Crazy Slope
Contemplation for the Mentalist
"Khatot!" he cried. Not maybe cried, cried. The kind you couldn't ignore. Nobody knew what he was saying or where his words were going but people listened like swans to bread. For he was Slope, the finest - defined as 'only' in these modern times - toymaker in town. Yet no one ever visited. The rust on his door printed on the colour of his clothes as he would sit in his dying armchair staring at his wide feet. Why so wide, when my nose is so small? He asked. Most nights he would be reading but during the day his business was toys. When business was slow, he would sell stories to the press. When it was only labelled 'gossip', why was he to care if one more egg was thrown at his window? He made omelettes the next day and kicked his boots aside as he tucked in.
Justice wasn't very important here, in this town where a man calling "Khatot" was the latest ingredient to put into the fish. Sometimes he would shout "No More!", many assumed it to be a cousin. Then again, their assumptions meant little. "They're just nose-picking barrell-barging nicklepitts!" Slope would shout outside his chimney. Losing several cells that transported oxygen to his frail skin in the numbing cold meant that his laughing patience would be greeted by government officials smashing up the country. "They eat my green and I piss on their hats!" was one of his phrases that, amidst confusion, the public seemed to have a general idea about.
"I had an old hooter once," he scolded his throat one evening, "could bark for miles. could sing too. could sing the pebbles off the shore and the shore off the earth" a trace of a smile freckled his skin. His eyes moved down from the mirror and glared at his fists like an enemy. "What you fistin' up for?" his bones seemed to shiver as his frightened fist tipped over the only mirror he owned. It didn't smash, "I would eat the glass" he spat, picking it up with what bone was left in his hand. Slope furiously threw himself at the wall many times that night, like it was his fault.
Walking into town the next day was like gathering attention to a war victim. Nobody stopped to ask why his fingers were curled and broken. "Her breath was like icy shards! Like glaciers in the snow! It stole my image! It stole it." Again, nobody approached him. Everyone knew he was present, of course. The antique smell of Slope and the ripe smell of blood informed all who lived nearby that they would starve a day. "She was a whore! Like California sin!" his elbow was pointed at every man, woman and child that thrice looked at him. He didn't buy anything that day and was only stopped once by a bearded man that begged him good morning. "Oh I do thank ya for your holy modest honor!" his shiny eyes digging at the man's face for an expression that didn't wreck his mood. Inevitably, he couldn't find one and glued his target to a pregnant woman that was standing by the road, gleaming the sky like something sparkly was going to fall from it.
"Miss Vashti" was all he said.
"Elvis Slope, is it?" she replied with a vacant expression.
"At your service. I heard you were looking for a qualified toymaker"
"And you fit the bill?"
"Perfectly"
She gave him a look at that moment, like she had changed position on him and was contemplating an escape.
"Very good then. I'll have to stop by your uh, workshop."
Slope stalked away shortly after. He learned a long time ago that madness and business didn't mix, his thoughts were saved and stored away until the next night came by. When another mirror would yelp timidly at his touch.
Justice wasn't very important here, in this town where a man calling "Khatot" was the latest ingredient to put into the fish. Sometimes he would shout "No More!", many assumed it to be a cousin. Then again, their assumptions meant little. "They're just nose-picking barrell-barging nicklepitts!" Slope would shout outside his chimney. Losing several cells that transported oxygen to his frail skin in the numbing cold meant that his laughing patience would be greeted by government officials smashing up the country. "They eat my green and I piss on their hats!" was one of his phrases that, amidst confusion, the public seemed to have a general idea about.
"I had an old hooter once," he scolded his throat one evening, "could bark for miles. could sing too. could sing the pebbles off the shore and the shore off the earth" a trace of a smile freckled his skin. His eyes moved down from the mirror and glared at his fists like an enemy. "What you fistin' up for?" his bones seemed to shiver as his frightened fist tipped over the only mirror he owned. It didn't smash, "I would eat the glass" he spat, picking it up with what bone was left in his hand. Slope furiously threw himself at the wall many times that night, like it was his fault.
Walking into town the next day was like gathering attention to a war victim. Nobody stopped to ask why his fingers were curled and broken. "Her breath was like icy shards! Like glaciers in the snow! It stole my image! It stole it." Again, nobody approached him. Everyone knew he was present, of course. The antique smell of Slope and the ripe smell of blood informed all who lived nearby that they would starve a day. "She was a whore! Like California sin!" his elbow was pointed at every man, woman and child that thrice looked at him. He didn't buy anything that day and was only stopped once by a bearded man that begged him good morning. "Oh I do thank ya for your holy modest honor!" his shiny eyes digging at the man's face for an expression that didn't wreck his mood. Inevitably, he couldn't find one and glued his target to a pregnant woman that was standing by the road, gleaming the sky like something sparkly was going to fall from it.
"Miss Vashti" was all he said.
"Elvis Slope, is it?" she replied with a vacant expression.
"At your service. I heard you were looking for a qualified toymaker"
"And you fit the bill?"
"Perfectly"
She gave him a look at that moment, like she had changed position on him and was contemplating an escape.
"Very good then. I'll have to stop by your uh, workshop."
Slope stalked away shortly after. He learned a long time ago that madness and business didn't mix, his thoughts were saved and stored away until the next night came by. When another mirror would yelp timidly at his touch.