Where the Two Great Oceans Collide
Oct 5, 2021 14:54:26 GMT -6
Conrad Dukes, Mundo Kindo, and 1 more like this
Post by hachiman0 on Oct 5, 2021 14:54:26 GMT -6
Sights of the Panama Canal show the commerce of today meandering between the local anglers caught in the tides of life. There, near one of the many historical hills cresting above that artificial stint conjoining to mighty oceans, Hachiman lounges with Peyote buds just popping them like shriveled candy. He sees fantasia where only a passerby would see international shipping.
“What am I supposed to do now that I am the blocking Lazaro Vincente on his El Dorado. Am I just a banshee wailing outside his door, destined as harbinger of fates once again? Death has become my business to where I fear meeting new people… knowing they will inevitably take a goldfish plunge from this mortal fishbowl into a $10,000.00 shitter.
Are you listening to me great grandfather? Or have I not rattled your cage enough for a proper answer? You came to me in dreams and in life—and for what, a show of force? Mission accomplished you sagging nut sack ghoul. I am my own man, and there’s nothing you, nana or my parents can do to change that. I am totally down with the sickness; and you know what, fuckers—I’m fucking digging it!”
His wailing into the sky produces no answer. Hachiman settles back to his bivouac under a crawling crescent moon as it wanes into its purple veils of smog and light pollution. Restless hearts stir to the cacophony of the Panama Canal when a billowy figure approaches him on a defiant horse. Its neigh sends Hachiman into a defensive position.
“Who… are you?”
“Theodore Roosevelt Jr,” the specter says atop its impressive mount. “Read a book, you philistine!”
“Teddy Roosevelt?”
“The same.”
Teddy keeps his position on the mount; strangely, he’s not dressed in adventuring gear, a pitch helmet or even his fatigues worn as one of the “Rough Riders” people remember best from Night at the Museum. No, he’s just sporting those intimidating spectacles and best double-breasted suit. His horse canters closer with a respectful distance between them held only for the sake of dominance. Hachiman’s presence gives it to a disgusted flehmen that sees both horse and rider snarl at his oppressive stench.
“Do you really think that you grandfather would return to see such a disgraceful junkie? Nay has such a warrior ever the time for a simpleton half-bitten by his own obsequious and infantile petard. And your disgusting habits have even affected an experienced rider—and defeater of asthma—aswoon to your liberal intake of bewildering hallucinogens.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Roosevelt.”
“Don’t apologize to me, you mountebank. Apologize to America and all those whom you deceived to get here. Your lonesome nights along the Rio Colorado. How disgusting—and in the face of a national park, no less. You might be the most contemptuous soul I have ever materialized before, son, and that includes many weak-kneed presidents and politicians.”
“Am I salvageable?”
His horse rears up in a violent neigh. Teddy, always the cowpuncher of legend, holds fast his reigns what would be vertiginous of even experienced riders.
“You have a place in history, young Hachiman. But one that calls themselves akin to war must be a destroyer. Awakener of your foes. Bombs and red glare worthy of a heroic salute. Today, however, you are but a sagging flatulence of your potential.”
Teddy begins to ride off towards the horizon.
“Wait, Mr. Roosevelt! Teach me more!”
The ghostly figure halts and then points towards the canal.
“You see that sacrifice? I knew it would cost me dearly to see its completion. Yellow fever nearly broke us asunder, yet our hearts clamped onto to the prize of connecting Atlantic with Pacific in a handshake only God could have arranged. But we stuck to our guns and swung our big sticks through malaria and heatstroke until the day was won.”
“With the determination of a bull moose?”
Teddy turns with a demented grin.
“Your damn right, son. Now go—defeat this Lazaro because his desires are only that of unfulfillment. Trust me, I went to Yale. I know his brand of mollycoddled brats families silver spoon feed until they become dysfunctional adults unfit to chew the coarse fibers of a $300.00 dry-aged steak. You’re better than some descendant of luchadores because your chin isn’t burdened by a Habsburg jaw. Yours can take a punch and throw one better in response. So tighten your stance, loosen your footing and swing with all you might, Hachiman. And woe be to your enemies... and don't dare conjure me again, or there will be dire consequences!”
