Creature: 1:2

I wake up afraid of what my brain has thrown at me and by my cat, of course, who is ready for her morsels again.

Yes Ma'am.

I'm usually late to work but my dream woke me early; I can actually enjoy shower this morning and watch Batman cartoons before I start my day at the print shop.

Make-in Cop-ees.

I'll see you in Hell, Rob Schneider.

I sit up in my bed. Pink sheets now in aftermath mode. My dreams keep my sheets from staying neatly fitted to my bed and my Mother usually uses the term “wreckage” to describe the results. I sit up and catch myself in the mirror. The term “wreckage” would still apply. I'm large, not fat, but large. Well over 6'5” and broad. No imposing muscle structure, but big enough to ensure my safety were I ever to carry a basket of food to my Grandmother's house at an unreasonable hour. My long dark brown hair is a ramshackle curtain hiding my unnaturally friendly face. A smattering of tattoos stand out starkly on my pale skin and suit my faux-badass look, and despite the few scuffles I have under my belt, badass is a far cry from my best adjective. I am a lover. Not a fighter.

If one were so inclined, one could look closely and you'll see a cross work of scars running from just above my elbow and creeping onto my chest. Most of these are self inflicted from my younger days of facing heartbreak in a less than healthy way.

Yes I was that sad sad boy.

I'll see you in Hell, emo-kid at the mall.

I sit and admire my war wounds briefly. They are reminding me of a Berlin road map when my cat nudges me. She's telling me that their will be plenty of time for self-admiration after she's been fed.

Yes Ma'am.

She's fed and I head for the shower.

I am too large for your standard shower and usually spend my showers laying down in the tub to get all of me wet. The hot water drizzling over me instead of powering down because my poor decrepit water heater won't last more than 20 minutes if I turn the pressure up full blast. The drizzle can last an hour or more and I prefer having a long shower. Something about it seems so...purifying.

I pretend that nothing exists on the other side of that curtain. I'm just a tall dude in a steaming, weak pressured shower, floating eternally in the void.

But I'm not.

I peak my head out from around the shower curtain and see the evidence. Despite being relatively clean my bathroom is ALWAYS trashed. I have another bathroom that I insist everyone else use. It stays in immaculate condition. No one is permitted in here. This is the swamp of an evil Troll. Woe to he that enters. Towels piled, empty soap boxes, dozens of empty shampoo an conditioner bottles, random brushes that have halos of hair encircling them and a sink with my red whiskers polluting it all make me feel strangely safe. I can also see a foot wide stripe of calico under the crack of the bathroom door. My cat has finished breakfast. My cat worries about me. So she waits by the door. Not wanting to interrupt but wanting to be close so she can hear me sing or splash and make sure that I'm okay in the room I always walk out of wet. She knows that when I'm in there for hours, I'm pretending nothing else exits. She doesn't think it's a healthy mental exercise but she doesn't really know what to do about it so she just stays near me and pretends to ignore me as cats are known to do. I know that means “I love you. Please, don't do it.”

The hot water is out and I gotta get ready for the day.

One shave, pair of jeans, black t-shirt and leather jacket later; I'm off to work.

I can hear Bill talking before I even open the double pane glass door. I give the greeting to all the coworkers, fill my cup with black coffee and sit down at my desk and begin my hard work on designing a wedding invitation for a young white trash couple when my phone beeps.

I make a font decision and pick up my phone.

Xxx-xxx-xxxx: Sorry about that text last night, I was drunk and out of line. You know you're awesome. I'm just being dumb. We cool?

Me: Of course we cool. I know girls are crazy ;)

Xxx-xxx-xxxx: hahaha.

I plug Mary back into my phone and yet it doesn't seem any heavier. Strange.

I continue with my day's routine without a second thought to Mary.

I've been so productive at work lately. I generally finish all my daily duties around 10:00 and use the leftover time to waste my time reading useless Internet news and watching bizarre videos. I am a big fan of videos with animals eating other animals...I can't really explain that. But their's something beautiful about a golden eagle grabbing a goat from a mountain side and flying away with it, or a turtle snagging a pigeon and dragging it into the watery depths, or an octopus eating a shark. Brutal. Lovely...I sense I've gone to far...please keep in mind that this rouses no sexual feelings or savage instincts. This is more of an innocent 8 year old 'WHOA AWESOME' scenario. The soul of a child in a man's body.

How do you get a clown off a fence post?

You hit him in the face with an axe.

That's the sense of humor we're dealing with here.

Anyway, the Internet is notorious for leaching all my attention. Recently though, I have been highly active in my artistic endeavors and have added many more personal design projects to my portfolio as of late. Like my 8 foot typographic tribute to my favorite film, “The Good The Bad and The Ugly” and my “Creature From the Black Lagoon” poster made entirely with the font Gill Sans. Being productive always puts a little hop in my step and I carry that hop with me to lunch.

Bill sees a set of free ears heading to lunch and decides to follow me.

