Boarding the Crazy Train

People throw the word “crazy” around so casually these days, don’t they?  If you do something hilarious, “Girl, you are so crazy!” or if you are on the evening news for stealing a car and ramming into the local Gas-n-Go, “What was that crazy guy thinking?!” or even if you are bored…”I am going crazy!”

　

Last night I boarded the crazy train, again. I slipped the disc out of the bloody-masked case and slipped it in, shaking my head at my own foolishness. It was late, I was tired, and what better way to relax than to watch Marcus Miller slaughter the foolish sheep and to hear the rich, disturbed voice pour into my ears, choking off my ability to move? Yes. Crazy.

Finishing the movie, I lay down…trying to fall asleep — every time I closed my eyes, a bloody machete came directly toward my eye and I would jump. That fucking machete. What a great night of sleep I had. Thanks a lot, Marcus.

　

The man who is TOK is not a gigantic guy, he’s built well and trim, and I initially looked him up before having seen the movie, but I’ve since forgotten what he looks like except he’s blonde. The mask kind of imprinted in my head; sure I know there’s a guy behind the mask, but it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. There’s every emotion, stripped down and exposed, in one perfect voice designed just for TOK. How can you accurately describe that sound? It hurts to hear it.

I loathe him. I absolutely loathe him. I can’t stay away from him. Such loathing, such hatred and admiration and fear and love and loathing — its a new kind of fear. You know the fire will hurt you, you know it’s hot and that you shouldn’t touch it. Why, then, is your hand extended..? Why are the flames licking your fingertips?

Because of my upbringing, each time I think of a few select scenes, I blanch. Automatic flinch — can’t help it. I see it in my head and immediately I think, “No, that is SO not right…” or “Oh damn that is really really wrong…”

Physically I shook my head, clapped a hand over my mouth…felt tears welling up. You watch a child go through those tortures and you  might champion such an insane beast rising up.

Even if it’s so wrong, even if I flinch, each bit has its place in the horror that is Marcus Miller: The Orphan Killer. It wasn’t meant to be a pretty story.

I would not stand to fight him. I would run.

 

RUN.