Hachiman has stars in his eyes watching this majestic ghost gallop towards the parallel of the living and dead in a blinding flash. He settles down once more with an instinctive brush against his plastic baggy containing more of those peyote buds he’d been snacking on like Sour Patch Kids®.
“Maybe Teddy is right. Maybe I do need to relearn my technique. I can pull out a cheap win like I did over Lazaro two weeks ago, but he’ll be expecting that. Perhaps I should just go on the offensive this time. Just really let him with it kicks, chops and other testaments of grandfather’s strong style.
But what do you see in me, Lazaro? Am I still a pudgy nobody with the skinny-fat spunk of a pair of indie shorts and X’s drawn on my wrists?
I know what I really represent in your dangling memory: I’m a pain in your ass. Then allow me to be your latest case of swelling hemorrhoids! Your undoing like a jog after your latest juice cleanse. I hear you’re the type to buy into the health regimens like green algae and other expensive tinctures they peddle at GNC. And I thought I was the charlatan, ha ha!”
He spins around until the whirl of gravity plummets his flabby back to the grassy earth. His fringed cowboy coat clashes with the night sky just beckoning him into those faint winks of stars.
“Your glimmer is waning, Lazaro. I wanted to see what gold your family poured into your epic creation; however, the sculptor had not read the passion that doth survive in your turmoiled soul. Facing me has all but chipped away the verdigris on your once pristine veneer… and all I see is sterling silver. Sure, it’s pretty nice in that fabled limelight, but you’re not golden at all. Not even worth your weight in bronze. Yet you continue down the promise of a Royal Road that we both know it only ends up your demigod ass crack.
Heed the outcome of our last meeting and beware: You cannot best me even on field of your choosing because I, like the noble Twinkee, shall survive every apocalypse no matter how hard our ends of days try to destroy humankind. No matter how the Black Pyramid looks upon me is disdain and downturned thumb… because no one is safe from what cannot be killed nor swayed from fighting back. You've underestimated the insurgency of my defensive mechanisms. I will best you, even if we both go down kicking and screaming.
What a battle that shall be!
See you soon, my bitterest rival. I cannot wait to clash lances with you once more.”
Hachiman just sweeps his things into a bindle and shleps into the darkness once again.
“What am I supposed to do now that I am the blocking Lazaro Vincente on his El Dorado. Am I just a banshee wailing outside his door, destined as harbinger of fates once again? Death has become my business to where I fear meeting new people… knowing they will inevitably take a goldfish plunge from this mortal fishbowl into a $10,000.00 shitter.
Are you listening to me great grandfather? Or have I not rattled your cage enough for a proper answer? You came to me in dreams and in life—and for what, a show of force? Mission accomplished you sagging nut sack ghoul. I am my own man, and there’s nothing you, nana or my parents can do to change that. I am totally down with the sickness; and you know what, fuckers—I’m fucking digging it!”
His wailing into the sky produces no answer. Hachiman settles back to his bivouac under a crawling crescent moon as it wanes into its purple veils of smog and light pollution. Restless hearts stir to the cacophony of the Panama Canal when a billowy figure approaches him on a defiant horse. Its neigh sends Hachiman into a defensive position.
“Who… are you?”
“Theodore Roosevelt Jr,” the specter says atop its impressive mount. “Read a book, you philistine!”
“Teddy Roosevelt?”
“The same.”
Teddy keeps his position on the mount; strangely, he’s not dressed in adventuring gear, a pitch helmet or even his fatigues worn as one of the “Rough Riders” people remember best from Night at the Museum. No, he’s just sporting those intimidating spectacles and best double-breasted suit. His horse canters closer with a respectful distance between them held only for the sake of dominance. Hachiman’s presence gives it to a disgusted flehmen that sees both horse and rider snarl at his oppressive stench.
“Do you really think that you grandfather would return to see such a disgraceful junkie? Nay has such a warrior ever the time for a simpleton half-bitten by his own obsequious and infantile petard. And your disgusting habits have even affected an experienced rider—and defeater of asthma—aswoon to your liberal intake of bewildering hallucinogens.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Roosevelt.”
