This is actually a poem (ok, a prose poem if you must) and was originally on the Ecce Aeon site before appearing on the Reveille website on August 10, 2017. It should be dedicated to Hunter Thompson and on many levels Haj remains eternally indebted to the great doctor.
CAROL
Henry was an old bastard. Fifty something with wrinkled eyes and an old pouty mouth made of whiskey and cigarettes. He really wasn’t any older than your father.
Henry had ridden across America in a fat bellied tomahawk made by Harley Davidson USA. He cut down at least twenty of the worst of them damned Kennedys. All twenty were momma’s boys and sucked their thumbs all the way to heaven…until Henry hit them over the skull with a wrench the size of your forearm.
Katydids bothered the old bastard along with those weird trunk-like creatures that had gnarled, greasy legs and a forked-tongue like the breath of your Aunt Cassie. Like salted coffee and sulphur or something rolled up in kerosene hair pits. He was absolutely screwed up and knew nothing about the crossroads he kneeled on.
Henry had a dog…back at his apartment on 39th and 2nd Avenue. He listened to rock and roll and twisted up a mean straight while it played the xylophone. This wasn’t like the last trip. Anyway, there was more weirdness and that barrel of pythons this time. It was crazier. Crazier by 49.
The first ghost was an old farm boy, or something without any arms. It limped like marionette gastric cramps with a touch of gangrene. The smell was the little pond no one knew about under the willows swirling in the moss of a thousand rains. He said his name was Randall…, or something like that.
Yesterday the old man was a child and knew God and saw his reflection in the hoary pool of misery and joy. Crammed between the Bible and his black book were twenty sermons written by the ever-loving promised-land preacher. He ate vegetarian and smoked reefer with his fellows. They never seemed to get too wracked out about anything, except maybe for praising God and raising holy Cain.
Rooted in his soul within the darkness. It was like a tiny beacon that no one could douse or put out. It told the time in seven thousand baby dancers and had a crest that showed no one, nor anything. Acetylene white light. The only thing that kept his limbs crawling through those bloody trenches at Verdun. It wasn’t over yet, but this kept speeding along a killer highway to Franken-bits and 40,000 lost souls who found nirvana.
Henry never saw the first ghost leave. It was only his mother putting him to bed. Singing night carols of peace and loving amongst the world that belonged to his lord and Satan. Evil was just bad feelings then. Not something you ate and wore. It was pure and simple. Today it’s all hell and a bad shit.
By the time the second one hit, it was all over. Henry was drooling lime tequila and orange marmalade. He sat in his own fumes. It was like olive oil and an old tire burning piss from sour cholera. He sat in it, man. This was where he ended up with a piece of frost in his beard and two bolts stuck through his neck and his skull. All play-dough and without any shine. It was pathetic and glorious at the same time.
It seemed to last a lifetime until his dog, Rex, spoke again. “It’s all pretty ugly in there, Henry. Why don’t you come out?” “That dog’s the third bitch,” Henry muttered as he laced up one boot.
“It’s the apocalypse of your soul”, Rex informed him matter-of-fact. “You miserable son-of-a-bitch”.
It wasn’t long before Henry was howling. The pain had never set him free. Until now.
He jumped.