Troy fled with his hatchback into the rural, wooded area that surrounded the outskirts of Awful, Ohio. It was deep, full of fresh air, protecting him from the infected. The production vibrations of Awful, Ohio would stretch as far as possible from its pulsating core, attempting to spread the infection as far as it could reach. But the absorbent boscage that out skirted Awful, Ohio devoured all of the disease, permanently destroying it, keeping the out skirts immune and free.
The scenic route was refreshing, with crisply churned butter-leaves coating the limbs of the proud trees, illuminating under the rays of the melting sun, bleeding through the thick canopy that protected overhead. Troy continued his quest, still feeling the free breeze comb through the hair breaking through the skin of his arm. Troy drove for miles searching for Baltazar Garcia, finally turning off the baron road, and onto a secluded, private driveway.
Troy was far from the center of Awful, Ohio, away from the productive restraints and the victims being reduced to parts of a whole. The driveway was covered in gravel-stone that crunched under the rubber tires. The day was bright and warm, with a pleasant breeze laughing innocently, as Troy progressed over the crunchy road. Troy was embracing the surroundings of freedom, as he slowly continued down the alluring driveway, almost forgetting why it was that he sought Baltazar and needed to complete the script in the first place. The sunlight warmed his cheeks, with the giggling breeze airing out the stale, hatchback air, bleaching the cackle of Lou Stooles from his mind, inflating his lungs with bliss. He was comfortable and calm, pleased with the moment and the day, enjoying the peaceful sound of every stone crackling under the weight of the moving car. Life had become good.
But Troy remembered Lacy, and how she was at home, basking in the comfort of perpetual darkness, swinging majestically in the hammocks of her closed eyelids, floating in the poetic ether that sealed her from the exposed and the infected with its blanket of darkness. Troy slapped himself hard, with his stubble covered jowls swinging fluidly, refocusing his attention back onto the objective. “Thank you, Lacy,” he praised. Troy rotated the visor in the hatchback, blocking out the light that was corrupting his mind.
“Stay focused, Troy,” he mumbled to himself. Troy stopped the car to cease the alluring noise of the gravel. He removed himself from his parked hatchback, staring ahead towards his destination that resided on the stone driveway. It was an articulate structure; robust, hallow, eccentric, and acting as a housing unit. This is where Troy Slushy would find Baltazar Garcia.
The magnitude of the structure froze Troy, as he stood still, conceiving a plan of attack. The sun was convincingly comfortable and manipulative, keeping Troy from entering inside of the structure, massaging every square inch of his exposed epidermis, releasing his scurf into the wind. But Troy knew what his destiny was. He knew that this warm blaze was here to expose the noxious materials in Awful, Ohio, and attempt to mass produce them in exchange for government printed monies, at the expense of the lives of those who wanted nothing to do with the economy. This was nothing that he and Lacy desired, and he wasn’t about to allow himself to become handicapped because of the sun’s deception.
The tips of every nerve ending twitched simultaneously, as Troy quickly began sprinting, ducking and dodging, shaking and shifting, twisting his body into any necessary position to avoid the beaming rays of light, leaping through the shadows like an eluding frog on lily pads. He maneuvered closer to the housing unit, viewing the large timbers springing from the surface of the earth, functioning as support beams, while planks and boards linked these timber springs into a housing structure. It was one large, log cabin, obscurely built, with timber logs protruding from the structure in every direction like the backside of a hedgehog. Troy ran the distance, finally reaching the wrought, iron door that acted as the only entrance to the structure, and bulled right through it, chest first, almost bumping the door off its own hinges. Troy collapsed, kneeling over, resting his upper body on his knees, wheezing for air, as perseverance had just pushed him through the most physically demanding activity that Troy had done in over fifteen years.
