Fear and Loathing aboard the Pequod

Call me Raoul. There I was, some time ago, on the verge of a revolution. My own personal war with the man I had become and the man I wanted to be. Armed to the teeth with rhetoric and six guns, barrels glowing red with lust, I drew and shot my way out of that place like a great Butch Cassidy trapped in a Bolivian bar, only without the handsome smile. The entire army was there, lined up and clad in their freshly pressed fascist garb, khaki seems to be the preferred color worn by the right wing. Their fearless leader standing tall with an American Bald Eagle hanging limply to his folded forearm, waiting to attack. The feather standing erect on the side of his hat had been quickly plucked from the eagle and used to pick his teeth after he gorged on the tough meat of my youthful idealism. I swear to God, I saw Mussolini wrestling a saddled great white shark with none other than that goddamn Sonny Barger strapped to it. With their boom sticks ready and aimed; pointed at any comfortable spot I might stand, run to, or hide in, I breached the doors of Western constraint, drenched in booze and reeking with a fresh thick coat of eau de ardor. The swinging doors of restriction closed behind me, and creaked. “There’s no turning back now!” I said to myself as I opened fire. BANG! BANG!
It was a time when men like me forgot about necessity and abandoned capitalism in search of something greater, to find the enigmatic self. The slippery contents of this shell that even the wisest of men can’t seem to grip. I went on this journey in hopes that Sharper Image catalogues and Sky Mall magazines would remain dusty and bound in the vast warehouses of the human condition.
Without enough money to even stock my fridge, I set out on what I thought would be my great adventure; the seppuku of my American tendencies. If I were successful, by the end of this safari into the heart of the true freedom, my guts would lay splayed across the sawdust-covered floor of a room I don’t remember, hopefully in some seedy gin bar in village nobody knows. My intestines, in all their digestive glory, would spell out the word freedom in bold and bloody beauty, so large that schools of fish could see it in the reflection of the tiny pupils of seagulls as they passed overhead. The tiny strands of my muscles and ligaments would be flayed so thin they could spell out the entire Declaration of Independence, and should scare away all those not strong or brave enough to follow in my footsteps. It’s in the hopes of discovering that the dear doctor’s hypothesis to be true, that this is “the best of all possible worlds.”
There comes a time, every so often in my life, when I leave. When I turn off the television, get up off the couch, pack socks, pants, and shirts into a drab, olive, canvas duffel bag and walk to the bus stop. I revisit the bus stop when life becomes void of pursuit. The transient condition of the spot sums up the condition of this life, people wait by the dozens in a natural malaise, anesthetized by the engines vibrations and the sweet unholy exhaust until the next stop, where they find nothing. Most recently I found myself wondering what was keeping me here. Saturated in the fat of celebrity gossip that made me want to revive the great practice ritual suicide (never try the kool-aid, it can only go one way) or maybe attempt cannibalism; I’ve caught myself fantasizing about sinking my teeth into the juicy flesh of suburban tank driving soccer mom’s as they walk in and out of Whole Foods carrying bags full of over priced organic milk. I thought maybe there was some convenient way that I could shed the skin of the nine numbers that replaced my name in my adult years, the numbers that strangely enough, were neither social nor secure. Maybe there was some lesson I could learn from a snake or reptile of some sort, and shed the identity that I had, or rather the identity that had me. The lifestyle that I had been accustomed to was decadent and depraved. It deserved my full attention in order for my soul to revert back to the ideal state that was once posed by a great father of this country, the scandalous celebrity of his time, Thomas Jefferson. A man who said that this country gave the human soul the ability to start fresh, but we took a wrong turn somewhere along exploitation boulevard on the road to enlightenment and ended up here; somewhere behind the wheel of a 3 mile per gallon suburban attack vehicle, fully equipped with a small Indonesian boy in the trunk sewing a pair of shoes while we wait at Starbucks for a refill of our soy mocha latte I.V. bags. Those come custom as well.
I found myself walking among illegal immigrants, sitting outside a bodega drinking sweaty Mexican beer, and tapping my foot to some hot fornicating rhythm of guitars and castanets that blasted through a 1986 Sony boom box with a broken and open-mouthed tape deck. I sat with them, and spent the last of my money on rolling tobacco and a six-pack. Heaven help me if I had to go through this without the help of some chemicals. Trucks approached the sidewalk where we sat and filled quickly with the stout half drunk mustached foreigners. They had it better than any of us. No ties to a system that treats us like stepchildren. They had the right idea, a different truck every day. A different life and new opportunities showed themselves every afternoon behind this bodega. I didn’t need to be the man driving the truck, skimming off the top, taking money from these poor yet free souls. Laying tar on the roof of a church is being closer to god, in my opinion, than being inside of it on my knees beneath some sad and bloody Jew ironically worshiped by Christians, asking for him for forgiveness when all I have to do from the roof is look up and wink.

Fear and Loathing aboard the Pequod

Jonathan Acosta-Rubio

New Orleans, United States

  • Artwork Comments 1

Artwork Comments

  • ladyb
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

10% off

for joining the Redbubble mailing list

Receive exclusive deals and awesome artist news and content right to your inbox. Free for your convenience.