Fiction: A God Amongst Flies

By C.F. Bellairs

 

He’s waiting for me when I get there and I can already tell this piece’a shit is going to drive me up a fucking wall like usual can you believe that guy? Holy shit. You’re all rankled up like you’re a napkin in a pocket right now I can see how fucking rankled you are but you should hear me out before you get all rankly, OK? So he’s waiting for me or just happens on me as I arrive how the fuck should I know so obviously I square up tall as a mountain ‘cause like hell am I about to get pushed around by Alvin fucking Edson field-directing cock-sucking extraordinaire. Would save the world heaps of trouble, fucking heaps, if he were gone, you just take my word for that one if you want to come out on top in this situation there’s a freebie for you. Anyway he’s waiting for me and I square the fuck up clean as a god damn whistle and I can see he’s not so certain anymore, not so sure he wants to do what he’s there to do and god damn did that feel good let me tell you, holy shit. Always a good fucking feeling when the Alvin fucking Edsons of the world know their place even for one second I’m sure you know the feeling, don’t need me stating the obvious.

He sits there with his face looking angry and his ‘stache looking shit and I can barely hold it together ‘cause who could hold it all together standing next to such a fucking disgrace? And when he finally gets his bravery knitted up nice and clean he says to me: Everything okay with you today? You’re getting here a little late.

Suck my cock in fact choke on it you fucking chode except I didn’t say that obviously what would I go saying that and getting myself rooted out for? I’d be fucking gone in a day I’m not a god damn idiot do I look like a god damn idiot to you? Didn’t fucking think so. Anyway I have to get myself together ‘cause it’s Alvin god damn Edson acting like he’s a human so it’s hard not to laugh. What a laugh though, at least I can get it out now! Holy shit. Alvin fucking Edson thinking he’s people? That’s a good one, good fun for the whole fucking family.

He’s chatting for a good while like I’m still listening and I start thinking about the campaign tent we’re in, about how we’d already be situated in that god damn office building looking down on us feudalism-style if we weren’t throwing away the whole fucking campaign on hiring decisions like Alvin fucking Edson as field director. Humpty Dumpty could fall off that office building and be a big pile of fucking egg mush, that’s how tall the damn thing is. We would’ve been in there if not for Edson, mark my god damn words. Maybe you’re thinking I hate this guy too much but you haven’t fucking met him so just tuck those feelings into your fucking pocket and let them get all rankled and crumpled and forget about them like it was a condom wrapper or some shit. Anyway there’s a nice fucking breeze finding its way through the campaign tent and I’m a little too busy enjoying that nice fucking breeze to be paying attention to the likes of Alvin Edson.

I’ve been listening to him for five minutes and it feels like twenty holy shit. How I never clocked that cocksucker midsentence I’ll never know. But, holy shit, right? You already know how much I hate this guy, and he’s pulling me aside to what, yap?! He’s talking about what I wasn’t listening something like “leg of sea” and “things that matter” and he’s forgetting that of all people ever and always, Alvin fucking Edson does not matter.

He asks: Do you hear me? god I hate his chubby worm lips. Shit stache above them.

“Absolutely, Alvin.” and I say it real fucking clean, real fucking hootie tootie and he’s got no idea I’m hating his fucking guts gullible as he is.

Alvin. Edson. Fuck, right?! Five on five—I hate things that are five on five. Why is ‘cause five wants to be an even number but it fucking can’t. Not even honorary ‘cause you and I know the honorable thing is to accept it’s not—holy shit. New age “what’s your Instagram” bullshit. Five isn’t even. Even is 2, 4, 6, 8, the rest of them you know them as well as I do holy sh—I’m god damn sick of these fucking flies, man. Flies all of you. Most. Like you’d care about the difference.

Hi I’m Alvin—god I’d kill myself. Or change it and bitch out mom and dad. Or both. Unlike him nothing’s stopping me ‘cause unlike some of them and most Alvin Edsons I bet… I actually got what it takes. What it is no one can ever name and I’d never say I could either but I bet you’d like to see me try. But, yeah, hi I’m Alvin fucking Edson and I’m here to ask you to please reconsider your vote? Tanking this whole thing, man, this fucking fly is taking a fucking fly net or something and dragging this whole thing down to his shitty little fly cave. Alvin fucking Edson. Five letters, five fucking letters.

