I still dreamed of a perfect world, a fair world, where the colors were true and nothing sad ever happened. There is perhaps a world like that, but not the one I inhabited. Sad things did happen, here in this world, sad things that happened to people you didn't even know you loved. Under all the anger, booze, pills and accusations there was, after all, some feelings.

Eventually the balance of anger for anger, failure for failure, accusation for accusation became upset; my mother bought a gun and a bottle of Vodka. She shot my step- father, at midnight, as an act of truth. And when the truth of the desperate act, she had committed, was shown to her in the quiet and empty husk of her hated, yet beloved, husband; she placed him at the table. She had apparently gone insane, she poured him a drink, then poured a whole bottle of Vodka over herself. She decided then to do, I would imagine, as fine an impression of Betty Davis as she has ever performed. She often told me late at night, when the booze put her in a winsome mood, that she was going to be an actress long before she met this husband. There were five husbands, not counting the alleged yearlong fling with James Dean. She would tell me that I was the bastard son of a famous film producer, who had paid her off to keep her mouth shut. Sitting there with her now dead, quiet, and still husband, she would have flourished her hands, and pursed her lips with grand style. And staying in character, to avoid any responsibility, she would put a cigarette in a long ivory holder, the only precious thing my mother owned, and would light one last cigarette.

The trailer burnt to the ground and there wasn't much left of those two, who I called Mom and Bill. There was nothing on the news or in the paper. It was, after all, only two people that lived in a little trailer in a wretched little trailer park. Their deaths were only marked and acknowledged by me, standing in the night, watching the blaze, wondering at a God that made two people yet never once looked their way. Not one act of kindness was aimed toward them or the possibility of even the smallest bit of luck. My Mom, who did some pretty good impressions of famous actresses, even though she had to be drunk to do them. My Step-Dad, I was told, was a hell-of-a- Contractor. I guess he went bust in '83 and never recovered. I prayed that the James Dean story was real, although my mother would have had to be sexually active at three. Maybe he didn't die in a car crash. Maybe Rocking Elvis and Cool James were roommates somewhere in northern Montana, leading a group of ultra- patriotic impersonators for the final assault on the fading culture of America. Maybe my Dad was telling the truth about the big builders and lumber companies conspiring to stomp out the little guy.

As I watched the flames, I imagined them slipping completely unnoticed into heaven, no more important for their living as for their dying. Surly they did their time in hell while they lived here. I cried for them and I hurt for me. The cops did come with the fire engines but they just let the trailer burn. As for me, I hid and just slipped away. I'm sure the cops knew I existed but it was too much effort to find a trouble- making kid. If I wasn't there, paperwork wasn't necessary. In a month or two some over worked Family Service person will wonder where I went. She will stare at a piece of irritating paper that could not be filed. She'll put it in her in- box and go to lunch and that will be that.

I guess my mother had a brother somewhere. He came and settled my parent's affairs. There was some money in the bank. I had stolen their ATM card and pretty much emptied their account the evening of the fire. I left a bit so my uncle would think nothing was amiss. I don't think he knew about me and I don't think any body cared. I disappeared into the dark and shadow of the night. During the day I tried to stay out of sight and out of trouble. I hoped my uncle threw a party at my folk's favorite bar or gave them some kind of a service. I doubt there are cemetery plots. I suppose he just went to the Coroner's office and gathered some undistinguished ash, bits of chard bone, teeth, trailer, and randomly placed them into two urns. Where those jars, if they existed, ended up, I never knew.

I wrote a poem for them and prayed them to a better and happier life- somewhere else. I went back to the trailer park and buried the poem in the now cleared lot; it was probably the only memorial they had. What I wrote was between them and me-and an uncaring God.

Did I tell you I was smart? Not school smart, I understood things quickly and was easily bored when the subject had to be hashed over and over. I was told I was an underachiever, big IQ and all. Screw it all, what did it matter, I wasn't going anywhere. I didn't have swell rich- normal parents that drove fancy cars and those 'soccer mom' vans. Although, just after the counselor told me about my brains, I tested her to see if she was screwing with me. In the next semester I got straight 'A's, just to see if I could. It was cool- then it was a 'so what'. I was hauled in and accused of cheating and suspended. That night my Mom did her last performance. The fire saved me a beating by my step-dad. I can believe that there is a reason for every thing but what ever is running things seems uninterested in the results. It just sits up there like a moron pushing buttons and levers, delighting in the pops and whistles then come from the game It's  playing. I had enough. I slipped deeper into the night, attempting to hide from an unfair destiny and random fate. I prayed. I prayed to God to just forget about me, the way He had forgotten about my parents. That way I could live an existential life, like I had read about. I liked the idea of a great nothingness. It gave me peace just to be worthless and unimportant, just a denizen of the free and open road.

