First Revision
Aristocrats with Teeth
By
Bob Boyd
I’m not sure if it was the paintings or the people that got to me first. They both had shifty eyes so it was hard to tell. It was definitely the people that mad me snap though. It was the people that ruined everything.
This place has great Greek columns like some kind of temple where poor geeks stumble to their planned deaths and the subsequent heart feasting that follows. If I have any intention of making it out of this ritzy black tie soiree alive I sure as hell have to keep my footing. Those columns were bad craziness.
The tickets to this splendid gala event I am currently navigating arrived surprisingly just last week and were from a Dr. P.D. Winegarten. They were an award to Andrew who had submitted, for judging, a fine essay on child pornography in early renaissance painting. Over the past summer months Will and I had been investigating the effect of mind altering substances on yo-yo skills and all the while Andrew apparently had been entering every prestigious collegiate essay contest on the whole of the east coast and beyond. By the twilight of our vacation we had learned to “walk the dog” upside down, I think, and Andrew had accumulated three trophies, nine certificates, one case of fine meats, six acceptance letters and three tickets to the most prestigious art show in our neck of the nation. Now here we all are at the St. Augustine Art Gallery prepared to observe cutting edge post modern art while mingling with the kind of human jackals who killed Shamoo, raped Indiana Jones, and drove a Dr. Hunter S. Thompson bat shit dead. All they wanted was for us to rub their opinions the wrong way. One simple act of free discussion would no doubt result in the loss of a finger and probably your wallet. Anything past that was suicide in the truest sense of the word. These are aristocrats with teeth. I’m handling this outing with all the gentle care and love one would show to a very poisonous eyeball hungry snake.
I haven’t slipped a word of this to Will or Andrew. I would no doubt have attended anyways and if even one person knew of my hesitance it wouldn’t be three seconds before the Gila monster people made their move. Now I can’t stop laughing. All the splattering and tearing might be the very best way to emulate Jackson Pollack. Of course this masterpiece of energetic art would be composed of human flesh and blood, but what is greatness without sacrifice? Hopefully these lizards could paint.
These paintings are vile. My sick joke is becoming a sick reality as I browse these masterpieces of blood and genocide, these brutally accurate depictions of secret torture and sexual exploitation. The thoughtful and boorish murmurs of the crowd contrast the perverse subject matter like nails on a blackboard. The benefactor’s sneering looks of interpretation rocket bile into my mouth. Swallow my retched vomit or die?
If they see the tears then I’m so gone, but I can’t help it. Puke tastes worse then my pride. I swallow both. These modern day Vlad the Impalers are silently enjoying my equally silent affliction. The cat is out of the bag. I squint my eyes and the room is a spaghetti western. The scaly brutes wait for my first move, I wait for theirs. My fists are white hot with knuckles, but I’m doing my best to seem intrigued at these bastilles of infantile murder. Words fail me for the next showdown minutes.
Then the man behind me sneers out loud. I turn to face this beast. He stands seven feet tall and looks like dough and hate. “Hey!” I blare. He looks down his nose at me and lets grin his yellow shark teeth. I confront the monster: “You huge fucking money cow, I’m a damn good American you sick feline! Keep your sneering claws off me!” I belt him hard in the nose, as you do with walking shark monsters, and realize that Andrew and Will are gone, presumably lost in the same disgust that drove me to this suicide. Regardless, I was alone and dead.
The crowd around us looks shocked: Like they hadn’t been egging me on. Even big Sharky plays along. I go for another punch, to topple this freak, when I’m riot cuffed and blindfolded so fast my mind doesn’t know I’m a prisoner. These Nazis goose step under banners of violence and gore. They have no swastika and they recruit silently and with extreme normalcy. Again I’m laughing. It isn’t every day you imagine one million Gila monsters goose stepping in unison. Regardless of metaphors these people are bad animals. There cage is never big enough and they will shit on you and your family. Maybe the shit about to be taken on me will serve to unmask these horror movie freaks. The thugs pulling me along by my hair stop. I hear money unfolding and the voice of a friend. My life is being bartered for, and I’m about to laugh again, when something that hits just like a baseball bat catches me in the back of the head.
I’m alive again on a park bench and apparently my life is worth one hundred and fifty two dollars. “My god given integrity was at stake.” I mumble, one eye open. “It was an art gallery.” offers Andrew, “Oil and canvas can’t threaten any fucking part of you.” Just before I let loose a scathing dissertation on just how threatening those two things are with reptiles involved Will bluntly says,” You owe us boner.” I do. They both nod.
It isn’t just the one hundred and fifty two dollars I owe them. Sure I would pay that sum through the nose and just about every other orifice of my body, but I am in debt for much more. I’ve seen these eye sores and now you’ve pictured them. They are the physical form of evil and it must be protagonized on all fronts. You can never forget just how fast Gila monster people can propagate, and that is a brutal alarm clock.