He says and smiles in that patronizing way I’ve told you about it already so many god damn times: I just want to make sure. We all make mistakes.

Alvin Edson’s technically in charge of me on account of the campaign manager’s temporary bout of stupidity. Technically he’s field director, definitely he’s doing what I should be doing. I’d also take Campaign Manager, obviously, but if I were Field Director then I could at least appreciate Alvin Edson for how spineless he is. Here he is checking on me like he’s my better when we both know—or at least he should if he’s a speck smart as he tries to put on—that Alvin fucking Edson is no one’s better, just an unfortunate glitch in the system of life. While he’s field director, and I hate to say this ‘cause the shit in the fan’ll be spraying on me too, this campaign’s got no god damn chance.

“I’m sorry to worry you, Alvin. I’ll come to you if I need anything.” Or maybe I’ll kill myself now, holy shit. Kill myself like I fucking mean it, too, give it some thought and a good god damn try like when I gave it a shot in 8^th and mom found me hanging from the rafters just in time and ruined the whole thing. Fucking bitch. Missed my shot I’m sure you can tell you’re talking to me aren’t you? Don’t get all fucking hootie tootie. Everything worked out in the end I’m still fucking here.

He nods at me and when he smiles his eyes hide in the crevices of his fat little face I’ve told you about it and I still fucking hate it. They run away into hiding like bears for winter or flies from food. Flap flap and they’re off, buzz buzz. Holy shit. Anyway he nods and he smiles and he says: I’m glad to hear it. What a cocksucker! He says: I’m glad to hear it, I really am. And Melinda?

Piece of shit loves bringing up my Melinda like it means he cares. Like it means he knows us and he’s not just the piece of shit who shouldn’t be doing the job he’s doing you know what I’m saying obviously. Get a load of this guy. Piece of shit.

“She’s doing well. Just conquered her time tables!” I laugh ‘cause I learned already if you’re not polite in these places they’ll root you out like a tumor and I’m not looking to repeat that here, not in this campaign. Dunno if I told you about that. It’s true. Obviously it’s true, otherwise what am I doing saying it? Wouldn’t waste my time with anything that’s not true, I’m just not like that inside unlike some people that might be missing that something. I do feel bad for those people don’t take me wrong.

He smiles. He says: My little Bridget will be climbing the same hill next year. Any advice?

Kill yourself there’s a freebie Alvin fucking Edson and I wish you better luck than I had for everyone’s sake. Won’t even count that one against you it’s really just there on the table for you to take free of charge. Advice, advice… holy shit, how does someone give advice to Alvin fucking Edson without telling him to end it all?

“That’s a tough one.” I smile keenly at him and I wonder if some not stupid part of him can figure out what I mean by that—probably not, so I say, “You know, I really think it’s something that varies kid to kid. What worked for Melinda might not work for Bridget.”

Bridget’s still a bit of a clutz idiot, no offense to the kid at all ‘cause she’s still growing at least but god has she got a hill to climb with that name Edson and damn Alvin Edson as her damn father. Holy shit, poor kid. But anyway what I was meaning was that Bridget’ll be too slow-thinking still given the impediment of her parentage that I expect she’ll not understand a word of the technique I taught Melinda. Mine’s sharp as a tack or even sharper, something sharper I can’t think up at the moment but we both know it exists, and I’ll be damned and have to fight Satan or whatever the fuck’s down in that place before I let Melinda be stunted by even the vaguest aura of Bridget Edson in her precious life. Young Ms. Edson has decrepit Mr. Edson to thank for that don’t shed a god damn tear for either of them.

There’s strong people in the world and weak people and maybe some in between I haven’t given it enough thought yet to say. But sometimes the strong people take a liking to the weak ones and get caught up in all this bullshit and that’s where they lose all their strength. Shit’s stupid but it’s true, it’s really sad when you think about it so I try not to. They’re all caught up in things that aren’t important and all of a sudden you have husks running everything, husking and husking, nothing’s real and it’s all fake, all fucking corrupt and ruined and god damn that is not happening to my Melinda. Won’t let it—or let her do it for that matter. Holy shit.

 He nods about the Bridget thing, about it not working for her, you remember, and he says: Well, what can we do to make your tenure as Events Director more of a priority in your life? and what he’s obviously saying is that I’m on thin fucking ice now, if I mess up even the once I might be that tumor getting rooted out all over again. Holy shit, I am not being the tumor again on account of that shit’s annoying.