The fire equalized everything. My choices didn't matter and so became easier. 'This is it- be here now- life is uncertain, embrace it!' were my new mantras. I said them over and over; I slipped body and mind further into the dark world.

The first few weeks, after the fire, I just hid out and watched. I tried to get a grip on this new 'under-all' realm. I had some money so I stayed fed. I got lonely and decided to venture out and find some society that I might work my way in. That was my first mistake. There was a fire burning under an overpass, down by the warehouse district. The cops almost never came here after dark. I had watched a band of homeless people for a few nights. There was no fighting or discord, so I assumed I might be welcome. I walked up and sat down. At first everyone ignored me. Then a large black man asked me what my story was? I didn't know how to answer. I was swarmed over, beaten and the last of my money stolen. When I awoke I was laying in open storm drainage ditch, bruised and hungry. I also did not have on my pants, Levi's, used or not, always meant a few bucks. When I was cognizant enough to figure out what that might mean, I panicked and quickly checked my rectum for blood or soreness. Relieved that there was neither, I had not apparently been raped. Now reality stepped hard on me. I was naked from the waist down and the night wind flowed freely across my privates and those were the only things, on my battered body, that did not hurt. What was I to do now? If I went anywhere like this I would be arrested for indecent exposure. So I did the only thing I could do. I sat in a drainage ditch, hours before dawn, and cried. I cried out all the unfairness- I cried out all the anger- I cried out all the absurdity of my situation - I cried out to a God for deliverance, who did not care. I cried till there were no more tears. An Angel answered my prayers, just as the sun came up.

" Stand up so I can see your man-thing?" She had said.

I did, but I told her, " I'm cold-so don’t judge it?"

"We'll warm it up later and just see." She threw me a pair of jeans. They were mine. I asked her where she got them? She didn’t answer; she just stood there watching me. I felt as if I was being judged anyway, but not in a way I understood.. Maybe I had been out too long in the cold. The length of my Johnson was the last thing I should have been worried about. When I got my pants on I looked up and she was gone. It didn't take long to climb out of the ditch, climb over the fence, catch up with her and hold her hand- heading to a destination only she knew.

Her name or the name she used was Cindy. We lived together in an abandoned warehouse not far from where she found me. She never told me how she came by my pants. I figured she was with those people by the fire and took pity on me. We were together, as partners, for a little over three months. We talked, but not about anything important. She didn't want to know anything about me and I wasn't allowed to ask anything about her. Our single recreation was screwing, all the time and everywhere. But the rule was that we would do it only when and where she wanted. That was fine with me. She was a violent lover like she was trying to get even with someone. I took it because I got it. A few scratches, bite marks and bruises were well worth the ride.

Stealing was how we made a living. We would go down to the park at night. The area was usually a pick up point for perv-gay men. They picked up hookers, little boy throwaway that lived in the canyons of the park. Our con was easy enough; she would act the little girl hooker and get the 'any- hole- was good- johns' to stop their cars to find out the price of a date. While she played 'tit and ass' peek-a-boo with the 'customer' from the passenger side, I would sneak up on the driver's side and put a gun to the perv's head. Cindy always made sure they were small enough for me to handle. I would open the door and grab them, throwing them on the ground, while Cindy watched for Cops. I would hurt them sometimes, mostly it was- take the money and credit cards out of their wallets and off we go over the hill. These guys could never report the crime, the where and way it went down.

Then she got pregnant, took all our money and left. I never saw her again. I always wondered if it was mine, and if she was okay.

I had to get money and I wasn't gonna tackle the Johns by myself. I did get weirdly good at throwing people around. So I started selling crack for a freak vet guy in a wheelchair. When I made enough extra I had a tattoo with Cindy's name inked across my heart. Damn it hurt; just like her.

