Thus was the decision made at the cross roads, by the valiant and tremendous Pattie. Pattie, a male of a younger make and model, found the town he was born unto quite despicable. Pattie, an artist of an atypical sense, found the town mundane in that each corner followed a neat pattern and a mien of similarity. The only variation found in any of the corners were the certain people that inhabited them: the tall, the proud, the eagle-men perched on sidewalks made of dust and dust and dust.
Dust.
It had always bothered Pattie. He had gathered some into bottles when he was young, and he had smashed those bottles when he was old as he had gotten. He had sipped the dust from the bottles after having feigned a cocktail: one part dust, 8 parts hard liquor. The works. His defiance towards dust unsettled him, and he often spent his nights in the streets sleeping among the dust. Perhaps that's why he detested it so; it was his home, it was part of this despicable town in this despicable land of eagle-men.
Pattie was a writer, of a sense. He wrote what he read from his mind, and composed volumes of the obscenity and obscurity of those on the streets of Arizona's relentless turf. He never tried to make a living of this, though, because he didn't want to earn money. Money turns to dust, and dust gets in his eyes. So he wrote volumes and volumes of the years that had been placed in his life by some unseen Force, and speculated the events and composed formulas to his own life, and Pattie the genius lived in the sewer. Whenever a volume of 40 or so books (each composed of 200 or so pages), he spat on them, kicked them into the sidewalks, and kept on this way until he believed he saw blood coming from his foot. He regarded it as the books bleeding, and disregarded the pain in his foot as a parting feeling. Pattie was a genius.
People spat on Pattie in the streets, just as he spat on his life books. They kicked him but they never bled. All of the men that he owed money to, all of the women he owed explanations to, all
of the too-many-people in this too-many world. Too many. He never kept up with his debts or leaves, because what's the use, thought Pattie. He would never catch up once the cycle starts.
Debts and leaves were like dust, thought Pattie. They were started by the same Force that forced his volumes, and they never stopped. They started and blew in the faces of dinos and then autos and then new inventions and then Pattie. It's no use stopping the dust. It's no use paying the debt. He'd die one day, and the one he owed would die one day, and the debt would be gone.
Pattie lined the sidewalk home of his with his dust bottles. The green and grey stared back with immovable silence that was subjectively tangible. He sat on his belly button-- for lack of a belly filled with anything save beer, whiskey, and wisdom-- and he began the cross examination of the dust. Passersby slowly massacred him and the likes of him with their eyes, but he cared not. They mattered not to Pattie the genius. Pattie the pioneer. He laughed to himself, soft as a baby's, at the thought of himself appareled in a pioneering woman's frock. The grey and the black and the white, much like a maiden-mother. The baby grew into an insolent adolescent. The laughter built upon itself and filled every mundane corner with its presence. He even thought it reached China! The Chinese mothers were beating rugs and listening to Pattie the pioneer woman laugh. HA-HA, came the joyous peals.
A man kicked Pattie's side, hard.
"Shut up. I'm tired of the likes of you in our town." Massacre.
Pattie laughed at the blood that was on the man's shoe, because now the man had to clean. HA-HA, came the sadistic peals of the foot on Pattie the pioneer's side. HA-HA-HA. And the joke continued until Pattie felt rather breathless and the baby that had grown into an adolescent celebrated a rather tremendous number of birthdays and could hold no more years.
This is why Pattie hated dust. He became it in 100 year's time.
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