The Rebuilding of Michael Jackson

The Man held the remote with sadness as 5 AM rolled by. It's the only time they play music on MTV anymore. Dawn was reaching is cruel fingers through the window when The Message arrived. The Man had wandered through his life without purpose up until this point and then it came to him. Watching Justin desperately fail to bring sexy back and Ludacris sing about running away everything snapped into focus.

He turned off the television and faced west towards his destiny. A few short hours later the Stanza was laden with swords, drugs, lotions , balms, and piles of stale cash stored in shoeboxes for this day. With explosive effort the car fired to life and he was away. Never to be heard from again.
It was a quiet evening on the ranch when he arrived. When the doorbell rang Michael was more than a little worried. The security hadn't been getting their checks regularly after the latest settlement. Things were tense in Neverland. There was a chance that the carousel was going to have to go. Problems like these made Michael sweat.

He made his way to the north entrance, wondering if it was perhaps a member of royalty or his lawyer. Opening the door revealed nothing he'd expected. A strange white man dressed in black. He wore a maroon fez and aviator glasses concealed his eyes. From a corn cob pipe emanated the pungent odor of hashish and at his hip was crudely strapped a roman gladius. There was no real time to speculate or introduce as the strange white man leapt onto Michael and began beating him to within an inch of his life.

"Michael Joseph Jackson, I have been sent by God to destroy you."

His fists were iron and his blows cruel and crippling. Michael lay on the marble floor, confused, pained, and bewildered. He had never, until this point, ever considered the possibility of death. He realized, as choked bloody sobs escaped his lips, that he had surrounded himself with the wrong sorts of people. Children mostly. "Yes" men. Elizabeth Taylor would not save him. He should have made friends with more people who carried guns or batons.

But now we would die here. In his lavish fantasy mansion. Under the deadly fists of this obviously insane fan. Something happened then that had not happened in a very long time. Michael got mad. It was an emotion as surprising as it was unexpected. Who was this man to try and kill me? A Pop Icon Supreme!?

He screamed then. Through the snot and tears and blood and moistened hair weave. He screamed like a bird at first, as an eagle with a talon stuck in a drawer.

"Come on Mike!!! You can do better than that!!!"

The blows continued raining down on him and soon the scream transmuted. Altered pitchand volume. No longer the anemic scream of a horror-show victim it was the desperate cry of a man in pain.

"Yes! YEEEEESSSS!!! Come on Mike!!!"

And then Michael reached deep into his spiritual center, a feat to which men train for decades and rarely accomplish. He reached into the pit of his abdomen, found his Qi, and threw it out of his throat like a javelin. The sound pierced the evening sky. The Man ceased his attack and staggered back, grasping his ears in pain. A turtle dove in the yard died. Michael would never sing a high B again, not because he couldn't, but because it was his decision. Michael gasped and lay on the floor in a pool of his own fluid, sucking the sweet air of life into his burning lungs.

"And now Michael...we begin."
The training began as soon as the Man walked in the door and continued day and night thereafter. After the initial hellish beating Michael realized that the Man was here for some reason above torture. The Man would explain to him as he rested in the tanning bed, or accepted the fellatio of 5 or more 18-21 year old girls. He would tell him about the world andMichael's place in it. One day, while forcing Michael to carry 30 pound bolts of silver sequined fabric up and down the dunes the Man spoke of the world;

"When you still wore the red jacket with many zippers of no function the world was simpler. You were known as a God. The image to which all humanity should strive. You were a paragon of not only your race, but of humanity as a whole. That time must come again. You should know I ate your llama."

The Man then returned to firing rounds from his pellet rifle into Michael's soft tissue.
Michael rested in the tanning bed and thought about the last few weeks [months?]. He wondered where the women came from. He was sexed four times a day like a prayer. Never less than two, never more than ten. Sometimes the Man would provide a challenge, like submerging his head in a bucket of ice water between orgasms. Other times he would throw a poisonous Western Diamondback Rattlesnake into the center of the bed and it was Michael's responsibility to kill and eat the snake before it could strike at one of the numerous females around him.

"You're getting good at the snakes Michael. Pretty soon we'll move you up to wolverines."

The thought had given Michael a half-mast erection for days.
There were times when the drugs were too much. Trying to triple-flip a razor sharp shortsword over a tank of electric eels was simple enough for him now, but after a few lines of blow Michael's fingers seemed unresponsive and clumsy. Still he trusted the Man and when he flashed his yellowed fangs at Michael in what he assumed was a smile there was a little flutter in his heart. Equal parts love and fear. So he took the drugs. Without question or hesitation.

Before the Man had come there was only carnival rides and prosecution. After he came there was pleasure and pain doled out hour by hour. There were no longer mirrors in Neverland. The Man had the last one in his black bag and promised to let Michael have it when he, and the Earth, were ready. He could feel himself changing. Inside of him therewas a grindstone whirling perpetually, and against it rode something hot and white and primal.
One day, when the weather was turning cold, Michael returned to himself. He and the Man were sharing a sunrise with brown liquor and an LP of Marvin Gaye. He wandered into himself as the crimson warred with the violet over the Los Olivos dunes. He breathed a sigh in his new body and for the briefest of moments found true contentment.

"How long was I out for?" asked Michael.

The Man looked at him and knew.

"Well...the better part of two decades. You made a stab towards the beginning of the 90's, but Dangerous just wasn't there. Then you started hitting the kids pretty hard and we're here."

And here was the only place Michael wanted to be.

"I think you're going to need this."

The Man handed him a box and stood.

"You are ready. It's been a hoot."

As the Man made his way over the dunes Michael stopped himself from calling out to him.They were no words. Michael opened the box and within lay a single silver bespangled glove. He looked for the Man, but he was long gone.


Duke said…
Is llama good you think? Similar to goat perhaps?
Why’d it have to be snakes?
Too little too late my friend. Too little……………..too late.

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