The Congener Interludes, Op.1: Sonatina of Intrigue, No. 5

Previous: The Congener Interludes, Op.1: Sonatina of Intrigue, No. 4

“Marvin Gaye”
— Charlie Puth, Meghan Trainor

He’s as original now as the first of his kind — spaghetti-stained shirt, juice box in his pocket, the note from his mom, pinned to his coat: Special needs, please speak slowly — his disgust towards himself only rivaled by others’.



I’m drawn.

For how many years have we looked other ways, allowed this to happen, not offered assist?

O victims of sacrifice, misfortune and proximals, coerced to acknowledge this desecrate being: Alone I can save you at least six years — of extensive exposure to hot dog cologne.

The damage, an iceberg: majority hidden, fighting for buoyance, widest in berth, titanic in cost. I may disagree with him and the way that he lives, and how society accepts his behaviour without institutionalisation, but my inclination is that we all have a purpose. And if not for his wife, his might be cox.

Watching him break on the parking lot’s back, his laps lack the speed to escape my repulse. In a frantic attempt to put distance between a visceral repugnance and diabetes intrepid, his head snaps back, rhythmic in stride. He either works to measure his progress, or is once again trying to bite his own ear.

Closer to pavement, the stress on his Crocs, painting a landscape hidden:

Purpose, explained

heart of a mother.

Owning them proudly,

baby’s first booties.

Framed in bronze,

capturing youth,

Flickering fro,

the fireplace mantel.

Gifted a curse,

her futurist glance.

Out of her reach,

a view of the last.

The trophy goes to his sweet Rapacity, with notable mention to Popeye for chicken. And there it be now, again destined for mantel, his Size 13, casted up to the kneecap.

However from there,

the morning will tide,

It fails to unshadow

her precious and rife.

That does it! If not for him, I’ll do it for his mother! She’s never been anything but tender and bare. I’ll perform in her name a tactical intervention, and bring little Alfwaydo home in one piece.

The wings oustretched, the halo outdonned — he’s lucky to have an angel like me.

My powerful stride skips him down with no effort. Now more than ever, he needs my support. “Slow down, pastelito. I know what’s wrong with you. Like it or not, I’m here to help.”

He wants to collapse, secrete all his thanks. “What are you doing, Zamboni? We’re not friends…Why are you looking at me like that? Stop chasing me!” But from somewhere deep down he picks up the pace.

“Damnit, Wendejo! Don’t make this harder on yourself than it already is.” I can’t afford to let him go far — “Think of your mother and surrender at once!” — for the stress that it puts on his corpulent parts.

Retarding the bus, eyes of distrust, hard to be reached with life lessons of love. “Surrender for what?! Leave me alone, Topper. I need this!” pleading, “my body needs this.”

It’s a calculated manoeuvre, designed to entrance. But reverse-interrogation is no match for a pro. “Do unto others, Waymon. Do unto others before they do unto you!”

The message is old, truthful and bold — straight from the tome to the porch of his home. “My wife won’t even let me masturbate to her picture anymore. And you’re just keeping me from concentrating on where my feet need to go.” Broken. Broken. Broken.

“I’m not to blame for your belly’s obstruction.” This man is clearly not right in his mind. Far too wobbly to maintain four kilometers-per-hour, this chase needs stopped before someone gets hurt: Crowds of real runners are beginning to lap us. And I have already too much blood on my hands.

Thank Odin’s eye his wife didn’t eat all my Molly: This lunchreak wasn’t planned as a family affair, but come to think of it, when is it ever?

Fresh out of darts, I need a make-shift delivery: Snap goes the antenna from a Porsche passing by. The end is a scoop, dipped in my bag, where dancing bears signal the magically rad. The powder keg makes its way to my mouth. I repeat the process and repeat it again.

I’m fiNallY ReaDy — bUt WhAt the fuCk FoR?! Oh, yeah: I arm the Solution to spear-chuck it at Wayside, along with the love that comes with these words: “No MAtter WhEre you gO, tHere you ARe, WayCo!” Bolt of Truth to Target of Wien —> he screams, and I chamber some thunder. “AnD if yOu Don’T f-fiX thE InsiDe, the oUtside Will C-conTinUe to s-s-suffer!”

The antenna in his calf is bleeding profusely, because I’m wiggling it a little to adjust his reception. “I CAN’T FIX YOU BUD,” ensuring he hears me over his screams, “NOT AS BROKEN AS YOU ARE. BUT THERE ARE THINGS I CAN DO TO MAKE YOU MORE HUMAN.”

