Sunday, September 30, 2007

The Catalyst chapter whichever: "FROM STALKERS TO BODY-GUARDS TO NARRORATORS"
(Authors note: In order to start from the time-frame of which I wish to begin, I'm going to have to let Shanty narrate this chapter. Mostly because he was the only other person there and I am unable to do so because I was unconscious at the time. And, yes, I know, he’s not half the fabulous narrator I am, but give him chance, huh? So, anyway, here we go...)

Okay, everyone still remember where we’re supposed to be in this story? Is everybody still following me?... I didn’t think so. Here, let me do a bit of scene-setting for you.

Where you're supposed to be is some abandoned blood-stained, crudely decorated principles office in some over-crowded, individuality-abolishing public high-school located somewhere in Baltimore County. When you're supposed to be is about 10 or 15 minutes after I got slapped up-side the head and knocked to the ground via an iron candle-stick in the hands of a girl physically fit to put Cal Ripken to shame. (I think Belinda said her name was Cori, or something…)

Understand? No, of course you don’t. You were probably too busy wondering what took our lazy bum of an author so long to write this chapter to have even paid attention. Therefore, let the shoving-of-forgotten-information-down-your-throats begin…

The infamous guitarist of the ultra clichéd Dashi & The Attention Whores, Vashoutoh Malluste, or "God/Kami," as he refers to himself, just escaped about 10 minutes ago by jumping out the window and driving off in whichever-glamour-re-defining-sports-car he’s driving these days. But not before practically stabbing Belinda to death with his oh-so-merciless oral switch-blade of a vocabulary, after murdering about a 4th of her fellow students with the assistance of his army of leather-festooned grim-reaper-wannabes. (Or, “Reapers” as we like to refer to them.) Who, by the way, have all either been knocked out by me and are now gathering dust on the floor or have evacuated the building with their Satin-spawned leader. Oh, and did I mention, due to about a 4th of the school being killed, the police are now starting to arrive in the parking lot, where my extremely suspiciously placed blue Honda is parked? In other words, I have barely any time at all to slip an unconscious, abused-looking student in a bloody sweat-shirt, from a school that has just been invaded, ransacked, and terrorized, past the police, and all the way home, then find a way to sneak her into her own home without breaking in or leaving any suspicious, investigation-inspiring evidence that I was there, and do it all without keeling over from the anguish of the bloody, oh-so-painful contusion at the back of my head. [“Wow…. Run-on sentences, anyone?”-Mikey Ralphson.]

Yeah, I know. It's almost too simple, isn't it?

But, hey, I suppose my rockstar uncle wouldn't have promised to pay me a million dollars or so to endure simple situations. Or ones that don’t involve being whacked and shot at by Reapers and rock/pop star groupies. So, Uncle Jay, if you're reading this: trust me; you are DEFFINITELY getting your money's worth. But I’m getting off topic. So let "The Unconscious Damsel in Distress Being Rescued and Returned Safely Home by her Knight In a Not-so-shining Pair of Girly Jeans And a James Addiction T-shirt" scene commence. And: ACTION!!
My first thoughts, upon picking the girl up were: "Damn. How can anyone so skinny be so freakin' heavy?!" My second thoughts, upon discovering that my new throbbing friend residing at the back of my head didn’t like it when I lifted and carried heavy teenagers, were: "Okay, note to self: never turn your back on the robust chick with the heavy object while trying to apprehend and taunt her celebrity crush." And, my 3rd thoughts, while attempting and, by some miracle, succeeding in denying the police-officers and detectives who were currently gathering in clusters, all over the school, the sight of a certain cuddly-physique’d, girl-pants-wearing nephew of Jason Wenterz transporting a certain statuesque, potential co-lyricist to the formers blue Honda were: "Oy.... Where's an invisibility cloak when you need one?" No, on second thought, forget that: Where's a Marauders Map when you need one? Actually, not even an enchanted map, just a regular one would've sufficed perfectly. And when I say perfectly, I mean PERFECTLY. After all, this was Carnary Hall High-school I had to wonder about in. This was the school of THIRTEEN THOUSAND students. (Well, actually, now it's only about twelve thousand, eight hundred, and seventy-one, considering a 4th of the student population is now dead.) Therefore, it was not only a crowded school, but a colossal school. That stated, you can only imagine the eternity of fun I had searching all over the damn labyrinth of education for a single stair-well that wasn't being investigated by police and that led straight to the parking-lot. Eventually, I just ended up taking the fire escape. (Why I didn't think of that earlier I have no idea.)