That’s when I found out about the birthmark. The tattoo guy saw it and pointed it out to me. He was some kind of cult-loving freak. He told me it looked Aramaic, the sign of an angel. He drew it for me. I went to the library to look it up. I couldn't find a thing. So I forgot about it. It was funny how I never noticed.

The guy in the wheelchair was a Vietnam Vet, with no legs, and an ugly philosophic bent. He never tired of telling you the reason for everything. He supplemented his Disability income by selling drugs and having runaways turn tricks and steal for him. I remember reading about a guy like him in school 'Fagin'. It's funny that I can remember the name of one of the characters but not the name of the book. The crippled vet had a house down by the docks, run down and inconspicuous. Quite a crowd would show up at the end of the night, like vampires. They would hand over the money and crash in every corner until the sun fell again. A job came to me because one of his thugs, thinking I was queer, tried to hit me up. I hurt the guy pretty bad. I never knew I could fight, like the throwing guys around thing, it just sort of came to me. After that I could work for him and I didn't have to stay at the house. 

2.

Working on your own had some advantages but there was a downside. A bad cop ran me down in the park, I thought it was 'going to jail' time. Instead the s.o.b starts tearing at my pants, breathing hard and hitting me with his stick. I didn't want to fight back because if I hurt the guy every cop in the city would be looking for me. I was in a real spot, kill the fruit-cop or get punked.

That’s when it happened.

Now, I may sell drugs but I don't take them. So what I saw wasn't a hallucination. That cop had me bloody and half-naked, when right behind him I see a monster, a gargoyle, like you see on the churches. But this one wasn't stone; this one was real. It all happened in a bloody blur. The thing lifts the cop off me, just as I was about to lose my cherry, and twirls him. I swear that cop just came apart. The thing throws both the top and bottom of the cop in different directions. Then it picks me up by my foot and starts sniffing at me- all over. I have never been more terrified. I thought to myself, here was when I was going to find out if it really was dark on the other side. Frankly I wasn't ready to find out. I started to scream like a girl. It spins me around and pokes at my back, just about where that birthmark is and then it drops me. I watched it pick up both parts of the cop and opens up these huge wings and flies off into the night sky. I just sat there, again with my privates exposed to the air. Did you know you could still scream when you're torn in half? I threw up and passed out, with my pants around my ankles.

I woke up in a lean-to. The little guys had found me, picked me up and carried me down into one of the canyons. I never knew how young they were; the oldest must have been no more than twelve. I guess I never paid much attention. It made me sick to think there were pervs in the world who would pay to cornhole an eight year old boy. There wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. I checked my jeans, which my new friends had politely pulled up. My money was gone. The oldest boy just stared at me. I understood without a word being said that payment was due for pulling me to somewhere safe and payment was rendered. Hell, what's a few grand in the scheme of things? The way I figured it, these kids had enough, after taking my drug money, to stay off the streets for a month or more. Seemed fair. I didn't asked if they had seen the 'thing'; they weren't talkative. As far as the drug money thing went, I could handle the freak in the wheel chair. I got up, thanked the little guys for their hospitality and went looking for religion.

I had heard on the street about a Kid who was supposed to be a prophet. It didn't take me long to find him.

I was going through a dumpster behind this Italian restaurant. The owner of the place was a great guy. He would box up about a dozen pizzas at night and put them in the dumpster, for the street kids. There was one left; I had to crawl up and bend in to get it. My ass was looking at the moon. Someone tapped me on one of my cheeks. Given everyone's need to rid me of my pants, it scared the crap out of me; I fell in. Now I'm thinking it’s either the cops, which is okay because I don't have any dope or money; or it's the crip-vet with some queer-thugs looking for his money, which I didn't have. Either way I was going to take another beating or worse.

"Come out my son! Be not afraid." The silky voice says.

I didn't know anyone but preachers that talked like that. Maybe the crip-vet is having some fun with me. I decided to get it over with. I climbed out, slapped the garbage off me, and looked up. There was this hippie-looking kid- long blond hair- small and skinny- wearing this long, beige, African style robe. I smiled, knowing who he was, and introduced myself as Spike. It was a lie and by the smile I got back, he knew I was lying. He turns and waves at me to follow him. I did but I was still real hungry.