So there I was man. Jackal concert. Front friggin row! And I was tripping. My. Face. Off, Dude! I mean, I'm looking at the lights like 'whooooooaaaaaaaaa' and smoking black and miles like they're Virgina Slims man! I'm tellin ya. You like hard music? Shit yeah I bet you do. With ya raggley long hair and him-hawin Tool shirts and shit, but I'm tellin ya dude. This has got to be one of the best concerts of all damn time! No shit dude. No shit.

I smile and nod and act impressed. really wishing I was impressed because something tells me that when I'm Bill's age I will have nothing more relevant than the stories of a bunch of concerts I went to that I'm sure were “The greatest shows ever”.

I enjoy a half dozen boiled eggs for lunch and nod and smile at all of Bill's stories never making much conversation beyond “What?!”,”No way dude”,”Man, sounds awesome” general responses. I'm not listening. Etc.

Through the white noise of Bill's speech inspiration hits me.

I had earlier just found a copy of the Ars Goetia from The Lesser Key of Solomon.

The book was supposedly originally written by King Solomon in the days of...well...King Solomon. Which would predate the birth of Christ about 900 years. The book describes in elaborate detail 72 high ranking demons in hell and gives the instructions on how to summon and control them if one were so inclined. Apparently King Solomon had some success at this and was kind enough to pass along the instructions to all of us not as wise as he.

Did he? Didn't He? Who cares? It's an interesting read and the pictures are the primary source of my inspirations.

Each demon has a seal, and the seals are neat-o. Neat-o enough to be the source of my latest art project.

I'm thinking giant cryptic demon sign with a gas mask? Yeah, gas mask...I like gas masks...and horns NO...antlers...yeah, antlers that'll be super neat-o and fill in that space in my kitchen nicely.

You have just witnessed the artistic process.

You're welcome.

You ever seen anything like that dude?!? I mean it's hard to top that!!! Four midgets! Count em! Four! What you ol' ugly ass think about that?!?!

“Whoa Dude, that's crazy.”

After making a large printout of Buer's sign and stopping by the art store for some wonderful illustration board I head home and begin work on my latest cryptic creation.

I transfer the symbol by applying charcoal to the back of the printout, taping it on top of the board and carefully tracing the seal with a 1.3 mm mechanical pencil.

For a moment my imagination starts to churn out the idea that by doing this, I am actually completing one of Solomon's summoning rituals and President Buer will appear before me in all his horrible glory. The head of a lion with five goat legs surrounding it. This, of course allows him to move in all directions and probably much faster than me. I'm a lover, not a runner.

And oh, the egg on my face.

I have no sacrifice or dealings with the beyond other than a collection of creepy artwork that would probably only offend him even more. He'll then either take this opportunity to sink his hellish teeth into my neck and swallow my fat Irish head in one gulp or, even worse, take me back with him to the fiery depths where I will be forever tortured by he and the 50 legions of demons under his command.

I snap myself out of it and continue drawing away.

I get the symbol, gas mask and antlers lined out (I was right...super neat-o) and decide that all is composed well enough to call it finished for the night and sit down on the couch for a TV or video gaming session too return me to a world without demons and magic...which is kinda ironic now that I think about it...

My deep thought is interrupted by the phone.

St. Valentine: Oh great herald of the 8th pyramid! Festivities are in order at the temple of color. A feast for kings is all but laid. Fancy an inch to your waistline?

This is Valentine. My most hippiest of friends. Loosely translated she's telling me that they are cooking at her house and my presence is requested.

Valentine prefers this to your standard text. It's coded in the language of her. If it gets so obscure that you have no clue what she's saying, it means you're not close enough to her to understand. The better you know Valentine, the better you can interpret these things. She's never explained this to me...I doubt she's even aware of it...but it's the truth, and quite surprisingly to me, I have been fluent in Valentine's language since day one. This has never seemed strange to her. She believes in the energies that pull people to one another and accepts our ability to interpret each others true meanings as some universal thing that connects to the ultimate gizmo and attaches us through a do-hicky in Saturn's outer ring.

My cynicism/skepticism has never pushed her away. She is as entertained by my lack of hippy as I am her abundance of it.

Never has their been sexual tension between us. Valentine knows horrible me and is wise enough to keep her distance whilst still wanting me to attend every one of her obscure gatherings due to my sense of humor and ability to make people feel comfortable no matter their inner or outer turmoils.

It's just what I do.

Plus her food is always good.

Me: Yellow Circle.

St. Valentine: Lightening Bolt.

Television will have to wait.

One hair brush, mouthwash and fresh shirt later I'm on my way to Valentine's Temple for a night with my friends.

As I leave, I scrub my cat for good luck and she purrs with emphasis. I take one final look at the antlered gas mask in front of Buer's mark and once again consider the fancy of him reaching from the seal with his hell-mouth and pulling me away. Never again to call my mother or adore my cat or make balloon animals for my nephews and niece or write a song on the guitar...

or drink till I forget who I am...

or drug till I forget where I am...

or womanize till I forget what I am ...

or waste away...

or get smaller...

or burn out...

or fade away...

never again having to face the guilt of throwing your life in neutral...and flooring it.

I'll see you in Hell, me.

I snap out of it.

One leather jacket and I'm out the door.