Serge and his Apples

"She told me I would find you here" the skinny kid who just slid into my booth on a bleary Thursday afternoon said with some smugness. "She? who in the actual fuck is she boy? That is what the stricter among us call an unattached pronoun. I know and have known a lots of "shes" in my life boy, and I've no time for guessing games with some whelp such as yourself." That took a bit of the smugness out of him, and he tried again "s.s.she said to say the one without brown eyes." I narrowed my own eyes at that comment, and replied "well that does shrink the field considerably, and given that today is Thursday, I believe I know this mysterious "she" of which you speak. Alright lad you up for a walk? Where we need to go is about a 4 mile walk from here, and I need the exercise, or so the quack that pretends to be my doctor tells me." He nodded silently and slid out of the booth, as I did the same on my side and beckoned him to follow. I had hoped that he wouldn't but I was already resigned to the fact that he would. They all do.

I was taking the piss out him on purpose the "hike" I  took him on was twice the length it needed to be, I took the scenic route, if such a thing can be said to exist in this shit hole of a city in which I dwell, but I figured that I really did need the exercise, and if he gave up after 2 miles or so I could just go back to my bar, and my pints.  Sadly, he didn't give up and we eventually arrived at our destination. A market square, if such a thing could still be considered to exist in this world, and the stall we were looking for was where it always was, tucked away in a corner leaning drunkenly against the wall of some pawn shop, and trying to look respectable.  It was not doing a good job of it, and when I pointed it out to the boy, it took him a minute to find it. I begin to wonder if "she" had sent me a dunce on purpose, it would be just something "she" would do. We had that type of complex relationship, or at least I thought it was complex. I never really got around to asking her, what her views on it were. Probably because I was afraid the answer might distress me, and I try not to cause myself too much distress.

"That, boy, is Serge, and that is his apple cart/barrow. Not much to look at is it?" He took a long look, now that he was looking in the right direction, nodded and replied "this is what she sent me to you to find, a fucking apple cart, manned by what appeared to be a homeless man? What in the actual fuck can be so important about an apple cart?" I sighed, and cursed her under my breath, she was really going to have to start sending me people with at least a modicum of common sense, or I was going to have to find a new place to not be found. "Take a closer look, you mouth breathing idiot, and see if you notice anything unusual about Serge's cart of apples." He squinted a bit, probably half blind as well as a half wit, and finally after what seemed an eternity said "wait he's not selling apples is he? No, lad he's not, our boy Serge despite outward appearances is not a seller of apples." I tapped him on the shoulder, "you've seen enough I think, and the walk has made me thirsty, I know a pub around here that pours a proper pint, and you owe me one for all the education you're about to receive. Let's go before Serge spots us, he's a little bit more observant that he looks."

Safely ensconced in the new watering hole with two half way decent pints in front of us, I looked at him and said "so, junior what do you make of our boy Serge, has "she" told you anything of substance about him, or am I going to have to start from the beginning. I hate starting from the beginning every single time she sends me one of you lot."  I could tell he wasn't fond of me referring to him as junior, and made a mental note to continue to do it just to get a rise out of him. "No, she told me quite a bit about Serge, like for starters that isn't his real name, but she has no idea what his real name is. I smirked "few of us do, and that is the way Serge wants it, and Serge isn't exactly the type you want to cross in some back alley, hell I don't want to cross him in the middle of a public square in broad daylight. I happen to be one of the few who do know his real name, but you'll not get it off of me."

"One thing to never, ever forget junior, is you can't trust Serge. As far as I can tell Serge cares only about two things; himself, and his apples. Forget that, and it is all likely to end in tears, and those tears will be yours not his. That is the best advice I can give you in relation to Serge, and it might be the only bit that is worth following. Serge is a slippery bastard, and he treats every person he meets differently. He has some long winded explanation as to why he does it, but over the years I just stopped listening to it. He generally treats me a like I'm a proper cunt, and he's not precisely wrong. I just don't take it too personally, because one thing Serge isn't is too personal." I wasn't sure how much of what I was saying was sinking into his thick skull because he kept the same neutral (or was it bored) expression on his face, but that wasn't really a "me" problem. He could listen to any, part, or none of what I had to say and take any, part, or none of it as truth. I certainly couldn't care less, and besides part of it was certainly not true. Never tell the entire truth to one person, it just makes things complicated when things go tits up, and thing almost always go tits up.

