Bleu Cheese Ensign

A Story by Abishai100

An Earthling 'prince' narrates his own incomplete-distances reading(s) for fathers-sons 'dialysis' bound for a psyche-haunting examination in hospitality-horrors.

An adaptation of Kubrick's atmospheric-rich re-presentation of the psyche-dialysis haunting masterpiece The Shining (Stephen King), which I think you'll like,

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Let me tell you my own story. My name's Amlan Satan, and I'd become a James Bond character in the world of blood-diamond operations in the Western world of smugglers-highways infiltrations/IQ for eco-capitalism super vision and was afforded a special hotel-management retirement view where I'd begin working on my great novel about my early years with my troubled/alcoholic father (Emit) from whom I'd developed a special 'uncanny-knack' for interceptions-wit(s) for that resilience in emotions and Romanticism in our Selfie-culture of those incomplete-distances readings for lifestyle-drawn immortality-consciousness. That's why I started seeing ghosts, not Facebook like.

The world of blood-diamond intelligence is no small park-walk, even using water-guns filled with acid for bank-box burns with street-theater media-stunt performance claims for bank-treasure storages insurance 'arts' for street-journals or glass-animal toys placement/swap acts for eco-capitalism story-claims, but my James Bond work had yielded a special earned retirement view to overlook a special hotel in North America, in which my writing about fathers-sons 'motives' would draw out of me any 'ghostly' memory of the darkness of working as a 'ninja-thief' for incomplete-lines for capitalism-race 'chess-stalemate' thinking (for the Ego!).

HOTEL MANAGER: We're so pleased it's you, 'Mr. Bond' (now).

ME (Amlan Satan): Who doesn't love James Bond, right?

MANAGER: We've everything a man like you would need for this keep now.

ME: Happy retirement!

MANAGER: You've brought your own aquatics, mini-aquarium?
ME: Why not (bureaucracy-art!).

I started typing, and I started falling for the lady-concierge (Esmerelda), and I wrote about my Homeland-Jersey prototype-suburbia small-town suburbia (Echelon) home-life with troubled/alcoholic father (Emit), where I'd witness him in fits-of-rage talking (loosely!) about mice and bleu-cheese.

EMIT: "I'll keep 10 Bleu-cheese cans placed on the carpet, for damned mice!

ME: "You're speaking like a crazy-man, daddy!"

EMIT: "Shut up...this Earth concerns actual depression; we need heroes/Hell!"

ME: "Sure, daddy...brains for dough."

As I began my hotel-keep in-stay writing 'examination' about fathers-sons values and meditated on James Bond consciousness and thought about that Pulitzer I'd earn, and my new lady-love (Esmerelda), I couldn't get daddy-image out of my damned dough-brain(s), and I started seeing ghosts in the hotel, only it wasn't Hamlet I'd been conceiving...but the Prince of Darkness.

One night, while wandering through the Hotel, I came into witness to a ghost-lady, quite young with raven-black hair, and who insisted I 'negotiate' my courtship of Esmerelda. I'd have to depart from her or she'd come into harm's way, perhaps by ghost-suggestions of my memoirs of daddy (Emit) that'd force me to come 'undone' with Esmerelda. I was shocked and in awe but skeptical, but the ghost-lady 'gifted' me a treasure-ring as a promise-vow that she wasn't being inaccurate or incompletely-reading (hmmm). This wasn't Facebook like (at all).

I thought about my youth-years staring out my window and dreaming of escape or adventure, which I'd eventually train for and earn, and I thought about this new ghost-message delivered by that eerie and shocking ghost-lady in the Hotel that was to be my comfort-retirement view for writer's journals, and I wondered if my past and my present and my future were all (somehow/suddenly) in omensville (damn). This was not photo-synthesis for the Ego.

GHOST-LADY: Remember the mice (Emit)?
SATAN (Me): I recount Bleu-cheese...Esmerelda likes it!
GHOST-LADY: You might think of Mighty Mouse, darling.
SATAN: Your 'claim' is that I might not offer pizza with bleu-cheese.
GHOST-LADY: Don't take my omen lightly, Mr. Amlan Satan.
SATAN: Because you're a messenger of the darkness, right?
GHOST-LADY: You just might throw bleu-cheese at Esmerelda's face!
SATAN: I'm to simply vanish...from the Earth-face, eh?
GHOST-LADY: You'll be glad you did...for hermitage...escape from Emit.
SATAN: You're a punisher, ghost-lady; my fathers-sons writing is medicine.
GHOST-LADY: You'll fail, for the Western banks of superstitions-agitations.
SATAN: I'll find another Hotel, for keeps...take Esmerelda with me (huh?).
GHOST-LADY: I'll follow you (two).
SATAN: Damn...where will I go?
GHOST-LADY: Chase-away Esmerelda...and stay here with us (Facebook-like).

SATAN: Damn...where will I go?

So, I chased-away Esmerelda. I became a consumerism-superstitions writer and won the Pulitzer. Now I expose this Realism in a time-capsule re-telling which future-world archaeologists to make for 'discovery' in the tangles/dreads of manmade bureaucracy Hell, and I've included a special sportsmanship-culture 'trophy' item of Bowl-revenue consciousness for arts. Perchance I think Esmerelda's descendants will find it, and my story, this time-capsule, freeing my soul from the Hotel...and even Emit (ha).

Don't believe me? You (maybe) think this is simplified 21st-Century Earthling incomplete-distances readings for a man-of-bureaus and Hell (self-made/realized/fantasized!). However, my tale's real, and it's no GI-Joe park-walk either. It concerns the human consciousness condition of life-drawn 'socialized' dialysis...for Heaven. Thanx for reading (and good-luck for all your American Dream or dowry empire endeavors).