So I shuffle down the stairs of the oh-so-blessedly conveniently placed escape, make sure I sneak past the cop-cars as discreetly clandestine as I can, haul my motionless body-shaped cargo into the front passenger seat, slide into the alcove in front of the stirring wheel, and, finally, leave. However, right before I accelerate into high velocity mode, I pause to dart a weary glance at the clock. 2 in the afternoon. And yet, it already feels like midnight. Looks like it too, the sky being plagued with thunder, lightening, and rain, and being entirely devoid of sun-shine, and all. However, at that moment, I hadn't any more time to reflect on the horrible weather, as my restless heart was now screaming for the momentum of a long, numbing, relaxing car-ride. So I drove. And while I did so, I couldn't help listlessly reminiscing about the "good old days." If this had ever happened 2 years ago, with Natalie in the place of Belinda/Yuki, I would've probably been sick with hysteria by now. If it were Natalie, part of me would be sick with paranoia that she might never awaken, part of me would be overjoyed that I had received the privilege of driving her home, part of me would be in total infatuated awe of her supreme radiance, and most of me would be over-come with the oh-so-irrepressible urge to pull over at a vacant parking-lot somewhere and run my fingers through that cloud of golden hair, over that melancholy, oh-so-adorably pugnacious face, and across those pigments of golden-brown, soft, silken skin. (Hmmmm.... I wonder if obsession is as obsessed with me as I am addicted to obsession.)

The good news is, that this is not 2 years ago and therefore the unconscious young lady in the passenger seat is not Natalie. At all. In fact, so far, Amy Winehouse and Joseph Stalin seem to be more alike than Belinda Sako and Natty Haruhi. Meaning, she is not at all at risk of being molested/harassed by me.
Oh, don't get me wrong, the girl was a cute kid and all and, hell, with a bit of eye-liner, lip-gloss, and a less frumpy shirt she might even be able to pass for a teen model. But she wasn't Natty. And it wasn't just the fact that she wasn't Asian, short, and blonde. Or that she didn’t wear a third of the amount of eye make-up SHE did. Or that her legs looked positively mutilated. Or that her hair didn’t do that cute flippy-floppy thing that Natalie’s always did. So, what was it, then? What was it that convinced me she wasn't anything like HER? Well, for one thing, Natty wouldn't be caught dead wearing a rosary bracelet like Belinda was. Natalie was not simply agnostic; she was the dictionary definition of cynical. She believed in God, but as far as I knew, she never believed he cared, never believed He could be trusted with her life much less those of man-kind.
Secondly, Natty would've never let Vashoutoh orally obliterate her the way he did Belinda. No, the jaded little punk had far too much of a quick temper to take vocal assaults from the likes of Vashoutoh Malluste.

Then again, it probably wouldn’t have mattered, because Natty would have never been captured by Malluste in the first place. In fact, at the time, she would either most likely be skipping school or fearlessly fighting against the Reapers. Therefore, Vashoutoh either wouldn’t have known where to look or Natalie would have gotten herself killed before he could even get a chance to meet her. Whereas, Belinda was simply on her way to the bath-room when she saw some guy she knew being harassed and shot by a reaper, got scared, and was hidden in a closet by some janitor who just happened to be in the hall-way at the time. Nuff said.

So, unless you have any interest in watching me drive and Belinda spontaneously blurt out incoherent things in her sleep such as: "DO NOT INTERRUPT THE MOMENTUM OF A VENGEFUL BANANA-DANCING JURISDICTION!,” I suggest you skip to the part where I arrive at Belinda's house. It was a reasonably wide, respectable-looking rancher with a gratuitously big yard containing a swing-set and a sliding-board discreetly stationed at the edge of the property. And not only that, but it appeared to be located in a reasonably decent/G-rated community. This either meant Belinda's family was somewhat rich or she simply had a lot of siblings that required a lot of room and security. (I found out later that it was the latter. Bel-Bel's the eldest of 6 kids.) Her house was, as Uncle Jay mentioned to me 1 or 2 hours/eternities ago, very close to my dwelling. In fact, there was but a not-so-steep hill and about several or so houses along the way separating us. This would make stalking/guarding her indisputably easy. Matter of fact, I kind of wish sneaking her into her own house could've been just as obviously easy.