"The point of Serge and his apples, as far as I am able to tell, is that he collects them, like little kids with baseball cards or spinster aunts with matchbooks of bars in exotic places they will never visit. He, as you were correct in pointing out, does not sell his apples. Whether they be Akero apples from Sweden, Golden Nobles from England, Granny Smiths from the US, or any of the other 750 plus types of edible apples in the world, once Serge gets it, he keeps it, or so the story goes. He raised a questioning eyebrow at this last bit, and before he could open his mouth to say something particularly stupid, I raised a forestalling hand, and said before you start with your idiotic questions, I'll go ahead and answer them for you to save me the trouble of listening to you stammer over them. "It is more likely the reason you've been send to me, and I guess she didn't bother telling you that. Typical of her sending a fool off on an errand with as little information as possible. Did she at least tell you what she wants you to do in regards to Serge?"

"Only vaguely" he replied." She seems to have some sort of grudge against him, but wouldn't tell me what it was about or what exactly I was supposed to do. I don't know if she wants him kill, in which case I am not the man for the job, or she just wants some type of vague revenge on him." I smiled "no lad, you are not the man that will take Serge out of this world, that person's identity has already been decided, and you'd be a damn fool to try it. Of course she wouldn't give you too many detailed instructions before she sent you to me, she does that just to annoy the shit out of me, and as usual it has worked." He arched an eyebrow "wait, you mean I'm not the first person she has sent to you about Serge and his apples?" "No you damn fool, you aren't and you probably won't be the last, but that isn't exactly the point. Though I am not sure exactly what the point is anymore. But, since you are here and are paying for these pints, whether you know it or not, I'll give you a quick crash course on Serge and his apples. Speaking of go get us another pint junior, this is going to be thirsty work."

He wandered off to the bar, and I began to wonder how much she wanted me to tell him, I didn't know him from Adam, and even though I'd known her for years, she had become a stranger to me recently, and I wasn't sure if his visit to me was a genuine request for help, or some sort of test that I was surely destined to fail. One of the many things I have become skilled at in my lifetime is failing tests, especially ones that I wasn't sure I was taking or not. Luckily, the line at the bar was long enough for me to formulate the answer to the self asked question of how much to tell him. It was going to be dicey to tell him anything because first of all, he seemed a bit of an idiot. Secondly he was going to run back to her and tell her everything I said which I was sure he would garble, and lastly I wasn't exactly sure about Serge's role in all of this. This being a very broad term for life in general, and mine in particular. He finally made it back to the table with our pints, sat himself and them down, and with a look of expectation said "You going to tell me the mysteries of Serge and his fucking apples or not?"

I pointed at his beer, and said "Don't let that liquid courage let you get ideas above your station junior, I don't owe you a fucking thing. My loyalty, such as it is, is to her not to you, so calm down, and try, just try, to keep a civil tongue in your head." He seemed to understand his misstep, and merely nodded his agreement. "Good, now that we've an understanding of the general situation I will give you the information you need. It might not fully satisfy you, but I really give fuck all about you or your satisfaction. As you so cleverly noticed, Serge doesn't sell apples, or at least he's never sold one to me, nor have I seen him sell one ever in the time I've known him, and I've known him a long, long time. No, our boy Serge is more of a collector of apples than a merchant of apples, and I am fairly certain that by now he has a fairly decent sized collection of apples to his name. However, the story goes, and I've not been able to confirm it yet, that Serge once upon a time trusted someone with one of his apples, and it ended poorly. Very, very poorly for Serge. The precise details are a bit fuzzy, and a couple of them can't be proved or disproved with any degree of certainty, but the general theory is that Serge, the man who didn't trust anyone finally made the mistake we all make, and trusted someone. It was, for that mad bastard, quite the Kierkegaardian leap of faith, and like most leaps of faith it ended in tears."

"Serge himself will tell you, if you get him drunk enough, that he was wrong for what he did. In a rare case of accepting responsibility for what he has done, which for him is very, very rare, he will say that the reason he has amassed so many apples is because he didn't trust anyone, and that people who knew him, knew that. That was his selling point, it certainly wasn't his sunshine like personality or good looks. But it would appear that our boy Serge is, despite his repeated attempts to not be, human and therefore a sucker. He gave away one of his apples to the wrong person, and his whole apple cart had a terrifying moment of near complete upset before he (barely) managed to keep it from collapsing entirely, at least so far. There are those among us that aren't exactly sure that Serge is keeping his apples in nice little stacks like he used to, and that makes quite a few of us nervous, myself included. For you see, junior, Serge has a considerable number of my apples in his collection, and that is why she sent you here. To make sure that I don't do anything untoward to Serge to trigger the complete upsetting of his apple cart. It is her making sure that I am still stable, and on the path of the "righteous" smart people, and not going off the rails entirely. Therefore, lad, finish your beer, pay our tab and get the fuck out of my sight. Tell her that I've not gone as crazy as she thinks I have, and that, for the nonce, I am sober, sane, and safely under control. Whose control I am under is not, as of yet, any of her business."

