The Untitled Man: Chapters 1,2, & 3

Chapter 1

Sex had become an escape for our Protagonist who shall remain nameless for the time being. He was a perverted bastard that lived in fantasy and delusion because all was possible there. In the realm of phantasmagorical lust, he was absolved of the world. The poor fool had become tormented by a certain, illusory composite of a woman that was no more. She had eyes that were emeralds and serpents crawled from underneath a yoke dress of pure white and crimson. She wore an ornate crown of hands on her head and, extending outwards, from that crown, were tulips colored in the same glimmering emerald of her eyes. Her hands belonged to the spurs of a rooster and they dripped blood.

With each passing day, fantasy bled into reality. She took a spellbinding hold over the mind of our little Protagonist and he masturbated. He thought of undressing her and showering her with soapy water of lavender. He wanted her to pluck his soul from his body as if it were a feather.

This enigmatic man, a Herculean sort of almost 2 meters, was once a marvelous adventurer, alongside the mercurial Rodrigues Otto Dutchman, or simply “The Dutchman” as he was known by most. The duo had been feared across the seven seas— few had dared to feel the venomous rage behind the force of their blades. However, such a life had been largely forgotten by our Protagonist, who now possessed the wandering, aimless aura of a lost dog. It was as if God had clawed the beauty of his once powerful soul and wrapped the remnants in the flesh of an indecent man.

Horrified, Rodrigues Otto Dutchman had come to the aid of The Protagonist and used witchcraft to raise our hero from the dead and release the hold of the lovely woman with emeralds for eyes… but it was all in vain. It only prompted The Protagonist to boldly declare his allegiance to the woman. The Dutchman was perplexed and saddened by it all— being that they had become inexorably bound though adventure. They had seen great, bountiful, gigantesque women that walked the oceans of Antarctica. They saw forgotten souls cursed to inhabit certain islands in the Pacific for all eternity. They saw the water nymphs of the Mediterranean… in The Dutchman’s mind he could not fathom that his brother-in-arms… his dear friend… his Ἀχάτης… could choose this thing over him.

The Protagonist and his Xochiquetzal plotted against The Dutchman and all who stood with him as they roamed the mountains of Arizona. Our hero… and if the reader does not mind, we shall continue to refer to The Protagonist with this moniker as well… became transmuted by his woman. His clothing disintegrated and from his head grew a wonderful palace… miniature figurines of regal qualities sprouted like little plants. Talismans of beaded gold covered his feet and forearms. The emerald-eyed ebbed her body, such as the waves of Hirohige, and two lovers fucked each other— over and over again. The mountains of Arizona catapulted themselves into the sky and floated as if they were buoyant pyramids.

To fall in love… it is the single most powerful force in all of the cosmos. It creates what is not, but could or would have been: it is a counterfactual and the reason why Archimedes fell to the floor clasping his heart in pain— just as he had constructed a machine of levers that could move the world. It is why Socrates became known as a great threat to democracy… so much so that he was forced to drink hemlock. Both of these fellows, at their respective times, had fallen in love with the same Greek dame of Exarchopoulos: a woman with luminescent skin similar to the odalisques of Ingres of Boucher and a rather robust posterior.

Exarchopoulos had been unaware of her allure and payed not a single glance to men when it concerned sex… it was the same with Archimedes and Socrates. She was a woman that worked as a blacksmith— bending the metals of the Earth to her will. Archimedes created machines that were ages ahead of his time and Socrates simply walked around asking questions to all— he was regarded as a only a great philosopher and not a harbinger of doom. These remarkable people drank together and threw banquets celebrating each other and their achievements— they never thought lasciviously about one another. It did not register with Archimedes or Socrates that Exarchopoulos was a beautiful dame and it did not register with Exarchopoulos that Archimedes or Socrates were beautiful men.

During the time of these fellows, women, men, and everything-in-between, lived together. Their society was so engrossed in their work that they touched the sun— only to be incinerated. Their eventual destruction and demise would be connected to their exposure to the complex ideas of consummating love. This would drive Archimedes, Socrates, and Exarchopoulos to literal pits of madness where they would consume leaves of the locust grove for eternity— on a certain island in the Pacific Ocean— ignoring all of their wonderful work and delivering themselves to utter apathy.

The Protagonist and his dame were interwoven and none could disturb them in the floating mountains of Maricopa County. They were degenerating in much the same way that the aforementioned souls had. The Dutchman, as he gazed into the swirling obelisk of the San Francisco storm, had never been exposed to the feeling of falling in love and it had remained an eternal mystery for the entirety of his life. Inexplicably, he desired nothing more than for The Protagonist to return to his side. He wanted to do something to show how much he cared and loved him… but being that these god-like thoughts were simply nonexistent in his soul… he suffered and his melancholic anguish was palpable as he jumped off the The Golden Gate Bridge.

