Carman Recites Poetic Justice
I was at the gas station by my house… Wait, I should start over...
Recently I have been spotting this kid I went to school with, from my hometown, looking like a fucking homeless acid king, riding around on his gay little bicycle here on my new home turf by the beach. Generally he looks pretty much like someone I wouldn’t want to be around; a fucking lowlife loser. In school, this kid was Mr. Fucking Perfect. He had perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect abs. He played almost every sport (perfectly) and got the perfect grades. He banged the best pussy, drove the nicest car, and had the best sound system in said car.
Needless to say, I always fucking hated him. That piece of dogshit had everything handed to him. Either by his parents, or by God almighty himself. (It was a few years later that I found out that God has an almighty sense of humor, and likes to fuck with us humans, so it is more than likely that He was responsible for this bastard’s good fortune). I knew I really had no solid reason to hate this guy, except out of jealousy and me just being me, but I didn’t give a fuck. I still don’t, really.
So, anyway, there I am at the gas station by my house, seeing this dude for the third or fourth time, riding by on his bicycle.
I turn and say, “Hey Gene, how ya doing, buddy?”
It was painfully obvious that he did not recognize me. All the better.
“How do you know my name?”
I tell him MY name is Randall Flagg and the gas station guy I had been talking to goes along with it. I have been buying beer and smokes from this dude for about 5 years now and I still don’t know his name, though.... odd. Maybe he thinks my name really is Randall Flagg and is now secretly relieved he never had to ask. The weird relations between customers and business people... Funny how you can shoot the shit about most anything with people you really don't know anything about. Anyway, back to Mr. Not-So-Perfect-Anymore... I start talking to him and go into GREAT detail about all the shit I know about him, drawing heavily upon all the rumors, current and old, floating around about him. This cat flips the fuck out - and I don’t mean like an OH SHIT THAT WAS COOL kind of flip out. I mean flipping out like he is genuinely freaked the fuck out from the bottom of his soul.
“HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT SHIT?” he screams, looking all confused and scared.
I look at him, calm as a cucumber. “Follow me,” I say, turn and go outside with him following rather anxiously behind me. I look around, as if to make sure no one can hear us, and then look hard into his eyes. “I can see into the souls of the damned, superstar. I see that your daddy doesn’t like you ‘expanding your mind’. I know that you have now taken up with some other kids that know how to cook X and Sid. You flunked out of school. I also know that in about 5 years, somebody will find that dead Jew during a trip and go to work for DuPont. The other stuff is vague, but YOU.... ” I start to chuckle, all the while knowing that I can get away with it because Randy Flagg does. “… you, on the other hand, Gene, I can give you salvation you will never know with anyone else. I can give you power. Or you can go lower than you are now, and let me tell you, when it is all said and done...”
After this, I can’t control myself anymore, and I start busting up. I thought I was going to die. I still have a cracked rib from laughing too hard.
“YOU’RE THE FUCKING DEVIL, MAN!!!” he wailed, and with that he frantically pedals his gay ass down the street.
See, after I saw him on his little bike in my town the first time, before I had this talk with him, I decided to make it my personal business to find out why the fuck he is down here in my quaint beach community, and living in close proximity to my humble abode. So I took a little trip of my own in the Carman-Mobile and looked around a couple streets until I found the gay little bike he was using for transportation in the front yard of a house on the shady side of town. After that, it was only a matter of driving by at odd hours to see who lived there. It’s always good to be on the ball with these pricks. I also assumed (because I am an ass) that he had flunked out of school, because he sure as fuck wasn’t getting to whatever college he could be attending by bicycle. The rest I told him was just stuff I assumed by connecting certain dots. It worked. It freaked him out.
I still see him around, and he sees me, but he stays his distance these days. Sometimes, when I am in a good enough mood, I will try to catch him and fuck with him some more. Just stupid shit, like “Howdy, Gene, you doin’ alright?” or “Hey, superstar, remember Christina? Right now she is riding Justin’s dick like it’s a horse!” But the latter was only good once. My God, it got a reaction, though; “LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!!!!” he cried and ran out of the store I had cornered him in.
I think he still doesn’t recognize me, even NOW, which makes it all the more funny. He is still very uncertain about how I know all this stuff about him. This guy is proof of what Poetic Justice, or the Divine Comedy for that matter, truly is about, and how it is played out: From an asshole superstar in his teens, a great scholarship, and an OK looking girlfriend - to some lowlife piece of shit hippie burnout, riding a bicycle that he more than likely stole from his junkie friend’s stepdad.
Now I don’t feel so bad about my lot in life
