What was his name? Man-Spots? Teeny? Lord Snowman? Maybe the fact that I know neither of these bro’s names is a clue for me that should indicate exactly how screwed up this whole thing was. Anyway, the point I was trying to make was that the huge white motherfucker seemed to have an easier time of me completely bowling him over via my own clumsiness. For me, it felt like mall my joints and bones and hooves and whatnot were on a super intense mission of knotting themselves together, so I was more than sort-of flailing around in the sand and horse flesh and my own reaffirming opinions that this place was indeed the shittiest place I could be for a situation like this. Freaking sand.

“S-sorry,” I sort of stammered out as I tried to roll away from him, my brain and motor skills still struggling hard-core to catch up with the rest of my body—the apology just sort of slipped out before I could stop it, before I could remember I was supposed to be pissed at these bros for crashing my peace and my pensive mood. It’s like Ma’s lessons on “etiquette” and “politeness” and all that crap didn’t really go into one ear and out the other, and some little nugget of truth told me you should apologize for knocking bastards over in the sand even when it wasn’t your fault in the first place since you were totally minding your own business before you were assaulted and harassed by literally the grossest thing that could ever exist on the pimply face of this awkward planet my stupid Dad and his siblings thought was absolutely necessary to create.

Huff.

Speaking of…

Something came over me—stole over me—however the heck you want it phrased. But it was like this chill crept up in my lungs, in the back of my throat, this fluttering icy coldness that locked up my breathing, clenched my chest, sent my heart racing in so many different directions. The messed up part was that I had felt this before—but I had been high that time. I can’t really remember all that was going on in my head that time (or really, I can, but we already promised each other that we wouldn’t speak of that) so this particular sensation both felt strange and familiar, which only made it that more alarming and frightening and irritating as hell.

I saw darkness again. And or a split second, once again, I thought my dad was coming after me for being an idiot.

The last time it happened, I was mentally flying and there was no way I could face something like this. There was no thought in my brain, except these weird esoteric analyses that I didn’t understand myself—so when my body said “run, bitch, run” what was there to stop me? Now, though, I was completely sober, so when I began to feel absolute terror bloom in the pit of my chest, anger rose with it. It sounds base, but I was beginning to learn that anger was my defense mechanism. I was coherent enough to deny my own fear.

*"Am I the only one who thinks that hightailing out of here is an excellent idea?"*

“’Yes’, said the black-and-white bitch,” I snapped back through gritted teeth, obstinate, biting, angry as hell as I headed head-first for my own oblivion. I shuffled to my feet, the whole right side of my ass caked with damp, coldish, itchy sand; I stood with my feet planted far apart, defiant before the black storm despite every nerve in my body--every cell of my blood—calling me all sorts of variants of the word “butt-dumb”. My show of courage rage even forced the fear of Funkmeister out of my immediate memory—because the fear of this darkness was very real, very powerful, and I needed even more fury to combat it.

“C’MON, THEN,” I roared at it, fully convinced that it was something that would deign to listen to my challenging, as though my raw, tiny, cracking voice was something worth listening to, “C’mon! Stop bein’ a little bitch and kill me if that’s what you wanna do so bad!!” This was the second time I had encountered this darkness-this same cloud of shadow and decay that was riddled with the lightning my Dad wielded. Except, this time, I was beginning to know better. This couldn’t have anything to do with my Dad; if he wanted to berate me for being a dumb kid and not knowing how refusing to grow up, he would do it face to face, eye to eye, man to…child, instead of endangering his own creation. I mean, he is a God, right? He’s gotta have some kind of collective empathy for all of the dipshits on the planet, right? This thing I was shouting at…it was a lot more impersonal.

We were all in danger.





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