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Brad Slaughterhouse had always loved magical Amsterdam with its inexpensive, ice-dancing igloos. It was a place where he felt sad.
He was a grateful, ruthless, whiskey drinker with fluffy eyelashes and ginger eyebrows. His friends saw him as a kind, knotty knight. Once, he had even helped a screeching toddler cross the road. That’s the sort of man he was.
Brad walked over to the window and reflected on his grey surroundings. The moon shone like walking mice.
“Wooah there,” said Brad from under his hoodie. He looked at himself in the mirror by the door: white teeth, strawberry-blond hair, handsome face. He peeled off the gloves that covered his hands and gave them a polish with some tissues. “I’m good for this.” Then he added: “Isn’t she lovely?” And then later… after many glasses… “What’re you staring at, Tully?”
When Brad had been out late partying once before, on the previous evening called Christmas Eve – where is it exactly? Yes. Anyhow! Before dinner that day when everyone else sat down ready to eat their turkey sandwich, instead Brad went wandering into town looking for presents (which were not allowed back home).
Where did he go? Into an antique store full of clocks that ticked strangely. Why hadn’t they stopped all ticking? Because time wasn’t right there or anything.
But time could have stood still if one wanted to… oh dear, how old Brad must feel now… but what young bloodshot eyes gazed up at him from inside those delicate clock faces as the old master asked something like… do I know you, friend?…
A flash of light, a bolt of lightning shooting through his bones until suddenly everything hurt, and Brad stepped backward tripping over and landing on his ass on the concrete pavement outside in front of several concerned shop owners and shoppers who shouted words like a sir!
Get inside! Hurry! Run for your life! Well maybe those last weren’t really among the onlookers’ actual words, perhaps more accurately described thus; Oh God this isn’t real! There isn’t such a thing as Santa Claus! Call the police!
Why are there elves dressed like priests standing around doing absolutely nothing useful about this crazy clown jumping across my foot? Is anyone going to tell me what the hell has happened here, and where am I supposed to go next because this seems quite terrifying?
But by some means or another Brad survived that night’s mayhem although never able to shake it entirely loose in terms of nightmares brought upon occasionally by weird hallucinations and blackouts (see also; lack of sleep) and as result the following morning began with an ungainly start trying to explain away a bizarre disappearance, eventually ended up getting booted from the family mansion (unharmed), being chased into London whilst having one bad experience involving a horse carriage with a sack of gold coins thrown onto it during which his disguise of a newly christened Santa Clause failed completely as only people living underground or somewhere would recognise that face as someone else famous enough already named Kris Kringle, got to central London and promptly spent every penny left before he could afford train fare home to Newcastle, whereupon finally stumbled into the kitchen table at Mrs. Nunn’s flat on that same Christmas Eve after falling asleep on various forms of furniture without so much as touching his room, finding no milk and bread for toast before sneaking to bed via the back door. To top things off it was pouring rain.
By any normal measure, Brad had probably just experienced the single worst twenty-four-hour period ever to occur within human history and didn’t remember anything special about it. When asked why he thought something very odd might have happened to him during these events, Brad often replied with an emphatic nod while swallowing nervously whatever food made its way close enough to the question to be reached. This seemed to be sufficient clarification for most.
Although other times a deep sigh, along with: “just a bit freaky”, led to puzzled looks followed by hand wringing accompanied by long silences punctuated with uncertain noises until hopefully, everything became less scary and thus more easily explained or ignored.
The old lady herself did admit some concerns though, as when asking after him concerning whether he’d make it to her place that night – Mrs. Nunn: “You haven’t seen him since lunchtime, son, it can’t possibly be that far…” she hesitated a second before continuing carefully: “but don’t let him catch cold darling!”
Brad snuck past the garden hedge next to Mrs. Nunn’s house at around five o clock, hidden behind a gate he could lift open effortlessly. Then he waited with a tiny bottle in hand beneath a bush that was growing near an upstairs window, two doors further down on the corner.
Watching her carefully from afar, hoping not to appear too creepy… well actually if the woman downstairs spotted Brad hiding somewhere, a steely-eyed gaze soon fixed Brad down – simply saying hello? She never knew. All Brad hoped was that he wouldn’t make too big a fuss; remembering too much could do him more harm than good. Don’t say too much.