A few months back, Troy and Lacy had embarked on an afternoon cruise through the coniferous outskirts. It was yearning and refreshing, releasing them from the staleness that had frozen them into their homes during the weekends. An arm dangled from each window of the hatchback, engulfing the free air that combed through the hair that probed through the skins of Troy and Lacy’s body. The air wallowed through their pores, swelling into their souls, reforming them temporarily, with smiles accruing from their faces. They stared at each other momentarily with the glorious warmth of life surrounding their beings, connecting them with a gaze of love and appreciation as strong as a bridge. During their cruise through the coniferous, Troy Slushy had witnessed the log cabin, buried in the brush beyond the gravel road. The structure of the timber was luscious, with each tip of every log pointing like the needle of a compass, scattered in every direction.
The log cabin had mystified both Troy and Lacy with the magnitude of its beauty, as it effortlessly blended its presence within the natural setting. And from the road, the innkeeper of the log cabin could be seen lurching around the brush outside of the log cabin, daunting galoshes, a jump suit, and a snorkel. The innkeeper was filling the cracks of the log cabin with fresh, brown material that swirled with flies, barricading the inside from the outside, creating an entirely new atmosphere. Troy recognized the innkeeper, having worked with him in the hot sauce warehouse, believing it to be Baltazar Garcia. The innkeeper and the log cabin appeared to blend well within the coniferous, as the brush appeared to grow thicker, blocking the view from Troy, Lacy, and the hatchback. Troy and Lacy kept maneuvering, hoping to view more of the structure. But the coniferous just wouldn’t allow it, as the foliage continued to thicken every time Troy and Lacy changed their perspective. However, the hatchback didn’t blend with the same luck as the log cabin, offending the surroundings with its smoldered blue coating that imposed its abrasive, visual tonality. Nature judged the hatchback by its cover as it was shunned by all life-bearing entities that resided in the forest. The brush spread like opening curtains, revealing a clear path that would easily guide the intruders out of the coniferous. Troy and Lacy Slushy continued their afternoon, weekend cruise, through the fresh-air filled coniferous until the revealed path would return them home to Awful, Ohio.
The same judgments that had been imposed onto the hatchback that afternoon were being imposed onto Troy Slushy in the hallway after he had bold heartedly infringed into the log cabin. The door bounced into the wall with a rattling sound that echoed through every nerve ending in Troy’s body, shivering through the walls of the hallway that embraced him. Troy stood up from his knelt position to observe the surroundings inside of the log cabin. He was surrounded by caliginous vapors that hydrated the wall coverings, with earthy odors seeping through the soil floor. The hallway was coated in publicly-uncirculated paintings that had never been witnessed by more than two eyes. They tattooed the walls and ceilings, and even scattered over the ground like floor mats.
Troy attempted to analyze their content, but the paintings’ composition sustained their visual virginity by rotating in complete opposition of Troy’s field of vision, denying the unnatural foreigner to view their bodies. He was being rejected by the natural surroundings of the log cabin. Troy Slushy was a little befuddled by what he was seeing; the backs of a thousand paintings that were unwilling to face him to share their beauty, but Troy didn’t allow the confusion to prevent him from his destiny as he divagated further down the hall.
There were no doors or windows, just shunning artwork that covered up their outward appearance. The paintings’ rejection was offensive, but Troy did not take it personally. Perseverance wasn’t stagnant, as it pushed Troy further down the hallway, deeper into the warming depths of the log cabin. This is where Troy needed to be, because the person that he was looking for, to help him finish the script was encrypted within the boundaries of this structure.
The hallway continued until it ended. There was no light, and Troy bumped into a wall nose-first that had the appearance of a continuing hallway. He grabbed his nose, fearing that it may attempt to jump off his face for maltreatment. After convincing it to stay, he regained his composure, analyzing the wall with his hands, discovering what felt like a door knob. Naturally, he twisted it, unleashing some screeching harmonics from the rustic, rotating hinges. The closed door broke its seal, with its exposed outline flooding with thick light from the other side that pushed the door open. The light was too much for Troy’s eyes to handle as he fell backwards, banging his head against the floor, drowning in the river of light that had discovered his fleeing body.