He nodded, finished his beer, and got the fuck out of my sight. I don't know if he will get the full message through to her or not, because again I think he's an idiot, but if the gist of it gets passed along then it will have to do. I hope, for my own sake, that he gets it through to her that I am not quite the fool she used to know, and that the slumbering loyalty I once had to her has re-awakened, and perhaps that will be enough to repair things between us. I don't hold out much hope, but then again I've never been the hopeful type, hopeful types, even one time hopeful types like Serge, end up with bastards like me looking over their shoulders, and the last thing I need is a bastard like me in my affairs. I wandered back to my usual watering hole, ordered a pint, and thought well at least I should have some peace until Monday, because Monday was the day the other one usually sent their lackey around to check on Serge and his apples.

précédent titulaire des mêmes droits

He is asleep, it is something that he hasn't done much of in the recent months. The months you've been killing him slowly, but for now he is asleep. While I've gotten him asleep, and it took a whole lot of alcohol to do, I am going to write this down for him. In fact, the only way I've seen him sleep in the last three months is either getting him black out drunk, or just finally becoming so exhausted that he collapsed. This is what you've done to him, I hope you are enjoying it.  What makes it worse (in my opinion) is you know you're doing this to him, you know what it is that is keeping him awake at all hours of the day and night, you know what is gnawing away at his insides like a dog at a bone, and yet you refuse to give him the truth. The answer he knows, but still somehow needs you to confirm in order to move on with his so-called life (his words, not mine). Of all your crimes, and he has told me about them make no mistake,  this is your worst one. I can only hope that it is worth it and that you are proud of yourself.

Given the stories about you that he has shared, and the things I can suss out for myself, I am convinced you are proud of yourself. It is what you do. The thing(s) you did to him that is. He is overly fond of the expression "if people were horses, I'd be rich", but I truly think that his prediction of you is accurate to an amazing degree. However, that is his story to tell, this will be mine. You won't enjoy either one, and that is ever so fine with me. I don't want you to enjoy them, I want you to "suffer" for your crimes, we are not friends, we will never be friends, and I don't think, even if the chance presented itself (which it won't) we should ever meet. I am not exactly a member of your fan club, just to be clear.  There are people who are (you know), members of your fan club, people you've bamboozled into thinking you're the kind hearted type who loves her mother, Jesus, and America, and are the dutiful employee/daughter/friend/lover that is above all the dirty little secrets that seem to permeate your environment. You're not, and from what I can tell of his, mostly drunken, ravings there are a surprising number of people who agree that you are not the saint you externalize. Few of us are, but you seem to take a particular pride in attempting to occupy the moral high ground. Just make sure the moral high ground doesn't turn into a "hill to die on." Things look different from higher up, or so they say, but it is from high terrain such as the moral high ground that a lot of people fall, and the higher the ground the further the fall.

It is from those drunken ravings of his that I have gleaned most of the information I have about you, watching him, the person I now know as the Romantic, desperately try to explain to me (an almost stranger) that "he's going to kill me you know, he is going to murder me" was very difficult to understand, and as I began to know him better, very difficult to hear. Of course, he was raving drunk, and going on about the Rationalist, the one he thought was going to kill him, but even his amazing ability to predict people isn't infallible, and he didn't realize the identity of his killer would be you. We can't all be perfect, but I suspect you know that already don't you?  The biggest problem with that particular rant is that it was in public, and getting his drunk ass out of there was a task that I did not particularly enjoy, I blame you. Not that I suspect you care, sure you told him you did, you told him how worried you were about his not sleeping, and you knew him well enough to see him unraveling before you, but I just don't think you cared enough to help stop it. I am fairly convinced you could have, stopped it that is, and it is a bit of a puzzler to me why you didn't just tell him what he wanted to hear, and move on with your story, it would have helped him move on with his.

Instead, you kept silent and now his story seemed to be stuck in some sort of self-destructive loop. Many people have told him to stop kicking the shit out of himself (me included), but as far as I can tell not one of us (me included) have figured out a way to make that unhappen. He is, as you and others know and like to point out to him, his own worst enemy, and the biggest explosions generally come from the inside rather than from an outside source. You might be the fuse but, the jumble inside his head is the dynamite. I can see that you know? I can see him when we are out having the drinks required to get him unconscious the moments when he 'disappears' inside his own head. He thinks he hides it well, but then again why wouldn't he think that? It is a certain far away look that appears in his eyes that give away the fact that he is trapped inside his own head tearing the mental furniture to shreds, and engaged in yet another vicious battle in the war against himself. The problem with that war, the war that is probably still raging in his fitful sleep as I lie next to him, is that the only loser possible is, in fact, him. That is tragic to the rest of us, but for reasons he can only explain, he seems to find funny.

