I hate you! I can't believe you did this to me! This isn't some sort of fucking game! They'll kill you!
****
I'm sitting on top of a pile of debris, a rusting wavy metallic fence to my back, trying to hide behind some warped pieces of cardboard as dusk encroaches, robbing me of my vision. Welcome to life in the mean streets of rural east Texas.
How did this happen? Death through failure, like always. I'll tell you the whole truth as they won't get it right at my funeral and/or police report.
It begins with Natasha, in Houston - both of whom I ran away from. She thought I was somebody when I was nobody and I did terrible things to prove to her I was right. Worst part is, with her, I didn't feel like a nobody. I just couldn't figure out how to deserve her time. Natasha definitely is somebody. She's the moon, the stars, and the sun.
In the city, corporations are the thugs that run the show. You're trapped in an endless web of finance: the more you make, the more they take. Rage is rising every day, head rattlers on TV always asking why with Roman speeches. The only hope they offer is false hope. The game is rigged and the ones who promise to save us are the ones who rig it the most.
Drowning in emotional turmoil, I clung to the idea that life in the countryside must be better, more free than the thousand strangling strings attached to the company town. When I got there, the slower pace seemed perfect. Holes I could slip through, live life unnoticed, just fade away out of eyesight of Natasha.
That mirage didn't last long. Came to find out I was what you call a "straggler", someone on their own, easy to pick off by the criminal gangs. I'd read about this years ago, how the Hong Kong triads operate the same way: join or die. I doubt these two-bit rednecks had even heard of the triads, things just organically had gotten this way. Thugs were here, thugs were there, thugs are everywhere.
There's less than 20,000 living in Palestine. A band named "Dry Cleaning" is performing at Texas Theater, their community center. I got an anonymous job stocking nights at a retail store. It's one of those stupid chains you only see in podunk towns like this.
Problem with running away is needing a place to run to. I got here, but now what? I'm more alone than ever. Don't know a soul (which was the plan), and am a complete outsider. So I'd wander the streets in the evening time with a pain that permeated my entire being, an unrelenting knife in my head. I was falling in space, reaching out to find something grasping onto emptiness. I'm sure to the predators I must have looked like one of those crippled animals separated from the herd.
But staying inside my crap room in ancient apartments (most everything here is ancient) staring blankly at the TV watching movies I'd seen a hundred times already, I was driven out into the open. Even without hope, one must search for water in the desert to maintain even the pretense of salvation.
In rural towns they are church crazy, pining for a God they viciously reject. In my part of town, many buildings had fallen into disrepair, including this this old, tiny white clapboard steepled church that hadn't seen a service in decades. It was easy to hear voices inside as one of the windows was busted and naturally I was curious, halting my walk.
There was a rustle of excitement then the gang came out to confront me. They wanted to know what I was doing out there. I knew the truth would not suffice, to explain that I'd left my hole in search of human contact. As always, I chose the worst path possible, meekly replying, "Nothing?"
Next thing I know I'm inside the church agreeing to join up so I can avert suspicion. This certainly wasn't the human contact I was hoping for but I felt sucked in as if helplessly stuck in a whirlpool circling the drain. What I came to realize later was they were nothing but a bunch of lonely losers too.
I feared the leader, though. I knew he could sense my half-hearted commitment. Compared to the amazing, blinding joy I'd felt with Natasha, the contrast was soul shattering. This must be what it's like to join the Foreign Legion after you fail at life. I knew it was bad. I knew it was wrong. I knew I didn't have a choice.
I was too new to be trusted to be involved in any of the gang's criminal endeavors (thank God!). But in one of our church meetings there was talk of a rival gang ("A bunch of fucking cowboys") and there was going to be trouble. A spy had been tracking our movements, no doubt planning some sort of ambush. I was hoping they were misreading the situation, that things were overblown, and really what's there to fight over here in the boonies?
But then it struck me what the hell else is there to do?
As the biggest fraud there I was keen to prove myself and suggested we disperse in all directions from the church, capture the spy, and find out what exactly is going on. The guys were a bit reluctant but I cheered on my own cause until they came around. I had serious doubts about it too, my inner voice screaming at me. But desperate is the creature with a clouded mind.
What a rustic shithole this is. Separation from the group was what I really wanted. Where art thou, freedom? But the further I got away from the safety of the church, picking my way through small prickly shrubs and down littered alleys with dogs (and goats!) I began to understand my mistake.
One on one with this spy I didn't stand a chance. I'm not fighter. I'd wondered why the leader went along with my plan as I knew he had a low opinion of me. Easy to see now he thought I was architecting my own demise. Fucker may have been right.
I'd been about as stealthy as a spotlight shining into the darkening sky. Still, I figured what are the odds we even had a spy or that I'd picked the one in a million direction to come across him. So why was my sense of dread getting heavier with every step? I'd never felt a bigger fool in my life.
A panicking need to hide overcame me and that's when I decided to pile into the debris piled against the fence to make my stakeout. Squatting down alone, feeling abandoned, it dawned on me I'd gone from the hunter to being the hunted. Then I heard footsteps creeping up on me...
I hate you! I can't believe you did this to me! This isn't some sort of fucking game! They'll kill you!
How did this happen? Death through failure, like always. I'll tell you the whole truth as they won't get it right at my funeral and/or police report.