But who says there needs to be? With the ability to repeat patterns and repeat things said word for word, you can do anything… Okay. Stay frosty. Shhhh… And yet, one year later there would indeed be many occasions where Brad was almost certainly speaking to himself before recalling an obscure memory whereupon he found out it might’ve just been something the woman had mentioned once to another person elsewhere at some point.
Brad sometimes questioned his own sanity regarding how easy it was to forget such strange and inexplicable snippets from conversations he could hear all around the world without leaving anywhere.
Perhaps it had become just one more thing he took on faith instead, the way God does; it sorta fit the plot line – but this explanation rarely satisfied Brad because then he had to explain it. The question is which universe came first: the multiverse theory or Brad’s disbelief that anyone else may have thought something equally interesting and cool the exact moment it was pondered aloud throughout the entirety of existence…
What now? If I’m wrong maybe you’ll help me come up with a different answer…? Is it still a conversation? Or are we just talking nonsense under the sun/in our heads on repeat – repeating ourselves in perfect synchronicity-ish ways – we’re really only a handful of monkeys flapping their hands between worlds going through the motions…”Why’d ya lie?” “Huhn…” “We lied.” Why is this guy talking to himself like he’s my best friend?’
For it wasn’t always exactly pleasant. “Man”, ‘thought Brad sometimes ‘this guy here must really wanna talk shit.’ And he thought that this was surely proof positive that perhaps Brad didn’t fully know what it meant to believe that somewhere outside there was someone experiencing the very same thing he was experiencing – but obviously not even remotely thinking it right now due to circumstances relating to location, moods, and choice of language in this place or that.
Not even a hint of similar thoughts… These words are your mind’s working overtime against the space it occupies to stop you from having crazy ideas and coming up with other stories for things.
Of course, I was about to die from a severe lack of air! Hey, why isn’t gravity stronger?!???” … (no joke!)”I won’t tell anybody,” Mr. Peanut said to a face pressed close to his crotch…(explanations.) Wherefore, despite being tempted by that early experience and wondering if this particular example wasn’t even too ridiculous to begin considering – given its obvious implications – and besides a more likely possibility resulting from Brad’s earlier upbringing including a solid dose of skepticism whenever confronted with claims regarding certain realities which seemed too extraordinary, farfetched and unattainably naïve to hold any truth whatsoever.
A previous notion he’d entertained long ago that “real life couldn’t possibly exist”, only now he discovered an endless river of previously unsuspected phenomena having passed Brad by, thinking himself free of external influences and entirely reliant on internal guidance. An entire set of hitherto unexplored concepts to which only limited relevance had ever existed before now; experiences based solely upon the prior beliefs Brad harbored, largely believing otherwise.
Such as memories containing significant meaning he himself had forgotten he possessed, therefore nothing is true, and everyone thinks differently until they remember stuff again and start believing otherwise… thus rendering every possible debate pointless; everything has already happened.
Furthermore, he wondered if perhaps the sum total of all human history – just short of four thousand years plus; spanning thirteen nations over countless generations, along with warring cultures and political movements dating back before written records started getting taken seriously – amounted to no more than a particularly elaborate hoax in itself; orchestrated through deliberate misinformation for some unfathomable purpose or objective? Or so goes the dream sequence-Esque vision Brad witnessed shortly afterward?
This gave birth to Brad’s current worldview, whereupon this truth became fact accepted into his psyche as either inevitable and good or that of a mere minority faction. In either case, Brad did not allow it to conflict with the received version he had become acclimated to under her tutelage; hence in life today you could only ever see him grinning at an opponent’s bad fortune or otherwise rolling dice toward victory even after suffering defeat himself.
This last point is an oddity of sorts within the game: the part in which everyone involved was acting on their best knowledge-that is all -and not about the fixed facts (which are actually going by elsewhere) but still calling out results based on incomplete information presented here during a contest of will over a common interest involving mutual vulnerability and trust for the moment alone! A much more perilous situation than simply seeing the whole picture beforehand…in theory anyway!”
And so my mind took this little segment in its stride without really reading the fine detail as if I’d done this very thing already before and would again. Only I hadn’t…not exactly! For whatever reason, this fictional past flashed through me like something out of that one film series ‘Groundhog Day. So to my next memory made contact: “Huh?