Here’s a strange and somewhat shadowy transmission penned by my dear friend, and beloved midnight-hour acquaintance, Duke Gordon. I found it when visiting the hillside shithole apartment he, two years ago, in a fit of drunken paranoia, abandoned. On the top shelf of a dusty closet there was a shoe box with a calligraphic scrawl across a strip of camouflage duct tape: “Death Rattles and Other Miscellany.” Inside was a single letter. It was written in permanent marker, signed in a blotty, dark-red that made me shiver, as it looked a lot like dried blood. The letter was dated 19 December, 2012.
Dear Sir Atticus Caps,
What a demented shithead you are! I was completely convinced–and unduly fucking saddened–you were either dead or recaptured*… This was not a condition I was in any way able to resign myself to accepting on any sort of fundamental level. Thus I decided the best course of action was to finally accept the reality of this past early-summer’s absolute unreality–I concluded probably the whole thing was all an elaborate hoax of the imagination. Said another way: I told myself I’d made you up.
The sad fact is, the Titan’s were all slayed and eaten by the earth so long ago there remain but the vaguest rumors of their existence.
Thus I accepted my fate: to live quietly amongst the pygmies. I would dress, act, even learn to adapt their droning manner of speech. Dressing myself in a veneer of vacuous acceptance, I submitted. Embarked upon a condition of absolute consent to the banality of their manner of being. Day by day I lived like this. The months passed. Slowly I began to shrink, to grow empty–steadily my electricity vanished; my cock drowsed through the days like an octogenarian with narcolepsy… The hours I wasn’t slaving away at my master’s machine–a machine that was, in fact, the master of him, and, in a larger sense, no more than an incidious cog in the vast ensnaring mechanism that has hold of us all–I spent those sad moments star-gazing, filled with dull-longing. Freedom became a sort of faint stirring deep within my mind. Like the voice of a lover I had long forgotten I knew, indechiperable, untouchable.
I was DYING, Atticus. I assure you, they were feeding me poison. In a vast dark conspiracy, they were seeking to lop off my Balls.
Then, today, just now, there came a jolt of terrible thunder.** A grizzled light scorched open the sky. Amidst the roar and general chaos, like Nero, I deciphered amongst the carnage a sound I thought long vanished, a sound that had, for as long as I remembered, tortured me with its silent reverberations: the Titans had arisen. I hear the battle horn howling on the savage wind. The pygmies have no idea what’s coming.
For Atticus Caps is ALIVE. And Duke Gordon has, once more, like a phantom knight, like a demon birthed from a ring of flaming prophecy–he has awakened.
Let us gather! Let us guzzle cups of mead bellowing soul-stoking songs of redemption, of revolution, of mad Love overcoming Fear and Hate and all that keeps the Pygmies enslaved in their stifling shitty universe of in-possibility. Like warriors storming Mount Olympus, we will claim our godliness–celebrating our immortal flesh, drinking at the fount of Birth and Death, on the summit beyond it all we shall DANCE, we shall REJOICE. We shall burn with such violent desire all who see and behold the insane hue of our glowing will have no choice but to melt–the dark ice binding their hearts will have been vaporized. The act of simply laying eyes on our beautiful madness will slap them into a high, life-altering euphoria. As if under the influence of a brutal contact high they will thrum with the charge of our insane vibration . . . .
Your Brother(s) In Arms,
*Atticus Caps was on parole, fresh off a three year penitentiary sentence. After Caps’s unexpected disappearance–he’d been at a party, said he was going to take a piss, swaggered off toward the black limned wood-line, and never returned. This, Gordon told me at the time, was definitely a sign from God, an augury that Caps would, within mere hours, find himself re-incarcerated, and this time for no less than 10 years.
**Gordon had, from a mutual friend, received a text message photograph featuring the friend wrapping her arms around the shoulders, and kissing the right cheek of Mr. Caps.