Homemade Man (II)

"Now what the fuck is he on about?" Bill asked.

"I don't know. Apparently, he thinks I'm British, and fuck goats, or something."

"This Daisies shit ain't conducive to a workin' mood."

"Well put, Billy-boy."

"Can’t say it any better yourself."

"Agreed."

"Let us agree to disagree, brethren," I add in.

"Shut the fuck up," they say in chorus.

"Shut the fuck, shut the fuck uuuuuuuuhhhp, or I'll keel you," I sing, brokenly.

"That's right, you fuck. Cut it out."

"He's stopped hyper-whatever-ing. Pull another one."

Bill obliges Travis's whim with the pliers once again. This time, I sort of squint, and a series of tears roll down my face. "The fuck.. it ain't really doing shit all. Ehh.. clip off the tip of his pinky, Bill-boy."

I see a rainbow. It's amazing, only, all I feel is burning on my hand; my hand won't move. It too must be gone: Bill fucked up royally, and clipped my whole hand off. Talk about fucking up on the job. Way to go, Biiiiiill. Say, Bill, you'd know – is this a phantom pain kind of dealio? Buddy?

"Fuck Jimmy. Fuck Daisies. I never want to use this shit in a session ever again. It’s messin' with my flow." Bill moves off to the Wall of Probably Painful Power Tools after deciding this.

"I hear you, man. I think I'm going to have to complain. I mean, hell, I'm ready to shift debts back to him, if it'll mean that I get paid," Travis laments.

"Mon-ayyy; it's all about the mooohhh-nayyy," I wheeze. Hey, say now – why am I wheezing? Wheezing is for asthmatics and new joggers. Are ya with me?! Right, wheezing. No, I shouldn't be wh—finger, right, right. Does that mean that I still have my hand? For right now? Bill, you useless clod, you can't even ambulate.. am.. amp-youuu-tate a fucking hand right. What kind of torture specialist ARE you? I mean, c'mon, you're supposed to be good at this.

"Whaa.. the bugger is criticizing the finger thing!"

"No..he thinks that I didn’t chop off his hand, and he's fucking disappointed by it," Bill attempted to translate, but failed. It was lost on the rest of us. Me, Travey, the rainbow, and the Wall of Probably Painful Power Tools – the latter being the most disappointed of all of us; I assure you, I know these things.

Speaking of the rainbow: excellent colors. Vibrant and good for hiding the room in. While the others struggle to find meaning in my verbal meanderings, I am off in a warm cloud of silverfish, floating in the rainbow. Fuck the finger, it wasn't necessary, anyway. Some people use their toes to do tasks. I can paint fucking Mozarts.. Mo.. Monets with my toes, if I want to. I'll take lessons, sure. But, this rainbow: the silverfish are harvesting my waking dreams; I don't know about them, but the truth of life is dawning on me. It's the silverfish: they are the essence of life.. not a fact of life, no! Not a symptom of society.. hell, do you ever see those fuckers in nature? What IS their natural habitat.. did they ever have one? But, I digress – digress, tigress, my dress. Digress. That means, what? "Pretentious fuck excusing themselves when it's convenient to switch topics, or pretend that when they lost touch with the topic it was okay"? It was okay, and they're back now; they're back, and it's all a logical side-quest to The Truth – no, not the preachy, unmysterious "truth" of Jesus. I'm talking the meaning of life. Your life.

Silverfish. Eh. Where was this going, Rainbow? Yeah, you won't answer; you're omnipotent, but not sentient. Sort of like a brain-dead woman carrying a baby: safe, warm, and comfy. Not much of a parent, though. You could work on that. Wake up. Wake up, and answer me this: what are the silverfish, and are they important? Are they like you? Are they yours? Are they mine? Are they their own entities? Do they have a purpose? Do I? Rainbow, help me. I think I'm lost here. I'm scared to go back, but I'm not comfy staying here anymore. Anymore. I.. I'm nestled in a cloud of silverfish. Hey.. I hate those things. Ew. But, but, but – they ARE important somehow. I feel it, and I know you do, too.

"What's all this mumbling about silver fish? He ain't goin' campin', so I don't get where he is. Y'know, I'd be tempted to try this shit, if I didn't know what was in 'em, or where they came from.," Bill says.

"The tempted go to Hell.. that's just the usual bullshit trap," I mutter.

"Did we pick up a fundie, or is it just me?" Bill comments, flicking a finger at my face.

Rainbow, what will happen when you leave me? Will I be all alone with these guys, and their Terrible Tools, wielded by Travis and Bill, the Total Tool Two?

Rainbow, I know these bugs are important. You keep diverting me elsewhere. You have no mind, but you're still manipulative. I think you might be God, but I hesitate to say it with certainty; my life has been a festering bowl of questions, doubt, and error. I'm never right, and I am never in the loop. I am so far out of the loop that the box doesn't apply to me anymore. You're doing it again – the silverfish: why won't you let me know? Oh, they're important, yes. They're somehow linked to the Truth – ha, you hid that, but I fucking got it back. Or, did you let me? Please, tell me why I need them.. or need to understand them. This festering bowl is a salad, and your blatant attempt to steal my path from me is the raspberry vinaigrette. I will feed it to Bill, then feed my severed/removed bits to Travis. I will make him taste my agony. By God…

Rainbow? God? Am I coming down? Are you letting me out?

"So, he's threatening to feed us salad, dig, then he's asking if I'm gonna let him go. This has to be good shit. The guy is totally tripping balls."

Ah, Bill, Bill, can't you see that he isn't listening..?

"Actually, motherfucker, I'm yelling up the stairs to him; you just can't hear him."

Bill, I think you're really just talking to yourself. Maybe just to fuck with me.

"Trav – I'm actually getting a dialogue goin' with him. He could be ready now!" Bill hollers, and for some reason, I register the volume.

Hey, Rainbow? Are you still listening? There?