We went to a small house up on 32^nd street, one of those single wall deals built during the World War Two. It wasn't much on the outside. The door wasn't locked and we entered into a huge hall, maybe one hundred by two hundred feet, with polished wooden floors, high ceilings, and a raised stage with an altar on the back wall. At least three hundred kids were milling around all wearing robes. They all chanted a prayer to a low organ note. I freaked and ran outside. The house was no more than fifty- by- fifty. I ran around it ten times until I was panting for breath. I sat on the front lawn and shook. I stood, still shaking and entered the house again, still huge and temple like inside. All right, it was a miracle. I was handed a robe and put it on. I was led over to a table with plates and plates of food. Without any embarrassment or shame, I stuffed my face like a pig then, the urgency gone, sat down chewing and listening to the Kid droning on about the Father God and his concern for the New Israel. Apparently all of us gathered here were New Israel, the Old Israel was not currently in Gods' good graces. After I finished eating, I'd had enough of the rhetoric, I decided to leave. I slipped out of the weirdness and headed into the night for a place to crash. The park seemed the best bet. I could sleep out the night behind the museum. It was quiet there and if I was lucky there would be a plethora of large cardboard boxes to climb into. I was sore and exhausted and needed rest. When I got there all was still. As I started setting up a box, I was bushwhacked, with a club, on the head. It was a glancing blow but it hurt like hell just the same. I turned around and there, with three thugs, was my wheeled -chaired, legless friend.

"Butch?" Not my real name." I am disappointed with you. I trusted you and now I don't have my money. Sources tell me you gave it to the dwarf-homos down here in the park. Now, before you give me some excuses…"

"No excuses… I gave them the money. It'll save their butts for awhile."

"Damn…you are showing me no respect…is it because I'm crippled?"

I was hit in the ear and collapsed to the ground. I was picked up and my pants were again pulled down, my privates again blowing in the wind. One of the thugs flipped out a knife. I didn't like the way this was going.

"Please hold him up so I can tell him a story. And for God's sake don't hit him any more until I tell you. I want him to understand why we are going to do what we are going to do. We'll cut off one of his nuts when I'm through talking to him." The morons nodded.

I was not in a good spot. I had told the truth …which did not help me in any way. I was thinking of a grand enough lie that would show the proper respect; I just about had it when the crip started telling me the story. I interrupted him, which did not please him.

"Can we talk about the testicle thing?" 

He ignored me and continued.

" When I was in Vietnam I was a Master Sergeant in the United States Marines, a black man who had made something of himself. We were sent in country to recon Charlie's movements near the DMZ. They knew we were coming. Some fat assed brass sold us out. We fought like hell-spawned demons. Charlie had this maneuver… pins you down then swings a hinge move around toward your back…try to run you into bunji- spikes. Butch, you listen up… you could learn something. Those crap- covered spikes make up the other side of the triangle. Every new boy lieutenant orders the run toward those spikes. Well I shot that college boy in the back of the head, he would have a medal sent home to his mommy and we might just survive the day. The only thing you can do is to charge straight ahead. If you were lucky Charlie would break and scatter. They didn't this day and we had hell to pay. Two of us walked out, my whole squad dead. If your thinking that’s how I lost my legs, you would be wrong. I didn't tell you what we saw before Charlie hit us. Black helicopters, with no markings, were delivering guns and ammo to the enemy. Our boys, Butch, delivering death to Americans. I swore I would find out who was responsible and I would kill them. When we got back we were arrested. We were told that we had two options, we join up with Air America or we would be executed as traitors. I don't know what my buddy did but I had a mission. I joined up and got stationed in Saigon. That’s where I learned the drug and whore biz. I played along well enough to move in pretty high company. I found the man, the fuck General that killed my boys. Just as I was about to shoot the bastard a mortar got him and me. The Cong was attacking the city and every mother's son was trying to get out. I thought I could use the ruckus to off the bastard, instead Charlie got him and my legs. Now here is where the story applies to you. Trust. Trust. Trust. That’s all there is Butch. And now I know that you can be trusted. You will always use my money to try and balance things up. The truth is that everything is precisely out of balance. That’s the only way it works. I tried to put things in balance and look at me. The way things are is the way things are. If you made everything tidy, fair and just…nothing would work. It’s a fucked up mess…spinning, twirling and somehow it all holds together. That’s why I should kill you. You mucked things up for entirely the wrong reasons. Shit, I could have you steal from me if you found a cool pad or had to buy a high-class piece. But no… you gave it to midget hookers."