He likes to think the lack of sleep has made him numb, he's wrong but I don't have the heart to tell him that. Maybe if I had your ability to walk away from disasters of my own creation I could tell him, but I have yet to figure out that skill.  He's not only not numb he's emoting like a godsdamn 15 year old schoolgirl, it is (so I've been told) quite unlike him, and I don't know what to think/do about it. Perhaps all those emotions just need to come out like the water behind a dam, and when the flow stops, he will be back to as normal as an emotional cripple like him can ever be. Or maybe the flood will drown him, and anybody in his path. I rather hope the latter isn't true, because I am, clearly, in his path. I can see what a number you did on him, and the hard landing he is trying ever so much to soften has, as he likes to put it, "broken the springs of his soul." But you know that already, because he told you that. He has to turn you into a monster in the hopes that eventually he can heal himself. I am not sure the world is sweet or tender enough to allow that to happen.

He's muttering now in his sleep, and most of it is utterly nonsense, or too unintelligible to understand one of the only words I can ever hear clearly is your name. Have you ever had a man utter another woman's name while in bed with you? Even if I know the reason(s), even if I understand it is a by-product of the struggle within, it still smarts. Maybe you've never had that experience, though for reasons I'll not share, I rather expect you have. If you have (and I rather hope you have) you will know that it doesn't endear you to me, I don't hate you exactly because hate is something best reserved for people that have wronged you in some major way, and in theory you've done me no actual harm, but I can certainly say there are several not so nice words I would like to say to your face.

It is a tribute to your destructive skills, that I am able to even get to write this, his control (which people have told me is iron clad) is slipping so much that I gained access to his computer because I found him passed out in front of it. He had written some half of a blog post before he drifted off to sleep/passed out, and so here I am with unfettered access to the kingdom of him. He will probably be furious when he finds out, and I will probably get a slating, but I felt the need to write these things down on his behalf, because he could never bring himself to do it, and it needs doing. Not for you mind, I don't care one little whit about your feelings (if you have them), but for his sake. The sake of the fellow you left behind to do what it is you're doing. Make no mistake, he knows what you are doing, has known, and that is the rub. It is the awful realization that he was right that is tearing him to shreds. I can only hope that when he is done, there will be enough of him to put back together again. However, that, as he would put it, is "a J___ problem" and it need not worry you overmuch. I somehow doubt that it does, but I thought I'd be polite (this once) and let you know that your input in the rebuilding is not necessary.

Morning is kicking in the door on this new day of misery for him, and my time in control of this blog is drawing quickly to an end. I am not the wit he is, I don't think I have the pithy ending that would both sting you (which I would very, very much like to do), or make you feel some sort of guilt for what you've done (maybe you do, I doubt it). There are many, many things I'd like to say to your face about this, but I know that will never happen, and isn't a good idea even if I had the chance. I can only hope that he survives this, he's a lot stronger than he thinks, and other than me he has some really, truly awesome people in his life.  It was his mistake (and he would say that it is his mistake, let him make it) that for a considerable length of time he thought you were a different kind of horse.

successeur dans l'intérêt

 This was, I thought, the last thing the Romantic ever wrote. It turns out I was wrong. It's not very good, but I feel it should be published. After all, he wrote it in the throes of dying, and we all want that "don't let it end like this, tell them I said something" moment.




You won't thank me for this even if you bother to read it, which knowing you as well as I do, I know that you won't.  I have been assured that I can't  know you because you don't exist and that you are a figment of the imagination of my demons. Demons that come out from under the bed, or out of the closet at 3 a..m. to raise hell with my logical, unsuspecting mind. If I am wrong, (which I'm not) the sentiment is the same to the eventual fool be they friend or stranger who takes the position I once held. That position will be filled, because that is just the nature of things, it is just a question of when, not if. The who only matters in the scheme of whether I'm as good as puzzling things out as I think I am (and I am, forget that to your cost). Therefore, this is mostly an exercise in futility, which is fine because you will, when you "exist" officially or not, soon enough figure out that your newly minted status will also be that as well, futile to the point of despair. However, that will be a "you" problem at the time it happens, and while I hope to be around to see it, I am quite sure I will give exactly zero fucks when it does. This is the only attempt at "help" you will get from me, and since I won't publish it directly to you, and you are too lazy to read it, it is the exact amount of help you deserve. Which is to say none. I never claimed to be a nice person, but (if you exist and you are who I think you are) you "know me so well" that you knew that already. I will do you the favour (that you don't deserve), and tell you what will be the outcome of your new adventure. She will do to you what she did to me (which is you), because how do you think I got to precede you? She will make a muppet out you just like she did me,because people are sometimes horses, and it pays to know past performances, they do sometimes predict the future. 