It begins with Natasha, in Houston - both of whom I ran away from. She thought I was somebody when I was nobody and I did terrible things to prove to her I was right. Worst part is, with her, I didn't feel like a nobody. I just couldn't figure out how to deserve her time. Natasha definitely is somebody. She's the moon, the stars, and the sun.
In the city, corporations are the thugs that run the show. You're trapped in an endless web of finance: the more you make, the more they take. Rage is rising every day, head rattlers on TV always asking why with Roman speeches. The only hope they offer is false hope. The game is rigged and the ones who promise to save us are the ones who rig it the most.
That mirage didn't last long. Came to find out I was what you call a "straggler", someone on their own, easy to pick off by the criminal gangs. I'd read about this years ago, how the Hong Kong triads operate the same way: join or die. I doubt these two-bit rednecks had even heard of the triads, things just organically had gotten this way. Thugs were here, thugs were there, thugs are everywhere.
There's less than 20,000 living in Palestine. A band named "Dry Cleaning" is performing at Texas Theater, their community center. I got an anonymous job stocking nights at a retail store. It's one of those stupid chains you only see in podunk towns like this.
Problem with running away is needing a place to run to. I got here, but now what? I'm more alone than ever. Don't know a soul (which was the plan), and am a complete outsider. So I'd wander the streets in the evening time with a pain that permeated my entire being, an unrelenting knife in my head. I was falling in space, reaching out to find something grasping onto emptiness. I'm sure to the predators I must have looked like one of those crippled animals separated from the herd.
In rural towns they are church crazy, pining for a God they viciously reject. In my part of town, many buildings had fallen into disrepair, including this this old, tiny white clapboard steepled church that hadn't seen a service in decades. It was easy to hear voices inside as one of the windows was busted and naturally I was curious, halting my walk.
There was a rustle of excitement then the gang came out to confront me. They wanted to know what I was doing out there. I knew the truth would not suffice, to explain that I'd left my hole in search of human contact. As always, I chose the worst path possible, meekly replying, "Nothing?"
Next thing I know I'm inside the church agreeing to join up so I can avert suspicion. This certainly wasn't the human contact I was hoping for but I felt sucked in as if helplessly stuck in a whirlpool circling the drain. What I came to realize later was they were nothing but a bunch of lonely losers too.
I feared the leader, though. I knew he could sense my half-hearted commitment. Compared to the amazing, blinding joy I'd felt with Natasha, the contrast was soul shattering. This must be what it's like to join the Foreign Legion after you fail at life. I knew it was bad. I knew it was wrong. I knew I didn't have a choice.
But then it struck me what the hell else is there to do?
As the biggest fraud there I was keen to prove myself and suggested we disperse in all directions from the church, capture the spy, and find out what exactly is going on. The guys were a bit reluctant but I cheered on my own cause until they came around. I had serious doubts about it too, my inner voice screaming at me. But desperate is the creature with a clouded mind.
What a rustic shithole this is. Separation from the group was what I really wanted. Where art thou, freedom? But the further I got away from the safety of the church, picking my way through small prickly shrubs and down littered alleys with dogs (and goats!) I began to understand my mistake.
One on one with this spy I didn't stand a chance. I'm not fighter. I'd wondered why the leader went along with my plan as I knew he had a low opinion of me. Easy to see now he thought I was architecting my own demise. Fucker may have been right.
I'd been about as stealthy as a spotlight shining into the darkening sky. Still, I figured what are the odds we even had a spy or that I'd picked the one in a million direction to come across him. So why was my sense of dread getting heavier with every step? I'd never felt a bigger fool in my life.
A panicking need to hide overcame me and that's when I decided to pile into the debris piled against the fence to make my stakeout. Squatting down alone, feeling abandoned, it dawned on me I'd gone from the hunter to being the hunted. Then I heard footsteps creeping up on me...
I hate you! I can't believe you did this to me! This isn't some sort of fucking game! They'll kill you!
****
Fandorov the Drunk shivered as he marched through the Ukrainian winter forest. He'd never felt a bigger fool in his life. His mother had urged him to join up, to "fix his life" and "serve the motherland." As a worthless drunkard he was easily wrangled by his need for love. His own feelings were to hate the war and despise the overlords who delighted in betraying those sent off to the "meat grinder."
But his Russian character considered it weak to listen to feelings and strong to be of hardened heart. Fandorov swore if he made it back alive he wouldn't make this mistake again. Damn his mother and anyone else who told him differently. My life does matter.
Predators, he thought. The world is full of nothing but predators. Drop your guard for a second and you're dead - or even worse, in the living hell of unseen terror lurking around ever corner. Fandorov had no idea what he was doing or where he needed to go. The soulless beasts who'd sent him into the woods saw him as nothing but fuel for the furnace that raged within their burning hearts. For them, there could never be enough dead bodies.
The choices were dire and he'd run out of options. Back home, everyone had told Fandorov he was "doing the right thing." Damn Judases were probably laughing their asses off at some warm Moscow bar. The only people Fandorov wanted to shoot was them - and the murderous commanders here in the field. He was livid with himself for letting himself be swindled.
I hate you! I can't believe you did this to me! This isn't some sort of fucking game! They'll kill you!
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