Dust On My Boots - Part 4: Babylon Burnin’ by Nazel Pickens
I take care of my people. If yer in my pack, I got yer back. That doesn’t mean I won’t get in yer face from time to time when I think yer bein’ an ass or maybe when I have had one too many shots of tequila at the wrong (or maybe right) time. But at the end of the day, I’ll do everything I can to help push and pull us through this mangled mess of a junked up world, hopefully with a crooked smile, lots of laughs, some warm embraces, piles of creations and experiments, and a full belly. If yer pack is adjacent to ours and we’re on good terms — from an extended family-like tribal’ish relationship to some sorta negotiated cold peace — then we’ll probably be ok. Outside of that, I don’t give two shits ‘bout ya, and for most, not even one dried up little ol’ turd. Sure, hypothetically, theoretically, superficially, I guess I wish you well… maybe, but I don’t spend my precious time, energy, or resources towards those sorta societal-oriented abstract situations, meaningless projections, and agenda-driven moralistic trappings. I ain’t Jesus. He’s dead.
This is what was floatin’ in the back of my weary and bleary head as I approached the urban-hipster-wokified-babylonian-nightmare of Dockland (or as I sometimes refer to it, Chub Town), the closet metropolis from my secluded mountain home, about a five-hour drive to the north. Oh yeah, and I am not a big fan of hipsters or city slickers and any of their games, ideas, or generally annoying presence. You may ask what kind of masochistic and perverse game I was playin’ on myself? Well, I was wonderin’ the same thing. But without revealing the details as to what, who, and why, there was something that needed doin’ and there seemed to be just no way out of it.
So after hours of monotonous boredom, drivin’ and flippin’ through radio stations of vacuous nothin’, there I was merging with cars, trucks, vans, motorbikes, buses, scooters, flyin’ saucer-lookin’ things, and other modes of modern transport descending on Dockland. Without going into the death-defying specifics on my vehicular entry, I’ll just say it was mostly a “Holy Beelzebub!” close my eyes and hope for the best kinda thing. I mean I can kick back and one-hand-it on back-country roads and even gas and break and swerve like a seasoned taxi driver relatively well in town, but highways, freeways, interstates, ramps, exits, merges, and the like drive me fuckin’ crazy. It is a knuckle-clenchin’ and eye-bulgin’ affair that stresses me out more than my constant attempt at presenting as “even-keeled”.
When I had finally made it downtown, I parked my truck near the first bar that seemed like it might be just seedy enough for me to toss a few back, decompress, and strategize about my undisclosed urban mission. Once I entered NutzNBoltz, however, I realized I had mistaken this place for some random working-class dive bar. No. It was only performing as one, horribly. It was more like a theater project for voyeuristic and avatar post-modern players who wanted to feel more lumpen, most likely on mommy and daddy’s credit card, or maybe as part of some useless grad-school program.
The depths of this absurdity materialized pretty damn quickly, soon after my first scratchy words left my mouth, “double bourbon, one cube…. um, please. Oh, and a cold beer too.”
The figure behind the bar with a fluffy bleached mullet and wearing a perfectly torn jean jacket with the words “Dangerously Fabulous” stitched on it turned around to face me with a slightly tilted head, perfectly asymmetrical face-piercings, and more make-up than an aging clown’s desperate photo-shoot to make flyers for kid’s parties. “The extensive list of our local micro brews, small-batch spirits, and fabulously-fashioned cocktails is on our app,” they said as if I had somehow not gotten the all-important memo about their amazing beverages.
A little thrown off, I nervously replied, “ah, whatever’s cheapest.”
I could see this dolled-up chubber calculatin’ the diminishing tip that they were (in their entitled air-head) losing from my no account attitude and thrifty taste. Or maybe they were just trying to remember who or where or what they were… today. Or perhaps they always looked that stupid and confused mixed with grossly misplaced and bloated arrogance and over-inflated self-over-worth. They were obviously highly-intoxicated on themselves. Fine, no problem for me, unless you make it one.
“What….eevvvvverrr. $24.50.” they twerked out.