Through the thick light that drowned Troy’s vision, the faint noise of a voice beaconed through the effulgent flood, embracing Troy with aiding concern.
“What? Who are you?” squealed a high-pitched, R-rolling voice that echoed through the hallways like a fleet of evacuating bats. The voice belonged to the innkeeper that Lacy and Troy had seen that weekend afternoon, a few months ago. The innkeeper didn’t mind his manors, as he poured into the hallway behind the door, abrasively interrogating Troy, without offering a beverage.
Troy wanted to be excited to see who he believed to be Baltazar Garcia. But instead, he was too busy moaning in pain, grabbing his pulsating head that beat back after bouncing off the floor. Troy could sense the presence of the innkeeper’s body hanging above him, expecting an immediate answer. But Troy was not prepared. It was a little unnerving to be approached by a voice of such pitch. But perseverance made Troy strong as he had figured that the voice belonged to the innkeeper that he was searching for, which momentarily eased his burden, discovering who he believed to be Baltazar. Of all the imagined meetings that Troy conjured up in his mind, he had never envisioned it to occur like it was occurring. It was sequenced in his mind more professionally, formally dressed with handshakes ready to adjourn. Troy didn’t think that his chances were off to a good start, considering that he had already been considered an intruder. But he decidedly given up on that delusional fantasy, as he was willing to tolerate what he had to work with as he announced to the voice, “I am Troy Slushy.” Troy whimpered blindly, trying to force his eyes open, through the flooding light. “I am here looking for Baltazar Garcia.”
The voice took a moment to respond, reducing the pitch, thinking in rolling R’s.
“What is it that you want with him?” reacted the qualm voice, fearful and concerned of the unnatural intruder that he had just discovered. The voice had regaled softly, regressing the high-pitched tension, indirectly causing it to smooth over with a creamy enunciation that emphasized the rolling R’s with an alluring radiance.
“I have come seeking his assistance.” Troy’s eyes were marinated in salivating tears. His blurred vision was struggling to see the body that carried the captivating voice through the hyaline eyes. “I need to write an award-winning movie script, but I am incapable of doing it on my own. I have determination and perseverance, but I don’t know how to envision characters wrapping around an interesting plot. I know exactly how to construct the authenticity for the script, but I need assistance for the creative details.” It was a desperate plea, as Troy struggled to squeeze out a focused answer because of the demanding attention the bright lights were encroaching into his retinas.
The voice was patient with its response, until it spoke again like the sound of a harp being grazed by the tips of angel fingers.
“I am the one you seek. I am Baltazar Garcia.”
The voice uttered with the grace of a savior, layering over the body of Troy Slushy like a calming balm, muzzling all the moans of agony, and coating his pain with an antidotal sense of accomplishment, discovering the solution to the problem of completing the script. Troy peeled off the layer of gelatin formulating over his eyes like the rind of an orange. His vision cleared after a few reincarnating winks, and Troy Slushy stared up from his fallen position towards the entity that stood before him, engulfing everything that was Baltazar Garcia, imposing him into the realm of immortality.
“It is you,” mumbled Troy, staring at Baltazar Garcia like a demi-god.
Baltazar Garcia stood before Troy Slushy, still dressed in the jump suit, galoshes, and snorkel that were mandatory at the warehouse of Mad Ted’s Uckin Hot Auce. The jump suit was discolored in arranging shades, displaying a color spectrum that originated from the colors he used to create the artwork that shunned Troy. His body was short and robust like a stout rib-eye steak, draped with long shiny hair that laid heavily down his shoulders, dripping in grease. His face was tan, with a twisting mustache growing underneath his nose, attempting to circle around his mouth.
