Young Writers Society

The Profane Parables and Nihilistic Narrations by a Perverse Pariah

Offering Occasional Observations of Odd Occurrences

And an Astonishingly Annoying Amount and Application of Alliteration

The following contains explicit language, violent conduct and numerous moral ambiguities. It is also sideways-eight-percent true in all aspects. The reader may recognize a seemingly unreliable amount of foresight in some aspects, and therefore doubt its validity. Well, I'm a post-transcendentalist, ominous, God-like figure capable of being everywhere at once. And yes, I could create a mountain so massive that even I couldn’t move it. So there. For these reasons, it should be ritualistically recited at bedside to small children, to ensure a future generation full of promising politicians, priests and food service employees.

Boredom is one of those undesirable and unavoidable aspects of first-world life, kind of like headaches, or morning talk shows with an all female cast. Sometimes, it’s impossible to break the monotony of day-to-day life, and not consider what it’s like to work in a haphazardly primitive factory making Nikes at gunpoint, in exchange for a daily bowl of rice to feed your family of four. Additionally, if you’re a post-transcendentalist, ominous, God-like figure capable of being everywhere at once like me, you may find yourself keeping your consciousness active at unconventional hours. This is even worse, as it’s a day-to-night-to-day-to-night kind of monotony that often results in temporary lapses of sanity. Maybe one of these lapses makes a person more susceptible to the suggestion of walking half a mile across town at three o’ clock in the morning to hang out with a friend (A.K.A. Friend) currently trip-sitting another friend (A.K.A. Grace Slick) through a bad psilocybin pilgrimage.

She had claimed to see the Devil in the form of a “nudist Buddhist, named after nectar.” Friend, citing me as a supreme powerhouse of spiritual prowess, summoned my services and assistance in the matter. I gathered the necessary components; Red Sage, a fuzzy, neon poster, rosary beads, a vial of holy water (with an additional spoonful of Rohypnol created by secular scientists underneath the Vatican and sold to Pennsylvanian colleges), and Jefferson Airplane’s Surrealistic Pillow album.

The full-moon of spring, although luminously reflecting the Sun’s light just an hour prior, had become overcastted with a copious congregation of cumulonimbus clouds. The clouds had just started crying as I left my residence and began my voyage. Sandspot was a one-street town, hosting nine blocks worth of useful shops and locations. First, there was Father Pregiano’s Pizzeria and Pup, which was well noted amongst residents for its excellent service, kneading of fresh dough, possible mob affiliations and beer. Immediately after that, the Beer Distributor was located, well noted amongst residents for its beer. And then there was Club 121, a bar well noted amongst residents for its aristocratic membership requirements and its beer. Next, there was Swiggers, a dive bar well noted amongst residents for its beer and Cocaine. At the end of the street, there was the Liquor Store neighboring the Tobacco Outlet across the street from the Pawn Shop, well noted amongst residents for its liquors, tobacco products and robberies. Most of the occupied homes, however, were suburbanly constructed upon the overlooking, sometimes very steep and slanted hill.

I was less than a quarter of the way up this hellacious hillside, smoking a cigarette to look cool and grown up and failing miserably in keeping it dry. I thankfully had enough foresight to wrap the components in a plastic shopping bag, keeping them more unexposed than tangible proof of Osama Bin Laden’s assassination. Being a post-transcendentalist, ominous, God-like figure has its advantages at time. I threw the cigarette in a puddle, sacrificing looking cool and grown up in exchange for that ever-satisfying “skczzz” sound of extinguishment. Only I didn’t hear it. The sound had been muffled by another sound, a tonally inconsistent gust of wind. I turned around and looked down the acutely-angled alleyway, realizing that it wasn’t a tonally inconsistent gust of wind; it was a tonally inconsistent sob of person.

Walking in my direction with a fidgety rhythm of zig and zag, a woman was deliriously crying and gripping her hair. She didn’t appear to be appropriately dressed for the watery weather. In fact, she didn’t appear to be dressed at all. She was full-beaver, no-shoe naked (not even wearing a pair of Nike socks from a haphazardly primitive factory, in the pouring rain, at about three twenty in the morning, in a neighborhood well noted amongst neighboring neighborhoods for its beer). Something about this scenario is certainly awry, and most sane people would both totally ignore it and just leave it to the police, like whenever a college football coach sees another college football coach showering with pre-adolescent children.

Most sane people wouldn’t even be out at this hour, let alone with a bag of Hippy knick-knacks and on their way to console Grace Slick, who was now convinced of Satan’s involvement with Buddhism (It’s not well known that during Buddha’s 40-day stay in a tree, he met a serpent who spoke fluent Latin and tried persuading him to sit in a more comfortable apple tree across the forest).

