The Caustic Man and the OCD Boy

Part 2

The Caustic Man and the OCD Boy


‘One step, two step, three step.’ The Boy says over and over and over in his head before finishing his cigarette, preparing for the addiction, the anxiety reliever, the advert for the product he must buy into.


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Taking the last tar filled drag and plunking the cig into the plant pot utilized as ashtray. Repeatedly stubbing it into the pot making sure not one ember survives. Now, to begin. The rules are simple, so simple in fact they have become subconscious.

There’s a plain matt just before the door step, adjacent to it, the Boy knows he must step onto the matt, then off again, 3 times in succession. Each time he steps his feet must be in line with each other, parallel, neat. If they’re not, well, he’ll start again.


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The front garden, by many accounts is ‘well kept’. It’s between 11pm and 4am and so the precise time doesn’t matter, for the air and time all acts the same, possibility of mist, for the il y a to creep over fences and upset your footing.

The houses populating the road are fairly dull, tiled rooves, predictable structures and cracking gloss window frames. The neighbour has a big van, it wakes the Boy up early on weekends, he doesn’t mind, the owner is nice and so, is forgiven.

A pleasant street, you’d say “I’d like my kids to grow up somewhere like this.” They’d only grow up, then stay, stagnate. It’s a tough little town wielding comfortable barbs, ripping into your flesh causing agonizing ignorance. You thank the barbs and hooks.


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And so the Boy makes his steps as the smell of a Rothman lingers, rubbing against the brickwork, filtering away. Ends and corners in small towns at night. All are blind.


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The end of the road is 50 or so metres away, a junction, a left and a right, with a detached house sitting in front. Currently the junction and the house are both shadowed in a dark light.

The ‘presence of an absence’, Levinas came up with that, I think he must have spent a lot of time in the dark. Darkness has been ‘done’ time and time again, yet we still worry.


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It’s the idea of anything, from human to fox, a tumble of leaves to a passing car. Anything can enter or leave with or without permission. This time it’s a man.

Couldn’t really tell you what he’s like, or what he’ll be like for that matter. All I know is he erodes, personally acidic, the most minor of migraines forever.

The Boy’s wearing big soft hiking socks – bad blood circulation. His feet slighter pat on each step. Feeling little rocks and twigs stick into the cotton. There are bones elsewhere.


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“Oh no! What a pity.” The voice is soft, with warm inflections at the ends. “You get right back at it. I’ll come over.”





“Again, oh no.” And sometimes, you think all perspiration is mean-spirited. Just imagine your lower intestine – and twist.

“The road’s all – ha ha – cold on my feeties.” You don’t wanna turn, you know it…ain’t.


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“That’s not a goody good one is it.” As a little kitty cat up the road screeches, at another cat, a lil’ fight goin’ on.

You feel the bedroom light in room. It’s on, it’s warm, there’s a whir and hum from your laptop.

“Ain’t no hummies or wherries out here, nothing-thin warmeo ol’ pal-y.” And you think, oh just eat me up, gobble please.


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“You! You! You! Ohhhh you did it right! Yea…”




“Oh narh, you messered up da F-urst wan. Dippy.”

The breeze all neutral, as if the dead-time rolled in.



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“Wowza compowza! You got. . . URT ROIGHT! First time-

– With me ‘ere ‘ere ‘ere.”

As a car passers far away, a subtle, comfy revving.


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“That’s a 2-er.”


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“Oh combATZA! At thee last ‘urdle!”

Soft paw footsteps.


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“And we start allllllllllllllll-

– Over err-GEN!”

The lavender plant sways.


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And the Boy peaks to check that his cigarette definitely went out, all embers gone, looks down the road, turns to his left, then his right, then is left A CONTORTIONED MUSCULAR MESS. Then he heads inside, the doors has a click as he inserts the key to lock it. He steps back from the door just 1 pace. Puts his right hand on the door –


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Part 1: The Pig and the Plane


Part 1

The Pig and the Plane


Nowhere is there warmth to be found
Among those afraid of losing their ground

– The Byrds


71—lenitneS-sweN (.aC) idol—8791 ,62 .tcO ,.ruhT


LOG:47     Oh those dangling hams. Oh how they’ve taunted me for years upon years – at least it feels that long – swinging, swaying…rotting. Subtly pushing their trays of treats down the gangway, for all of eternity. I couldn’t tell you how long I’ve been on this plane, as it’s not knowledge that can or ever will exist, at least not…now?

Truth be told I think I left K around 9pm on a Thursday, I think it was the 9th, could have been the 10th, I go over the details so much I can no longer remember those I ruled out. And what of it, you know? If I did happen to find some strange symmetry or…connection, something like that, what then? It’s not like I can do anything. The seat covers are this horrid felt-type material, reminds me of Scandinavia for some reason, though I’ve never been there.

By all rights I am stuck, I guess. Classic repeater, like Groundhog Day or 12:01pm. The flight assistants push their cart down with the pig on it, it gets to three seats past mine, a little light flicks on above me, a ding 2 seconds later from 8 seats back. I’ve murdered everyone on the plane multiple times, I wonder if they know? If they feel it, as if time dragged on, but they can’t act on it…because it’s not now. So yes, there’s a ding, they, the flight assistants that is, ask the passengers 3 seats down if they’d like a cut of the pig, a slice of the ol’ pork, a piece o’ meat – heh heh – the passengers accept a few slices, ask for a bit of one of the hams for their little son, Tommy.




