Reality
by Nicholas Matsas
If the Devil did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him, as with taxes. How else could we afford bombs to drop on brown children who speak a language I don’t understand? Our leaders tell us, “Without bombs, Pilates classes and rifle ranges will close,” and then what would we do?
The only thing without an end is the present, and living in it, I have found eternity until I can no longer ignore the rain clouds of guilt that gather and give me a bath that is neither cleansing nor warm. I touch my forehead and can feel the distance I have traveled. My horse, Chimney, is stronger and thirstier than I am, but keeps plotting ahead. We cannot see any road. It is just rock, sand, and luck. We have found water when we needed it, and there has been no wind. Though the sun beats us, it too takes breaks behind clouds the size of my forearm, like Bill Gates on Jeffrey Epstein's Island, checking his genitals for STDs the way Brian Eno plays the keyboard.
On this imaginary trek, Chimney and I run into a feast of dead children being eaten by lions; behind them, tourists take photographs as their guides drink from flasks of gin. Some people want their money back, but the supervisor is on vacation in Tahiti, paying for sex. No one is happy.
Behind a rock of red stone, Winnie the Pooh carries a rifle and asks if we have seen Eeyore. We have not.
“He stole my honey,” says Winnie the Pooh.
“Oh,” say Chimney and I.
“Who are you?”
“Well, this is Chimney, and I’m Jason.”
“Where ya heading?”
“You know, that’s a really good question.”
“Do you know which way you’re heading?”
“That way.”
“Better take my rifle.”
“Why?”
Winnie looks at us like we're some kind of bouncing tiger.
“You really don’t know what’s over there?”
“No.”
“Oh, boy.”
“What?”
“The less I say, the better. Good luck.”
Winnie the Pooh tosses us his rifle and wanders off in his red shirt, forever looking for honey, his pants, and Eeyore.
Chimney and I think about changing course. All we’re looking for is a home. Someplace we can plant vegetables and fruit, drink from a nearby river, and nap in the shade of some sassafras trees. We look out at what is ahead, and it is more rock and sand, but there is a glint, a flash of light to the north, and we proceed in that direction. The direction we’ve been on since the beginning. The direction Winnie the Pooh said we needed his rifle for.
Much to our surprise, it does not take long to find out where we have ended up, and why a pants-less, anamorphic, stuffed bear gave us a gun. We are in Glendale, California, the only city in the world with no driving laws. Chimney and I understand the rifle in my hands. We have been to Glendale before, and it is better to shoot a pair of tires and pay the property damage fine than the coroner writing on your death certificate, “A little too late with what they had.”
To stay as far as possible from any vehicles, we walk through the Glendale Galleria, a mall of cosmic proportions, and three Cheesecake Factories. They are building a fourth. The demand for such a large menu is high. The people simply don’t know what they want before seeing a movie about a child rapist who is also the highest-selling artist/pedophile of all time. That’s right, the new Mario movie. There isn’t a pipe he won’t touch, especially crack pipes that fuel his desire for mushrooms, and to step on thousands of turtles, walking mushrooms, and a dragon-turtle who is also a King, the Michael Jackson of his reality. His name is Bowser, and he has the princess because instead of protecting her, Mario has been trying to get Toad into his car.
Chimney and I do not think this is home, but it is the only thing that exists.
Nicholas Matsas is a writer and plumber. His work has appeared in 3Elemental Review, Aquarium Drunkard, and The Write Launch. His plumbing can be found in hospitals, assisted living facilities, and packing plants. He was born in Chicago and lives in Los Angeles.