Chapter 2

The year was 1995 and the beginning of this tall tale of golden, dancing yard. Our hero enters the pathos of existence as a quiet, unassuming soul. He learns to brush his teeth and wash his face by his father Michel Echeveria, a perennially dreaming man of 35, that would die soon. Despite his home lacking many common amenities, Michel taught our hero that to be a well-groomed, exceptional, little daisy of some kind was a hallmark of existence. One could not tell that they were homeless or that they secretly suffered. These things were cleverly hidden and washed away by the penetrating creams of facial cleansers and bars of soap.

Michel spoke greatly of our hero’s mother— a woman named Andrea Castavillas who had died giving birth to our hero at the age of 60. When Andrea had heard her parents whispering that she was going to be wed to their neighbor, Luis, she escaped to New York City at the age of 16 by sneaking aboard a plane— just before it took off. She hid inside the wheel-well of the New York-bound flight and the compartment of the plane opened mid-air… her dangling body was captured by a photographer and had been framed by Michel. He had told this story, among many others, numerous times— and our hero was always regaled. Michel would always point proudly at the photograph.

Michel was very much like a young boy when he spoke of Andrea and regarded her with the splendor of a child— incapable of seeing faults or shortcomings. Andrea was the greatest woman he had ever known and Michel instilled in The Protagonist from a young age of the importance of adventure and daring. This constant need to explore, as Michel put it, was the meaning of life.

Our hero would largely raise himself as his father would escape to Los Angeles for large periods of time to pursue fame. They lived on a small shack on the beaches of Acapulco, Mexico and the lanky, handsome child was known by the poor of Acapulco, who had been largely relegated to the outskirts of the diamond, glimmering beaches, while the torrents of luxury hotels towered. He spoke openly with them and they trusted and doted over our hero because he was an endearing, little twit that charmed them with his dead-pan, neutral way of speaking.

The constellation of Venus could be seen in the Eastern sky and it brought tears to the eyes of The Protagonist who longed, now, more-than-ever, for something indescribable… a certain feeling… a jewel… money… as our hero mulled over these things they did not satisfy him. He suddenly stood and ran for the mountains, as Ramon, a bully and a pimp, had spotted the ruminating Protagonist. As he ran for his life, he recalled his fathers vivid stories concerning his mother and he created her in his mind.

Andrea Castavillas had been a Manhattan socialite and positively enrapturing. Michel Echeveria, at the time, was intertwined with the work at a Mexican restaurant in Hermosillo, Sonora. He made potent frozen margaritas of sumptuous strawberry and mango and could pair spirits together with remarkable, culinary ease. He was unaware of his talents and regarded his life with emotional neutrality. He had met Andrea when she walked into his restaurant appearing with an empire waist dress of flowing khaki that cascaded down her body. The sleeves were Bishop shaped and long sleeved—wrapping around arms that were crystalline in their structure. She also had big titties that bounced when she walked— catching the Mexican eyes of Michel.

“Hello, hello… how you doing today?”

“I’m splendid… thank you for asking.”

Sensing the sordid, petulant nature of the woman, Michel pulled a frozen margarita of peach from a fridge. It had been spiked with tequila and vodka. It bore bountiful sugar and a lime was perched on the rim. It’s juice ran down the icy glass.

“For you… on the house. What can I get you today?”

Andrea laughed with delight in that feminine sort of way that women do when they’ve been pleasantly surprised. She drank the ἀμβροσία and spoke openly with Michel far too quickly and electrified the lad.

“What’s your name?”

“Michel… Echeveria Michel.

“My name is Andrea… Castavillas. I am from New York City and—I have to say… Michel… that I love and adore the good people such as yourself that work in restaurants.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, I mean it. I worked in Studio 54 and plenty of other bars and I come from this world Michel.” Andrea waved her Mayan arms made of maize at the bustling Hermosillo restaurant where waiters walked with levity to tables of patrons— balancing multiple Mexican dishes on the entirety of their arms— never once a spilling a grain of rice.

“I’ve served the best rockers of the times like Jimmy Page and Jimmy Hendrix. They were wonderful, wonderful people and I’ve also served the scum of the world!” There was a boiling, ardent passion in Andrea’s words as if something had happened to her—early in the day— and it was now beginning to trickle into her words.

“It sound like you’ve led quite a life.”