“Don’t apologize to me, you mountebank. Apologize to America and all those whom you deceived to get here. Your lonesome nights along the Rio Colorado. How disgusting—and in the face of a national park, no less. You might be the most contemptuous soul I have ever materialized before, son, and that includes many weak-kneed presidents and politicians.”
“Am I salvageable?”
His horse rears up in a violent neigh. Teddy, always the cowpuncher of legend, holds fast his reigns what would be vertiginous of even experienced riders.
“You have a place in history, young Hachiman. But one that calls themselves akin to war must be a destroyer. Awakener of your foes. Bombs and red glare worthy of a heroic salute. Today, however, you are but a sagging flatulence of your potential.”
Teddy begins to ride off towards the horizon.
“Wait, Mr. Roosevelt! Teach me more!”
The ghostly figure halts and then points towards the canal.
“You see that sacrifice? I knew it would cost me dearly to see its completion. Yellow fever nearly broke us asunder, yet our hearts clamped onto to the prize of connecting Atlantic with Pacific in a handshake only God could have arranged. But we stuck to our guns and swung our big sticks through malaria and heatstroke until the day was won.”
“With the determination of a bull moose?”
Teddy turns with a demented grin.
“Your damn right, son. Now go—defeat this Lazaro because his desires are only that of unfulfillment. Trust me, I went to Yale. I know his brand of mollycoddled brats families silver spoon feed until they become dysfunctional adults unfit to chew the coarse fibers of a $300.00 dry-aged steak. You’re better than some descendant of luchadores because your chin isn’t burdened by a Habsburg jaw. Yours can take a punch and throw one better in response. So tighten your stance, loosen your footing and swing with all you might, Hachiman. And woe be to your enemies... and don't dare conjure me again, or there will be dire consequences!”
Hachiman has stars in his eyes watching this majestic ghost gallop towards the parallel of the living and dead in a blinding flash. He settles down once more with an instinctive brush against his plastic baggy containing more of those peyote buds he’d been snacking on like Sour Patch Kids®.
“Maybe Teddy is right. Maybe I do need to relearn my technique. I can pull out a cheap win like I did over Lazaro two weeks ago, but he’ll be expecting that. Perhaps I should just go on the offensive this time. Just really let him with it kicks, chops and other testaments of grandfather’s strong style.
But what do you see in me, Lazaro? Am I still a pudgy nobody with the skinny-fat spunk of a pair of indie shorts and X’s drawn on my wrists?
I know what I really represent in your dangling memory: I’m a pain in your ass. Then allow me to be your latest case of swelling hemorrhoids! Your undoing like a jog after your latest juice cleanse. I hear you’re the type to buy into the health regimens like green algae and other expensive tinctures they peddle at GNC. And I thought I was the charlatan, ha ha!”
He spins around until the whirl of gravity plummets his flabby back to the grassy earth. His fringed cowboy coat clashes with the night sky just beckoning him into those faint winks of stars.
“Your glimmer is waning, Lazaro. I wanted to see what gold your family poured into your epic creation; however, the sculptor had not read the passion that doth survive in your turmoiled soul. Facing me has all but chipped away the verdigris on your once pristine veneer… and all I see is sterling silver. Sure, it’s pretty nice in that fabled limelight, but you’re not golden at all. Not even worth your weight in bronze. Yet you continue down the promise of a Royal Road that we both know it only ends up your demigod ass crack.
Heed the outcome of our last meeting and beware: You cannot best me even on field of your choosing because I, like the noble Twinkee, shall survive every apocalypse no matter how hard our ends of days try to destroy humankind. No matter how the Black Pyramid looks upon me is disdain and downturned thumb… because no one is safe from what cannot be killed nor swayed from fighting back. You've underestimated the insurgency of my defensive mechanisms. I will best you, even if we both go down kicking and screaming.
What a battle that shall be!
See you soon, my bitterest rival. I cannot wait to clash lances with you once more.”
Hachiman just sweeps his things into a bindle and shleps into the darkness once again.
