order and insist that it was a code, but i'm too tired. i'm a
dj, but i would have been a ninja if i had the option.
robots are neat and so are sub woofers. i like
trans-humanism and think everyone else should. i cannot segue,
sometimes. i'm a goth kid who grew up into something different,
a bastardization of goth, electro, breakcore and
IDM scenes. i make music on renoise, but i'm bad at it.
i drive too fast and my friends are my entire world and we are
prepared for the zombie apocalypse. there are not too many
things i take seriously. i'm arrogant, strange, quirky, unrepentant
about my identity, sorta an asshole and generally a happy,
dangerously bright weirdo. I am energetic, dark, and musical
it's late, about 2am on a night that feels filtered and muted. i am working, moving to and fro like a large red scarab shuffling towards an unnamed destiny. exiting the store with 6 deliveries the stress, tension, and adrenaline permeate me like cigarette smoke leaving that metallic taste in my mouth. after 3 successful drops the taste backs off little, i'm now leaving a man who decides i'm worth 1.36 and i accelerate toward the crux of the night. there in my headlights is a fox. a wild fox, about a foot tall and two feet and a half feet long with tail. halting the car, he exits. fox is standing there eye closed waiting for the final blow, channeling bucket's aura, a transparency of wild thru which he can see wretchedness and shame almost as if the fox is embarrassed to exist near him. approaching the poor creature, he screams, claps, and stomps in vain, the fox will not move. for the first time he notices that the right hind leg is hovering; no blood, no bones, not even a discoloration.
his own voice startles himself. the fox opens it's eyes for the first time and stares at him. even though there locked in eye contact, the fox seems like he's looking down. a silent minute passes. he thinks the fastest way to get the fox out of the road is to poke it with a stick, lacking a stick he grabs the most stick-like object he has on him, the crowbar. as he nears the fox with the crowbar a car passes and stops, i do not know what they thought, but i can tell you what they saw; a beat-up delivery car with it's door open and hazards on, a skinny man in cowboy hat holding a crowbar walking toward a injured and frightened wild fox. they left the scene faster then they got there. holding out the pointed end, he ?lets? the fox smell it, fox has no particular feelings about the crowbar so he gently pokes the fox in the butt with it. the fox plop down, now siting in the road like a cat. several pokes later the fox refuses to shift in any way shape or form. looking at the fox sitting in the road, wild, pleading eyes burning holes straight to his center, he has an idea. taking the hooked end of the crowbar, slips it around the fox's neck, restraining the toothy end, and picks up the fox by the belly. heading for the tree line, the absolute sur-reality of the situation hits him. he is holding a wild fox. 20 feet later he gently sets the fox down just inside the woods, front paws first, then rear. again ploping down like a cat. the fox stares and seems to want to speak, a thousand words in a languages neither can understand. a quick pat on the fox's side and he backs toward his cars, never breaking eye contact. if we could speak, something would be left unspoken. he gets in his car and drives off. i relate the tale to a stranger, keeping them entrapped the entire time until they as if the fox is alright now. i did not know. i told him yes and speed off to the nearest gas station, grabbed a phone-book and called animal services. if i was less high on adrenaline i would remember more of the conversation, but i wasn't, they said they'd send someone out, i smiled and thanked them. i helped.
it's 4.33am. he's about to drive home but he decide to drive back and see if the fox is okay. the knife's captain plays as he turns in. half way thru the corner he sees a silhouette of a lump and knows the end of the story. maneuvering the car so the fox is once again in his headlights he gets out. he's standing in the road looking at fox laying there, peacefully stretched out save for the foot long streak of blood and fur perpendicular to it's body. he does not move for a minute, then two. at the end of the third minute he walks toward the fox and picks him up. he cradles the limp and warm body close to his. with his right hand he closes the fox's eyes and heads for the tree line, the absolute sur-reality of the situation hits harder this time. he is holding a dead wild fox. just inside the forest he sets the fox down. curling the fox up, he wraps the tail around the fox face, and backs away. he stands there for another minute.
"i'm so sorry" he says with more emotion and soul then he thought he had. heading back to the car he grabs his soda and pours it slowly over the blood and fur in the road, trying to wash it all away. back in his car he turns of the radio and and heads home.
their is a neat party going on somewhere i need to be.
if you are already stalking me online.
if you want dj tips, knowledge or advice.
OR if you are capable of handing yourself in a zombie apocalypse.