She is naked, but nobody minds.
She’s walking, free from the rest of the world it seems, hidden inside of her mind, smiling like a four-year-old. Thin and perfect. Yes, she is absolute perfection. She’s like a machine. Only a machine could be perfectly beautiful, so artistic and unnatural. To me she’s the most breath-filching creature I’ve seen. Nobody else seems to notice her, even though she doesn’t have any clothes on.
No sound comes out of her walk.
Only a machine can be flowingly silent.
She must be a blue woman, because she has light blue skin and deep red hair, a fire crotch too, and green-blue eyes that are sharp like turquoise. Her eyes are the largest feature on her face. BIG and innocent.
I bring my vision around close to her face and take a look into those eyes and fall still. One look. I feel weak, small, possessed maybe. Her eyes are so BIG that I get my soul sucked out, drawn into her. She could take my life away in a breath, and I would allow her to, let her inhale me inside of her, just so I could be inside of her. And that is all I want to do, with the last of my life — to be inside of her. Forever-forever.
I do not follow her once she’s gone.
Christian snaps me out of my God’s eyes.
“Where were you?” Christian asks me.
“Over there,” pointing thirty feet away.
“What were you doing?”
“I think I saw a blue woman.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s the first time I’ve seen one.”
Cecil butts into the conversation. “Don’t ever go near them blue women. They’re trouble.”
“How are they trouble?” I ask him, almost offended. The blue woman was soo perfect. There could never be anything troublesome about them.
Cecil says, “The blue women live all around this area, but you don’t see them too often. They’re all lesbians. Don’t ever trust a lesbian. They’re a race that doesn’t have a male species. The women impregnate each other through organs on their faces. Their children are born through the alimentary canal instead of the vagina.”
“So what’s wrong with them?” Christian asks.
“They’re lesbians. That’s all,” Cecil says. “Lesbians aren’t any good. There’s no war or fighting without any men. It’s a terrible-terrible race.”
“So they don’t have sex with men?” Christian asks.
“Well…” Cecil says, “supposedly, blue women still have intercourse with males of other species, but only for tension release or recreation or something. Males have nothing to do with the reproduction of blue women, so they don’t marry men. They’re a bunch of sluts and got all kinds of diseases. Don’t touch them. They’re no good at all. Pure evil, I call them.”
Both Christian and Leaf diagree with Cecil. I am definitely still intrigued by blue women. I can tell by Christian’s slimy face that he is too.
As we leave the fried cake stand: mud rocks on my bare feet, more and more people joining the festival crowd, my eyes giving me a small dizzy spell from the drizzling sludge, and Cecil gives us some fried cakes with strawberry sauce.
Then, walking away with a wooden bowl and wooden spoon, Cecil with his mug of beer asks us this:
“Where are you headed?”
We keep walking. The new rain seems to be issuing from the ground and sprinkling on the sky and clouds. Like all of the underground was so filled with water that it had to rain it out, into the atmosphere.
Christian turns around to Cecil, and answers him this:
“To oblivion.”
The act of eating cakes persuades us to catch a place for sitting, so we choose the insides of the tent arena. Most of the seats are soaked from the ground rain, a strong wet-forest odor. The crowd is seated with no complaint to the rain or the tent manufacturers or their wet butts, waiting in anticipation for the first of fifty fights that will journey nonstop into late this night.
We don’t bother with searching for any dry seats. The water instantly soaks through my pants to my butt skin, shocking cold, but I let it go. Dark pools will probably be imprinted on my butt all night at work, unless I find my other pair of pants.
The first fight is between a medieval one and a krellian.
A krellian is a very tall, very strong, very thin creature/person. It looks like a giant stick man made of rubbery pale skin. They’re an uncommon breed that were invented by other men — created to be the strongest and fastest fighters of all time, which means this fight will be a short one. A medieval one cannot defeat a krellian, even when cheating.
In that world, the men were being overrun by zombies -which were called fortics — and didn’t want to be bothered with defending themselves, since there were more important things to be done than worrying about getting killed and eaten. So they made the powerful race of the krellians to protect their cities from obvious destruction.
The krellians live for hundreds of years, usually all by themselves, and never completely out of danger. When they’re not killing zombies, they spend their time meditating and practicing religion. Their god is called Crawn. Crawn is the second god of nine in our system. Yahweh, I believe, is the seventh. This particular god has more influence on his followers than most gods in his clique. He gives them powers, even magical powers, to enable them to be muscular and masterful, the greatest race of all for intelligence and efficacy.
Yahweh used to be the opposite of Crawn. He believed in spiritual strength and love. He wanted his people to be powerful in the heart — physical and mental strength meant nothing to Him. But now He has turned his back on our spirits, so I don’t want to talk about His good aspects.
Sometimes I wonder if He didn’t have a choice.
Maybe He closed the pearly gates so that the walm couldn’t vacuum away all of the souls that He collected. Maybe He was afraid that His own soul would be taken away and turned into sillygo. Maybe He cries for the ones he left behind. Maybe He feels guilty.
Or — maybe His soul is already gone.
And that great rotting corpse up in the sky that was once our God, is staring at his great holy wall, shrugging his great holy shoulders.
With his great holy spirit vanished to oblivion.
The fight starts.
Neither of them do anything, staring statues, glacial. The krellian is unusually large, even for a krellian. Intense features. The crowd seems cheer-happy, excited, impressed by the dominating appearance of the krellian versus a very scared opponent, but I get bored. Neither of them move.
A krellian will not strike until his opponent strikes first, that is the moral thing to do if you’re krellian, and his opponent is too frightened to attack him.
In boredom, I ask Christian about what he said to Cecil as we were leaving the fried cake stand. “What did you mean? To oblivion.”
Christian thinks back.
He remembers. “Yeah, that’s where we’re headed.”
“Do you really think so?” I say.
“That’s what Satan said, didn’t he?”
The medieval one runs to the back of the krellian, but does not attack, still scared. The krellian doesn’t even turn around; he’s quick enough to turn and defend once his opponent’s sword is swung.
“Can you really believe Satan?” I ask him.
“There’s no reason for him to lie about this,” Christian says. “He has nothing to gain.”
“Maybe Satan just wants to have us work for free,” I say.
“I’d rather take the chance,” Christian says.
I nod.
“Satan’s not that bad of a guy,” Christian says. “He’s just a homosexual.”