I Resist the Muses

"There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside of you." - Maya Angelou

Oh I agree, I do agree. Don't you?
I can help you with that, you know. It's so hard to keep it inside, isn't it?
I can help you let that secret out, pry the ice off your soul and shove you into action. Do something about those terribly burdensome, sneaky little hidden desires.. Go ahead, go on, do it~ Pick up the gun, pick up the keys, pick up that letter not addressed to you and open it, whatever it is, do it. You'll feel better, isn't it better to have these things settled once and for all? Don't suffer, don't keep it inside, you poor poor thing.

... I on the other hand, have nothing left of my own inside, hidden or not. They didn't leave me so much as a name. I wouldn't call it agony, what I feel. I'd call what I'll do to them in return agony and then some.

I don't cook. Fuck that. Ma Lee cooks. Ma Lee in a part of Berlin that tourists seldom find.

Lee's cafe keeps me alive like no crooked corporate medic, street-corner apothecary, psychiatrist or pocketbook of philosophy can.

The medicine is nearly entirely self administered, affordable, non-destructive and honest. Qualities missing from every other facet of my life.

I am:
Hunched over the counter, consulting the oracle of hot-n-sour soup, seeking a cure for a musty fall cold - feeling an uncomfortable physical pressure, externally. Shifting on the stool, breathing in the spice bearing steam, closing my eyes in happiness, thinking 'Nothing is wrong with this perfect bowl of soup.' Opening my eyes and losing my thoughts in the shimmering, coppery, soup-mirror; but there's something pulling me back to the present. Frowning slightly and pressing back with my spine against the hard seat back, a gouging lump fitted to my waist, eyes clearing as my attention is again drawn to the burden of my lethal gear. God Fucking Damn-It. I reach back and rediscover the buttoned-down Glock tightly snugged against my back. I remember my relationship to the weapon and taste the bitterness of the soup like bile at the back of my tongue. I drop the spoon on the counter and payment that far exceeds the bill. I've never been so uncomfortable "in uniform"; I'm not a fidgeter, a twitcher, an undisciplined gear fiddler, now I feel the need to run from this place before it discovers that I don't belong. Before I've made the door Ma Lee has swept up the money and turned back to where her grandchildren wait.

I don't cook. Fuck that.

What do I want.
( What don't I have? Or is this a different question from 'What do I need?' ) I want a new pencil, this one has someone else's tooth-marks in it. What the fuck is up with that?

My life would be easier if...

What the fuck can I say, my life would be easier if answering these fucking questions wasn't basically handing someone a loaded pistol. "Here, point this right at my head, alright?" Sure. Where's the "What's your greatest weakness" question?
( there is much muttering, and disgruntled scribbling )

What doesn't make me laugh? Scheiße, the same things. Everything. The same things that make me swear. I don't know what to write.
Smetimes blood on my shoes is funny as fuck. Sometimes it's a pain in the ass and it's gonna stain the carpet or get on the cuffs of my slacks and it's not so damn funny all of a sudden. Sometimes it's funny overhearing the meatsacks on the street getting their hopes up, sometimes it's all I can do not to wrap my head in tinfoil and scream at them, right back. Sometimes it's funnier to overhear the silence right before the realization sinks in that something is really going wrong.
Oh. That doesn't really help, y'know? The tinfoil? Doesn't work. So, fuck, right? That's funny too. Hurts sometimes, but that's worth a laugh.
Sometimes the look on my teams faces makes me laugh; when I see what someone outside Schwarz sees, and hear what they're thinking about us, then I get to hear what the guys are thinking and- oh man, if anyone else ever knew we'd never get anything done. I don't know why, but the inside changes everything, and you'd never know by just looking at us. I laugh at strangers, I laugh at us...
I laugh at the look on Crawford's face when I catch him off-guard, or get a little surprise in on him. I laugh at any look on Nagi's face when he makes one because he thinks I'm not looking. Ha! I laugh at the look on Farf's face when I soap him up after a filthy night's work.
Some mornings I laugh at the reflection floating on the top of my coffee. I say "Hallo, stattlicher Mann, wie gehts!" and I feel good and laugh, somedays I don't feel so good about it but I laugh anyway, because some days it's just that great a relief to see a familar face.
I think about where we've been and I can laugh. I think about where we're going and I can laugh harder.
My hand hurts from this!

Schuldig stares at the page in his composition notebook for five minutes, then gets up to see what's new in the shared bathroom's medicine cabinet.

I don't lose.

Losing isn't in the future we're making.

On the list of things that Crawford has asked me to check on, pick-up, completely destroy, mess with, sabotage or influence this week, the status of our loss is not one. Therefore, this is irrelevant. Feh. Loss, my ass.

Although, sometimes I go missing. Heh.
Not for long and I always come back, of course, but head-walking across Tokyo.. what a trip, what a packed and frantic and scary-busy place. I can lose myself in a crowd of millions, then play pick-up-the-pieces all the way home, and never leave my place on the balcony. How I play this is, I have to get back before the cigarette burns down to my fingers. If I don't, not can't, don't- If I don't, I get this nasty reminder of where I'm at.

I've caught Farf taking the smoke away and puffing it down, putting it back. Cute.

One time, or more than once, I don't know when, see, so maybe I never had one; I must have lost my name. You know, the real one? I think it was before Rosen, but if not, then they've got it in a file somewhere. I'd like to find my file, if we don't just burn the place to the stones it's built on. Crawford hasn't been too clear on the afterward, but it sounds like we're gonna do something like that.

I can't fucking wait. Whomever the fuck I am.

Oh this is rich.

