Nov. 11th, 2011

Homeless

Nov. 11th, 2011 12:01 am
Times are tough for everybody, and that includes Jasper. He's been homeless for a long time now; long enough that he's not really sure how long it's been. He'll tell you he's doing all right, though. He has his shopping cart, and he has everything he needs on his back. Jasper's never hungry and nobody beats him up; the cops leave him alone. To anybody who will listen, Jasper will smile his gap-toothed smile and say: I'm fine, just fine.

But Jasper is sad, deep down in his heart. He's confused a lot of the time, and he feels lost and alone. He spends a lot of his time on the streets looking for something, but he couldn't really tell you exactly what he's searching for. There's a kind of hole in Jasper's existence, and he doesn't know how to fill it.

Part of the problem is that Jasper feels invisible. People don't want to look at you when you're on the street. Jasper used to stand at an intersection with a sign that read WILL WORK FOR FOOD. Nobody stopped, nobody talked to him; nobody even smiled. Later he ripped off half the sign so it just read WILL WORK. Still nobody looked; the eyes of the car drivers just slid right off of him like he was made of Teflon. Angry, Jasper made a new sign that said I AM NOT SURE I'M REAL. He couldn't even get a frown. Jasper gave up on signs a long time ago.

So, instead, he spends his time looking. Jasper wishes he knew what he was looking for; it would make the search ever so much easier. He's pretty sure it's not a person; he thinks it's a place. An old woman who visited him once told him there was a place on the west side he could go to that could help him – a church, with real nice people there – so Jasper generally heads towards that side of town. But along the way he looks for whatever he might be missing. Jasper's sure he'll know it when he sees it. He feels it's out there, feels it more strongly than anything he's felt for years and years, ever since that night a long, long time ago when he blew his own brains out with a snub-nosed revolver.

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To destroy all I can. To hate all I cannot destroy. These are the humble things I aspire to. I harbor no plans for world domination. My ambitions do not include achieving the love, or fear, of the masses. I simply long to be alone in the world, at peace with nothing but myself and my malevolence. Is that so much to ask?

I have achieved all I can in this desolate jungle. I have killed or driven away all the beasts that lived here once. I have thrown down the evidence of past civilizations. In this riotous wasteland I am, at last, the lone survivor. But the knowledge that life persists – no, THRIVES – in other corners of the globe: this chafes. I must find a way to reach out my shadowed hand and lash out at those who offend me, merely by dint of their carefree existence on earth. I must export my mission far and wide.

So: yes, hunter. By all means, come into my jungle. Catch me; pop me into your sack and bring me home with you. I will not resist. I shall fall gladly into your simple-minded snare. You shall take me back to your City, and there I shall continue my ceaseless campaign to wreck all I can, and to despise all life that stands against me. They should fear me. But they will not, not until it is far too late. Who would ever think to fear a cute, harmless little monkey?

Come to me, so that I may come to you, hunter. I cannot wait to ensnare you when you ensnare me within the cone of your ridiculous Yellow Hat.

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