Sandy, Skippy, and She's Back
A short excerpt of a new piece to be continued soon. . .
This story involves a few famous previous characters of literature as well as references to music and film. I wish to give all credit to the following: Stephen King, Christine, published by Signet in 1983; The Jimi Hendrix Experience, Electric Ladyland, produced by Eddie Kramer and Gary Kellgren with Robert Plant Studios; Slipknot, Slipknot, produced by RoadRunner Records on June 29th 1999; Nine Inch Nails, The Downward Spiral, co-produced by Trent Reznor and Flood , mixed by Alan Moulder, and released on March 8, 1994; The Shining, produced and directed by Stanley Kubrick, released on May 23rd, 1980; Robin Hood, produced by Walt Disney Productions, released on November 8th, 1973; Care Bears II: A New Generation, produced by LBS Communications, Inc., released in March 1986.
This is just an excerpt from a story idea I began working on a few days back. Although my UserName speaks different, you can call me PurpleMan. For the last several years, four or six to be exact, I have been an underground furry, not available to anybody. I used to frequent Yiffstar, and there are those who may know me if I chose to reveal the identity. I do not want to give too much away, but I have more or less set about a great personal transformation, and with each mission comes failure with success, so I will never make "it" but at least I have made the courage to create a greater version of me. I understand this much; being a true and sincere furry is not just wearing a fursuit and prancing around; it is about being true to yourself and others, even if that means confessing when you have fucked up the worst.
I wish to give thanks to all those I have hurt. Although I will not name you here for the grace of serenity, know that throughout the years I have not forgotten about you even if you have forgotten about me. I am 35 and am too old to stay bitter for stupid shit that happened years ago. Life is not about perfection, but about doing the best that we can in the moments given and, when wrong is performed, smiling anyways and continuing on and learning as we go. True learning does not come in a classroom. Sometimes it comes from sleeping in a Mardi Gras float or other such crazed places.
Last, I will keep this story up to date as frequent as possible. I may try a "sandwich" effect, so linear time is of no importance here.
Ok, last but not least, I wish to dedicate this to my literary master, Stephen King, and to one of the greatest film directors ever, Stanley Kubrick. Also, because I believe that with every living dark side, the greater influence of love, laugther and life must always settle the score, thank you to Jesus. Whether Jesus was a myth or man, it does not matter. His esoteric teachings are intense (you will not hear fire and brimstone from me.)
Enjoy.
And we roared off in Christine, amidst the echoed shouts of our dearest friends' troubles, "March Of The Pigs" screeching our salvation as Cunningham's baby melted outrageous miles behind, the dirt roads, rocks, and pine trees bleeding orange pus and tattered against the fury of the falling omelet of another day. Skippy pinned in the passenger seat, his lithe and malnourished frame smashed by the sensational forces of the cherry Plymouth, rolling 115 through loose Nottingham woods, exacerbated by the promise that had been made from Dark Heart's prophecy. So, this was it; this was meant to be. Gramms Bear had not perished in vain; her blood had not fallen on the tiles of the Kingdom of Caring without meaning. I exhaled as my fragile heart renewed, strengthened, and replenished with a new love, no longer turning away anger and wrath but embracing the virtuous duo. Arnie Cunningham bellowed in the back seat cavern, "Get them shitters!" as Prince John's, which was King Richard's rightful throne, grew quick through the recovering windshield, spiderweb cracks merging into a liquid vortex of eternity, clarifying all sub- and unconsciousness, as Skippy's broken eyes and face breathed slow, painful, forced, yellow-green caked tears masking his once-beautiful white face an ogre's mask.
A strong, masculine voice came from beneath the earth in a sudden, dropping Christine from 115 to almost zero in immediate fashion. "Fuck!" I said, as Skippy's corporal state flung ahead, slamming against the dry, decades-old dashboard. A high pitched moan left his parched throat when he fell back into the seat.
"STEP OUT!"
All this time, I felt I had been in control of the situation. I had come too damn far to fail Skippy, Arnie, and Furdom. My rage lit up like a massive bonfire on a quiet summer night on a Cape Cod beach, young people drinking beers, laughing and enjoying each other's company against the tragedy of lost love and wasted bodies.