 You should enjoy being my "successeur dans l'interet." It isn't a bad gig at first, and you are in that first bloom. Everything is new, and whatever trick you pulled to become the new one is still working. I know the trick I used, but I am not sure it will work for everyone, and I am not exactly sure if it would work on her again. I suspect that the length of my "reign" would make her less likely to fall for my trick again. The good news is that I think she is more likely to fall for a simpler trick than the one I used. Whatever trick you use(d), it will work for a while,  and during that time you are going to have a whole shit ton of fun in the place where we all want these things to go. You'll get there (I suspect you probably already have, but I've no proof), and you will get there many times. It will be a mind blowing (among other things) experience. You will swear all sorts of lies during that time, and so will she. She will rave about the "best they've ever had" and all sorts of other nonsense that you will believe mainly because you want to believe it. You shouldn't because while I am sure you are a talented fellow (I was sure I was too), you aren't the best. No one is, in this case "best" equates to "latest." Forget that to your cost. We always believe every word that comes out of a beautiful woman's mouth, and while some people doubt the beauty of your oracle, you don't. Therefore, you'll believe that lie, and the many, many others you are going to hear, and trust me mate, you'll hear plenty of them.

The newness is sort of like buying a new car, it's shiny, it's probably a newer model than the one you had, maybe it goes a little faster, is a little sleeker, and has all sorts of bells and whistles you aren't used to because you've been driving the same car for a whole lot of years. Take the new one out on the "expressway" of life and see what she can do. Take a couple of corners too fast, and see how she handles. Spend some time in the fast lane with the throttle down, and see if you can red line it. The glorious noises she will make will add to the pleasure of driving her, and you might find yourself thinking you could get seriously used to driving this new car forever. Don't. That is exactly the point of a new car, they are fantastic to drive at first, but eventually that first payment becomes due, and the luster starts to fade. Of course, you will not be warned of that fading, in fact you will be told quite the opposite. You'll hear all sorts of wild tales (otherwise known as lies) about how you're the best driver on the road, and how you steer with just the right amount of pressure, and how amazing you are on the straightaways. Go ahead and listen to them, but never, ever believe them. Few roads are completely untraveled, and the title of this post is the title for a reason, forget that to your cost.

 If the car analogy sails too far over your head, and it's possible that it will, think of her as a racehorse, not all ponies are created equal, and there is no Daily Racing Form to help you out in this situation. Sure she has a history, but whether you are privy to that information is up to her, and she is quite possibly an unreliable narrator. The only other historical source available to you, that you have easy access to is me. And I am certainly not inclined to help you out too much, and I am certainly an unreliable narrator. However, I will give you some tidbits to ponder over, and you can sort out which bits are true, if any, later. You will have all kinds of time to do that when things go pear shaped, and things will go pear shaped.

 Keep in mind, if you can (it will be difficult) that she is built for speed, not endurance. This is a critical thing to remember. Don't bet your money as if she's a closer, she's not, she's a front runner, and one thing that all the punters at all the tracks in all the places in the world will share with you (free of charge) is that front runners fade without fail. It is quite simply what they do, and she will as well. You won't realize that, won't want to think about it, and that will be a mistake. You have to remember the posted distance of this race. If  you get confused when you see her out in front at the quarter pole, and you start to count your money too soon, well then brother you are fucked. You won't hedge your bets, because you've been dazzled by the newness and the lies, and you'll be left clutching your, now losing ticket, as forlornly as a clown that has realized the circus left town without them.

You should be extremely reticent as to the fortune those bets you placed foretell. You aren't playing with house money. The bet you placed is your own and exactly no one else has anything at stake, and the only one that can lose when your horse doesn't come in is you. The horse just walks away to the stable and awaits the next race, it is a horse, that's just what they do. Forget that to your cost. Fast women and slow ponies will ruin your life, or at least that's how the saying goes, but you're smarter than that, smarter than me (she will tell you that), and she's your horse after all, you have to trust her right? Trust her assurances that this "race" is the best she's ever run, and the other horses can't compare (she'll tell you that too, and she makes a very compelling argument), and that even on their best day they would run a distant second to her, no matter how nice some of their legs are.

