Legend of The True Boss

Here's the story... A long, long time ago—just as the mountains were turning into buildings and the animals were turning into people—a dickbrain ruled the Earth with an iron thumb.

As far as he was concerned, paradise itself was nothing more than a mound of dirty laundry as long as he had his litle bottle of pills. For those pills—and they were nothing, really, just petroleum-based placebos—he was willing to sacrifice the best and the brightest. Which is to say the most beautiful maidens and boyos in the paradise situation, because BEST in paradise always means most beautiful.

With perfect indifference Dickbrain watched the most sublime creatures being sacrificed to the God of Second Thoughts—the One to whom the prayer goes, "Oh God, I guess I really shouldn't do it, whatever I most want to do in the pure and soulful chamber of my heart, because a-b-c-d and plus that it's not realistic, Mom and Dad would get apoplectic and it's out of character and I'm not supposed to and what if the bus leaves without me?" That prayer, you know?

One breathtaking girl-woman and sturdy bongheaded golden boyo after another, sacrificed right in front of Dickbrain's uncaring eyes, because that's just the way it goes and as long as he's got those pills it's cool with him. And when I say sacrificed I mean the real thing. Drawn and quartered by the clock. Real black blood in pools and clots, disgustingly physical testimony to actual pain and suffering. The death of beauty.

This went on and on until somebody—a heroine gutty enough to take the bull by the horns, cut the tie that binds, unfold the many-folded kerchief, upchuck the red meat, turn tick-tock time inside out, walk the wire, sleep on the job, drone the magic words in the ear of the king of workaday trance himself, old Dickbrain, and say: "Guess what, Jim. Them pills you been taking are placebos. Fakes. They don't mean shit!"

And Dickbrain upon hearing these words blanched and fell sideways off his throne of blood while she began to dance, accompanied by hypnotic hand signals, culminating in one profound gesture that melted his heart. A selfless move on her part, the new and true boss, nonpareil.

Despite the situation of high drama and risk prevailing at the time she laid that move on him, saying, "Take that, big boy. Flush them useless pills down the toilet and put up or shut up. Look flat-out at the beauty of this world with fresh eyes."

Which he did, reborn as a genius of solicitous encouragement of beauty, becoming rich with love which oozed out of his brain and down his shirtfront like green honey. No longer Dickbrain, he now was finally nameless, brave enough to be poised at the brink, ready to fly, and hoping he's got company.

And hoping also to hear in real time ear-language how that dancer is doing, down in fatback land among the bongheaded boyos.

Photo by Nanda Sunu , used under a Creative Commons license.