“I never put doubt in my mind,
cause I know when I touch the mic,
there’s the rhyme.”
-Legend of the Disheveled Ancient, folio unspecified.
She was sitting at the bus stop, most innocent thing in the world, never had a harmful thought for anybody, but she happened to be feeling a bit down, out of sorts, like her ice cream scoop had dabbed on the ground.
Wouldn’t you know.
Memphis Cawdor was like an unspoken threat that lingers on the lips, dominating the mind with worry, but still unspoken, like when a familiar goes on a grocery trip and you think they could get in a car crash, that little niggling worry, but Memphis Cawdor more apt to come to pass.
He could smell human misery, and it drew him, like a moth to a flame.
She did not see him, at first, come out of the edge of the tree line, as she sat waiting, head in her hands, ruminating on her own sad state.
Next thing you know, she is just a name in a report on the evening news, reduced as it were to an “item” in the popular conversation, frustrated from her former dignity, rights and privileges and perogatives of proclivities that remain untold, indeed: a woman at her liberty, at once, and then, stunningly, not.
My Dad, Doctor Stanislav Bin Origen, left me a series of notebooks that detail his experiments. He once stuck his hand through a solid wall, and now my plans are more ambitious, to pass my entire person through a solid wall, to frustrate corporeal matter in such a way as to make myself virtually untouchable.
It is in this respect, I bid to become a revenger, a sort of figure that restores the balance of the universe, addresses the great existential disparities and firmly rights the wrongs of the world, to take it all upon one’s self, to become not a figure of justice, but reckoning.