After all, I just wouldn't feel right about leaving her out-side on such a rainy, freezing day. I could tell she already had a cold from the congested sound of her voice and her swollen-looking glands. If I left her out now, she might catch pneumonia. And I just wouldn't be able to answer to my conscience if I ended up making her even MORE sick. I sat with her on the sheltered, roof-covered porch for about 5 minutes, meditating on how to sneak her inside. If the house had been vacant, I could've simply used my lock-picking kit to open up a door. But since at least one parent was home, as I could tell by the white mini-van in the drive-way, I would probably have to be more discreet about it. "Damn. This is gonna be tricky," I half-sighed, half-complained wearily to no one in particular. Because, really, who was there to complain particularly to? After all, since I was the only person on the porch who was awake, I wasn't really anticipating a response. Nevertheless, I still got one.
"Huh...? What're you talkin' about? Dude, it's like so simple..." Belinda half-droned, half-replied in her sleep.
However, she was obviously dreaming about something completely differing from the subject of my contemplation, because the next thing out of her mouth was: "All ya gotta do is move your hand down a bit, then a few inches to the left. Like this-" She then demonstrated with her own hand the instructions she had just given. The only problem with this was, at the time, I was holding her in my lap, cuddled in my arms to keep her warm. Meaning her hand was then benignly slumped against my hip. So when she moved her hand "down a bit, then a few inches to the left," and jiggled her fingers against the crotch of my jeans, well, it was a rather awkward moment. However, she obviously hadn't meant to do anything so risqué; her being entirely unconscious at the time and all. (Or, at least, she CLAIMS to have been…) And as if this wasn’t sufficient enough evidence of her blamelessness, the next words her sub-conscious chose to produce were: "There, you see, Caiden? It's totally easy. All you gotta do is that with the albino elf. And then, all the candy should come out of the hemorrhoids-shaped piñata, so Beckett the evil Care Bear-seducer shall be defeated, and all the good citizens of Podleville will be saved." ("Hey! Who're you calling an evil Care Bear-seducer?!"-William Beckett) So, unless you consider dreams about hemorrhoid-shaped piñatas, albino elves, and Podleville-dominating Care Bear-seducers, who are apparently distant relatives of a certain brown-haired, tight pants-wearing Academy member, to be at all "Sigmund Froidian" fantasies, I'd consider the whole potential sexual harassment law suit nothing more than an accident. However, that does not mean I did not have a reaction to being groped by a sleeping someone at least 5 years younger than me. In fact, I nearly jumped. Nearly jumped, nearly threw Belinda 10 feet in the air, and nearly broke into a fit of less-than-polite exclamations. But by some miracle, I managed to not throw the fit of the century. Matter of fact, I decided to pretend it never happened. (Pretend it never happened until now. And now that I did remember it, I have only one comment: BOUNDRIES, Belinda. BOUNDRIES.) [And, yes, I know I’m a baby, but I’m the only narrator you got right now, so ---ing DEAL.]

Anyway, after racking my mentality for the best (and most discreet) way to get Belinda safely inside for about 3 more minutes, I finally concluded that there was simply no better way than to place Belinda in front of the door, ring the door-bell, and hope either one of her siblings or parents came to bring her in. So I did. But after I rang the door-bell, I darted behind one of the brick pillars that was supporting the porches roof and that was just big enough to conceal my lithe frame, so as not to be seen. (Ahhhh, I’m feeling like a stalker again already.)

I heard the door being open and half of an inquisitive, masculine-sounding “hello?” which was cut off by a horrified gasp as whoever the greeter was viewed the unconscious Belinda strewn across the concrete. While he was distracted by what looked like the corpse of Belinda “Yuki Shadowme” Sacko, I dared to dart a glance at him from my hiding place behind the pillar. He was a lanky, somewhat cherubic-faced boy who looked to be about 13 with short, sandy blonde hair, brown eyes, and pimply, pink-ish, adolescent skin. He was evidently one of Belinda’s little brothers, because the next thing he did was hysterically thunder back into the house with an urgent call of “MOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!” probably assuming the worst about the abused-looking semi-cadaver left on the porch. “Oh, relax, Robert.” mumbled said abused-looking semi-cadaver in response to the summoning of her mother. “It’s ONLY Marilynn Mansion’s doppelganger. No need to drag mum into this…”

While being introduced to the aforementioned satanic, holder of “your lovey-dovey sad-and-lonely” and receiver of your “Tainted Love” doppelganger, Belinda was then promptly carried inside by her mother and little brother.
And, while this so-called “ending” of my part in this installment of The Catalyst is the very dictionary definition of anti-climatic, I am afraid I did not do a single other interesting thing for the rest of the day. Therefore: The end. So long and good night

Comments (2)