2-9-10

It wasn't something I could hide. It wasn't one of those emotions that bent over backwards for the world, the real world, the social world, knowing that it's presence brought with it difficulties to put it lightly, searing pains in the ass to put it realistically. Regardless of my internal struggle against it's manifestation, the emotion ran within me like a wildfire long past the point of control. This was it. I could feel it in every beat of my motherfucking heart and playing at the prickliest points of my veins, begging me to dig my fingernails in and tear it out like a savage fucking beast.

It got worse the more he spoke, each heartbeat a damning premonition for the call to war. I tried to keep it in, bottle it up, but it was there, boiling over the top and my face must've read it like a fucking children's story. I could hear the narrator of my actions, that man who stood outside my experience and judged me how I wished to be judged, his running commentary devoted to me ruining everything. Think of Luke Skywalker, I thought. He was right! I'm endangering the mission, I shouldn't have come here. At that moment, I could see biblical sized flames rising up between me and the press corps, my anger seething and their eyes locked on Jance like children watching their father do something he's good at.

Astronaut Jance Sanders. The motherfucker. The prick who wouldn't go away from me, the one who invoked and fanned this desperate flame of hatred within me. To tabulate or express how my hatres for Sanders existed in this realm, how such an all-consuming passion couldn't bleed through onto a metaphysical or eternal realm better suited for it's epic nature is an impossibility. I'd early found that any attempt to express the emotion in relative terms fell woefully short, to the point where I'm honestly embarrassed at what I've laid out here and how it's lacking. Touching on it felt like a broken record and a record that intended to stay that way, so I'd never invested much more into it outside of that. All that happened was this emotional throb which would activate once touched upon, driving me nuts and calling forth some very creative uses of obscenities.

Other people told me I was overreacting -which was a point so obvious that I hated it, too- and would try to outline some of his finer points. Yea, Jance is arrogant but he's also ______. You shouldn't be so rough on him, he's very ________ once you get to know him. Utter bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. I knew Jance Sanders, and the man was a handsome, lily-sweet tounged pile of fucking dogshit. Whoever the idiot was who thought that "just talking it out" would work needed to go back to the realm of hell that hope and equality had been brought from to distract from getting real work done. This was well beyond the pale, and in that moment it was set in stone: one of us had to die.

And so as my fist cruised toward his face, an underhanded technique whose deviance brough a smile to my face, I thought of these and other things, the fabled epic that was Jance v. Clark, an operetta whose notes would imminently be played out as grizzed grunts and pain, oohs and aahs from the peanut gallery, and that everlasting stunned silence by those most surprised by the fracas.

My punch connected and his head lunged back crooked, like one of those doors in a restaurant that snaps back with vigor. There was blood on my face and stars in my eyes and it hit me: Jance had headbutted me. The motherfucker had headbutted me! Whatever composure I'd had left was quickly gone, replaced by a carnal instinct to win no matter what. We tumbled, we fumbled, we screamed until our eyes wanted to pop our of our faces. There was blood everywhere, blood and a crowd that looked like it wasn't very sure it actually wanted to be witnessing this. I panted heavy, my head resting back on the linoleum.

* * *

The Chief slapped the newspaper down on his desk hard, a predictable response.
"I don't know if it's possible for me to express my disappointment right now" he began, sinking into that comfy leather chair.
"Jesus Boss," Sanders chimed in "You're not going to give us one of these 'Dad' moments, are you?" I laughed.
"A 'Dad' moment, Sanders? Are you aware of the clusterfuck we're in here? A month out from our mission to Mars and fighting in a fucking press conference? Could you have possibly picked a worse time or place? And Clark, a sucker punch? Was there a more underhanded, unstoic way you could've conveyed to Sanders that you were tired of hearing him talk?"
"I don't know what to say," I began "The opportunity presented itself, and I had to take it."
"Don't give me that shit, Clark"
"I'm serious. The conflict between Sanders and me has graduated to another level, one in which only the most spectacular setting will do."
"It's true sir"
"There's no fighting it, it's like a distant storm always on the horizon. There no rhyme or reason to it, it simply has to be dealt with once it reaches a certain magnitude. Sanders will agree with me."
"Again, that's true."
"You boys were going after each other like this life wasn't enough; you wanted to make sure the other was dead for the afterlife too. How am I supposed to reconcile this with the public, the press, the investors, the billions of dollars I've frittered away on you two pieces of shit?"
"Boss, the problems between Clark and me were well documented long before we were chosen for the Mars mission. It wasn't our fault you guys chose us as guinea pigs to demonstrate how well the program was operating now."
"The problem, Sanders, is that the program is not operating well right now. You and Clark just drove a hyper-thrusted, diamond tipped titanium nail into the coffin of that discussion. Now we have to find some way to run damage control and convince everyone and their mother that this 'enemies' bullshit doesn't spell the end of the mission."
"Oh but sir, Sanders and I aren't enemies. We know each other far too well to just be enemies. We're nemeses. To call us anything less cheapens the conflict." Sanders chuckled.
"You laugh at that, Sanders? You sick fuck?"
"A conflict like the one between Clark and me operates beyond the confines of simple animosity. I laugh because it's true, and I want to see his reaction. I want to see his reactions to everything, to perfectly understand them and his mannerisms. Those are the moments where his defenses are at their lowest, and I can see who he really is. Clark is like an emotional jungle gym that I want to crawl through every last square inch of so I can best destroy him. To be standoffish is to waste my opportunities for his complete and utter destruction. Take the papers, for instance. Every cover photo proudly displays the cheap-shot. No one could think the insult of this will sit lightly with me."

Maybe the Chief's anger subsided, but I suspect he actually felt it insignificant compared to the rivalry between Sanders and me. Shortly thereafter we shook his hand and left him stewing in his own juices, the hallway outside his office opening up like the dawning of a brand new day.

Yea, so maybe I was somewhat melodramatic in my previous comments on Sanders, but I'd say that more than anything they just needed some fine tuning. It was a struggle worthy of nemesesdom, but maybe not like a wildfire and more like an earthquake. Much more unpredictable, much more powerful. A wildfire is potent, but it has it's parameters, areas where it can't strike, a slowness which brings about dread but not necessarily outright shock.

An earthquake, however, possesses a terror and ability to rend the Earth in it's image that better satiated my feelings toward Jance. It wasn't that I wanted his forest burnt down, I wanted it wholly consumed, pulled into the maw of the Earth and ripped and tortured in painful and permanent ways which a wildfire couldn't imagine. Maybe after he was consumed I'd leave a nice memorial to commemorate the conquest, but that's beside the point. To find an outlet who can so fully accommodate one's hatred, dark passions and creative genius is a gift, and the appreciation floats somewhere outside the animosity involved. It's like an alcoholic finding the perfect beer mug: You appreciate it being around even though it plays such a central role in what destroys you. Jance Sanders is merely a vessel, it's his ideas I want to eradicate.