THE GOLDEN CHILD - #9
It's a quiet day on the Golden Child front, giving me the sense that this might be the quiet before the storm. Usually things are normal, then there's a storm. Although of course sometimes there's quiet without storms and storms without quiet. I've seen storms followed by quiet, in fact most of them are that way; that's how you know the storm's over. Be all that as it may, there's no storms in the forecast, at least none having to do with the weather.
I'm definitely using the quiet to get prepared. I called my insurance guy to make sure my house insurance is paid up, including the important rider on damages from supernatural sources. Right off the bat, of course that made the guy a little reticent; he came back on after checking the policy and asked if my house was haunted, because that's about ten bucks more a month. I tried to walk it back, saying I was asking for a friend. Anything to save ten bucks.
I'm a little quiet because I don't know what might happen; I'm thinking. It's not like I'm too young to die, but I feel like it. I'm mid-60s -- old by internet standards, I know -- but I'm still in good health. I feel young, not a day over 55. Most of the wistfulness I feel has to do with Myra Kula Electra. I confess, I thought she was hot stuff when I first saw her a couple years ago. She came in, wanting to join my newsletter staff. And she already worked for the Daily News. With my age, I sort of forget why she wanted to join. Seems like she had some shenanigans in mind, something up her sleeve.
She was a good writer, I guess, seems like she was. She does work for the Daily News. Did I mention that? With my age, I'm getting forgetful. My short-term memory's coming up with multiple gaps in the course of days ... seems like it is. It's hard to be sure when you can't remember. Who was I talking about? Myra! Good woman, I thought. Then there was the public sex with the four prisoners -- I might've mentioned that. I'm too tired to look back...
I could call my pastor and ask him to keep me in his prayers. You remember my pastor, Pastor Wadd. We've had the same guy for years. He runs the church according to his own beliefs, which is the best way to do it if you want to stay in office. I've written about him before, I'm sure. His specialty is counseling guys for various sexual addictions, which means he's always on the lookout for anything the least bit shady in his parishioners' personal lives. Even if you don't do anything wrong, like me, you still look guilty anytime he's around.
And if he doesn't like sex, he's equally pissed about anything involving the "New Age Movement" -- if there is such a thing. In fact, anything that doesn't match up with his own narrow belief system -- whatever he was taught by his pappy as a lad -- he's dead-set against. Imagine if I called him about advice with Myra. "Uh, Pastor Wadd, I'm not entirely sure Myra's even an actual human being; there's every chance in the world she might be the manifestation of a demon, a devil, or wraith. I'm not even sure the size she is is her true size. She might be little now just to lure in helpless victims, before showing herself prodigiously huge, the size of an ocean liner stood on end, the size of a sequoia, and so forth. Then the public sex with four prisoners."
For all I know, there is a literal hell. How else do you explain politics these days? And this literal hell, in addition to sending us politicians with hell for brains is sending us prodigious demons posing as beautiful women. You tell me, why else would a prim and proper woman -- dressed often in turn of the (20th) century clothes -- break down in hatred of an old-fashioned guys like me, and, in case I haven't mentioned it, have public sex with four prisoners?
If only she didn't appear to "have it goin' on," if you know what I mean. Hubba hubba. Do young people still say Hubba hubba? It has an old fashioned sound to it, but I'm old. What do I do about Myra? Isn't there a verse that says somewhere, "Yea, though he slay me, yet shall I love him"? Something like that. Should that apply to possible girlfriends. Say they can transform in an instant into fire and smoke, a huge red tongue, eyes like the Big Bad Wolf, claws like a thorn tree, and a stomach to hold you and four of your closest friends, with a game room downstairs. Should I love her? She took everything four prisoners had and possibly more, how good could she be?
Yes, I'm wistful. I don't want to see Myra die -- I don't especially want that, maybe a little. But if it has to happen, like it turns out she is a wrathful spirit who's been tormented for 10,000 years, just waiting to consume a sweet young thing like me, perhaps it'd be doing her a favor to kill her. A stake through the heart. Maybe take her head off with tree shears. Which I don't even have. It's a quandary. Just have to play it by ear as it comes.