Destination

Stacks hitting composite wood platforms gently wakes up our Mighty Mouse while we watch him sleep. His right eye opens to greet us while the left hides underneath a snow cap.

"How can you sleep right now?"

"Aw they got busted noses and puke on their chins. There's not much left for those fellas except to see you two and the way you feel."

"I doubt they care about the way we feel."

"They got to care about something. Even the worst of us catches up with the best of us for a finale."

"How do you know that?"

"That's life isn't it? Either you make it through or...........it's over."

"There is always a fence to jump at a dead end alley."

"Yes even at a stop we start something else..."

"I hope so......you guys hear that? Somebody is coming up the stairs. Damn it I bet it's Chigger and Tapeworm."

Our humble abode is a floor dedicated to Atari, Nintendo, and Sega Genesis; as we slip about cartridges Mouse chuckles, street fighters collide with plumbers in overalls, controller wires wrap around our ankles, Mighty's bong leaves a puddle of stink which alerts all the local smoke shops of an investor, a box of flyers for the degas falls over into a mess of yellow, red, green paper tiles, yet somehow we managed to open the door amongst the pizza hustler's laughter.

"Oh it's You! It's You Know Who!"

"I got to crash here; I feel like somebody is watching me."

"They're fixing to have company..."

"Yeah? Who?"

"Worms and their juices..."

"Those were the two sitting on the steps huh?"

"Yeah can't miss them...."

Our silence is paranoia; we can only listen.

"Hehe..."

"What did you do to them?"

"They're tied up with patterns."

They both burst into wicked giggles while we sigh; this is going to be trouble. Our futon for muses is the only clean meditative portion of our living quarters at this moment as our visibly concerned Who sits with the pads of his feet facing each other, legs crossed into a diamond. His palms are a lifted up point into alms for Buddha as he chants for protection. We light a few incense sticks forgetting about the downstairs predicament. Mighty is untangling the wires of our miscellaneously chopped and screwed video systems while smoking a joint the size of his middle finger which he often brags for the police when they are doing their rounds in Harlem. Picking up flyers one at a time the undeniable stench of resin from the amusement ride height acrylic tube twists the same expression on three of our faces while one is unaffected.

"We got to go downstairs."

"Yes we must..."

"You guys do not have to do anything you do not want to do."

"Yeah that's why they got caught in the pattern."

Feeling the night touching morning is an inevitable circumstance in itself; we acknowledge soon You Know Who will crash to conserve energy, Mouse will find a dark corner to read books about Quantum Physics, and we will both be in the degas until the chipmunks find us. There will still be checkers with plaid downstairs where we pass.

"When you see them just leave them like that until you get your point across."

"I agree with Yikes. It's the only way..."

Mighty calls him Yikes for various reasons one is obvious enough without a vivid description.

Our backpacks are ready for the travel; we are equipped with heavy duty chains, locks, sharpened pocket knives at our side, toolkits for Quasi and Peanut Butter, apples, baggies full of nutty nuts, bottles of water, white t-shirts, shorts, and the Sphincter Fink. People crack a smile when they see us coming; our load is stacked to the brim.

"Is that them over there?"

"Looks like a plaid checkered fire hydrant..."

"Yeah..."

"Shit..."

There are some circumstances which Siberian Russian must be spoken lest we do not know the proper words for English to use for things we set aside until we can no longer hide.

"I know what you guys said..."

"You do.....?"

"You said what I would say if I saw that over there and knew it had something to do with me."

Approaching them with caution is similar to tapping on a captured shark's tank for his attention while running away when realization settles into thought; we do not wish to agitate the situation further but cannot avoid the action we knowingly committed.

"Who wore the rings?"

"If you really want to know then you must agree with our proposition."

"We already know who wore the rings. Forget about it."

Our neighbors must of spared a few eggs for breakfast, more than a dozen found the top of this peculiar fire hydrant. We look up at our window to see two sets of white teeth in an open vibration of thunderous laughter; this is difficult for us to contain.

"Do you ever want to see them again?"

"How are we going to do that?"

"Nobody gives a damn about us."

"We know where they are..."

"This is obvious; you had their rings. We know they did not give the set to either of you."

"We would never give ours to anyone. We want our rings back."

"Then you must go along with our plan."

"Tis not a plan but a scheme."

"We will not be a part of such."

Our wheels start cycling to a roll as the ugly boy and his butter hit the pavement alongside their patterned plight plaid with checkers starts to cry.

"Somebody will let you go eventually..."

"There's no need to cry..."

"We will need to meet another time."

"We understand this is not the right place."

No shit is our mutable thought we care not to speak.

"If we agree...."

"How can we be assured to see them?"

"There is no assurance. You will be in the same position as them."

"You will get your rings!"

We look at each other with the contemplation of our bodegas, the city, our family, dreams, nightmares, while we suddenly understand there is something we are missing. A pink and blue glow shines through a dark seventh floor window in an office building facing our destination; our wonder blazes a trail as we continue with our business.