Sacred Monster

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“This won’t take long, sir.”

Oooooooooooooooooohooooooooooooooooooooooooohooooooooooooooo ooooooocooooooooooooooohooooooooooooooooooooooooh ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooohooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo, wow.

I hurt all over. My bones ache. God’s giant fists are squeezing my internal organs, twisting and grinding. Why do I do it, if it makes me sick?

“Ready for a few questions, sir?”

I open my eyes; slowly, very slowly. It is daytime, but thank God a high, thin cloud cover shields me from the sun. I am home; where else would I be? Here is my broad slate patio, grayer than the thin cloud way up above, spread like a monochrome quilt between my house and my pool. Big house; white; Tara, you know what I mean? I can’t look at the pool; dancing waters.

And ahead of me is the interviewer. A neat, drab man, a plain man in plain gray slacks, plain tan sports jacket, button-down blue shirt, maroon bow tie. Brown loafers, black socks. Steno pad at the ready, ball-point pen at the ready, eyes at the ready.

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