Your inane and inarguably insane narrator walked towards the woman, who had again released a wail into the wind and rain.

“…You okay?” I awkwardly asked her with a tone of immediate regret. If I had a dollar for every time I minded my own business, I’d be able to open up Club 122. People’d love the beer.

“*Sobs* Wh-wh-who are you? Where am I?” it was a voice vibrating with glass narcotics, more shattered than her dreams.

Her head was a horrifyingly hollow orb featuring sunken eyes, waxy cheeks and unsymmetrical wrinkles. Her apparent age was somewhere in between the small, determinable margin of twenty through fifty-five. She couldn’t have weighed more than eighty pounds. Pock marks and picked scabs speckled her arms, neck and chin. Had she been blonde and ten pounds lighter, she might’ve made the cut for Victoria’s Secret Model of the Year.

“*Sobs* my name’s Hunny, hunny, can I use your phone?”

“Sure, whatever you need, here you go. What happened? Are you okay? Do you know where you are?”

When I’m not a narcissistic nihilist and perverse pariah I’d like to think that I’m a pretty congenial person.

She ignored my interrogation though, sputtering out “*Sobs* Oh they’re not answering! *Sobs* Hunny, can you walk Hunny home?”

“Does Hunny know where home is? What the fuck happened?” I cautiously replied.

She grabbed my wrist without answering and led me through the alleyway. The rainfall had now turned into a tempestuous downpour, and the only visible street light eerily faded out. There wasn’t even an ever-satisfying “skczzz” sound. Hunny, still leading, opened a white picket gate and stumbled into the yard. She was muttering something about once spending an entire month in an apple tree with an obese man with sleepy eyes. Reaching the house’s screen door, she imposingly knocked. No lights inside turned on and nobody answered.

“Com-come with me,” Hunny slurred through a sob, again grabbing my hand and leading me back into the alleyway.

“Where are you going? I don’t think you know what you’re doing.” She was approaching, literally, the next door neighbor’s gate to repeat the same process. Maybe she actually was a Victoria’s Secret Model of the Year and just owned every house on the block. Successful models with narcotics dependencies live in multiple homes, right? Before I could even consider an answer, Hunny’s submersible eyes stopped crying and started shooting daggers at me. Her head cocked to the side, like an analytical cat wondering what it would do if it could actually catch the red dot.

“Who are you?” she asked, as if noticing me for the first time.

I raised an eyebrow, a la Dwayne Johnson, and replied, “Pariah? You used my phone? I’m helping you get home?”

“WHO ARE YOU?” it had turned into a shout. “WHO ARE YOU? I’M HUNNY BUT I DON’T KNOW YOU! I DON’T TRUST YOU! I DON’T TRUST YOU!”

Fuck this. As an occasional habitué of humanitarianism and negligent naiveté, I tried to help this woman, which wasn’t very well thought out for someone carrying a bag of Hippy knick-knacks uphill in the rain at three o’ clock in the morning. I just now considered how lucky I was that the whole thing wasn’t a setup. At least I hadn’t been stabbed, robbed and given the same kind of displeasures that come with spending time with college football coaches or something.

“Fuck you then, junkie!” I turned around and started back to the hillside.

“THAT’S NOT THE FIRST TIME HUNNY’S HEARD THAT! I’LL SEE YOU IN HELL HUNNY!”

Her appreciative response echoed behind me, and Hunny went back to crying and looking for her child, or whatever it was she was doing before your narcissistic and nihilistic narrator came along.

By the time I got to Friend’s house, a cordial four ten A.M. or so, Grace Slick had become more tranquil. She realized, Friend informed me, that even though The Great Beast had tempted Buddha into more comfortable trees, he never actually left his. Instead, he told the serpent to piss off and just went back to what he was doing in the first place; sitting on a hard oak branch, starving himself and reaching enlightenment. He left the tree with wisdom for the centuries, but his posterior felt like he had spent a semester in some Pennsylvanian University.

In conclusion, Friend, Grace Slick and I watched the Sun rise and shine through the mousy morning mist. Friend taste-tested the holy water, and, for some unknown reason, passed out shortly afterwards. Grace Slick had a headache from all the drugs and metaphysics. I had grown bored and held discernible disdain the song that was currently playing on the stereo, "J.P.P. McStep B. Blues." I decided to go to the local coffee and donut shop to help re-energize myself after the long night. The beer was recommendable.

The End