bic

by dschapman

which is more honorable – to fight and lose or not to fight? why, to fight and lose of course! but the truth is jackie is not an honorable man… he doesn’t have the fight in him. he is a coward, a wordsmith, a delver into tricks and injustice; he feels like he is in the kitchen but he is in the billiard room. let us lay his cadaver on the table and peel apart his innards. run a knife from the toe to the ear. notice as we go the numbness in the foot, the muscle tissue tender and confused, the ligaments unstretched. his other foot is tightly wrapped in grafts like a mummy. slide the titanium leg out of the femur – notice the smoothness. prick the scar tissue on his ass to see if it bleeds. poke the lacerated liver to see if any alcohol squeezes out, and notice that it assuredly does. next are the lungs, like raisins, slimy with black tar and old as ash. but pull the lungs apart and notice the bones of the back, shattered, and glued together at the bottom half, a solid lump of matter, tightened into place by screws and bolts. the heart is still pumping though and the mind wide awake. how did jackie hammond make himself like this? was it pure magic? divine intervention? or was it personal, malicious, and direct, like a sledgehammer to the gut, or a .38 pressed against the back of our throats… jackie is a little bit chaotic, a little bit well-rested. he has transcended the platonian jailcell of his body, existing and identifying only from the neck up, for jackie hammond has turned his body into a function and not a form – his limbs are common tools and his torso a warehouse and his organs handy toys to distort and digest whatever interesting new poison jackie hammond ingests. jackie’s body is disposable lighter…

 

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