Baltazar Garcia’s lack of human intervention prevented him from folding his lips into the shape of smile. However, he was aware of the gesture and recognized its societal importance, and wanted to offer one to Troy. So Baltazar executed an honest attempt, but all he could do was separate his lips, shaping them like a lemon, exposing all of his teeth that shimmered like washed porcelain. His face was tightly wrapped with thick shaded goggles, with the snorkel attached, ceasing circulation, coloring his scalp into a deep purple tone, gagging for oxygen, gently tapping against his cheek. Baltazar Garcia removed the goggles from his head, gliding the rubber straps through his hair, wringing out the excess grease that dripped into a puddle. Baltazar stared directly into Troy’s eyes, attempting to inject intimidation, still a little irritated at the intruder. But all Troy could do was study Baltazar’s prosopography, as the skin underneath the goggles of Baltazar Garcia was pale and pasty, opposing the tan skin that wasn’t covered by the straps of the goggles.
“Troy Slushy?” recited Baltazar. Baltazar Garcia had recognized the face of Troy Slushy, as his stubbled jowls drooped fluidly from beneath his eyes like wet spaghetti, covering the miniature chin that squeamishly poked through the excessive amount of skin. Baltazar began to remember him from the hot sauce warehouse, and how they had walked past one another twice a day. Baltazar had always looked up to Troy as he passed to say hello, but Troy had never returned a glare.
“Yes, Baltazar, it is me.” Troy was still sitting on the floor, looking up at Baltazar. He was soaking in the visual identity of Baltazar as if it was the first time he had ever been able to study his face.
Troy Slushy elevated his body from the floor of the log cabin. He was fevered with excitement, intensely blushing, and eager to embrace the being that he had cast as his savior. Troy continued standing, expecting to be standing in front of a man built powerfully enough to fulfill his exasperations. But as Troy kept standing, he noticed that his body continued to elevate above the miniature body that was Baltazar Garcia’s. Baltazar stood noticeably shorter than Troy. Troy was surprised by the discovery of Baltazar’s height, as he had envisioned him and his rebellious behavior to offer a more omnipresent build. The only physically powerful attribute that was decorated on Baltazar was a beef filled chest as strong as gun powder. It was evident that Baltazar Garcia was a pushup enthusiast.
“Baltazar, I thought you would have been taller?” Troy Slushy looked over the build that structured Baltazar Garcia. It was hunchbacked, with rickety knees that bent outwards, causing the bottom of his legs to connect at the feet, pointing inwards like an arrow.
“Well, I was at one point taller,” Baltazar whimpered defensively, still rolling his R’s, unaware of the expectations that Troy had. “But ever since Mad Ted released me from the warehouse, I haven’t stood the same. His verbal suggestions were too much for me to listen to. There wasn’t anything that I could do to prevent myself from lunging into those hot sauce kettles, the sweet smell enraptured every nerve ending in my nasal cavity; it’s in my nature! So Mad Ted had to transfer me out of the hot sauce warehouse. He permanently changed my figure to prevent me from harming the company, see,” and Baltazar put on a display, walking from one point to another, almost slipping in the puddle of grease, to show Troy Slushy ho
w his bipedal nature had been changed into an imbalanced waddle, incapable of swimming.
“Mad Ted improved my figure so that if I were to ever enter into one of the hot sauce kettles, then I would be unable to swim, and become completely submerged into the hot sauce. I would drown.”
The verbal lashing that Mad Ted unleashed onto Baltazar Garcia had reduced his height by four inches. With every insult and slander, Baltazar shrunk closer and closer to the ground, trying to flee from Mad Ted’s punishing diatribe. Baltazar attempted to condense his head into his torso and reject his legs into his lower abdomen. But he was not a turtle, which caused his back to hunch and his legs to ricket. It was a permanent distortion to Baltazar’s figure, all at the expense of his biological disposition that impulsively caused him to deploy his being into anything that contained spice.
“What no one in that warehouse had known,” continued Baltazar, “was that I was born to a mother with a rare condition that caused her internal temperature to be higher than that of a normal human being. This elevated temperature caused spicy milk to lactate from her peppered breasts. I was nurtured off of this hot milk during my developmental years which developed into an involuntary consumption reaction to anything spicy or hot. I had entered work every day, fighting my DNA, condescending what it was that I was destined to be. But I simply wasn’t strong enough to fight forever, as I broke my commitment to Mad Ted and his hot sauce intentions, and allowed my genetic intoxication to overcome my sensibility, casting me into the kettle of hot sauce. I didn’t mean to harm Mad Ted and his intentions.”
