Savage Tales

would wake them, rattle the pipes, frighten the rats in the walls. We don't want that.
    I'm being poetic again. Melodramatic. Self-pitying. Underneath the lattice of my syllables there is a hilarity beyond comprehension. Beyond comprehension is a –
    I paused and left the page for a time. When I returned I could not recall what is beyond comprehension. This is the tragedy of my existence.

    One day I was waiting for the subway. It was lonesome. Empty concrete caverns surrounded me. Buried beneath it all, windy and alone (excuse my poesy).
    Of a sudden a bearded old one in a white robe appeared.
    He beckoned.
    "Yes?" I said.
    He went and I followed. I do not know why. (This is also the tragedy of my existence.)
    We came to dripping caves bespeckled with stalactites, glinting drops of sewer water, shiny surfaces shooting light into my eyes.
    "W-where are we?"
    He ignored me and went on, deeper into its fallopian depths. It was Freudian, and I don't even understand Freud.
    "You need to stop and explain yourself," I demanded (rather sheepishly, I admit).
    He didn't look back. We walked further into the depths and the light grew brighter and brighter. There seemed to be the blaze of the sun just at the end of this tunnel, and the walls disappeared as my eyes took in the light.
    "What does it mean?"
    The old man turned back. He held a gun. The gun made a shooting noise. I fell to the muck. The rat.
    When it began again ("it" being all and everything) I was on a pillowed bed and the old man looked down at me.
    "Are you God?" I mumbled.
    "Yes," he said.
    "Thank God," I said. "I thought you might be just another pervert."
    "I'm that too," he said. "I'm everything that ever was, is, or shall be."
    "I see. That's very poetic."
    "Of course it is. I already told you. I'm everything that –"
    "Why am I here?" I interrupted God.
    "I've brought you here to give you super powers."
    "What on earth for?"
    "To combat the forces of Satan."
    "I see. Go on."
    "You shall draw your powers from NUNBARSEGUNU."
    "What?"
    "The Mesopotamian goddess of barley."
    "Why?"
    "The N is for your niggardliness. You shall conserve your wealth."
    "Wealth?"
    "The U is for upside-down. You shall have the power to turn yourself upside anytime you choose."
    "Okay."
    "The N is for nice. You –"
    "I thought the N was for niggardliness."
    "The second N. It is for nice. You shall know how to be nice. To kittens and old men."
    I said nothing.
    "The B is for badassedness. You shall –"
    "Can we just get to my powers?"
    "Very well. While you were out cold I grafted a pair of buffalo wings to your back. You shall have to wear a thick coat at all times to disguise them."
    "I have buffalo wings on my back?"
    "Indeed."
    I swallowed. "Why?"
    "To convince your foes that you have the power of flight."
    "I can fly?"
    "Alas, no. The experiment failed. But a casual enemy might believe you can fly. You must work on your poker face."
    "What about super strength?" I said. "Or can I see through clothes?"
    "No. But here's something. Your skin will forevermore smell like... barley!"
    "You say that like it's a good thing. I want to believe. And yet."
    "The barley will attract certain insects. Cicadas."
    "Hm."
    "You shall never lack a food source."
    "Bugs."
    "Aye."
    "Tell me there's another one. A cool power. Just spit it out."
    "That is all."
    I looked down at the floor. I looked around for the exit. I saw something that might serve – a dark corridor. At least it would get me away from him.
    "Where are you going?" the old man said.
    "I've got a DMV appointment."
    "I haven't told you of your nemesis. He will be –"
    "Just drop me an email," I said.
    The water up to my ankles smelled of scabs and ancient yogurt.
    "You can't leave," the old man called behind me. "There's so much more..."
    Etc.
    Eventually the tunnel brought me back to reality and its rather obvious texture. A vandal had sprayed the wall with the words CANNOT HOLD IT and I wondered if he had out-poetried me. Perhaps, but we seemed to have the same audience (i.e. no one).
    I was hungry. I found a ladder and climbed up, lifted the manhole cover and looked about. A hot dog stand not twenty feet away. Pay dirt. Pay gold. Gold strike. Hit her in the nuts. There it was.
    Squeezing the water out of the my clothes, I noticed that the old man really had put wings on my back.
    "Gosh darn it," I muttered.
    The hot dogs smelled so good. And I had promised myself to be vegetarian not one week before. Well, it was a good run