I am an invisible entity. No, I am not a sexy woman with unnaturally large sports entertainment-sized breasts, or a roided-up musclehead with multi-colored hair. I am a man of great power, skull and bones, cloak and scythe, and I might even be said to be God’s hitman.
I am invisible, understand, simply because the living refuse to see me. Like the charisma-deficient sports entertainers you see sometimes, usually around 9 p.m. EST Mondays on the USA Network, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass.
When I approach them, they see only their surroundings, themselves or figments of their imagination — indeed, everything and anything except me.
In need of a pick-me-up, I decided to go see my old friend Trey Vincent at the hospital. Walking about the hallway and passing by nurses who didn’t even take notice of my presence gave me an eerie out-of-focus sensation of a dream. My cloak felt ill-fitting; and for all my scribbled jokes intended for all future corpses of the world, I was unsure of how I should act. If only I hadn’t flunked that Introduction To Acting Course back in 1965.
As I swung along the hallways, I thought consciously of how I had conducted myself in the Netherworld and in this holographic world known as “Earth.” I hadn’t worried too much about killing humans, since…well, I really shouldn’t give away trade secrets about what happens to you all when you die. Regardless, some humans were happy to see me, some cursed me.
Trey was still asleep in his room. Michelle gasped when she saw the door open and me walk inside.
“Relax, I’m not here to take him. Haven’t got the order yet,” I said, trying to reassure her. “Just think, if he dies, you get everything.”
“I already have everything. I was just coming to get his wedding band. Some dude bid $23 on eBay for it.”
“Oh. Well, see you later.”
I pulled up a chair beside my comatose buddy and tried to tell him some jokes, but I wanted to cry. But I can’t, because I don’t have any eyeballs. Just sockets.
Empty, black, sockets.
And no emotions, actually, now that I think about it.
Instead, I thought about my life. It goes a long way back, so long ago there is no human way to measure it. Like that Foo Fighters song, all my life I’ve been looking for something. And everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was. At first, I accepted their answers. Kill. Kill. Kill. I was naïve.
Everyone praised my killing art. I was so good, I was invited to give a speech at a gathering of the world’s secret political elite white boy’s society. It was a triumph for the entire Netherworld. It was in the main ballroom of some expensive hotel.
When I got there, I was told that since I was to be there anyway, I might as well take part in the battle royal to be fought by some naughty people who disagreed with their communist dreams of the Worldwide Military Police State. The battle royal came first.
All the rich boys watched on, eating their food, drinking their blood and sacrificing their first-born children to dark lords. Then some naked blonde chick started dancing. Which was nice until all the old bastards starting whacking off and jizzing all over the place. Everybody in the battle royal decided to turn the battle royal into an impromptu blindfolded battle royal so we didn’t have to see any more sick stuff like that again. Ever.
Then it was time to fight. I heard somebody say, “Let me at that big dead bastard!” And someone else: “Let me at that dead sonofabitch!” There was quite the struggle. Tables. Chairs. Ladders. Light bulbs. We were way ahead of the times. I was tempted to remove the blindfold, but quickly remembered the many old man penises I had already seen.
“Oh no you don’t, you dead bastard!”
“Ring the bell before Death kills us all!”
But I did. A bunch of knee lifts, side slams and Netherworld powerbombs later, I was the only one left standing in the ring. I raised the blindfold to confirm that, and quickly decided to lower it.
Then I heard the bell clang, and the sound of feet scuffling forward.
I ran in the opposite direction and never looked back.
“So, Trey, you ever hear the one about the Three Little Pigs of North Jersey. Once upon a time there were three little pigs. The straw pig, the stick pig, and the brick pig. One day this nasty old wolf came up to the straw pigs house and said ‘I’m gonna huff and puff and blow your house down.’ And he did!!
So the straw pig went running over to the stick pig’s house and said, ‘Please let me in, the wolf just blew down my house.’ So the stick pig let the straw pig in. Just then the wolf showed up and said, ‘I’m gonna huff and puff and blow your house down.’ And he did!
So the straw pig and the stick pig went running over to the bricks pigs’ house and said, ‘Let us in, let us in, the big bad wolf just blew our houses down.’ So the brick pig let them in just as the wolf showed up.
The wolf said ‘I’m gonna huff and puff and blow your house down.’ The straw pig and the stick pig were so scared! But the brick pig picked up the phone and made a call.
A few minutes passed and a big, black stretch limo pulls up. Out step three pigs named Louie, Vito,and Dominic.
These pigs came over to the wolf, grabbed him by the neck and beat the living heck out of him, then one of them pulled out a gun, stuck it in the wolf’s mouth and fired. Then they got back into their limo and drove off.
The straw pig and stick pig were amazed! ‘Who the hell were those guys?’ they asked. ‘Those were my cousins from North Jersey–the Guinea Pigs.’