Baltazar finished showing off his fresh mobility to Troy Slushy, as he looked back to Troy and continued, “But you see Troy, the verbal suggestions of Mad Ted has continuously been replaying throughout my memory. I am now equipped to provide my services for him here in this log cabin that I have meticulously constructed. Please follow me.”
Baltazar Garcia scurried his body towards the door that he had emerged from. Troy was hesitant in following, as he was busy trying to understand Baltazar. Baltazar didn’t exactly sound as the person that Troy’s assumptions developed him to be; an economic renegade fighting the persecution of the hegemonic structure. Troy’s confusion only grew with the confusion that he developed from the conceited art that shunned him earlier, as he thought that Baltazar possibly did not leave the conveyor belt for rebellious purposes, contradicting the rumors created by everyone in the hot sauce warehouse. But instead, he left because of his obedience to his biological demands. But regardless of this contradiction, Troy did as requested and followed Baltazar’s lead.
“This is my shadow extermination room,” remarked Baltazar, closing the heavy door behind Troy. The door was large enough to enclose a vault. There was a modest amount of light in the room, bright enough for Troy to see the pair of goggles that Baltazar was handing to him. Troy strapped the goggles over his eyes, and Baltazar did the same, slipping the goggles through the lubricated hair. The goggles were shaded, which Troy didn’t understand why until Baltazar continued. “This is the room that I use my time to complete the projects that Mad Ted has directed me to accomplish.” Baltazar then clapped his hands. An abundance of light began to seep into the room like a fetid gas, starting from the floor and stopping at the ceiling. Troy’s eyes were squeamish at first, but quickly adjusted to the sour light. The room was bright, illuminating with enough power to generate multiple stars, swelling with warmth and easing with comfort. Troy rotated his body through the gaseous light, to observe all of his blinding surroundings. “The shadow extermination room is where I create my artwork. As you can see, there are no shadows to obstruct my vision,” Baltazar said to Troy.
Troy was looking around, unable to see any shadows, beginning to bloat with panicky emotions, fearing that there were no shadows to conceal him from the light. Troy looked under his arms, behind his back, and under his feet, but no matter where he looked, there were no shadows of his being anywhere in the room, leaving Troy entirely exposed without any shadows to hide in. Bubbles floated out of Baltazar’s mouth, as he belched a gurgling chuckle while watching Troy aimlessly and hysterically search for a shadow.
“Troy, there are powerful lights set up in every corner and crevice of the room. There is nowhere for the shadows to hide. I have destroyed them all.” Baltazar grinned amusingly, calmly reciting his accomplishment like a meditated killer, splitting his lips into the shape of a lemon, recycling the memory of his accomplishment for instant gratification.
Troy didn’t understand. He wasn’t sure why Baltazar needed to exterminate shadows. Troy believed it to be universal knowledge that shadows were the only defenders that life had left. The shadows were the only things powerful enough to outcast the lighted world, keeping pure the minds that burrowed within the bodies from the manipulation of the exposed. Baltazar’s submissive behavior for Mad Ted was not correlating with whom Troy had believed Baltazar to be. Troy Slushy stared at Baltazar Garcia, still glowing with accomplishment brighter than the room.
“Baltazar, I don’t understand,” questioned Troy. Baltazar ceased glowing. “I don’t understand why it is that you need to exterminate shadows.” Troy wanted to give Baltazar the benefit of the doubt, that he was the human that he had envisioned him to be, the renegade that was looking to end the reign of life, by breaking through the boarders of Mad Ted’s hot sauce concentration camp and the monotonous daily trends that Mad Ted had enslaved onto every being with a soul that crusaded above the crust of the planet.