It is quite possible that you think your "finish line" and mine are different, and that it makes all the difference in the world. That may be true at the moment, but I can assure you my "line" at the beginning was the same as yours probably is now. The greatest trick she will pull, and she will pull it because that is what she does, is convincing you to move your "line."If you fall for that trick, and it will be hard not to, I wish you luck getting across it. Remember what kind of pony you've bet on, and if you think it can change its running or finishing style, then you my friend are living in a fool's paradise. If it is any consolation the population is not going to solely consist of you, the bad news is that the other residents might not be the most welcoming sort. Few of us like to admit we live in a city of fools, since that requires us admitting to be a fool ourselves. Some of them might welcome you, but do you really want to spend your time with a bunch of fools? Just because they lost their money the same way you did, doesn't make them boon companion material.

Of course, as I previously stated I think I know you and therefore think you exist, but even if I don't, even if we've never met or are never destined to meet (which I think would be the preferred theory for us both), the ideas expressed here are the same. I do not plan on welcoming you to the city of her fools. I may still reside there and there is a school of thought that says a part of me will always reside there (I feel this to be true, even though it angers and saddens me at the same time). Hers is not the only city of fools that I populate, and even though it feels like it right now, hers won't be the last. Ponies want you  to think they are running their hearts out for you, and some of them even do a bang up job pretending they are, but at the end of the day they run for themselves,and sometimes even though it will harder than Chinese math, you have to let them run away from you so hurriedly. Forget that to your cost.

Disintegration: A Fragment

Before you killed him, the Romantic wrote two last things. This one which is a fragment and I post with only the comment that the person on the stairs wasn't me, and one other that I am saving for a more opportune time.



The world as I had known it, as I had believed it to be, as I partially constructed it, collapsed on a Tuesday at 1:30 in the afternoon. An odd time for a world to collapse I guess, but then again is there every really a good time for it to happen?  I'm not in some doomsday cult that predicts worlds ending on certain days due to the Mayan calendar, global warming, or too much methane coming out of cow's asses. My world collapsed when it collapsed because I found something out that I had suspected for months, and then the collapse. It ended more with a whimper than a bang, as these things are wont to do, but it ended nonetheless, and I fear that this might be the last thing I write for a while. Actually, Since  I both fear and know the Rationalist, and his feelings (if he has feelings). I am fairly convinced that this might be the last thing I ever write period. If you ever had any fondness for me, and since Tuesday I have begun to doubt that, you will read this and forget it. If you ever want to remember me, and I doubt that you will, go back and read the stuff I wrote for you back when I was wooing you. Some of that stuff is quite good, this will not meet any standard of goodness.

Knowing him as I do, and I do know him, I fear that I might not even be granted the time to finish this properly, but I will do the best I can (which has rarely been good enough), with the time allowed to me. I don't know why you did it, I will probably never know why you did it, because as I said, my time here in this collapsed world is drawing to an end. I am the Romantic, I am the guy who got you, kept you, and thought made you mine for a considerable amount of time. Even now, even after you collapsed my world like a ton of bricks falling on the first little piggy's straw hut, I won't "out" you. I will write in vague terms leaving out the identifying details that would lead to people sussing out your true identity. This is both the last favour you'll ever get off of me, and no promise that the Rationalist will do the same for you. He is a bastard, you know this, he knows this, and I know this. Bastards can be useful, and to give him something to do, I have left a lot of detailed records for him to sort through, and do with what he will. I can't stop him, but I am not exactly encouraging him. It really doesn't matter to me what he does with them, because when he finds them, I'll already be dead as dead can be, and will be past the point of caring.

Of course, there will be gaps in those records. No records are totally complete. He won't have provable evidence of the things we said to each other during those lazy, naked afternoons or those "stolen" trips out of town. He does have shared access to our collective memory, but as for those conversations well it will be his word against yours, and who is going to not believe you? Your carefully crafted, but ultimately fake, reputation for being "above it all" will stand you in good stead if the Rationalist tries to use the "my word" approach. After all, he's a cunt, and few people like him, almost everybody loves you, I did. The fact that they have the wrong impression of you, and of him for that matter, won't matter. You will smile sweetly, and say all the right things to get you through. It's what you've done for years, the several years before we were together, and several years that we were together. You're a well practiced, well drilled, well proven liar. I am certain you are of the opinion that your lies will see you through any trouble in your future, and maybe they will. You seem to come out smelling like a rose when things go pear shaped, and trust me sweetheart, this too will go pear shaped. It's what you do, make things go pear shaped with your lies, and then use another set of lies to walk away blameless. It is quite the talent, and we should all use the talents we have as much as we can, otherwise it is just a waste.