Our hero created his fictitious story within the chasm of his powerful imagination and Ramon— sensing that his prey had lost focus— drew his blade and delivered a killing blow that was suddenly blocked by the glinting saber of Michel. His eyes betrayed not the slightest of emotion as he returned Ramon’s attack— ten-fold— leaving the grifter with a gash in his chest. He would disappear to Arizona and ultimately be murdered under different circumstances. For now, he was left in a seeming state of writhing pain, while Michel, the perennial dreamer, returning from the devilish city of Los Angeles, scooped his child into his arms as they retreated back to their hut.

Chapter 3

“I knew him well and… I loved him. We had circumnavigated The Cape of Good Hope just as Bartolomeu Diaz had done some many decades ago. We fought the dragons of Peru… we were almost killed by a… basilisk of some kind… that lives in The Mariana Trench. Many things exist in the waters of Earth… and people are completely unaware of them.”

Rodrigues Otto Dutchman sat in a leather chair with his legs crossed and smoked a hand-rolled cigarette of high-quality tobacco from the foothills of North Carolina. He wore grey trousers, a bespoke white shirt crafted by a specific tailor from somewhere in San Francisco, a Cartier watch, and his hair was impeccably combed to the side revealing a perfect part. He was beautiful and had hooded, dark-brown eyes.

“How did you feel when he left?”

The therapist’s voice was gently inquisitive and invited open conversation. He was excellent at his job and renowned in his field— having published several academic journals and lectured at countless universities. However, the therapist found The Dutchman to be an indecipherable mess of emotions and had difficulty seeing through him. He had been seeing him for a year and only until recently had he even spoken about The Protagonist. He was beginning to think that The Dutchman suffered from a personality disorder of some kind.

“I felt absolutely crushed. It had come out of such left field… we had always been in San Francisco. We started as petty cooks and would always talk with excitement about Thor Heyerdahl and Peter Freuchen and how, one day, we would have grand tales of our own.”

Michel’s voice faltered several times as he recalled with vivid detail how The Protagonist had left him.

These two men had known each other, since the days The Protagonist would wander the streets of San Francisco alone. After our hero’s encounter with Ramon, Michel decided he would send his son to San Francisco with the last modicum of money he had to his name. The Protagonist was sent to an old watchtower on Yerba Buena Island where a forgotten room waited for him. Michel would stay in Acapulco and be bested by Ramon, who, before escaping to Arizona, would catch Michel sleeping in his hut— and being without his blade… he could only spit blood at Ramon and mock him as Ramon sunk his knife deeper into his heart. The perennial dreamer died that night— having never achieved fame. But, true to his word and honoring the wonderful Andrea, his only love, he died as an adventurer.

Naturally intelligent and rather perceptive, The Dutchman had spotted a shadowy figure from his balcony as he discussed business plans with Seymour Franklin— an individual who shall be discussed in later parts of this story. The Protagonist smoked a cigarette as he watched the night fog befall his newfound home. He stood watching the empty ocean of San Francisco on the archipelago of Yerba Buena. Thick vines of Sisyphean boulders piled atop each other creating the tallest of mountains and volcanoes and rocks could be seen constantly tumbling to the ocean floor. Lighting constantly struck the island and it thrived— it could not be burnt or destroyed. Our hero thought of his father and continued to smoke his tobacco.

“Seymour our discussion shall be postponed as a nefarious figure whom I suspect has come to murder me is within my line of sight. I bid you adieu… and please make use of everything I have to offer in my home.”

The Dutchman exited his apartment leaving Seymour with not the slightest worry or confusion over the abrupt end of their conversation.

“You there! I urge you to reveal yourself to me swine. Why have you come to this island?”

The Dutchman and our hero, both the same age of of 16, existed on two completely ends of the torrents of life. The Dutchman came from the world of Acapulco resorts and had lived a life of eternal wealth in many regards. Our hero came from squalor and had never had much of anything. Nonetheless, they were entirely the same. If The Dutchman had been anyone else, he’d be The Protagonist. If The Protagonist had been anyone else, he’d be The Dutchman.

“Why should I reveal myself to you? I don’t feel like it.”

It was this biting tone that had provoked the fury of Ramon and countless other bully’s from the homeless encampments of Acapulco. Our hero’s flippant eyes and sardonic words— dripping with disbelief towards anyone that questioned or attacked him— compelled all towards violence.

The Dutchman raised his arm powerfully like a conductor and pulled The Protagonist close to him and, like the gravitation pull of planets, our hero flew towards the capricious Dutchman— just as he had pulled at the hilt of his blade… his father’s blade of glinting, black obsidian.

