The Meltdown
VirusWithShoes understands the man:
Every night, a naked Bill O’Reilly sits hunched over in a dark and airless closet surrounded by untold numbers of boxes of women’s shoes. He opens up a pair of sling-backs, and sniffs them until he almost passes out. When his face is red enough he carefully boxes them away, childlike in his movements, already missing the feel of the leather against his face. Quickly, he then takes a rapidly softening whole cucumber and forces it down his throat, fighting the gag reflex while wanting even more. With tears streaming from his eyes, and his body shaking from the exertion, he mumbles a mantra of self-hatred inaudibly into the darkness and onto the cucumber. After 30 minutes of Bill’s Special Alone Time he slowly pulls it out, enjoying the sensation of it moving from his throat, past his tongue and into the dank air of the closet, the smell of the vegetable and his fevered saliva reminding him of the time he fell out the sycamore tree when he was 6 and bumped his head on a rock - the exact moment in his life when everything began to make sense to him.
His voice is reborn.
He stands slowly, awkwardly, his body stiff from holding the same position for too long, though to him — always not long enough. He reaches out to the shoe boxes to help him steady himself. Salty beads of sweat run down his chest, trickles from the pools in his armpits and under his breasts, cooling as rapidly as his innate anger is warming. His penis — an object of disgust to him for so long now — is as hard as it’s going to get without chemical help. His toes clench and unclench with a staccato rhythm of their own. He opens the closet door, and looks at the poster of John Wayne hanging on the inside — the man he always wanted to be, but never could be, no matter how much he screams into footwear or chokes himself on cucumbers. Wayne looks back with his dead eyes — a two-dimensional construct of a dream that never was.
Bill’s chest hitches, and he starts sobbing. Snot runs down his nose, his mouth opens wide and green stains frame this most silent of screams. He cries for all men, for all America. But mostly, almost exclusively, for himself.
Spent, empty, Bill steps into the shower. Runs it as warm as possible. Until it burns. His tears mix with the water.
His fear, his hatred, his shame — his anger. They all fall down the drain.
The Remix