Baltazar rebutted to Troy’s confusion. “The shadows block what I am able to see. The shadows censor the canvas that Mad Ted has ordered me to submit my time to. The shadows can come from anywhere. Under my body, underneath my shoulder, and underneath my wrist. They swarm across the canvas attempting to cease and hinder what it is that I am destined to accomplish. All of these shadows block out the light, disabling my vision, forcing me to work out of luck. These shadows forced me to work out of guesswork, which forced my creations to be a cause of chance rather than purpose. So, I built this shadow extermination room, which has been able to destroy all shadows that attempt to sabotage my creations. All of my purpose has been concealed within this room, where I release it from my soul and onto the canvas. The light eats up the shadows that attempt to confuse and discourage my purpose, allowing me to be in complete control of the work that I create.”
Baltazar clapped his hands again. The light dimmed back into modesty, and Baltazar removed his goggles that scraped the grease from his hair. Troy removed his goggles as well, seeking resolution for his confusion. Baltazar opened the door to the shadow extermination room, waddling back into the hallway with his hunched back, almost slipping his rickety knees in the puddle of grease, with Troy imprudently following.
“And because,” continued Baltazar, “I didn’t have the shadows attempting to block my vision from my mind from physically exhausting my purpose onto the canvas, I was able to control and manipulate what images entered onto the canvas, according to my being. These creations are my purpose, as dictated by Mad Ted, and without the shadow extermination room, I would not have been able to purge the canvases into what I have created them to be.”
And with that final statement, Baltazar turned away from Troy Slushy to embrace the paintings that would not reveal their beauty. Baltazar spread his arms like the departure of a liberated Phoenix, flaunting his opulent existence, displaying his magnificence, and showcasing everything that he had discovered his soul to be. Baltazar released a banzai call from the catacombs of his abdomen that summoned for the results of his purpose, as the paintings rotated simultaneously, presenting their aesthetic endowment, turning to face Baltazar Garcia, praising their creator.
All of the paintings were of Mad Ted and his hot sauce warehouse. The damp hallway illuminated, with every painting feeding the open space with light, reflecting the purpose of Baltazar Garcia. Baltazar embraced all of his work like a mirrored image, with his dirty face igniting in a cleansing glow. It was mar
velous and beautiful.
Troy stood behind Baltazar Garcia, glaring at the paintings of Mad Ted and the hot sauce warehouse. They were hypnotic and enticing, alluring and attractive. Troy Slushy stared at all of the paintings with thirsty lust, as he drew himself past Baltazar, seductively approaching the visual beauties. He loved what he saw, and wanted it. He wanted to be engulfed in the visuals of Mad Ted and his warehouse, and he wanted to be engulfed in the ethereal substance that they were created from, the most primitive substance that served as the eternal core that connected everything that was found guilty of being alive. It was warming and revealing, the enshrinement of Mad Ted and his hot sauce production.
But then Troy remembered Lacy, and how she had stared at him passionately while cruising through the coniferous on that weekend afternoon. “Troy, stay focused.” Love for Lacy had reinvigorated Troy’s objective, as he battled the illuminated, light-filled paintings from corrupting his mind. Troy slapped himself hard, to forget about Baltazar’s deceived purpose, and to remember his own purpose again; the purpose that was directed by his perseverance, all for the sake of him and Lacy. He remembered the Behicle that he and Lacy were attempting to acquire, so that they could embark on their westward journey, rotating with the darkness of night. He remembered the script that needed to be award-winning and fruitful, bearing mental stimulation for all the respectable minds that dared to watch and offer positive critiques, and he remembered why he was there, in that log cabin, searching for Baltazar Garcia in the first place.
Troy had turned from the paintings that falsely glorified the existence of Mad Ted that had attempted to seduce him, as he stared at Baltazar Garcia. Clarity was overcoming the light and everything that it exposed that was attempting to block Troy’s sensibility. He observed Baltazar, focusing on the galoshes, jump suit, and snorkel that he had retained. Baltazar was an emotionally charged artist, who took great pride in his work, but he was not the fighting renegade that Troy had imagined him to be.