“I need to drive Melinda to school on Thursdays and Fridays. I only have her then through Sunday, then—”

Piece of god damn shit Alvin Edson cuts me off and says through those wormy lips: Say no more. I’ll put the word out that it’s family business and you won’t hear a complaint more from us. and I’m sure he’s patting himself on the fucking back for doing what should’ve been done in the first place, still taking that job that I should have, still being Alvin Edson—god damn what a loser.

This five by five piece of shit.

You know what’s funny about the name Edson is I heard somewhere a while ago that Edson would mean ‘son of Ed’ or Thorson would mean ‘son of Thor’ or whatever—well that means Alvin Edson’s name is wrong. He’s not any more the son of a guy named Ed than Tobias Smith in outreach has a fucking anvil in his backyard. I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure he doesn’t, anyway. Who has a fucking anvil in their backyard? I wouldn’t waste my time with a rusty backyard anvil any more than I’d be named Edson without my dad’s name being Ed. Shit’s stupid. Alvin’s dad’s name is Hudson Edson so I’m betting that wrinkly dumbass has gone his whole life with two wrong names. The fuck kind of name is Hud?

“Thanks, Alvin,” is all I can bring myself to say. I’m sick of the conversation and all the fresh air in the fucking world isn’t making it better tent be fucking damned.

Then Alvin says: See you around. except he also says my name like he knows me.

A name is just a vessel the same way a fly is just a fly. Don’t get distracted by names, don’t be a fucking fly. I don’t think you understand. A name is bullshit, right? And flies, they’re bullshit. Alvin Edson, that’s who’s bullshit if you ask me come to think of it.

Anyway, Alvin finally leaves me alone, and I’m somehow expected to just get back into the flow of work like this prick hasn’t been buzzing in my ear for half an hour or whatever. Holy shit, can you believe that? These people. Completely fucking useless—but they’re all polite, they’re hootie-tootie how-do-you-do fuckwads, don’t you fucking worry.

Most of my work is your pretty standard above-average to excellent affair but who cares about the fucking details? I’m good at what I do, it’s why I do it. Holy fuck, some people! Talking about dreams when they’re at the age they should be smoking enough weed to annihilate dreams from their brain altogether. Fuckin’ deport those dreams. I smoke enough to function above my average level, there’s a reason to it just like everything else I do I’m sure you’re starting to see that pattern now. I noticed the pattern too, back in 7^th when I found out Krissy liked Gav and I told Gav Hanna liked him and suddenly Krissy was there needing a shoulder to cry on and the old Gavanna were none the wiser and why should they be being so fucking dumb. Everyone’s dumb at those ages, even me a little bit, not as much as the rest but yeah I’ve matured that’s for sure, I’ve purified. I’m better. But yeah I noticed it then and then’s when I really stepped into my own, really started taking what I knew I needed. No point to dreaming when all along you could do what you need to get what you need, I’ve always said it and people have been hearing me say it but everyone’s been doubting it. They can’t doubt it forever, ‘cause they’ll realize it one day they’ll realize that I’m right, and it’ll hurt to realize but it’ll help them in the end, make them fucking stronger and all that shit.

Little appreciation once in a while wouldn’t go unappreciated—isn’t that fucking ironic? Holy shit. I might’ve been late a couple days but I got a kid to take to school do people not even care about that sort of thing anymore? Before you say it, Alvin fucking Edson is not people he’s banned from that category if you ask me. Fucking fly category, that’s Alvin fucking Edson for you. Have I said holy shit?

Anyway it’s not a name worth knowing Alvin Edson, five by five and wrong and a hundred other reasons I bet you can think of a few of them if I give you enough time. I’m not giving the respect of remembering it anymore, I made the choice quick and in the moment because who wants that sort of name in their head that long? Alvin fucking Edson. Bon voyage to you Alvin but mostly to Mr. Edson on account of fuck you both straight to hell. You know hell?