They grabbed a can of PBR from a fridge that was covered in perfectly-placed “rad” stickers, poured some whiskey in a small mason jar and placed them near me without another word or anything resembling eye-contact or human interaction, then slinked to the other end of the bar to gossip with what I am assuming was a “regular”.
Nevermind. I didn’t come here for the company. I tried to shut out my surroundings and fuel up for my undisclosed mission. The whiskey was too syrupy-sweet and with no ice, the beer was warm, and for $25 bucks I could get a handle of decent whisky and a six-pack at a grocery store. I looked up to say something to the bartender but they were off gigglin’ and screechin’ in some performatively-exaggerated ear-wrenchin’ tones having something to do about last night, some aggressive bears, and a bunch of other mish-mashed nonsense that seems to be the priority in these parts of the civilized world. I ain’t from ‘round here.
I wanted to holler. I wanted to smash up the damn place. I wanted to pull down my drawers and take a big wet stinky dump on their faux-wood floor sprinkled with rare and imported rainforest saw-dust. All I did was throw the drinks down my gullet, slam three fives, nine singles, one quarter, one dime, two nickels, and six pennies (one of them Canadian) on the bar, let out a little dusty fart, and head to the bathroom. I’ll spare you the details on this part too, use your 2024 imagination. I’ll just say I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to deposit my simple bodily refuse in there or sign on to some all-important intergalactic referendum on human rights and the latest version of “science”.
After releasing some urinary-tract pressure (I identify as someone who pees standing, especially in dirty public toilets), I decided to move on and find a cheap and quiet late-night greasy-spoon to lay the digestive foundation for what would probably turn out to be a long night of frustration drinkin’. As soon as I got out on the sidewalk the giant sucking began. Humanity at its most uninteresting and non-poetic.
“Hey man, can ya spare a twenty?”
“Bro, how’vya been?”
“Need a lil’ help, honey?”
“My kids aren’t with me now, but… ”
“Wanna party?”
“Yer not gonna believe this… ”
On and on, every intersection, every point of possible juncture, every click, there they were, to grab at me, get in my head and surely my wallet. Little did they know there was not much left in either one and none of their limited contents would be tossed out so frivolously. Meanwhile, the other riders on the cement conveyer-belt seemed like some sort of mash-up of a twisted fashion runway and a malfunctioning ride at alt.-disneyland. For a second I thought maybe the bartender had put something extra in my drink, but soon enough I realized, NO, it was all too “real”, this artificial charade of the urban landscape, this never-ending infomercial, this dysfunctional cultural recycling center.
The faster I walked, the denser the human contamination became. What were small unconnected groupings of people became a mass collage of bodies and faces, nothing unique, yet all very abrupt and jarring. I kept moving faster and faster, but the more my speed increased, the more cramped it all got. It was some sick and demented equation that I could not understand. Velocity x lameness = ? Damn. Why did I skip physics class so much to smoke weed decades ago? I started to sink into an anxiety-wrenching and completely disorienting claustrophobia. I began to pull deep breaths into my belly, counting backwards slowly, imagining waterfalls and fields of flowers and puffy clouds… colors began swirling around me…
THWAP!
THUD!
Everything went dark. I don’t know for how long, but when my eyes opened I was on my back in the street surrounded by a mob of masked people dressed head-to-toe in black.
—————
“Kick the shit outta the fuckin’ fashie prick!”
“Flannels are racist!”
“Look, he’s got damn settler yahoo boots on!”
“… and a black sun tattoo!”
“The only good cisheteropatriarch is a dead cisheteropatriarch!”
“Hey, where the hell is his mask? You fuckin’ Ableist!!!”
“Fuck’m up!”
“Stomp’m!”
“Ahhhhrrrrrrr!”
All around me were screams and fists and boots and sticks. Then it all went dark.
—————
I awoke again, but this time I was laying down inside of a gasoline-stenched van in motion. A few dudes with long beards and shaved heads were sitting around me.
“We got ya brother. Yer safe now.” one of them spoke calmly.
“Just relax. We’ll be in Spokane by morning.” another stoically added.