Troy continued observing, focusing on Baltazar’s new bodily structure, and how it was handicapped. He remembered the wording from the termination monologue that was delivered upon Baltazar, and determined that Baltazar had been misinterpreting the message. Troy had finally taken the time to get to know Baltazar Garcia, and had finally received viable evidence of who this man was, and why he had parted from the warehouse that was perched in Awful, Ohio and into the coniferous. Baltazar believed that he was still working for Mad Ted, still wearing the uniform, and still following orders. Baltazar believed that Mad Ted ordered him to the coniferous, to create the shadow extermination room, to expel his inner desires onto these canvases. And Baltazar believed that Mad Ted was worthy of praise.
Troy Slushy now looked over the crippled posture of Baltazar, seeing through his dirty outer layer that hadn’t been washed since he had banished himself into the coniferous. Troy realized that his fabricated biography of Baltazar’s rebellion and defiance contained no merit. But Troy did not curse being misled. Troy acknowledged his own purpose, the creation of the script, the acquisition of the Behicle, and then forever bounding westward with Lacy, into the infinite pitch of darkness. Troy Slushy looked at Baltazar Garcia, no longer envisioning him as an iconoclast radical, searching to destroy the confinement of barter and trade, but instead of a helpless individual that was still waiting to discover his own purpose. Troy would remove Mad Ted’s purpose from Baltazar’s mind, and replace it with his own. Troy’s hubris elevated, concluding his martyrdom, sacrificing his time and energy for the sake of others. Troy Slushy looked at Baltazar Garcia, and redefined his fabricated biography into a man searching for a savior.
“Baltazar, these paintings are not your purpose, “said Troy Slushy. Baltazar lowered his arms. His meaning in life had regaled into a pool of skepticism, filling his lungs with doubt that suffocated his confidence. “These paintings are just something that you’ve been misled to do in your spare time. You do not work for Mad Ted. You did not come out here because Mad Ted ordered you to. You came out here because you were the one that brought yourself out here. You received a termination monologue from Mad Ted, meaning that you are no longer obligated to serve in the interest of Mad Ted. You have been serving in the interest of Baltazar Garcia.”
Troy Slushy had both hands resting on Baltazar’s shoulders. Troy had been looking down to Baltazar, staring directly into his eyes, drilling the message to the deepest chasm of Baltazar’s brain, where it would plant itself, growing roots, and bloom throughout Baltazar’s entire cognition.
Troy continued, “Mad Ted has made you handicapped! This physique is no advancement. You’re moving slower than a dog with no legs!” Troy’s eyes fired from his skull like hot cannon balls, blasting the message further into the chasm.
Baltazar was apprehensive towards the news. He pulled out from under Troy’s grip, backing away, staring at Troy through the same filters that had typecast Troy as an unwelcome intruder.
“Troy, that isn’t true,” denied Baltazar. “Mad Ted is a great man. He ordered me here because of my purpose. And everything here is my purpose. I am in this log cabin providing a purposeful responsibility for Mad Ted. Mad Ted is my leader, and this work is for him and his cause.” Baltazar gestured towards all of the paintings that were listening to the conversation. He gestured to the ceilings and the floors and the walls of the log cabin, granting them as work intended by Mad Ted. But Baltazar Garcia’s body began to fill with erratic ticks that convulsed faster with every second of time that passed by, allowing Troy’s information to embed further into the chasm, stretching roots throughout his brain.
“All of these paintings are designed to benefit the hot sauce warehouse and Mad Ted. You are wrong, Troy.” Baltazar trembled the words from his mouth, ticking harder with raging pulses of skepticism. It was not an easy idea for Baltazar to comprehend, living in the life of lies that he had engaged himself in. He looked down towards his pigeon toed feet, wishing that they would point strait.