When I think about hell I like the idea of a hell with layers. Don’t get me started on calling it a fucking onion, shut the fuck up with that onion shit. I just want a hell with layers keep your metaphors in your damn throat or I’ll choke it holy fuck. I’m above violence, so don’t worry, but holy fuck. Layers means room for the division of the strong and weak, room for the gods to sit on their divine asses and look down on the stupid fucking flies that got to the deeper layers on account of some fly bullshit. I’d be on the highest layer, above all the flies with their wings getting plucked and eyes getting… ah fuck it, who says I’d be there? When I’m in heaven, I’ll talk the big G-O-D into getting my private suite a primetime flatscreen linked to a camera right at the top of the sizzling layers, with some godly zoom-where-you-wanna-look bullshit, so I can see it all like I had a front row seat, leaning back with a fucking remote and shit. So fucking tight, holy shit. I bet angels give massages wherever you want if you ask them all polite and hootie-tootie. Holy shit!

I got left alone the rest of the workday and I couldn’t be happier except obviously that appreciation I was due wasn’t coming. Typical. Buzz fucking buzz, what’s new anyway?

Belle of the ball couldn’t be bothered to be here today anyway. If he’s not here why should I be fucking typical isn’t it? I only know that dickwad’s name ‘cause it’s plastered over half the walls of the fucking tent like we’re worshiping the guy. Now if it were my name up there I think I’d fucking understand just a little but seeing as it’s Simon Herring what the fuck am I supposed to think should I get a fucking fishing rod or some shit? Dangle a little fucking worm on there? Flies love worms, did you know? They’ll nibble a worm like it’s a fucking candy cane buzz fucking buzz those god damn idiots treating a worm like candy. Can you believe that?

Anyway I had to leave early to get Melinda kind of fucking obvious isn’t it? Only who strolls up to block my way except the ordained himself mister fucking campaign manager. Used to be I thought of him as a smart guy but I’m just not sure ever since that incident, ever since I got passed over for field director by he who must not be named fucking wizardry bullshit, mister campaign manager’s seeming kind of fucking stupid if you ask me and that’s what you should be doing. Poof alakazam this idiot’s in my path.

“Hi Mr. Fuckface,” I say except I say his name and I’ve already forgot it, you remember it don’t you fucking Fuller or Fulcrum or some shit, let’s say Fuller ‘cause he doesn’t deserve my memory either any more than mister fucking five by five himself. Holy shit.

He grins with that crayon on a paper bag grin and when he does I get sharp and raised all over like he’s peeling my skin off with it. His voice is just perfect for a mister campaign manager, it’s all authority and do-what-I-say-before-I-say-it, holy shit! I can do that voice too but typical isn’t it they didn’t give me the chance. He says: There’s twenty minutes in the workday yet. Where are you going? and he says my name too; piece’a shit thinks he's entitled to my name.

“Have to pick up my kid,” I say but I can’t get all hootie-tootie because this guy hardly ever talks to me so who the fuck is he to talk to me like he knows me now.

Your kid can wait. Holy shit, he said that! He says: your kid can wait because you’ve still got work to do. We’ve got to talk about your manner of speaking.

“What manner of speaking?” I ask. Piece of shit.

He looks me up and down like I’m a lamp and he’s fucking buying me. Can you believe this guy? Holy shit. He looks me up and down and he says: There have been complaints. Occasional use of profanity… abrasive behavior…

“That’s ridiculous,” I say because it’s true and that’s just who I am you know that by now.

When you’re calling venues to prepare for events—and he says all this like he knows what he’s saying remember, so it’s hard for me not to laugh like this guy’s challenging me not to laugh or something it’s ridiculous, but he says: When you’re calling venues to prepare for events you need to maintain a professional demeanor and treat our potential partners with due respect.

“Yes, sir. Holy shit…” and I say the last so god damn quiet no one would ever know but this piece’a shit Mister Fuller or some fuckwad name like that says: What was that? Come with me. and he starts strolling out of there like I’m about to follow him. Holy shit!

I’m the Events Director so I directed the following events by getting the fuck out of there like I’d never even parked sure that surprised them for a tick or two. By the time I’m driving I’m frothing about it all and can you really blame me? Blameless that’s what I am and it’s not fair not at all not reasonable even a bit how that Mr. Fuckface spoke to me god damn is it ridiculous.

My phone starts ringing so I pick it up what else would I do fucking stare at it? Pick it up and who is it but fucking Fuller campaign director who chirps out of my phone like he fucking owns it: Did you just leave directly after I told you to come with me?

I don’t answer because I’m at an intersection and the light’s changing what kind of driver do they take me for?

