whispers to a cat

Chadwinkle pulled his mouth away from the bong and let out a long breath of pungent white and gray weed clouds. "We're in, like, the post hero period. The Simpsons, anti-heros of cinema... the herioc act has become a shining moment in otherwise boring or flawed lives... and those who still do buy the myths of the hero are so fucking backward. Damn the christians the muslims and the jews amd all the other mind crappers."
As he talks to the small party of friends who ended up coming home with him when the bar closed, he takes a straightened paper clip and shoves it into the bowl and pushes the gray ashes down into the water, then packs another round of the lime green weed. "Look at tv. The differences between the heros has changed dramatically in the last few years. They are the tip of some iceburg, these writers... I mean, literature has been this forever. Writers and other degenerates definantly have known about this one forever."


He hands the red plastic bong, stained black on the sides from a few years use, over to his Frinks, a slim, balding, dark haired man in his mid thirties who always wore a baseball cap. Frinks was part of the reason the Chadwinkle made his guests play what he claimed was a parlor game. Frinks was the chattering Neal Cassidy in their crowd, the way loudest voice. There was no stopping him from dominating the conversation, usually. So, whenever very stoned people came home with him after some event, he would pretend to have a hard and fast rule that whoever had the bong has to speak, and the rest have to remain silent. He told them, and it was sort of true, in a vague way, that he wanted everyone to tell their stories, even the quiet ones, because he was on a quest to know everything about everything, including people, and he would not be robbed of the introverts opinions.

The party game lie was always taken with good cheer by his friends, who all secretly thought Chadwinkle always dominated the conversation, though they all had to admit, among themselves when he wasn't around and the topic of his word spewing came up, that he was also an extremly good listener, who genuinely loved to hear other people talk. Indeed, Chadwinkle often thought he was an introvert who tried to pass himself off as an extrovert, though he was just as often usure that the two terms had any real meaning.

Frinks blew his hit toward a gray cat perched on the top of a beige carpeted cat tree. "Cats love to get stoned. Not that you should get them stoned. I mean, why get them used to it? I had a cat that ate a bud once. This gray tiger boy with a white tum, he sat there for two days with his eyes crossed, just purring loud as hell. Yea, Chadwinkle, sure... the hero does seem to be dead. Look at American Dad? That guy is a psycho killer, who alleges to have a heart of gold." He packs the bong and then carefully hands it to the woman sitting beside him on the black leather couch.

Birtles had been to Chadwinkles more than any of them. She like all the windows looking out on Lakeshore and the animals, though mostly the conversation brought her back. Trim and short with blonde hair streaked with blue highlights, she liked to wear dresses and fem out to the max, making her a very pleasent sight. "I know what you mean. Heros are about having someone to love, someone who really rises to the occasion of life and lives in a way you want to emulate... then the churches burn in the fires of pedophilia, not to mention the sparks that have been smoldering since Nietsch declared us in the post god period of our cultural evolution. Love has kind of become the last realm of the mythic hero. People still mythologize each other in the name of love. We almost have to to get along, to help someone through something gross, like cleaning up their vomit when they have the flu, or whatever. People seem to love these heros, though he or she is only in the mind -- in thoughts fictionalized by all the myths of love that erupt in our subconscious when we think of this shit."

The orange tiger cat slowly saunters across the back of the couch behind Frinks head, where he had been laying since before the party had come in, leaps to the floor and slowly walks down the hall to the bedroom. He stops in the doorway and surveys the room; finding the accomidations both quiet and warm, he happily leaps up onto the bed and lays down on the plush gray comforter for a nap.