Idiots with clipboards asking stupid questions. Unqualified, untalented meatsacks thinking they can take the measure of /Me/. Face it, the world is unqualified to take the measure of Me. Rosen-krutch has to resort to medicating talents who hit these kind of highs, just to try and keep a leash on us. We'll show /them/.

Well, that pisses me off but I'm pretty damn cool about it. I suppose I lost my cool now and then but having Brad Crawford, Man With The Plan, around helped. A lot. Having something to look forward to when you're ankle deep in crazy-juice and the wave seems to be incoming, that really helps a guy keep it together. And the team, you know, being "us", that's a big...

Hey, I know, I hate it when that know-it-all son-of-a-bitch gets it wrong, on purpose. Or he holds something back. Arrogant /FUCK/, like he just wants to see the look on my face when I get back - /if/ I get back, you know? Sometimes he thinks he's so fucking funny, though he won't show it; glasses flash, he pushes them up, smug face on and not a smile - I know he knows if he smiles I'll knock it off his smug goddamn face..

Ja, that's what makes me lose it, Crawford, when he's /wrong/.

If he's wrong.. what the hell are we doing?

Fear.

Me?

( You're kidding again, right? )

... So how's the wife and all the little therapists? Work-life balance working out for you? Ja? Nein?
So. How about a drink?
To whom it may concern, Help, I am being held prisoner at a quiz factory. Send a drink.
This therapist has a very sour, very disapproving face. I am convinced he can read up-side down. Better send a whole bottle!
Song. Song, okay. Alright. Listen- I don't use a radio. I don't need to. I am a radio. And you know that hideous whistling pitch that flings itself up and down and all around as you twist the dial between stations? That's pretty much the only song I really enjoy these days. My references are limited, you see.
Pick a song about a king. What's your favorite song about a king? That's the one we'll use.
Because, of course, whatever your favorite is, is also mine. For now.

He's put the pen down, but pulls it back with a determined flourish
On second thought, I'll take that one.. by that Sex Pistol kid.. "My Way".
Ja.

The remainder of the sheet is filled with little Anarchy symbols and punk-rock stick figures.

I’m sick of everyone else’s thoughts on love. “It’s in the air” - no shit, it’s in the air 24-7, babbling idiots and pathetic losers, endlessly whinging and wanking and they Never Shut Up. They use each other and excuse anything they do “In the name of love” and you wouldn’t believe the things you all DO and think that no-one else has ever thought of! Unimaginative meat-sacks and damn-fools! All day, all night, everyone, blah blah blah, except the ones who don't.

Those are some scary bastards, them.

The large remainder of the page is filled with sloppy scribbled cartoons of Schu punching, tearing, biting, drop-kicking, and stepping on hearts.

Oh please. Now I KNOW this question is horseshit. And a trap. But I’m feeling playful today and you can’t punish me any more than this.. for this.. I think.. right? Okay, party line: I don’t remember. You know I don’t remember and you know that I know that that is your fault, and that I’ll pretend I don’t know OR remember that. I’m a good boy. This place is my home and the other inmates students are my family. Thank you. The end.

And fuck it, you’re going to forget this anyway, because I’m going to make you. I’ve already gotten a little piece of your mind in my teeth and I’m hanging on. So now, now that I’ve gotten your attention as well as confidence in your immanent amnesia..

Schwarz is my family. We’re like.. we are, hah, like nothing, we are a mismatched set of cracked glassware and crockery. We’re a bundle of orphans, sold four-for-one. We’re lightning in a bottle and you’ve used a weak cork.
Did you know that? That you won’t be able to keep us? Brad knows. What do you think about that?

Family. The end. Now - wouldn’t you feel better if you just put your head down, rested a little while, dream, süsse Träume, and forget...

Wieder immer Gott I hate this shit, hate this shit, hate this hate this hate this Crawford family doesn’t forget you bastard bastard bastard!

Schuldig fills the remainder of the page with a horrible doodle of a little square house with black and pointy looking flowers on the German style balcony and curly carving along the peaked roofline. Little stick figures represent all of Schwarz: Schu and Crawford figures have their arms out with pistols and Farfarello with his knives, they all grin hugely. There's a little boy figure in a blue suit with his arms crossed, too, but he's frowning.

Answer.. answer.. answer.. Shut up! Orders, for me? Just who do you think you are? Answer.. Answer yourself! Shut up shut up and let me think for myself! Shut up, shut up shut up, I’m sick of hearing you, every last one of you, sick of you! I can do this, I can shut you out, finish this shit, and if you don’t stop pushing in here you’ll be fucking sorry. I can push back, push back, push back and then you will answer me! Shut up, shut up, fuck this was a mistake. Therapy. THERAPY. Note to self: kill Crawford for this. Wonder if he’s seen it coming. Is this a school or a lunatic asylum? I am I am I am I am. I am, I’m me, and you can’t change me or break me or push me out. I am I am I am, I win, I have shut you all right the fuck out and right the fuck up. I am, I am I am.

Answer the question? I’m going to push you out and shove you down and you’ll say what I tell you! You’ll answer me!

I am I am I am I am I am I am I am. I am.

That’s who I am. Mastermind. You think I got that name by sitting on my ass and letting any old asshole in a cheap “friendly” sweater tell me to spread my brains out on a page? Fuck no. I can push you out and stuff you down and make you whomever I want, make you do whatever I want. Make you answer me, make you spread your brains on the wall.

That’s what I can do.

How about that? There’s your answer-me answer-me answer.

Stupid fucking therapy. Stupid fucking therapist. I’m going to kill him.. no, I’m going to push until he kills himself, then I’m going to take this fucking answer book and push it so far up.. Now there’s an idea. Who am I, I’m all better, the end.

Schuldig fills the remainder of the page with scribbled, sloppy cartoon images of himself giving an obscene gesture.