He says: I need you to answer me. Now.

Piece of fucking shit. “Shut the fuck up.”

What did you say? he says.

Oh shit. I did say that one didn’t I too fucking bad I guess cat’s out of the bag. “Go fuck yourself.” I say and have a nice little cherry on top for that matter Mister fucking Full of Shit so I add, “You’re fucking useless.” how’s that for a cherry?

He chuckles over the phone like he’s told a little private joke what a fucking fly thing to do that chuckle god damn. He chuckles like a fly and he says: Your sub-par contracting work is no longer required. Mr. Edson can handle what little you’ve contributed with his hands behind his back, I suspect. then he hangs up on me. Get a fucking load of—he hung up on me, did you hear? What the fuck!

“Son of a fucking bitch what kind of whore brewed that bastard up?” I ask the car and no one not a god or an angel with all the answers in their back pocket fucking answers me do they? Typical.

Well let me tell you when I flipped that U-turn the car nearly flipped too but I had it under control, I was stoic as a wall or as a stoic animal or something, something I can’t think of but we both know it exists alright? Not one cop saw me flip that U, piece of shit cops, stupid fucking bastards. Bet they’d stop me if they’d seen, not even caring that I got important shit to do. Fucking typical.

The campaign tent is set up all in my head all squared away, it’ll be so fucking easy call it a cinch. Mr. Edson can do what I can do can he? Well let’s see what I can do first then find out what Mr. Alvin fucking Edson can fucking do, why don’t we? It’ll give me a laugh if this guy can walk when I’m done, a real fucking laugh.

I speed back twice as fast as I left, because when I left I was leaving for my girl and I’m not about to put her in danger no sir what kind of parent do you take me for? But now I’m coming back for Mr. Alvin fucking Edson, Mr. Five By fucking Five, piece’a fucking shit Alvin god damn Edson I’m going to burn the place down or tear it up or something else I can’t think of right now but we both know I could do it. I could do it as easy as I’m talking about doing it ‘cause nothing’s gonna hold me back like that, I’m just not that kind of person you know that. I speed back fast and I almost pancake this dumb lady crossing the road with her dog look both ways why don’t you or go to school on account of you’re a fucking moron. Damn lady.

I see the tent in my head and then I see it on the median up ahead, on the hill near the office building and I see the office building and I wonder if any of those cubicle drones can hear me revving with the rage of hell with all that vroom vroom fucking bullshit up in their cubicle world. Are they looking out the window at me now speeding towards the tent, giving them all a fucking show they won’t ever forget in their cubicle lives? My car’s like me, not something to be underestimated obviously, so it takes that hill like it was fucking that hill, it fucking goes ppppffttt and spits grass and muck out behind the wheels and then I’m evening out flat in the car picking up speed on even ground as you do, and I’m just a stone’s throw or some other fucking short distance from the campaign tent now, with Mr. Fuller and Mr. Edson all fucking squared away in their little pocket offices ready to be pancakes on a dime how fucking polite of them. I tried and all, I really fucking tried, didn’t I?

I went and got Melinda afterwards. What kind of parent do you take me for? Holy shit.

So now you know what really fucking happened and you know as well as I do those fuckers got away, heard me coming up the hill or heard tell from an angel to get out and take a piss how the fuck could I know? I’m sure you can get me out of here now, on a technicality or on account of I’m innocent of what they’re saying I did—no intent there so how are they going to prove it? You hear me, I can see that you hear me, so when am I getting out of here? Sorry about the two in outreach I flattened, Mr. Smith and what’s-her-name but that’s just the way of the world isn’t it sometimes you’re in the wrong place and there’s nothing to be done about it especially when you’re one of the weak ones. I’d do some things different if I could but seeing as I can’t there’s only harm in shedding tears over it that’s what I’d say, try taking some advice now and again, do what you need to get what you need. Holy shit. No point in crying for what you can’t fix and there’s no point in crying for what you can fix so why are you crying at all, what are you wasting your time for?

 

 

 

 

 

C.F. Bellairs is a Creative Writing and Literature double major from Oregon, working as an author and editor with a passion for dark, speculative fiction that dabbles in horror and surrealism. His genres of choice include fantasy, science fiction, romance, horror, and literary fiction. In his free time, he enjoys cooking good meals and playing good games.