"STEP OUT!"
All this time, I felt I had been in control of the situation. So, I did the one thing I felt was most logical and sane. My right hand went in the pocket of my slimed Army jacket and pulled out the crumpled pack of Newport reds, found one of the last three, lit that bitch up, opened the door which screamed like a rusted bitch, and stepped outside to face whatever demons might tear my ass up.
"DROP THAT CIGARETTE!"
"Like fuck I will."
"Give him one last pleasure. That's the last pleasant thing he'll be sucking on forever."
About fifty yards in front of me and fifteen feet above, one of the ugliest motherfucking demons I have ever laid witness to appeared and seemed to fly right at me, smooth sword teeth glittered mad and insane, looking to eat some human meat. Its body was about nine feet tall, and must have weighed about five hundred pounds.
I stood there and looked at it, my typical smirk coiled around my half-smoked cigarette, considering "What the fuck, I've experienced crazy ass drugs and wild situations before, I can deal with this numbnuts," but inside, I was praying for strength, knowledge, and most of all, hope.
The demon stopped and hung over me, its mouth not quite open, but its spoiled brie cheese-like odor gave a horrid homily of rapes and defecations to come.
"WHO SENT YOU?" this bastard beckoned loud, sending my fading cigarette to a quick and indifferent end.
"I'll tell your leader, Prince John," as I attempted to peer around Brie Face, not interested in what he had to say.
"YOU TELL ME!"
Bargaining with the devil was not going to work. I decided to play it cool. "Alright, Gramms Bear sent me here."
"Gramms Bear lies in hell. Her wretched and mutilated body has been contaminated by all sin, and despair, and our own servants consume her lifeblood."
"Well, then, it looks like the situation is in hand by you, sir. We shall not cease or resist. The roads behind us as you can see are no longer available to any travelers, past, present, or future. We have nowhere to go back to. We come in peace. I am responsible for the lives of Skippy, Arnie Cunningham, Christine, all of Furdom, and myself."
Brie Face, in surprise and shock, took a half a step back, his graveyard eyes fused to points, fearful of my words.
"You do not fear. . .
"You. . . you speak the wor. . .the words."
"We are not afraid. We will press forward. We will gain access. You will give the key. You are Brie Face and you are Prince John's next-in-command. Your days are numbered. Your days are over. Now hand me the key."
As the roads and trees and generations of growth had merged and melted behind the wisdom and speed of Christine, so did the passing of the gate key from the gutted and scarred right hand of Brie Face cause a great melting of his corporal figures, oozing a large river of dried scabs and ancient atrocities.
"Here's Johnny!"
Those words combined the scabs and atrocities, opened the gas tank and Christine became a refueled dragon, now with the power to carry on.
Sliding back into the drivers' seat, I shut the door with a polite click and made a tired yet appreciative look to my right. Skippy looked very ill, but traces of a smile now began to outline the fringes of a pained moment.
"Sandy? We there yet?"
"No, son. We ain't there yet. Just rest. Food and drink's comin', I promise."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Sandy, sir."
I tousled Skippy's short white hair and long ears. How was I blessed to be Skippy's protector, along with Arnie who had been a mere convenience, yet more than a necessary piece to the mission?
"Arnie?"
"What's that, soldier?"
I worked my head around, neck groaning and sober eyes rocked and tired against all that had been confronted and left to confront.
"Thank you."
"Sir?"
"I read your story. I haven't said anything yet, because I didn't want to sound full of pride and whatever, but I understand how it went down with your parents. Sometimes parents really just don't understand. You had every right to be angry, because you belonged with the cars, you belonged on the road. You did not belong in some expensive haughty college filled with insecure jerkoffs, half of which were going to end up on skid row anyways. You died loving your dream, and that takes guts. So, thank you for being my inspiration, Arnie."
"Sir?"
"Thank you."
"Let's motorvate."
"Let's go, Mr. Sandy, sir. We've. . .we've got a dream to catch."
Then, at that moment, nothing supernatural happened, no great event, or voice, but as had been the case for the last several years, perfect awareness and common sense became my allies. We were off once again.