Bull River Rampage

I am surrounded by Savannah on all sides, since when? The bachelor beach party went accordingly, the boy’s war on Bush Light and Chatham County ended in triumph. I was on my way back from Tybee Island to catch the Greyhound when I was intercepted by the gauntlet. Ambushed by my friends, was quietly slipped a small square of paper. It is only 10 am, but you know how these things happen. Next, a round of Irish car bomb at Sorry Charlie’s. You know what is next. Whisky shots. Oysters, stone claw crab, more car bombs. Rounds of shots. Now that I am speaking out loud, I totally see how I missed the bus. Savannah’s problem now.   

A 10 am dose really puts a wrench in the works, logistics are now out of the question. A dozen Bull River oysters, car bombs, many shots. This is for the boys. The train barrels down the track and will not stop. More rounds in the chamber while the waiter trembles behind the violent trigger. The humid Georgia heat floods the establishment. Or is it fear? I’ll piss in the sink if I want. At least they were intuitive enough to put the animals outside. Screw drunk, we handed over a few credit cards and I forged a few signatures. A customer copy? Do you think I can read? As we stumble out with our luggage and I look back at a face contorted in relief and confusion. We were gone, but how the hell were we going to make our flights? Good fucking question. This ship goes down together.

You can’t predict the storm, but you can watch the butterfly flutter away in plain sight. We migrate down the street, harassing any family stupid enough not to retreat. We are bellowing sea shanties as we barge through City Market. Plundering art galleries and looting fudge shops. Then one, then all, we are falling down a flight of stairs. Landing flat on a cold concrete floor, we look up at a large door mouse. We know her, and she certainly knows us. We have been here before, many, many, many times. On University Ave, half puking in the toilet. In Salt Lake City, the server yelling at me to stop throwing darts at my friend. Waking up in a Bushwick bar, listening to a woman whose name I never remembered. A drinking establishment, more home than home. This plastic beer cup is waiting for me before I can pay. The same cup, the same place, just like before. Or was this the first time? How familiar all moments seem, a narrow tunnel leading in one direction. There is nowhere to go. The ship goes down, as it always will.

The lonely bar game is just as scared as I am, and this makes me feel better. Sometimes the drink does not take me far enough. More than one couch to build a pillow fort. They are all exactly the same. Except they don’t see the fear that is everywhere, don’t they KNOW? What a pickle they must be in, the fear factor must be acknowledged. Or maybe I am the sucker. Too late for these blind turtles, they better run why they can. But the world rewards this reptile, they are the Pegan Gods of capitalism. The rabbits had seen far too much and besides, they make a great stew. Poor fellas, you and me. I’m so tired of hopping along. I retreat to another game, maybe this one will end it all.

There is a stampede up and out. One of the turtles cracked, or maybe the bar tender with prison tats assaulted the minor. But rabbits I run fast, far way. Do not ask questions here, or anywhere. There are far too many, going far too far. I have discovered beauty in perpetual collapse; the homeless man rips out his eyes out the exact same way the white man beats the black man. Fear floods from all and the dam collapses. Nothing is sacred after genocide. What next? Where is this man from Mars? I’m going to kill that mother fucker.

Crimes are a form of self-expression. The violent assault and rape of our friends to let them know how much we care. An inhalation of illicit substances to tell God that I, the rabbit, am not scared. Trespassing and vandalizing the rich man’s river boat, screaming at the top of our lungs, “Savannah ain’t got shit on me!”. Now they know. In the name of the broken popsicles and the lost marbles, we must rebel. I’m here to tell you to black out on a Tuesday morning or risk your life in the pursuit of speed. Tell the Big Man you know what he is doing to those small rabbits. Quit your job. Who fucking knows, just roll the dice. All I know is I am in Savannah, and I ain’t leaving.