I looked around and felt with my hand at the bumps and gashes on my face, head, arms, and torso. With my now swollen tongue I poked through the holes of my new missing teeth. And my head pounded harder than after a three-day bender. What the fuck?
“But… ain’t gon’… Sp’kane.” I choppily mumbled through my weak and raspy voice.
“What?”
“What’s he saying?’”
“I ain’t goin’ to Spokane.” I said a little more forcefully.
“Naw, its cool. We gotcha. It’ll be alright. We’ll get them next week.” one of the bearded knuckleheads said as he fist-bumped another thick-browed dude.
Then I passed out, again.
When I awoke, I eventually persuaded these guys to drop me off at the nearest bus station and that I had no time to go to their fortified compound to prepare for the civil war, thank you very much, and that I would be fine. I needed to get home to feed the chickens. They tried to give me some of their garbage literature, to which I pleaded illiterate. They told me we would be victorious and thanked me for my service, which seemed a lil’ awkward, and that was that.
So much for my mission, whatever it was. I forget now. Some things just ain’t worth it. As I began to fall asleep in the b.o. and fart-soaked back seat of a greyhound bus with the not-so-subtle fumes of unserviced lavatory aroma wafting around my dried-up bloodied nostrils, I had very lucid fever-dreams of babylon burnin’… and me skippin’ off into the hills, back home, singin’ this song:
We’re black blossoms at the end of the world
A lil’ rotten,
But ain’t never been spoiled
While yer busy pluggin’ in
Like a frog bein’ boiled
We’re black blossoms
At the end of the world
Back then I tried to warn y’all
This way a-livin’s
Headed for a fall
Ya didn’t listen then
An’ you sure don’t care now
Stare at yer screen
I’m leave the crowd
We’re black from our leaves down to our roots
And we’re gonna break
The rope of yer noose
Try to hold us down
You’ll be underground
Never again
Makin’ a sound
I ain’t tryin’ to fix this big ol’ mess
‘Cause the more ya do
Ya get back even less
I’ll be up there on the hill
With my shotgun and my folks
You can waste yer time
With the nazis and the wokes
Some say a civil war is on the brink
And we gotta choose a side
Or this thing’ll surely sink
But I’d rather walk the plank
Take my chances in the waves
Then stay onboard
Chained up with all you slaves
Well, that’s what I got to say to y’all
I’m outta here
‘For my backs up against the wall
You can throw all them names
You wanna stick on me
But I’ll be runnin’ wild
While yer dyin’ on yer knees
We’re black blossoms at the end of the world
A lil’ rotten,
But ain’t never been spoiled
While yer busy pluggin’ in
Like a frog bein’ boiled
We’re black blossoms
At the end of the world
Yeah, we’ll be livin’ free
Black blossoms
At the end
Of
The
World!
*Note: This story was mostly fictional, although based on
very real experiences, events, situations, and feelings.
—————
Nazel Pickens, a cosmic-anarchist-cowboy with backwoods, home-spun, divergent, deviant, rebellious, sorrowful, cynical, silly, and celestial commentary on the world at large and his forever cluttered and dusty lil' place in it. Ol’ Nazel doesn’t have a cellphone (they’re gonna pry his rotary landline outta his cold dead hand) or internet connection, but he sure does have opinions about this psychotically alienated technophilic postmodern mess of a world and of his perpetual pursuit of authentic anarchic freedom, and loves to pound them out on his typewriter, some of which is available as the somewhat regularly reoccurring column “Dust On My Boots” from The Rogue Writers Guild’s online magazine (www.roguewritersguild.com). From essays to poems to rants to short stories to songs, Mr. Pickens emotes with words in the dust, and lets the wind take it all away. He sometimes joins forces with another voice in his head, Invecchiare Selvatico, who writes from a more sophisticated, sometimes more analytical, voice. They teamed up to put out a book, Black Blossoms At The End Of The World, available from littleblackcart.com or underworldamusements.com. Messages to be passed on to Nazel (and requests for a free catalog of his own distro) can be sent to nazelpickens@gmail.com. Nazel also puts out music with his (probably now defunct) cosmic-outlaw-country band, which can be heard at distilledspiritrebellion.bandcamp.com
