April
Hunter
Ray's Elephants
by Martin
Rutley
It
was late Saturday night when they brought me in. Strapped to a stretcher,
disinfectant smeared into the corners of my eyes. Six of them, dressed
identically in the green and grey of the company uniform, the smell
of petroleum in their greasy sideburns.
They asked me what kind of a man sniffed stain remover while masturbating
to Pete Burns on his bedroom floor? Hadn't I noticed the pre-cancerous
cells in my liver? Didn't I suspect my girlfriend was fucking the
I.T. guy from data capture? Who cut my 'gooky fucking hair?' Didn't
I realise those idiots in the CIA couldn't work a soda machine?
This wasn't a dissection of what made me tick ... they didn't give
a shit about the ins and outs of a rodent like me. This was an institution
at play - a muscle, too long at rest, flexing itself.
I was beaten into the early hours of the morning - a solid workout
for the boys on nightshift. Each of them put in his fair share, no
slacking or slipping off for a quick cigarette in the reading room.
These boys were keen.
Hunter Ray continued long after the others had had their fill. Of
the six, his blows landed hardest. He liked to strike with the heel
of his boot, displaying an obvious bias towards the lower spinal region.
The 'Hunter Ray heel kick', I christened it - a signature manoeuvre
none of the others had attempted.
I gave them everything ... a schematic of my habits, my tendencies.
I told them I'd seen elephants with bombs strapped to their heads,
walking up and down crowded shopping malls at Christmas - children
pulling at their ears, hitching each other up onto their backs. I
gave them directions to Statue Island, to the palace of the blue goddess,
'Katrina'.
This pleased them. They moved away from me, gathering into a small
circle. A phone call was made. Following this, five of the six filed
noiselessly out of the room.
"F-f- fucksentimentality." said Hunter Ray, kneeling beside
me.
Hunter Ray told me he was a killer of some reputation. He said he
knew no other way ... that he'd risen to the highest ranks of the
corporation because of his willingness to finish the job.
With both hands, he opened my eyes big and wide. "The schizophrenic
presents a genuine problem, perhaps the last of our age."
Casually, I recalled how the others had left the room. Not as separate,
individual entities, but as one ... joined at the hip, at the neck
... its hairless mandibles held high in the air.
"Your elephants exist," said Hunter Ray finally.
Then came the truth, inextricable from the soft light that flooded
my eyes - my elephants, as I had always known, were not mine, but
Hunter Ray's.
