all.
I hadn’t, I was covered in the child’s blood and a tiny crumb of the ‘skull’ still clung to me.
What was this… what happened?
Silence rang out loudly, everywhere in the world, or so it seemed.
The silence of death.
What ‘the fuck’ was this…?
That tiny speck that I saw there -out there far away- alone in the nothingness of Mr. Moccasin’s shop, little did I know that it had the entire weight of the black night sky all around its shoulders. Little did I know that it wasn’t anything more than the ‘period’ at the end of all the ‘sentences’ in existence.
A white dot.
Carrying the entire existential weight of ‘difference, thus friction’.
Alfred Humann once used that term, when he was a man.
On the third day, while he sat there, motion and emotionless, His son Yolisa stood up and spat against the back of his head.
Alfred Humann didn’t move.
And here I was, being flung around on parade, dangling infront of the eyes of the people seated in the box. The ‘Joory’ -as I’d heard them being referred to- stared at me, judging me each with their own eyes, as I sat there in blood. Sealed in the bag.
The Honorable Judge Misopedia slammed her own hammer down as she rebuked the ‘counsel’ from ‘flaunting the evidence without a statement’ and ‘unnecessarily extending procedures’.
The wooden hammer gained a new crack, closer to its ‘neck’.
Alfred Humann’s throat moved as he swallowed and got up. He ‘approached the stand’.
People had been shouting all morning about how ‘overly air-tight’ and ‘convenient’ the ‘Humann alibi’ was. None of them knowing how free they actually were. Here I was, trapped in blood, while they complained and argued about the past. The present seemed dead. Deader than the echoed of a life force behind Alfred Humann’s eyes, as he sat down and the man in the suit approached him.
In his movements, he seemed captured like never before. This betrayal of his own body seemed to be the liveliest thing in him as he sat there, as it all compared to his otherwise death-stricken expression. He had no chains around his arms or ankles but he may aswell have had them. If I hadn’t ever known it before I certainly knew it now…
God was dead.
The essence of the movables seemed so alien and out of reach then, as I seemed to experience something beyond even their perception. The single moment where I saw Alfred Humann rise up, out of his own accord and clear his throat…
The echo of his voice bellowed through the large room like the first of a series of last breaths, reverberating across the mass of ‘mortal’ movables, all arguing about ‘immortal’ subjects.
I was in the midst of it all.
Was I the cause of it all? Maybe I’d never know. Maybe that’s not my destiny. Fuck… Mr. Moccasin came in through the door and everyone looked around. It was as if I had summoned him! He didn’t look at me, and shuffled solemnly as he sat down in the back of the room.
This angered the judge so much that she slammed the hammer down hard and it bent with a soft ‘crack’. She held it in her white-knuckled hands as she shouted for order and an ‘immediate explanation’ of who Mr. Moccasin was.
I must admit, it was a certain kind of strange seeing him there, after all this time, and in these circumstances, as I lay in blood.
Did all the other tools land up here too?
In this world? How would I ever know now…?
‘As you all know, my name is Alfred Humann. If I could just have a minute to say something today…’
Everyone focused on Humann, even his PIS and the man who had been making notes most of the time even looked up. The man in the suit was confused and stood at the judge’s desk, where the evidence table was.
There I was, alone and silent again… Exhibit 2-C, condemned by the hands of this man, who shaped me into the murderer I am. All these people around, moving in their own directions, they never even noticed me until now. But I had seen all of them… moving about, laughing, crying, using their worlds to hold them back from everything that scared them.
I was scared, happy, confused, angry, alive… all of it right there… it was like I had become that little white speck, and then transformed into the black vastness of the sky around it. Not trading places but rather becoming both, in essence.
‘Star’ and sky.
‘…A minute of all of your time, so I can say this… I am a murderer…’
Everyone made loud noises with their ‘breath’ and the judge finally slammed the ‘head’ right off of her hammer, as it rolled onto the floor with a ‘thud’,
‘…Yes, I am a murderer. I did not choose to do this. This is not my fault…’
Everyone became louder and the judge did not seem to have her order. She raised herself and shouted at the people who were becoming unruly.
This was it, I thought…
The end of the world.
The end of this world.
When I saw it… the smile on Humann’s face as he unloaded all of his words, each like a singular revelation on its own to the noise people. The man in the suit disappeared and I couldn’t see him behind the waving arms and raised shouting heads, as people climbed over their seats to get to Alfred Humann. It seemed like all the movables wanted to tear one of their own apart, and Alfred Humann knew this somehow and had made peace with it.
That’s when I realized the true meaning of this freedom- the one he’d always spoken about before. The one he went on to claim that he’d ‘lost’, due to ‘mental governing’ from his PIS. It came out that his PIS was ‘feeding’ him ‘medication’ that caused a ‘mental shutdown’. Phillip Fripp erupted in anger but was soon swallowed by the arms of the masses who attacked both him and Alfred Humann.
This freedom, was choice. Not movement itself.
I have always existed in this world, with all the other movables, but I didn’t see it before. Alfred Humann, for the most part, did not either. So he fell prey to it. The blunders of choice smote him to become this pillar of ‘disrespect’, and he knew then and there that he’d chosen to do all that -so he went out smiling. Death would come to him like a savior in the night, and rescue him from all his morning duties as a mortal. The judge seemed lost and order-less without her hammer, and it was in this moment that she reached down for me, Exhibit 2-C, right down below from the evidence table.
She freed me and held me, her eyes wild as she constantly shouted at the out-of-control mass of movement in her court.
She rose up with great authority and slammed me down onto the wooden panel. Dried blood stuck to it -crusted.
‘Order! Order! Order goddamnit Order!’
All stood and looked at her, wielding the bloody Bosch hammer -me.
Alfred Humann -the ‘End of Order’- looked at me, lifelessly. My sound swept across the mad crowd and created this new order.
I was the new order.
The new decision.
Moving like that bright speck all alone, striking brilliance into the sky; or as dead as the nails I’d slammed into the wood -existence was as rich as what it was allowed to be. It was then, that I realized that God was neither dead nor alive. He never had been and never will be. Because right there, in that moment, raised up high above the crumbling existence of the mortal movables, I was God.
I was alive, and I was dead. And so it always is and never will be, as nothing and everything changes while always staying the same.