“So, you have a blade of obsidian… how frank and pithy of you! You warrior spirit shows bare resiliency of the highest order.”

The Dutchman forced our hero to look at the walking thunder that coursed through the blades of grass… they took the shape of goddesses of the ancient Californian variety. They sprouted like muses of Titian and they took the shape of a crystallized blade… it was The Dutchman’s. The Dutchman hold was broken by the torturous blade of Michel that wailed for it’s owner for he was no more. Blood flowed into the Acapulco sands of lustrous dreams and the evil blade so gay and pretty in the night of Yerba Buena tore the Dutchman’s trickery as if it were a woven band of silk textile. The earth of Yerba Buena grew around them— clinging to the demons hungrily. Thousands upon thousands of tulips covered them and were repeatedly burnt and fried.

Our hero explained he could not say why he had arrived at Yerba Buena or how his father had managed to find such a place. They dueled repeatedly and our hero saw flashes of vibrant, violent blotches of color in his eyes that appeared to resemble pain and suffering, They appeared in shades of alabaster, vermillion, and crimson— it was powerfully, rich color that took the shapes of the tulip… the daisy… the crimson spider lily. These were the inklings of power and it’s many unnamed secrets… so infectiously divine.

Our debonair Dutchman, now, spoke with Dr. Alistair Huxley and recounted all of this, along with the untimely departure of our hero from San Francisco.

“He comes to me in my study… I come to find out he has been fired from my restaurant, La Comida Chihuahuense, and Jorge, my manager that I leave in charge there, regales me with stories on his ineptitude: he’s dropping plates of food—repeatedly—to the point that it is comical, he is getting into verbal fights with Jorge, and the cooks and even the waitresses are becoming tired of him.”

The Dutchman’s amber eyes glowed with ravenous rage and afición. The therapist was silent and only listened. The reader must understand that the words of Jorge were considered as insolence and even indignari on some level. The Protagonist had been a chef at La Comida Chihuahuense, was an exceptionally adept and skillful worker that had provoked awe from many— including Jorge.

As the cursed, seeping realization became clear that this insect was insulting The Protagonist as well as he— The Dutchman… he drew his saber of gleaming diamond, perfectly crystallized by an Irish monk, and walked to the home of Jorge.

“Just before I’m about to leave… who do I see? Speak of the devil and he shall appear. I’m utterly convinced it is Jorge, so I cut him down with all my might!”

Much to the chagrin of The Dutchman, it was not Jorge, but, rather, The Protagonist who, upon seeing the deathly white prism, immediately drew his saber and gently parried the blow just as The Count of Monte Cristo would have done. The blast of the blow cut into the mountain of Yerba Buena Island and blew a chunk off The Juana Ines, the same galleon used to undertake countless adventures.

Juxtaposed with the memory of meeting The Protagonist, all those years ago, The Dutchman, now, as he spoke with the therapist, as well as then, seeing that he had raised his blade against The Protagonist, twice, cried silently.

“I didn’t know what to say. Imagine doing such a thing? I began blubbering some pathetic apology and he looks at me and says,

“Dutchman, I leave tonight… I do now know where I will leave to, but I leave tonight. I thank you for all you’ve done for me and just know… that I will always love you.”

“What was I to say? I thought that I had hurt him or offended him. He had to have known that I did not mean it. I explained to him the fiasco with Jorge and he confirmed that Jorge was not lying.”

“He tells me that he’s not joking with me and that he can’t be seen with me anymore and that he can’t be an explorer or adventurer… whatever word you’d like to use… and that he’s decided to move to Tempe, Arizona.”

The Dutchman face, consumed by hatred, spat the word of “Tempe” out as he detested the peaceful suburb of Phoenix for lacking a missing vitality that he perceived. For The Dutchman, without vitality there can only be death and Tempe was the equivalent of our hero saying, “Dutchman, I have gone to kill myself.”

He left that day with his therapist feeling pensive and thought of visiting Tempe. He fell into the arms of his lover in Eureka Valley and smoked his North Carolina cigarettes. After that, he sat completely naked and in a curved, wicker chair on his patio drinking a marvelous cup of French Press coffee.

Dr. Alistair Huxley became fascinated by The Dutchman and he began to write feverishly on a typewriter. He did this when his thoughts could not be contained and, after hearing The Dutchman truly speak, they ran rampant causing his body to tremble with excitement. To Dr. Huxley, The Dutchman and The Protagonist were characters of Εὐριπίδης, and a rival was yet to appear… somebody so gloriously matched, in every way, that their inevitable clash with one of the aforementioned souls would be a tour de force.