“Baltazar,” Troy said again, moving closer to Baltazar, again grabbing his shoulders, “I am a messenger. Mad Ted has sent you away from the factory so that you will no longer waste his time. You are not receiving any compensation for this work. Your purpose in life is not to volunteer for the benefit of Mad Ted. Your purpose in life is to discover the purpose of your self.” Troy Slushy stared deeply into Baltazar’s eyes. The new information had embedded into the chasm in Baltazar’s brain. The roots began to grow, spreading through the neurons of his mind, rearranging his thoughts and posting new purposes for his existence. Baltazar’s eyes watered, trickling liquid of misery, discovering that everything that he had extracted from deep inside of his body was completed in vain.
Troy Slushy reacted to the new emotional discourse that Baltazar was subjected to, watching every tear stained with Mad Ted, evacuate from the inferno in Baltazar’s mind. Troy continued, “I am a messenger, traveling here to deliver you a new purpose.” Troy took immediate advantage of Baltazar’s blank slated mind. “You will be able to continue your involvement with your creative endeavors, creating characters, twisting in plot and dialogue. Clearly you are a gifted creator, and one that should be utilized by allowing you to display your purpose to the public. Your purpose should not be confined in the walls of this log cabin that you believe Mad Ted wanted you to build! You are held prisoner here, Baltazar, and if you don’t attempt to salvage the life that you have been misled to live, then it will become your tomb.”
Baltazar continued listening with his ears and eyes, as the adrenaline began to be released from his pituitary gland, strengthening his body with this new purpose being programmed into his mind.
“And not only will you be able to continue your creative endeavors,” continued Troy Slushy, still holding Baltazar caringly by the shoulders, “your creative work won’t be completed in vain. Your creative work can be displayed to the public. Your purpose no longer has to be kept a secret, hiding within this confining log cabin. You deserve bett
er than what you believed Mad Ted was providing to you, Baltazar. Clearly, you are loaded with talent, which needs to be shared. I am searching for someone who can help me create an award-winning script. A script that is so bloated with exceptional brilliance that Hollywood execs will want to purchase it, and make it into a big-screened movie. Baltazar, I have come here to recruit your talents for this special project.”
Troy Slushy continued looking down at Baltazar. His words were powerful and caring, splitting through Baltazar’s flesh, and nestling directly into his soul. Warming sensations heated the glazed layer of humidity over Baltazar’s body. Baltazar’s lips began to stretch across his face, sustaining a horizontal line. Comfort and solace had deployed from the warm humidity stimulating his body. The injected words generated new emotions, flushing through his pours, passing through his flesh, and onto the surface of his skin. Baltazar had become overwhelmed with the new emotion, as it pushed its way to the surface of his body, causing him to tremble. Baltazar Garcia had never experienced happiness before, which exhausted from his body through his lips that curled each end into a flaunting, coruscating smile.
The smile bloomed from the inner core of Baltazar’s body, bursting through the cognitive restraints, releasing him from his self-induced obligation to Mad Ted. Baltazar stepped back, removing Troy’s gripping hands from his shoulders, looking down at the jump suit and galoshes that covered his body, as the snorkel annoyingly tapped against his cheek. Memories of working in the hot sauce factory swirled through his mind, placing him back into the monotony of the conveyor belt, dunking freely into the drums of hot sauce, until finally being crippled by the damning words of Mad Ted. This memory pumped adrenaline through Baltazar’s body, surging through his arms, all the way to every bending knuckle that firmly clasped each breast of the jump suit. Baltazar grunted with primal furry, as the twitching muscles in his beef filled chest ripped the jump suit from his body into two pieces. Baltazar stood before Troy Slushy in his free, naked flesh.
The toxic constraints of Mad Ted were permanently removed from Baltazar’s body with the destruction of the jump suit, as the rickets in his knees straightened out, and the hunch in his back aligned proportionately with his corrected knees. Baltazar stripped the snorkel from his head, ringing out globs of grease from his hair, and plucked the galoshes off of his feet. He looked at Troy, liberated and enlightened, naked and free, reciting in rolling R’s with a large grin, “so what kind of script do you have in mind?”
Chapter 10
The Merger