He sits and sit and sits and si-i-i-ts. It’s a gigantic flying can of laughter for many of us and some of us, a cataclysmic bore for others of course, but all can’t be pleased. Expense. The plane picked, or perhaps not, it was a while ago now, one of the older ones for sure.


LOG:124    The pig is separate from all of this, all of this…this chaotic stasis. The pig is rotting. They push it passed and every time the smell glides up my nose, revolting, cold-smouldering hog skin. The tray is now literally over-flowing with maggots, they flight attendants and other passengers are unaware of this. The rotting pig, the smell, the maggots, all of it, they’re somewhere else. I sit it my seat as always, neck stiff against the cheap orange felt. And in the corner of my eye, like clockwork, rolls by a decaying swine corpse. The same conversation as well, as always, I used to write it down, as confirmation of situation…but alas the notes disappear at the 328th second, then back to tick-1 and the play begins all over again:          (and again:)



LOG(S):71,96,632-81,17,001 – X-TERMS- CONT:



(Pushing a cart/trolley, atop of which is a rotting hog’s carcass, eventually getting to a Mother, Father and Child (boy))

Hello there! How are we all doing?

     (Vision pausing on the boys eyes, looking into a trapped conscious seizure)


     (Internally his origin is craving for some fresh time)

This is really fun! Flying! It’s my first time.


(Origin ticked to maximum, internally looking forever forward from a pristine psyche-cage)

Ha! Calm down Tommy.

     (the –y or ‘eee’ sound from the word ‘Tommy’ rings out for too long, making the attendant a little nauseous)

     (Looking at the selection of now and forever rotting meats)

Anyway, what do we have here? These all look delicious.


     (Attempting to identify one of the meats)

Well dear, I think this one here is ro-ro-ro-ro-reot. Is, I think, umm…

     (Lower lip now trembling)

…I think, umm, that –

     (Pointing at a larvae infested chorizo, lacking in all colour, dripping thick grey sludge)

– is chorizo. You like chorizo Tommy!


     (Beginning to carve a piece of chorizo off from, allowing a clump to fall from its rusted hook)

Well then, let me get a big piece.


(The song I Remember You by Frank Ifield begins to play internally)

That’d be great thanks. And I think me and MOTHER would love a piece of that pork along with maybe some bread if you have some?


     (Her legs flickering in and out of the now)

We do indeed; let me plate that all up for you.

     (She slices off two large pieces of pork. Between the muscles and bones and tissues is a viscous yellow liquid. It drips onto the plate and fills the bottom of it – a mozzarella-rot phlegm)


     (Allowed a momentary glimpse of the real, of the maggot shit, larvae goo, stank-mould ensemble they are to consume. And then back to goodness – an internal glimpse of all but 2 seconds, sometimes 3. One time 5, though chaos ensued)


     (Snatching the plate of chorizo from the attendant. His eyes watery. Ripping off a large chunk and throwing it to the back of his mouth. Beginning to talk with mouth full, still chewing)

Oh boy, it’s so good thank you!

     (Mould juice runs through his teeth and off his lips, down, onto the orange felt)



Tommy, slow down, chew your rot food.

     (Plating up his bread and pork and pulling a little of both together to his mouth, taking a large bite, 4 and half – he chewed through one – crusty maggots fall into his lap)

Oh dear. Bloody crumbs!



Oh FATHER you do make such a mess. Sorry about him.


(Putting her utensils back onto the trolley)

I’ll bring your drinks over in a minute. Is that all the food you’ll be wanting?


     (Chewing on a piece of pork-muscle covered in faeces)

That’s all thank you.

     (The attendant pushes her trolley down 3 seats to the next passengers.

     (The family continues to eat)

Axsys Maze-maker, oh double the gryphons for the east and west, they are but a binary, said he. Formative worlds and petit courts, Ashpool square is the logo of all. You are not alone. – Steven Hickman, Undeserving of Life, Mispar Press.


LOG:28     I’ve seen those minutes countless times. The smell gets worse, the juices heavier and the acceptance less. Something’s playing us; I can’t prove it, though I feel I’m the only one who can move, freely that is. What would it matter anyway. If I could move freely what would I do with that power? It wouldn’t prove if I was the only one, or if those around me cared…not including the fact that proof of my free movements, is only proof of my belief in free movements. The ability for me to be free has too been chosen, surely?

All I can tell and feel, tell that I feel? I guess. Is that those here right now are just, trapped. Fairness doesn’t come into it, cages neither, nor capture or interrogation. A pure trap, for the sake of maintaining something exactly where whatever it is was. But what if the trap is made for time, for the temporal? I’ve thought and thought for years and years. Those with the power to make a perfect trap would make one pure, stuck forever in a single moment, with no knowledge of the fact. But to trap someone in a segment, a section, a part…however long, however short, however…unfinished, that is terror, that is a cosmic bully of the nth degree. I’ll be gone soon enough, the conversation here has been played out, there isn’t the time – ha – I look to the skies and they’ve got a sodden grey, I feel the floor a dull damp air, the orange hue simmers to sand, comfort non-existent, voices drowned, faith stopped. I cannot even die. And the flesh keeps on rotting.

I ain’t seen nothin’ yet.