I wish Jeb would stop yelling

I wish Jeb would stop yelling. No one’s going to hear him. But he’s making me crazy with that. He can’t be so tired already. I haven’t even gotten to the third speed yet and it’s only been fifteen minutes. It’s a lame punishment, really. I just handcuffed his forearms to the treadmill and have him running—extremely unimaginative, I know, but whatever.

“You are Ugly,” I repeat to him, raising my voice a little to compete with his screaming. He’s sweating. Very Ugly. “Aren’t you? Your features are not good enough to be on anyone. You shouldn’t wish them on an ant.”

“I know!” he yelled, huffing and puffing and making noises in general. He’s never needed to be punished before. Now that he does, he can’t take it. Hypocritical, I think. “I know!” His sweat is beginning to mix with his tears. Now he’s yelling something some nonsense about his eyes burning.

“So tell me, what will you do when I decide to lift your punishment?” I ask. I have to be assured that he won’t go turn on me.

“I will thank you!” Jeb was starting to tremble. Wow, he’s afraid. “For opening my eyes!” He continued running, beginning to breathe raggedly and his voice not as strong as it was.

“And what am I to you?” I ask, just to be sure that he knows.

“The Creator!” he yells. I watch as he yelps from the salty sweat in his eyes. “My Master! The Ugly Lord!”

At least he is learning a lesson in respect out of this. I let it go on for five more minutes for reinforcement. He’s given up making noise and is simply trying to get through it. Dedication. I like it. When I uncuff him, he rubs his wrists and runs straight past me and out of the door. He didn’t even thank me. I let it go, naturally. I think I’m too generous. I would later learn that he avoids me as if his life depended on it. It must be awkward for him to have to face me after needing to be disciplined.

After he is gone, I make my way to the couch in the living room and take my map up from the coffee table. I begin to trace over my routes again and add more notes. The subway is an underground city in and of itself. It has people, shelter (I have stayed in the subway once when I lied to my grandfather and told him I would be at Jeb’s house), and sellers (I once brought a full-course meal from a man in a subway station).

My grandfather wouldn’t come home for quite some time, so I can be in and out of the house before he gets back. And if he does happen to get in before I do, what’s he going to do? Yell at me? His voice is raspy already so he’ll wind up choking himself. Beat me? He’s entirely too old to hit hard enough or even catch me if I choose to jog to the other end of the room. He’s helpless. The only reason he isn’t in a nursing home is because I need the freedom that his presence brings at my age; the ability to go in and out whenever I please and do what I want. He says he wouldn’t go to one because of the stories he hears on the news. I know he is only here because he knows that the work I’m doing will revolutionize the world.

I’ve had visions and dreams alike. I know that the time will come when the entire world is Ugly. This way I can rule over everyone with justness and lead the world into prosperity. It is my destiny, and the subway is the key to unlocking it. I’ve felt It. Somewhere in the New York subways, there is a Force that only I can control that will change the world. It is constantly moving and hiding and watching. Even as a small child I’ve noticed It. A small portion of It is already inside me. It lets me track the larger part of the Force—like a child yearning for its mother and instinctively knowing where to find her.

Sometimes the chases get a little crazy. Like once when I was on the G train between two stations and the Force kept going back and forth between them, making me chase it by getting off and waiting on the train going back and then the other and so forth. I know I’m close to It though. And I can’t wait until I catch It. One day I would be immortal. I would have the power I needed to lead the world into gloriousness. I scribble some more notes onto the map.

I have to remember to ask the rats to plug up their holes so the Force can’t escape me through them. I figure that’s what It’s been doing. I take pride in my shorthand. I’m quite aware that taken out of context, it would make me look like a crazy serial killer, but whatever.

They already know – The mice are aware that I am going to rule their subways soon.

I can save them – The mice are afraid that I will use the Force to do something horrible. I wouldn’t think such a thing; in fact, the Force is the reason their life spans are so short. If the Force can shorten it then it can longen it.

They aren’t doing the right thing so they must be punished – I am a fair man, but anyone or anything who threatens justice must be stopped.

They will have to answer to me when I rule – Duh.

Okay… Now I need to find a new lackey. Jeb is gone from my services until he comes back of his own free will after learning the truth. I’ve told this to him before – the entire story. He just doesn’t understand the seriousness of it all. Oh well. He’s going to go around trying to appeal to the non-Ugly people. He’s going to get himself hurt. Too bad.

“What?” I ask sharply. My grandfather is taken aback. He clutches his cane tightly and his fingers go white. I wish he’d stop doing that. It annoys me. He reacts to absolutely everything. He doesn’t know the meaning of subtlety. I avert my eyes and get up. He only wants the couch I was sleeping on because he’s an old bag who’s probably claustrophobic. He can’t handle sitting on the small couch or the recliner. It has to be the big couch. The only couch that would hold me when I want to sleep. It irks me greatly.

It’s about eleven thirty when I go out. The streetlight in front of our house is still out from that time I hit it with a few rocks from my window. It was too bright and I couldn’t get to sleep. I begin to realize how hungry I am. My stomach makes a noise and squirms with gas. Or stomach growling. Whatever. Anyway, I see a woman coming from her car. It’s Mrs. Ann Glow Saxton. (She’s a racist and my grandfather and his friends reckon she changed her name from something that was probably more ethnic. They all figure she’s mixed with something else and is just passing for full whiteness. Grandfather reckons its Cambodian.) She’s such a whore.

When I look at her she clutches her purse. That’s right! The ho has money! I don’t run to her, but I walk pretty fast until I am right up to her—at least a foot away.

“Hi, Missus Annnnnnnn Glow!” I say. “Won’t you give an ethnically and racially poorer youth some cash? I know your company is under pressure from the NAACP as one that is racist just because out of the fifty-hundred or so members of your staff, only eight are non-white—and those are just Mestizos from South America who are just as white as you—” she beams a little “—so I’ll vouch for you to the boys at the Naas’p if you were to give me money right now.”

She smiles. “Oh, no problem,” her voice is extremely high. “How much can I do you for?”

“I don’t know how much the product I want is, just give me your credit card and number and I’ll be on my way. Oh—and come tomorrow you won’t remember this.”

“Of course,” she smiles brighter and goes into her purse. She comes out with a blue card and a piece of paper on which she writes some digits. After that we shake hands we are both on our way.