He turned to his boys and nodded. They beat me good, the three of them, but I wasn't going to let them geld me and was beginning to have the bloody better of it when that Gargoyle dropped out of the night sky and knocks me flat. It then goes after the three thugs. It took the head off one with a single swipe. Grabs the neck of one, lifting him and crushing his throat, the third it slammed it's claws into his stomach and rips out entrails. I passed out.

When I awoke I heard screams. The man with his guts torn out was still alive but just for a moment. I heard a rattle then he was still. Stumbling backwards into a tree, I just stood there. Something wet hit my cheek. I wiped it off but couldn't make out what it was. The dark made everything black or gray. Looking up, I knew what had hit my cheek. The Vet was hanging upside down high in the branches of the fig tree. I heard the flap of giant wings and spun around. The thug who I watched die was gone. I ran. I could not own the crip's view of the world. There had to be balance somewhere. Why hadn't the Monster killed me? I had no idea what was going on. Everything that had happened to me made no sense. My brain was a storm, as I ran, and I could not stop crying. No matter what it took, I had to find religion.

I made it to the warehouse Cindy and I stayed in. I climbed the stairs to the loft we had built and crashed on our old mattress. Dreams came that night. The void, the eternal dark was filled with angelic clerks shuffling papers from one desk to another. When the shuffling stopped one Angel would hand God a piece of paper. God would read it and then turn a dial, then a knob, then a lever and all kinds of stuff, good and bad, would happen in the world.

3.

When I awoke it was night. I lit a candle and picked up a book that Cindy left. It was an old paperback "Crack in the Cosmic Egg" was the title. A note fell out and landed on the bed. It was addressed to me. Well, the name I gave her. I opened it and read.

Spinning and twirling out of control is what the world does best. And the ethereal boss running the controls is assuredly a moron. But I'm beginning to wonder if He really is as dumb as I think He is. I think that sometimes He does not do what the paper handed to Him says to do. It must drive the Angels crazy.

I found the little house and went in. A robe was hanging on a peg so I put it on. The hall was bigger than before and there were a lot more kids. The Kid was well into a glorious rant about how the world needed to be renewed. I waited for him to tell the congregation how that was to be done. He didn't of course. But he did see me and stopped talking abruptly. He started again after every kid's eye was on me.

" My children we have a miracle amongst us. Born of flame and fury he comes to us as protector and warrior for the coming times. We will rally behind him as he leads us to a new and righteous world, one free of randomness and synchronicity. The world to come will be a just and balanced world. Heaven shall be free of eons of rules and tedium and the Father will be unfettered and true to creation once again."

If I wasn't freaked out enough, the Kid raises his arms and I lift into the air. My robe flies open and my pants disappear. Now I got to tell you I was getting real tired of people messing with my pants. So now I'm moving in the air toward the stage and I stop right in front of the Kid. He whispers to me "Sorry about the pants…I know you're sensitive about that…It'll be okay." Then he screams "Behold your Champion!" and I spin around, high in the air, exposed to the whole congregation. They're screaming and cheering and I'm thinking why does it always have to be cold every time my drawers are pulled off.

The Kid's voice changes and a still comes over everyone. I swear it sounded like a choir of Angels pronouncing each word in unison.

"Here is the third born, the alpha and the omega, He is the Balance, One of three…for him we wait till the time when he will call to us with that great horn. We will grow and wait for the call. And now We grant him honor…"

