SOLOMON'S BRIDGE {Part II/WORK IN PROGRESS}

THE VOICES *13*

SCHIZO, LEGION, AND THE GENERAL (September 24th 2001)

They drag you by the ears all the way to Duke avenue, your three tormentors. People drive past you, some uncaring, some probably thinking that you are insane, some not seeing you at all; because they can't see them. Nobody can see them, except you, and usually they are all in your head, if you remember, which you often don't, but today, this cool evening, with the wind blowing in strong from the sea, the street lights can see them, the battalion of street lights, bright and sparkly, casting a golden glow on the dark gray asphalt from their proud yellow orbs, following your crooked and bent progress as they drag you painfully by your ears, your zig zag steps very fast, trying to keep up with the floating being in front of you, and the other two monster entities angrily striding by your side. Schizo the giantess's queenly gait is majestic, making you wonder how something so evil could still manage to look regal in her billowing bloody skirts flapping against the wind, her long black hair streaked with eternal cobwebs, moving according to the bobbing creatures hiding within it's thick wavy tresses. She moves with power, more than thirty feet tall above the ground, waves of dark magic about her, rippling through the air.

They are very angry.

"I hate African assignments!" she shouted to a velvet blue star lit sky, a steady stream of cars zooming through her spirit form, all, unsuspecting, participating actors, parting shimmering curtains on a theater stage, "These miserly blacks trick you into a comfort zone with their crippling needs and stinking poverty, and you give them miracles! And you give them prosperity! And you think they're going to remain blissfully stupid! But! Why! Is! It! Always! The contracted devotees?! You hear that, you messed up, emotionally conflicted, fourth generation lunatic? You are nothing but an effing contract!" her anger rising, she flips the next vehicle coming through with her bare hands.

A national cooperation Oil and Gas Petroleum tanker lifts up, somersaults forward in the air, crashing into three cars ahead, exploding into a raging inferno, its roaring, blasting fueled fire, became a most bizarre instrumental to accompany her incessant ranting, the people's screams providing a weak baseline punctuating her vibrating words, "But do you know, what I hate even more than ungrateful, lawful captives? Women who dare to hope, where there's none! Freaks of spiritual, skillfully wicked programming, who don't go according to the program! Daughters, disloyal to their tormentors, with the teeming audacity to secretly record audio chats between them and high ranking demons! On their flimsy mobile flip phones! And, leave it for loving mothers to discover!!! Ughh!! How dare you!!!"

It was an accident. You didn't even know your elbow was pressing down on your gray coloured motorola touch screen. It was, an old phone. You do a mental shrug, but, Schizo is far too enraged to perceive it. Many times, you told yourself to fix that crazy, freezing screen. It hangs on a font too long; opens apps you don't want, and selects calls to record. It was a mistake, and, you didn't leave it lying about carelessly, for mother to find, at all. In fact; you're not quite sure where you had kept it....

"You love dear mama, but I hate her. I'm not having any reservations, about torturing her, a'wàngáh? Because that is how resistance begins! In a bid to save you, she can band with a get together crew of christian wannabes, and try to undo all our hard work, to challenge us with their effing grains of faith! Ha! I don't see any prayer on the horizon! I will bleed that phone out of your dear meddling mama! I'm going to nip this mistake right in the bud! I WON'T effing tolerate it...!"

"Calm down Schiz," booms a hot and heavy bass by your left, its long talons pinching and pulling the upward tips of your left ear as it drags you faster along it's rushing stride, "they're amateurs, they don't even have the strength for this kind of attack; they'll just botch it all up like they did the first time, in 1891. Nothing to worry about, keep your panties on." The general hisses in agreement. You can't even look at it. The first time you tried to get a quick peep, you couldn't sleep for two weeks, that's fourteen days of your gaze being hijacked by an image of something you can't bring yourself to process. You feel sticky and prickly when you try to force the memory back. You feel tiny needles running up your arms and slithering wetness shimmying up your spine. You see something dark and ugly, something smooth and coiling, something suddenly springing at you, something jerky, violent and very fast, something vile. You squeeze your eyes shut real tight, just like you are doing now, refusing to see more horror.