Darren had been idling for five minutes, staring blankly at
the pink flyer, alerted to the passage of time only by the gradual heat growing
on his knuckles. Frustrated, he stubbed his cigarette out against the grimy wooden
paneling and turned back to the leaflet. The feeling of apprehension he had
tried to ignore the ensuing week had begun to bloom, instinctively he began to
reach for his pack, before a wave of nausea made him reconsider. Only three
days, three days and one telephone call since setting the event up. It had been
so long since he had appeared at something like this, so long since he'd been
in front of people. On the other side of the parking lot, unbeknownst to
Darren, a pickup truck with a horse-shipping trailer attached is quickly
ushered behind the old community center.
Darren left his car, and began walking toward the community center when a shrill animal wail tore him
from his distraction. He had been thinking, as he had been all day, about the
autograph signing at the Lake Quaker mall. The ten or nine parents with kids
who showed up, the beer money he'd made. The strange offer was made by a kind
older man; a man who, no matter how polite he had tried to be, clearly had no
idea who Darren was. 'Join us! Tuesday night 7-10, York Community center, a
fundraiser for the troops featuring former wrestling legend Dr. Darren Muscle!'
Darren hoped the all-consuming shame he had felt since receiving the flyer
would dissipate once he saw the crowds, or the kids or anyone legitimately
happy to see him. So it was to great disappointment he found, walking through
the dusty, sticky halls of the community center, that it was utterly devoid of
life.
The building reminded Darren of his old school, wooden
paneling so dulled and scuffed with age, worn and treated and re-treated so
many times that it had taken on a rubbery uneven texture, the sensation
traveled through the soles of his shoes, and made him aware of each step he
took. Desperately casting glances into rooms he passed by, the sickly sensation
of nostalgia drained away, leaving him alone with his unease and discomfort.
Behind him, suddenly a presence, a voice, he was cognizant of conversation but
found it impossible to recall what was said, when, or by whom.
He was whisked, in an instant, past the stage and bleachers,
filled with moving shapes, smiling faces, and found himself in a back room, him
and the kindly man from the other day. "We are very happy to have you
here."
"Sure..." Darren felt an intense unease, and
suddenly found it difficult to make eye contact with the older gentleman, was
this really the same man as before?
"I was fortunate, to have seen your event at the sports
shop I mean, everyone is so happy you're here. We are so happy you're
here."
Darren found it
difficult to respond, pangs of shame and impotent rage consumed him. "Is
that so?"
"Dr.Muscle, how did you settle on that anyway, I’m sure
it must be an interesting story..."
A long, tense silence ensued; interrupted finally with the
older mans continuation. "You know, this is a very special, and important
opportunity… for you."
"Yeah."
The older man, loosing
instantly all his joviality, dropped his head to the level of Darren's, and in a
slow, serious tone asked. "Darren, Do you know how important this is for
you?" Again, a long silence began, Darren now overcome with shame, inadequacy,
hate, had to bite his lip to keep from sobbing, a single hot tear cascaded down
his cheek. "Yes..." The older man smiled. "Yes...?"
"Yes... I know how important this is for me."
The older man took a moment to observe the reaction, before
turning to leave. "Whenever you're ready, Darren." A blinding light
and cacophonous roar paralyzed him the moment he stepped out onto the stage, he
grimaced and blundered forward, before suddenly being overcome by a terrible
odor. Half blinded by the stage lights he staggered forward, something was
slick beneath his shoes, wincing he was able to open his eyes just barely,
before collapsing to the stage and vomiting. Directly beneath him, on the floor
before the stage, lay a thick and stinking pile of blood and meat. A few long bones
protruded, haphazardly from the assemblage of flesh and gore, the red mound
piled high before him. As he crouched in a pile of his vomit, he was able,
between gasps and sobs, to discern two mounted, unmanned cameras, and bleachers
filled with dismembered limbs, hard plastic bodies in shades of taupe and tan
were scattered amongst the seats, mannequin heads and hands lay haphazardly,
empty eyes staring back at him, and shallow depressions of mouths screaming
laughter. He detected, hidden in a corner by the stage, the butchered and
leaking remains of a horse, and the nightmarish scent of blood and shit filling
his senses.
At this point he was
too overwhelmed to perceive the form of the older man behind him, once a humble
five foot six now a daunting, bloodied form, the fresh and bleeding head of a
horse affixed atop his own.
"To give hope,
and to take it back is as much of the divine will as providing life. It ends in
death as hope ends in frustration. We make oblations of our hope, of our
ignorance of our cleaving to phenomenal reality. Our offering is not of flesh,
but of form, mind and intention. And our intent is the salvation of sentient
beings, as we are given life to suffer through samsara, and find salvation only
in its passing, we have initiated this man into hope, and into your
graces."
Darren, now
suffocating on his vomit, opened his eyes and began to writhe on the stage, his
gnarled fingers, like branches, against the dripping figure towering before
him. He gasped a final plea before a violent collision knocked him unconscious,
blood draining from a gash above his eye. The figure continued: "We all
seek freedom from the psychic affliction of this realm, the confinements of
morality, Haya! Grivya! I beseech you Tamrin Sangrup, accept this, and all that
follow, and look upon our efforts kindly." Darren had died seconds before
the man had finished, his stomach was opened and handfuls of fat removed, the
man turned a final time to the camera, and dropping the mounds of bloody fat
before him, intoned
"As I have added butter to the burning flames of
sacrifice, I urge you who see these images to deny your heretical views, and
stoke the flames of the light of truth, to burn away the shroud of ignorance. Aum Mani Padme Phat!"