There’s a pep in his step, as if he were dancing: Surely a sign that this therapy works. “YOu don’T Know wHat iT would taKe to mAke mE Human! AnD you suRE as HelL don’t kNow what’s BroKEn insiDe mE…”

He’s right. Not all of it. How could anyone? With a wife like that, the possibilities don’t end with what’s in the junk drawer. “I Know you hate k-Koalas so bad that you F-flew to AustRalia and staRted thE f-FiRes…” His pupils dilate, discovered. He’s feeling the pressure of love. “Yeah. You’d be surPrised what I know, Wayhole. You’d be surPrised…”

“Th-those K-kOaLas weRe ask-k-king for iT! So what! WhAt else, HuH?” For a moment, he softens, and it’s possible — his eyes, a glimmer of hope. “ARe you some kind of expeRt on inveRted wieneRs or ingRown hemoRRhoids? And do you think it’s possible to heal theiR effects on a suffeRing chaKRa?”

Finger off the trigger, thumbing the safety: “Uhm, well…I’d probably have to conSult a manual for that. That actually SoundS fairly SeriouS.”

“Yeeaah, Sssuuuper SssseeeriouS! Sssooo, just, like, off the top of your head, how far away do you think we are from having a technology for that kind of thing?” I’m glad we’re moving slow, processing this development requires exorbitant thinking.

“Weeell…buuud…I’d saaaay…let’s not get invested. Okaaay?”

Stopping to breathe obnoxiously loud, his tiny-little mouth is gasping for air. “But…stem cell research…it’s promising… riiiight?” I can see in all of his eyes that he really needs this.

“You know what, Gaymon? I did read something recently.” This is so emotional – it’s breaking my heart. “Yeah…yeah. I recall seeing something about those two very specific problems on the newsstand at Tickle Fingers.” The best lie contains an element of truth.

“Really?! That’s so frickin’ cool, man. In what publication?” That’s it. Get on the hook you big tuna.

“It was one of those ones they put out for chicks who are way into that sort of thing. I remember that part vividly — because they were all super disappointed about the new advancements.” Reeling in slow…

“You mean…there’s hope?”

And now with a touch of gas: “Don’t you do it, Way-dog! Don’t you DARE break all those hearts!”

“You’re not the boss of me, Z-top. You’re not the boss…”

The breeze through my mullet carries scent of a storm: An ocean of tears, a barrier reef, a levy of sands, soon to be breached. “No, I’m not the boss. But I’ve met her. And I know what she’s done to you.” Wets the tide-in rising, the fringe on my jeans — cutoff at the knees, to help my glutes beam. “Look at me. You’re avoiding the real issue. I’ve heard you talk behind closed doors, Waydy, and you’re wrong. Despite what the mainstream media would like you to believe, domestic abuse — it’s never funny. Not ever. It all leaves marks.” The weather will leather the pack on my hips, its contents secured with Velcro and zip. Yet I reach for his chest to point at the pain. Instinctively raises his hand to his face. “Easy, bud. Easy. I’m not gonna hurt you.” I place my palm to the pace of his heart. “Right here, Wenjamin. Permanent marks. Right here.” Amazed by the depth where his man-boobies part.

Heavy with flow, his fist finds the leak. To the heart of the matter, his sense of intrigue. “Why are you doing this, G-Teasy? — you’ve never liked me.”

I move his hand away and index his tears. “That’s right, Wayfred, and forever I won’t.” I need a bigger squeegee. “But this… thing…this life…it’s heavier than us, heavier than your stock in Private Prisons of Mexico” — lifting his chin, seeing his eyes — “That’s why you and me, pal, we’re gonna face this head-on.”

I solidify these words with a ceremonial gesture: The attempt to transfer my headband onto his gurt-bubble. Because I knew it in fact to be unlikely in fit, instead the spare band in my pocket is placed on his wrist.

“It’s going to be rough, Wasabi. You being a booger-eating fart-sniffer hasn’t been easy for anyone. And sure, I’m happy to peel you one layer at a time. But know that it might be a while before you see the results. Trust me, though: They are coming. And you WiLL know when they get here.”

I can see I’ve touched him. By the way his snotty sleeves wipe his happy tears. “Are you being serious, Glenn? Or is this another one of your Mensa tricks?”

“Buddy, look me in my eyes. You’re getting carried away. Don’t ever call me by my first name again.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Zamboni, I overstepped.”

“You sure did, Waymon. You sure did…”

“Never Be The Same”
— Camila Cabello

Next: Stay tuned…

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

2 × five =

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.