Portrait Of An Onanist Bodybuilder Hanging From A Cessna

All these unknown seagulls flying in the sky! They have cameras on their beaks to better film my muscles while they swoop and dive, twist and turn. They film me flexing, pumping, and flying, as my pecs and biceps ripple with every butterfly stroke and push through the air. I hear their cameras clicking and whirring, a symphony of clicks and whirs. I like the lack of oxygen at this altitude. The wind blows my hair away. The sky is cloudless and the wind is blowing, but it feels like weightlessness as gravity holds me in place. I am turgid. I would love to share this feeling with you!

 

I'm holding onto the landing gear like a child clutching her teddy bear. I'm as calm as a patient watching a surgeon work. My senses are so sharp when it comes to endurance. But I see seagulls swooping around me with cameras. They might mistake me for some look-alike peeping Tom in an action movie. There are no peeping toms in action movies. It takes a lot of coffee to get my heart without a drop of fat. I find this landing gear graceful. It is as Swedish as they come, but I don't care. It might cut me in two with these graceful wings and leave me in a field of alfalfa for the pearl arbor organs harvest. Then I'll start over again.

 

I’m pretty sure the pilot understood that I hang up on his desire to fly. He imagined himself, thousands of feet above a cloudless blue sky, in a jumbo jet packed with hundreds of passengers. I have to become flashes of decisions, airspeed indicator, compass, fuel gauge, gull, joystick, and head-riddled thoughts. The innards of a machine that doesn't want to be there. The arc of the sun is wrong. The air is wrong. A creaking noise of the cockpit in the sky layered like a tubercular saxophone solo.

 

I lunge forward, grab the seagull, and sank my teeth into its neck. The blood ejaculates out of its jugular vein, filling my mouth. It was warm, salty, and metallic, but after the first mouthful, I didn't care. I kept chomping on it until blood spewed out onto my muscled. The bird falls and the earth below me swelled like a pupil under an onslaught of drugs.

 

As I stare out into the void, the backs of my eyelids burst into a kaleidoscope of colors. Looking across the cabin at the pilot, I see Siamese twins, two heads on one body fighting for control of the stick. Which face is the real pilot? Could this be a psychic projection of their battle for control of the plane? They must have chosen together to drape a dirty, disgusting jacket over their bodies. The jacket looks like the skin of an obese man skinned and then painted with a questionable curry brown. The dirty brown color bleeds across the fabric, seeping into and staining the brown leather collar and cuffs of the jacket. Their curse is to fight in the sky forever.

 

Despite my increased muscle mass, I grow weaker. The landing gear, which once supported me like a mother’s buoy, is now nothing more than a simple trapeze bar suspended above the endless sea of fatigue. I can no longer catch any seagulls. I notice that there is no camera attached to their beak. My muscles melt to compensate for the tension in the heart while the constant air currents batter me from every direction and my head spins. The mountainsides are now nothing but tiny rock beads, not worthy of a single thought. The sky swirls above me and does its best to batter me into cloudy oblivion. The sun seems to be shrinking in its effort to evaporate my puddle. It looks like a tiny red dot in the distance – or is it a single bead of sweat?

 

A volcano whose dirty crater expands and retracts with regularity. I tell my muscles: Take care of the annihilation while we dissolve for as long as it takes. We will kill a village, a school, and three cows, in that order. The last step will be to embrace the pilot. And bite her on both sides of her neck, which could present a challenge. The rest will be easy.

 

Two hours later

 

On a beach, the sand is like a thousand needles piercing the skin. The water is so cold and sharp that it gashes the body. A man on the beach cuts chunks of ice from the water. He offers them to the huddling bodybuilder, who has been hovering in the air for hours. The huddling bodybuilder is grateful for the chunks of ice, but the cold is unbearable.