Fiction By Serafin Borgia → Digital Art by Robert Venechanos
The guy that flies that plane just dumped a load of toxic chemicals on your head from up there in the troposphere like it was no big deal. He nicknamed his plane Chicken Little. While she shits bright plumes of poison against your heavenly backdrop, he clenches her yoke and drops radioactive acorns in our forests. According to the conditioned, he’s a hero.
He hits a release switch, lets the evil stew trickle out, then quivers a little bit all over. Every single time, like a sordid ritual. He really gets off on it. For him, it never gets old.
The guy that flies that plane doesn’t give a damn about you-far from it. He’s a masochistic tyrant with no respect for your peaceful gods. He cherishes his own dark rituals, prays in a searing rage directed at nothing in particular, but everything indiscriminately.
His hobbies include bullying clouds, stirring storms and molesting the fauna. Rather than sugar, he adds thick, black goo to his coffee and has an on/off bromance with the ghost of Goebbels.
He’s got a fermented Kim chi -stink and a bubbly puss under his chin. Most of his pants are way too loose in the crotch, and tight in the ass. He has a great life- It’s all about him and he works for ‘them’- the collective boogiemen, shadow monsters, puppet masters, John Doe, poster-girl Nazis, nihilistic Stasi, and three- letter agencies packed with bearded henchmen( supervised by Bigfoot).
He’s an ugly, freshly- greased cog in the wheel of an intricate death machine. As long as the checks clear, he’ll spray the daily dose of bad medicine: A thick fog of Barium, Aluminum, Lithium, mold, desiccated blood, zombie juice , lead, electric ticky-tacs, Cadmium, Iron, dancing nanos, chaff, embryo bits and some really weird shit they call alien hash.
The putrid swill cloaks the sun, dulls it to a pasty oatmeal shade as the smart dust stirs vengeful little phantoms – animalcules with electric brushes, painting the landscape with deliberate , cruel strokes, then burrowing deep within each creature to wait for their next orders.
The guy that flies that plane likes to watch the poison chase and overtake the slow clouds, tinge their purity with a voltaic soot and a marmalade afterglow. He imagines screams and yelps, the attack song in Jaws, then quivers all over again.
He hopes clouds can feel fear and pain. It’s important to him that they suffer, that we all suffer. He believes it helps the sick shadows grow long and fierce, stretch to every crevice and nurture a menacing fungi that eats peace.
The guy that flies that plane loves the complacency that permits a sadistic assault on everything natural; normalization; a particular type of ignorance ; a drugged, lazy- populace; cowardly intellectuals and creatives ; intricate conspiracy theories; truths scribbled where no one dare look ; buzz words and formulas that won’t add up; scary labels and dissonance; clamoring phantoms tearing up the boneyard, not the structures or monsters that created it.
The guy that flies that plane- masturbates while looking at pictures of the Grinch and burnt children. He’s just like polished black leather, riding crops and ice picks, pre-war Berlin ( dungeons not cabarets). He likes dark art and poetry, thinks it’s funny you never made any.
You could have- you know. Everyone was waiting for it- would have changed the world , stretched to the very best parts and helped sprout something profound, a new way of seeing, shattered the old meanings – split the withered mirage wide open.
The guy that flies that plane just trashed your sunset, tomorrow’s sunrise and even diddled a few stars.
Tomorrow he’ll decapitate some butterflies and suffocate the ripest apple orchards he can find.
Best to expect a bitter harvest this year.
He’s never been to war, never had to answer for his actions, can’t recite the pledge of allegiance, wont thank you for your service , snorts when you thank him for his – because you will and you do.
The guy that flies that plane hangs out with the guy that flies predator drones over that elementary school, neighbors with the acquitted cop that shot that toddler in the head , nephew of the necromaniac CEO that sloshed Uranium into that sacred river we once dipped our toes in, on the reservation that was free range, where the deer and the antelope played.
He takes orders from that general-the well-known pedophile who commissions all those snuff films, lives in the state where they beat the homeless with electric bats, taze protestors, stomp daisies, and idolize their self- serving tyrannical, dark cabal .
He lives in the neighborhood with a fierce HOA, a security perimeter that’s never been breached, perfectly subjugated lawns, playgrounds lined with rusty bear traps and year -round thin ice
He knows all about you: Your patterns and behavior, your submissiveness and fear. He’s read all the studies and sat through the mandatory training. He knows you’ll always obey; Get with the program or be the program; That life sucks; It is what it is; Nothing’s certain; The joke’s on you; Life’s a bitch; This is as good as it gets; And a half dozen other bad clichés-about despondency, abuse and your unwillingness or inability to do anything about it. Etcetera, and blah, blah, blah.
And he knows exactly what he just did.
While you’re mourning poison skies,
atrocities, injustice, ecocide, genocide, the horror,
(imagined and true) handing out fliers and holding up signs-
he’s high up above,
balls-deep in chicken little,
perpetrating the damn things.
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