The Trickster - Chapter 1

Tell me, O Muse, of that ingenious hero who traveled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy.

It

From the time I first set eyes on it, it has laboured too hard to impress me. Unable to grasp that with each attempt to win my favour I respect it less, I’m tortured by its constant need for approval.

It’s the sound of its voice that makes my skin snake. The way it ruins every potential silence with its moronic monologues is grating enough, but its compulsion to repeat anecdotes, ad nausea is what makes me despise it even more.

The lowly cur is a coward and a fraud. A dog that thinks crass manipulations make it clever. Cursed, it is the bane of the necropolis. Its presence in the library makes me dread the days I’m scheduled to work with it…

A part-time employee and full time dirt-bag, the two days a week that it punches in transforms the endless hours of book sorting into a Sisyphus crawl. Forced to endure its endless blather, it has worn my patience down with an assault of pornography, misrule and disgrace. It poses as a student, enrolled in the creative writing program, but its literary ambitions extend no further than to the drugs it peddles on campus,

There’s this dope-head in the school’s HR department who loves my weed. It must have repeated this story two dozen times. He told me that if I enrolled at the university he could pull some strings and get me this library gig. So I signed up for the most Mickey Mouse program this shit hole offers: creative writing.

Laughter… It’s so gangsta! Not only am I making an hourly wage shelving books I’m raking in tons of coin selling bud and ecstasy right out of the stacks.

This is the part of the tale he loved to repeat the most. For you this is just your average shit job that you can’t wait to shake, right bro? It would often accompany this remark with the placement of one of its paws upon my shoulder. Me, I’m clearing a thousand bills a week.

Ranging the dark bounds of a drug dealer’s reign… it dreams of nothing but profit.

The bonus, it confessed, is that creative writing students are a dope peddler’s bonanza. Self-loathing pot heads are great for business and the creative writing department is filled with them. What a sweet stunt! And I don’t even have to sweat about the academic standards.

It leaned close and whispered confidentially into my ear. The herb I sell is so dope I’ve made an arrangement with a couple of students in the program to write my essays in exchange for eighths.

A delegate of Neptune’s watery reign… it turns the necropolis into drug-deal-central whenever it’s on the clock. Between rows of books, right in front of me, I’ve witnessed countless indiscretions. Sometimes when money and product are exchanged, it winks at me conspiratorially. On one occasion when a bag stuffed with grass fell out of its jacket pocket while it was hanging its coat up in the staff lounge I cleared my throat and pointed at the ground.

Gray, pasty and hungover, it looked me straight in the eye and smiled. Most of my customers would have waited for me to bounce before scooping that up without me noticing.

I shook my head. Maybe if I was a smoker I might have done the same thing.

It laughed. You don’t partake?

Just the thought of its sales pitch made me uneasy. I don’t touch the stuff, I lied. There’s a reason they call that shit dope.

No kidding. The scrawny blade of grass bubbled with delight. Potheads; they’re sheep just waiting to be fleeced.

Every time it opens its mouth: the braggart’s stink of ignorance and halitosis fills the air. I suppose it’s the undeserved bravado that I especially dislike. The way it struts around, cock of the block, imagining its self a player. It’s painful to watch. No street-smart Casanova, on the contrary, it is a nervous wreck: a nail-biter and cuticle-chewer whose fingertips are bloodied and scabbed. More a filthy punk than a Bugsy Malone, it is a lowly drug grunt, destined to remain at the bottom rung of the criminal ladder.

The manifestation of some cruel power; I curse the fates for having introduced it to me. I’ve distrusted it from the start. Any hope it had of earning my respect disappeared that morning, shortly after it was hired when it offered me a ride. It had spotted me as it was driving down Sherbrooke in its 1987 rusted out Volkswagen Rabbit. It slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop at the corner of St Laurent. The passenger door opened; the stink of marijuana wafted out.

Wanna lift?

Cringing, I reluctantly accepted but made a mental-note never to walk to work down Sherbrooke again.

Pimp ride, I commented as I sat down.

It frowned, hurt by my sarcasm. Yeah, well, I’m saving for a Chrysler 300.

On a library assistant’s salary? I laughed.

As we traveled west it cursed and spat profanities at every driver it shared the road with. But when a Ford Bronco cut us off it really began to tilt: leaning on the horn in a completely inappropriate fashion. Its animal face turned purple. The nostrils flared and it stepped on the gas, racing to catch up with the offending driver. After rolling down the window, it hollered: You stupid cunt! The insult embarrassed me. Adding to my shame, a wad of phlegm, spat from its mouth, splatted onto the Bronco’s front windshield.

Its road rage was exasperating. The ponderous engine surging was determined to crush us all; I could feel my blood catching fire and my hands knotting into fists. You’re lucky she’s a woman and not a pissed off carpenter with a hammer tucked under his seat.

It turned to face me. Fuck that! It flapped a hand dismissively at the world beyond its car. Man or woman… if they drive like an asshole I’m going to get up in their face…

Anyone ever call you out?

It pointed at the glove compartment: Open it up.

Excuse me?

Open it; I want to show you something.

I pressed the button and opened the drawer.

It smiled mischievously: On top of the maps. There’s a canister. Take it out.

After fumbling inside the box, I latched onto a small inhaler-sized cylinder. What is it?

Don’t point it at me! It laughed proudly, its mace.

I returned the weapon back to the compartment. Have you ever used it? I regretted asking the question as soon as it came out of my mouth.

About a year ago this asshole in a red BMW cut me off on the Decarie. After obscene gestures were exchanged this weasel prick started tailing me. I scoped him in my rear view mirror screaming smack at me. The stupid faggot must have thought he was GSP or some shit like that ‘cause, when I exited the freeway, he’s treating me like a bitch, driving up my ass. It shook its head. The stupid cracker followed me south all the way St Catherine. It looked away from the road and smiled at me.

It claimed that it turned into a grocery store parking lot in Lower Westmount. Well past midnight, the secluded space was dark and empty. Its adversary followed, leaving a trail of rubber in the parking lot where he slammed on the breaks. I stepped out of my ride and marched right up to him. As soon as that dumb fuck stepped from his vehicle I aimed the mace and blasted the stupid cock-sucker right in the face...

It chuckled. The son of a bitch didn't know what hit him. He fell to his knees, blinded, wailing like a baby torn away from the tit.

It pondered over a left hand turn before resuming its tale of violence. Did that cunt ever get it! I stepped back and lined him up good. His eyes were so clouded with tears he couldn’t see what was coming next. And with all the force I could muster I punted that motherfucker right in the side of the head. The toe of my boot caught him right in the ear.

It laughed again. This is the best part. His head literally made a popping sound before his body buckled to the ground. And the blood, holy fuck, did the blood ever pour out of him!

It was smiling proudly. It was totally Scarface. He tried to pick himself up off the ground, but collapsed under the weight of his effort. As a final insult I walked over to his car, removed the keys from the ignition and tossed them over the fence into an adjacent field. Then I pissed on the front seat of his car before driving away.