The BatJay Returns

BatJay’s Journal. Date Uncertain, 2018(?)

Bigfoot carcasss in the alley this evening, claw scars on burst stomach. The night is afraid of me. I made faces at the abyss. The streets are extended alleyways and the alleys are full of labyrinths trying to drain tears and when the drains finally scab over, all the loss will melt away. The accumulated bindings of all their needs and desires will foam up about their shadows and all the sacred and the scared will look up up and shout “Save us!”...

...and I'll look down, and whisper “jaysome.”

They have no choice, all of them. To fall in the shadow of BatJay is is to become jaysome. Decent adventures, for a day’s journey. Too many are afraid of that. Instead they run to the abyss with open arms as though I will not be waiting at the end. Don’t tell me they don’t know that.

Now the whole works totters on broken bindings, staring into the emptiness at the end of all things with their jibbbers and their jabbers and all of the sudden.... everyone has too much to say.

The world become a cacophony of shredded voices. Everyone is screaming for salvation, no one willing to see the face of their saviour.

BatJay’s Journal. Later.

Was busy all day. I have eaten too many sugar mice. Someone complained about the smell. I am certain they cheat their nose with every meal. Soon it will be dark. The sky is the colour of burnt yolks. Beneath me, this empty city, it screams like an abandonment. No one listens, too busy to fill it. Bindings scattered like broken glass.

On Friday night, a comedian died in New York. Not many sasquatch comediennes. Body left shaved for the police. Someone knows why. Down there. Up here too, but I have to not know. Follow the bindings. Search for clues. Clues are the last call before the curtain goes down.

I leap down, scattering shadows, grappling rope tugged from the moon. Mistake. Can’t afford those. The gloaming reeks of bad choices and lost answers. I believe that calls for exercise.

The bar is quiet with the hush of lies. Bouncer moves in front of me. Says I can’t be here. Utters threats. Can’t have that. Break bindings. Pinky finger. Index finger. Appendix finger. Not a finger. Still breaks. Screams. I ask questions.

Someone asks if I knew the bigfoot. Asks if I have a friend. Fear-laugh. A twitch inside. Door. Something trying to get out. Of me. Find a sugar container. Sugar daddy. Makes no sense. Probably the screams.

They stop.

No one has answers. There are sirens. Distant. They never have answers. Leave. Nobody knew anything. Slightly off-jaysome. City is dying of silence. I whisper songs to it, start the rats into a chorus. The rats always remember the city when the humans forget. See it as a thing. Good at that. Best I can do. No. Never not jaysome. Never no adventures. Never a surrender.

Turn some people into cockroaches. Give them a break from being them. Kindness. Busy now. Have business with another class of person.

Can’t talk to the dead. Ghoul will have to do.

News on the web, like a spider. Saying BatJay is dead. Wondering where I am. When I am where I’ve always been. Find a drink, wash the taste of sugar mice from mouth. Inhale the darkness.

BatJay’s Journal. Later. Different evening. Time gone soft.

I am the darkness.

I wear the night.

I am BatJay.