THE BRUTE MOTEL

I'm a little worried about Brutelogic this morning. Has anyone besides me noticed that whenever he takes the mic recently, his speeches are shorter than usual. Dommie lets you have 4 minutes, but Brute speaks for no more than two, two-and-a-half. And his speech, it's pressured, breathless, like he's sweating over some anxiety. He jumps from topic to topic, the whole time really only saying, "Nyah, Nyah, we're right and you're wrong, we're winning, Nyah, Nyah." The time was, he was at least able to debate on the current topic of discussion, but now, it's like his mind is somewhere else. He's an imitation of Brutelogic, a shell.

He's a small man, in height, at least, but not in girth. Brute barks on mic for his two minutes, getting more twitchy, his hands spasming open, his face reddening as his forehead grows shiny with sweat over the latent acne. His index finger immediately taps the button to close the room as he leaves the mic, but his mind is already flooded with the ticking text lines he imagines, people mocking him, laughing, digging at his mind. His fleshy fists close as he imagines the next person in line eviscerating him with slashing speech. There's no way he could have stayed to listen, not without the rage rising within. He couldn't afford to replace another smashed headset, at least, not on his small allowance.

He hears a noise from upstairs, and a pinprick of fear chills his chest. He stumbles into the hallway, then into the bathroom, slams and locks the door. "I'm going to faint," he thinks, and grabs the rim of the sink to hold himself upright. The face that looks back is raccoon-like, eyes wide with black circles, a round ball-head with a ring of hair running around above his ears, a few strands leaping over the top to create the illusion of manhood. "The illusion...of Brute..." he whispers, as his fingers tighten on the cold ceramic.

Another wave of dizziness crashes into him, and he turns and fall onto the toilet. Arms on knees, he holds his head between his legs, wheezing in breath after breath, trying not to pass out, willing his breathing to slow down, dammit, slow down. He grits his teeth and starts to growl to himself, "slow down.......slow down," like a prayer, an incantation. Finally, he pushes out a measured exhalation, and his body relaxes and settles slightly. It is then that he hears it, a long, low but loud moan coming from upstairs. Even through the closed door, he can hear it. Hell, it feels like he would hear it, at the expected time, even if it didn't come from outside, from her, from up there. It's something inside now, twisted up with his anger at those fuckers in PalTalk, at his vicious rage when he looks in a mirror. A monster in his head that swims below the murk, chained and locked down by will alone, but always swimming, always. For now, he pushes the thought away. The moan gets louder, and now it has formed into his name. He closes his eyes, and opens the door.

Mother wants a sandwich. And more. He doesn't know how much longer this can go on.

JC