How I came to arrive at this specific point in time was, seemingly, a series of random incidents. Now, in the ever darkening slip of day into night, I see that this alignment was no accident. A fissure in the dimensional ordering of the universe had opened. Energies were streaming through ruptured space with a feral ferocity that rendered the people nearest the opening at their mercy. Their will was no longer their own.
As he turned the corner, another driver plowed through the intersection hitting him. Their cars kissed with a smack. Pieces fell like amputated body parts from the two cars. The rocking wheel-well liner marked time like a metronome for the chrome bumper. Shimmering with the rainbow of the flashing signal lights, it skipped across the pavement like a stone off of water. The low speed impact left both drivers unharmed. Their vehicles clattered and steamed off the main road coming to rest on the side street.
Information was exchanged. Denials of fault were, hopefully, tendered. Each sought the sanctuary of spotlessness. They took my name as witness. Looming like a backdrop in a 50s, B movie, the silver diner flashed its neon 'WELCOME' sign. Like a sign of welcome at the gates of Hell, I find no solace here. I surrender all thoughts of control I once held about how this night would unfold. I wasn't going anywhere soon. In fact, I wasn't going anywhere for quite some time.
From across the street, I hear the dull "thunk" of bone covered flesh smashing fleshy gut. Shouting. Scuffling. Two shadow-men circle each other. Watching. Gauging. Punching. Kicking. I call the criss-crossed street sign of Market and Trinity streets into the holy service of protection. More shadow people surround them trying to break up the fight. Voices yelling, "Just take a walk, guys. Take a walk. The cops are coming." Like two animals posturing, neither wants to be the first to signal weakness. Finally one turns, sets a metal cigarette sign swinging with a ringing blow of his fist and is surrounded by his homies. The other lets fly a primitive shriek on the sky, "A-R-G-H-H!!!!" Frustration hangs on his shoulders as he walks down the street.
Her Botticelli body moving with amazing speed, a young woman chases him down. "Call me c**t!," she dares him. "Call me a c**t again! CALL ME A C**T," she screams. He wants to. Oh, he wants to real bad. Nose to nose, they stand. Her hand raised. His body rippling with the energy of restraint. If he lets one syllable of that cacophonous word loose, she'll rip into him with carnivorous delight and devour his slight frame. The red and blue flashing lights of the PD cruisers bring an end to the stand off. She vanishes like a magician.
Screaming like a wild animal, his battered body lumbers through the intersection. Unsteady hands fumble. Metallic clanging resonates upon the ground. The glint of oncoming headlights spark the foil on the asphalt like a star in the night. A knife? A piece of metal off one of the cars? Finding it first with his boot, he picks it up and hobbles down the sidewalk screaming "F**K" to the night.
Cruiser after cruiser roll by. Some stop for the accident. Some stop for the fight. Some light up and roll, with their siren's screeching, in hot pursuit. Ambulances arrive to carry any torn, shaken or injured bodies. EMTs offer assistance. In disbelief, from the cold, stone walkway under the nearly full, winter white moon, I watch this apocalyptic scene erupt. At any minute, I expect fires to flare and tidal waves to crash on this beach of destruction consuming the insanity. In contrast to the ugliness of the night, a cute, female, fair-haired officer, ponytail swaying, warns us to go inside and lock the doors. The hunt is on for a bad guy. Someone was knifed during the fight.
The next morning this vortex of energy is still wide open. As I approach that same corner, something seems odd. Shielding the sunlight from blinding my view, I can see a ball cap. A ball cap and a shoe lie in the middle of the road. An old man, pulled off to the side of the road, leans against the open door of his white, 1992 Chevrolet. Gray hair standing in the breeze, lined faced even more furrowed with bewilderment, he stares down the road. The scene is set. He's hit someone. But there is no body. No body at all. Vanished. Usually it is the hitter that runs not the victim. I wonder how much longer this area will be under attack as the search helicopters thump-a-thump-a through the air. Weird. Freaky weird.
Later, I learn from the pony tailed officer that the stabbing victim was the guy who had the knife. Some how he had stabbed himself becoming both the villain and the victim. And the missing body, well, he'd been running from the police who were searching his car for meth when he got hit. He kept running until they finally found him down by the river. Whether this flux comes from the "direct" energy of the planet Uranus or the full moon, I don't care. Enough is enough. I pray at the cross of Market and Trinity, "please close these portals quickly because the chaos that is reigning supreme is too strong for mere mortals. Way too strong. "