I can hear you (barely), and others (more clearly) saying "you're the Romantic your world has collapsed in the past, and yet you survived." This is entirely true after all, even I admit people have done to me what you did to me on Tuesday, but sadly for me it wasn't on this scale. You were at least three of those previous collapses rolled into one, final, devastating, and eventually fatal disaster. The awful part of it, the part that probably proves to be the fatal bit, is that you knew it.  You knew it, because my dumb ass told you. I told you the plan I was following when I met you all those years ago, a plan that would be almost 60 percent complete by now IF I hadn't met and fallen in love with you as hard as I did. I told you that too, I told you the new plan, the future plan, the happy plan, and I foolishly believed you when you agreed to it with me. More the fool to me. I won't live to see if the Rationalist reactivates the original plan or not, I suspect that he will, but again I will be as dead as dead can be (thanks to you), and I don't care.

I did say that "almost everybody" loves you, you do have people who aren't exactly fans of yours, we all do no one can live their entire lives without enemies (at least not well), and the Rationalist knows this too, I don't know (and again will be dead so can't care), what he will do with that info, but caution is a good word to live your life by, I wished I had. Ah but wait! There is the tread on the stairwell outside my door that I've been waiting for. I knew it was coming which is why this post is slip shod, I tried to get as much of it out as I could but it seems as if the devil is at the door, and since I purposefully left it unlocked there is nothing left for me to do but say good-bye my sweet.

Death of a Romantic

You are a killer, a murderess, a cold blooded taker of life. The fact that the life you took is mostly a fictional construct doesn't alleviate your crime. Your murder of the Romantic (in me to be clear), was a premeditated act of cruelty that Genghis Khan would be proud of, and he was a monster. Granted you're a monster too, just not quite on the scale of Genghis, but to the guy you killed, the Romantic, that just doesn't matter. Dead is dead, no matter if you are murdered along with 5 thousand fellow citizens who skulls (along with yours) are going to make a lovely pyramid as a warning to others, or if you are killed in single combat in the Roman Coliseum. The Romantic, the guy you killed, is dead as dead can be, and he is no Jesus Christ there will be no resurrection. Perhaps he will be buried in the graveyard of relationships that the guy still alive (the Rationalist) carries around in his head, or maybe he will just lie where you left him to rot or be eaten away by the carrion circling over head. I've never heard a corpse ask how he got so cold, nor heard one complain about the accommodations of their final resting place.

Your murder plot (for I can only see it as such now) started over three years ago, you were bored (or so you said at one point), and you swanned into the Romantics life at a time in which is was undergoing another crisis of faith brought on by your predecessor. At the time, it was a crisis that he thought was going to also be fatal to him, he was not in a happy place, and things were looking bleak. Then he found you, or you found him, or you found each other. Either way, he did owe you a lot, you did him the favour of prolonging his life by three years. Though I doubt he would, if he were able, thank you now. Since he is as dead as dead can be, it has devolved upon me to pick up and move forward, to shift through the detritus of the time you spent killing him, and try to puzzle out why the fuck you did it. The good news, if there is to be any good news, is that he kept very, very detailed records.  At least that is good news for me, for you, his killer, that might cause you a moment or two of panic. After all, you know the details of your killing of him, in fact since he is dead as dead can be, you are the only one who does. However, those records are like his mind jumbled, and it going to take the patience of Job to sort them out, luckily I posses just such patience. He didn't write everything that he should have down, and I am not a mind reader (especially of the Romantic), and while I have a pretty solid case, I don't know if all of it can be proven "beyond a reasonable doubt."

However, luckily for me, and I guess for him (maybe not so much for you) it doesn't have to be. This isn't a courtroom, there isn't some fellow in a black dress and a white wig sitting on the bench waiting to pass judgment on you for your crime. There aren't 12 bored citizens sitting in the uncomfortable chairs, doodling in their notebooks, and paying as little attention as possible to the litany of your (and his) sins. Let us not fool each other, you and I, his sins were just as great as yours. There are no innocents here, there were never going to be innocents here (well maybe one, but that's another story).  His problem, which since he is as dead as dead can be, has now devolved into my problem is that he didn't listen to me. He never really did, he ignored me many, many times each one to his cost. Somehow he survived ignoring me all those times, until you came along, and killed him dead. I guess congratulations are in order, several people tried (some of them more than once), and you were not exactly the one I would have pegged to  be doing the deed, but maybe that's why you succeeded. You weren't as high on the danger list as I should have put you, and so maybe I am partly culpable in his death as well. I let him, in regards to you, convince me you were different, you were the one that was going to wash away the pain of the multiple mistakes of his (our) past. You fooled him completely and that allowed him to lull me into a false sense of security, and for that failure I will be just as condemned as you are. So, let us not fool each other, You and I, let us stand in the dock together, and answer the charges against us. Let us plead guilty to the crime of the killing of the Romantic because, quite simply, we are.