My lower abdomen was on fire; something was searing my flesh. I could smell the skin burning. I looked down and a brand similar to the one on my back was still smoking. Something invisible crashed painfully into and through me taking the wind out of me. I struggled to breathe but my lungs wouldn't work. I felt like a fish out of water, choking and terrified. I dropped to the floor unconscious. I awoke gasping, I was barely able to force air into my lungs .My throat was sore and constricted. I didn't dare stand for the dizziness. When I could compose myself, I looked up and the house was gone. I was sitting on the dirt of an empty lot. I remembered the brand on my stomach, that was sore and real enough. I heard a flapping above me. All I could think was 'Oh shit!' The Monster alit in front of me. For the first time I got a good look. It was big and beautiful in a predatory way. Its wings were like a bat. The skin was smooth and patterned with diamond shaped emerald colored, connected forms. As if it could read my thoughts it opened up its wings in full span. The body was man-like except for its feet and hands. The feet were three toed and horribly clawed. The hands were humanoid but over sized. Thick vicious talons extended from each fingertip. Its face was mostly muzzle with huge 'horror-movie' teeth. Saliva dripped from its maw constantly and the thing muttered under its breath a kind of mantra. But its eyes petrified me; they were the essence of nightmares, glowing in a hellish red. Moving was not an option, I was dead and that was that. The creature got down on all fours and crawled slowly toward me. Something in me relaxed; it would have been more aggressive if it wanted to eat me. I had seen its behavior in the past, and this was different. It nuzzled me in an odd manner and sniffed at my stomach. Jerking back it sneezed and snuffed, over and over. The monster backed away and stood to full height. Then it did a ridiculous thing; it bowed at the waist with amusing drama and formal flourish. With a blast of wind, the blowing dirt blinding me, the beast was gone. I wiped my eyes, stood up, and cursed everything as loud as I could.

Two years slipped by. Nothing much changed, there were a lot less 'little boy' whores in the park for awhile- no one missed the legless Veteran or his thugs. Of course, someone else took his place and I beat up the Russian's thugs a couple of times a week just so they wouldn't get uppity. The word got around that I offed the queer-cop and kept the street reasonably safe. None of the boys who, 'protect and serve', ever bothered me. I never saw the Kid and his cult congregation again. I thought about praying but I never did. What would be the point, it would be processed and put in some overworked Angels in-box. If it got to the big guy, how do you know what button, lever, or knob He would engage?

I spent most of my time screwing up drug dealers and taking their money. I was like a Robin Hood, but no matter how much good I did, it was never enough. There were always more runaways- more drug dealers- more little boy hookers-more teenage whores-more thieves - more homeless people- and more violence. I was the biggest provider of that commodity. I had gotten faster, stronger and most assuredly dangerous. The Gargoyles, there was more than one, spent a lot of their time picking up after me. I always wondered what they did on their own? Did they help me or were their victims chosen by unfortunate chance?

The Guy in the sky was winding it all down and I couldn't stop Him. When evil was around, my back mark hurt. When good was around, my stomach mark hurt. I got depressed and couldn't figure any of it out. What was the Balance? What difference did it make what I did, when it was all coming to an end?

The Seven -Eleven was open, I walked in, punched the undeserving clerk once, into unconsciousness, reached under the counter and pushed the police button, went to the cooler and pulled out about six chocolate milks and grabbed a few packages of Ding-Dongs. I sat on the floor, placed an empty gun on the floor in front of me and waited for the police.

They recognized me and stopped in puzzlement. I waved. They kicked away the empty gun, let me finish my last chocolate milk and gently handcuffed me. I was hauled away and booked. No one asked me anything. I was brought before the judge. My public defender did as good a job as I would let him. The judge asked me if I knew the difference between right and wrong? I told her Honor that I was the only person on the planet who was ordained to know the difference. She took it as sass and tacked on two more years.

Don't judge me to harshly. I had a dream that the clock would run down in five years, exactly my sentence. Well one can't tell with dreams. Prison wasn't bad. I could clean out the scum. The Gargoyles got in to remove the evidence, how that was accomplished I have no clue. When the wardens got the word on me, I was moved from prison to prison and put in the worst company. Look! I know ethically it was a little shaky, but my back hurt all the time and the only way I got any relief was to clean the 'big house' and remove the baddies. Then I got the chance to write all this down and enjoyed the rest, three squares, and a cot. I guess I know now I am the 'Balance', whatever that is. I've gathered some followers, done my part to fix the prison system and maybe the Kid and the big Guy will let me know what I'm supposed to do when I get out. Don't ask me about the bad women, that's not my area. Maybe there is a beautiful girl 'Balance' out there and we are destined to meet. Like a 'Superhero Duo'. I don’t think I'll count on it. Anyway, I'll make you a promise; no one is ever going to mess with my pants again.

End