My crime is one of inaction, an inability to notice the signs that were directly placed in front of me by you (and your other partner in crime, but again that is a different blog post) those signs were as simple to read as a child's book. And they were (are) obvious, you should know this for your own sake. Consider it a favour, me telling you that bit. Because if I can see them, with the limited access I have had, then others with far more access can see them too, and remark upon them. It doesn't take Philip Marlowe like detecting skills to see them, consider that while you are sitting there in your smug little world of thinking no one would ever suspect you of doing anything untoward. Lily white reputations are hard to maintain in this dirty, dirty world, and no one's is as white as they like to think, yours included.  I think I have all the proof I need to lay this crime on your doorstep, I know I can prove my culpability, there are no real witnesses to the actual event, no video recordings or anything so concrete as to be considered the "smoking gun." There is just enough here for me to be convinced, and really I'm the only one who needs convincing. This is not a threat, I don't care to threaten, that isn't my job. My job is to take as much responsibility as I have for his death, try to sort through the various details of his death, and to point out to you that you are, in fact, a killer.

Your crime is one of action(s), you reeled him in by listening to his Baudelaire, his Arnold, and his Rimbaud, and "oohing" and "ahhing" over how clever it made him sound, and pretending it was having the effect on you that he wanted it to have. Maybe you were honest (at least in the beginning) I do not know, and now do not care. He clearly thought you were, which is why he silenced me completely. Maybe I fell for it too, maybe I wanted to believe the him believing you, and that I would be a lot less necessary to him for the remainder of his days. I didn't  realize that his days were numbered as low as I thought. I figured he had a long, happy life in front of him, and so did he for that matter. He convinced me just as fully as he convinced himself, and thought he had convinced you. That is the tragedy of this event (if there has to be one), he convinced both the one person who could have saved him, and the one person that killed him of the same thing. That it was real, and it would last. That is why I am in the dock next to you. I am nearly as guilty of murder as you are.

You are no Lady MacBeth, there is no actual blood on your hands, you didn't kill him quick, but you did kill him clean. There is no blood smeared crime scene for people to come and gawk over, or pictures to be taken of, and placed on some detective's bulletin board. You strangled him, not literally of course, or I wouldn't be here to write down this little love story, but strangle him you did. You took away his supply of oxygen to his (overactive) brain and he died. There is a school of thought that would say that all of us die from a lack of oxygen to the brain, no matter if we are stabbed, shot, or beaten to death by clowns, a lack of oxygen to the brain is what kills us all. You, on the other hand, made sure of it by strangling him just as if you had wrapped your pretty little hands around his throat, compressed the carotid artery or the jugular vein and squeezed the life right out of him. It was (is) a particularly cruel way to kill a man. It certainly is an up close and very personal way to do it, but that is what makes it so cruel. Just shoot the next one in the heart and let him die quickly.This one, your killing of the Romantic, was not quick. You squeezed, and then you would seem to let up, saying something, doing something, that would give him just enough air (or hope, same thing I suppose) that he would think he would survive, but then you'd apply the pressure again, and eventually it became more than he could bear. Trust me, shooting the next one will be a mercy killing, because make no mistake there will be a next one. You are a killer and that is just what killers do, they kill.

I am even convinced that in those details records of his, when I am able to sort through them without soul crushing guilt, is the identity of your next victim. I think the Romantic knew it, and I even (fancifully perhaps) think it is what eventually struck the "death blow." I can't be for certain, and the records are a bit unclear, but they are lengthy, and I figure a clever man such as myself, especially since I no longer have to worry about the Romantic trying to convince me other wise, will be able to suss out your next victim. Because make no mistake sweetheart, that's what you create, victims. I am unable to decide, at the moment, if I will warn your next one or not. I suppose that if I figure out who it is in time, I might be obligated to, but then again I might not. I suppose that just depends, and on what it depends even I am not sure. And if I (the Rationalist) am not sure then, brother we are fucked, but you know that all ready, because after all you're a killer, and you have to be one step ahead of muppets like me don't you? I wish you luck.