Lost Chapter #4 - The Sound of Building Coffins

Lost Chapter #4: You and Yer Big Goopy Brain

What started as a minor annoyance is now officially full-fledged bothersome.

Don't be so goddamn smug, Dear Reader, 'cause you just got on my wrong side
is what. And that ain't no enviable place to be; no-how, not-now, kung-pow,
brown-cow, and-how, nippity-now, zippity-zow. Ya done slipped up and now
yer innit good.

Think ya got old Jim locked up tight? Think ya got me all figgered out? Think
ya done spotted my 'killey's heel? Well, could be some folks think a whole lot
and never stop to consider much. Betcha never thought 'bout such a thing?
S'posin' not, what with you sitting there holding these damn pages in them
nasty fingers of your'n, readin' hard and thinkin' easy just like always.

You. Thinking this relationship ain't no two way street. Smug is what.

Thinking without proper considerin'. Not knowin' jack-doodly-squat-times-one.

Damn if you ain't just a regular smuggle-dee-bug so and so. Smugbug is what.

Thinkin' you know.

Think I don't know? Think you kin read these words offa page and make
deductions 'bout where I been and where I'm gonna go, what I'm about?
About who THE FUCK I am, even? Puh! Thinking you know All About Jim
Jam Jump just 'cause ya read a chapter with such a title. Thinkin' once you
put the bookmark in and wander off to the toilet that I temporarily cease to
exist, maybe even never really did exist. Well, maybe it ain't exactly the way
you figgered, smugbug. Or maybe it is, but maybe there's somethin' more.
Maybe when the bookmark goes in it's yer own dumb-thinkin' self that stops
bein and not me. Maybe fer me that's exactly how it is.

Maybe without each other aint neither of us fer nothin'. Maybe the book bein'
open is all that either of us got. Maybe ever was. Maybe you n' me need each
other in a way. Two twins sharin' a heart. Like good and evil, like Ida Mae
and Becky.

Yeah, go on. Keep bein' so smug. Bein' smug don't change nothin' and never
will, I 'spect.

What you think you know:

You think ol' Jim Jam Jump is just a diseased fictional varmint pickin' the
pockets of drunks and splattin' innocent rats fer fun and profit. Think I ain't
got a natural sense fer fine music, think I'm some kinda hanger-on to Buddy
Bolden, trine to soak up some glory by hangin' round 'im with too much rye
in my belly, tootin' his worthless horn in the street for a pity blow only ta
make a screechin' bunch o' rat-ghost-drawin' noise.

Thinkin' you know the nature of my double-blink.

Thinkin', also too, that I'm just a twisted up figment of some damn writer's
imagination. Well, let me tell ya, buster, that Maistros fuck don't do nothin'
I don't tell him to. Somethin' he don't accept none-too natural-like, neither.
That's 'cause he just like you. Thinkin' till his brain hurt without never
considerin' much. Not too much, anyway.

What you think I don't know:

Think I can't look straight back atcha when these pages held open, figgerin'
you out just like you think ya got me figgered. Think I can't see yer hair ain't
sittin' on yer head exactly how ya like it. How yer weird lookin' thumbs got a
nail slightly longer on the right one. Clip that damn thing, wouldja? 'Bout ta
make me sick so awful damn close to my eye, sittin' right at the edge of this
page. Yuckety duck hissy-pissy hucklebuck fuckfuckfuckety fuck. You, with
that folded up phone number tucked away, the one without a name written
above or below it, scared to throw it out 'cause it might be important. Well,
I'll tell you what; it is important. Call that number, smugbug. Never know who
might answer. Might be some fictional boy pick up the phone. I await yer call,
right here, right now, Dear Reader. Bein' that you need proof o' what I say.

What I say, Jim.

Thinkin' when the book done closed I can't bother ya no-more-no-how; that
I can't open my own damn book anytime I want and have a peek inta yer own
greasy-pink soul. You, Dear Reader. Thass right.

Presumin' to peek into my own little soul and thinkin' that fact puts you a
step above yers truly. Yers truly, Jim Jam Jump. The fictional boy. Harmless
little wisp of imaginary man. Just a character in a book by a two-bit hack.
Finish reading it or don't; slam it shut, toss it in the trash or pass it to a friend
or sell my cranky psycho ass on Ebay for a dollar and a dime. Fuck you.

Well, if I'm so dang fictional then how is it that yer hearin' me now? Words
don't just appear outta nowhere, Smugbug. Someone talks em. That'd be me.

My words. Right here. Right now. Offa the page and inta yer eyes. Kickin'
holes in yer big goopy brain.

You see me, Smugbug. My dreams is stupid and thin, my future bleak, the
fabric of my bein' not even fer real. Sure, sure. My methods might be nasty
and mean, ya just might be right about that. But I'm only lookin' out fer
number one like every other son-of-a-gun on God's green earth. Can't get by
in this hard world without such a way. Just like you, is what. Jim Jam Jump
weren't born with no privilege slippin' back on his pink-baby tongue. My
Daddy dead, dead, dead; devil pulled outta my heart by the otherworldly
music of Bolden's horn, this scar over my heart, down and kicked around,
fightin' back the only way I know how, killin' sometimes if I gotta -- and
even if I don't gotta but just feelin' ornery. Got plenty of shame and a tiny
little remorse 'bout all that. Just like you. But just maybe now I be mad
enough to develop a method beyond the random. Modus operandi the coppers
call it. Frequency modulation say me.

I see you too, Dear Reader.

You see that devil lingerin' in me, sure -- but don't be so proud, 'cause I see
one in yer own sweet self. You ain't so pure, Smugbug. You done killed
some rats. You done wronged a friend. You got the taste of blood and went
back for more.

On the sly.

Thinkin' no one looking. You've pissed on innocence; yer own and of others.
You smelt yer own shit and pretended it ain't yers. Yer fingernails is dirty.
You got blood. In yer veins, on yer hands. You done worse than me a hundred
times over, only with less style. You got yer own damn frequency modulation
of sorts, say me. Sayin' it ain't so don't make it not.

I'm just sixteen years old today, but for me the year is 1906 -- so I guess that
makes me older'n you. The year is what it is fer you, and that don't matter a
lick to me, not one itty bit it don't.

When you close this book I'm gone fer you, but yer gone too. Figment of my
imaginary imagination. Gone. You and yer ugly, lopsided thumbnails, yer
funny hair, yer spooked eyes, and yer smirkin' lips.

Think I can't see?

Clip that damn thing.

What I say, Jim.

Well, damn then.

If this ain't just too damn much.

Damn, damn, damn.

Clip it.

Someone 'round here got themself a whole lotta nerve is what.

And I thought we was friends.

Poo times two.

You done pissed off the wrong hunk-a-lunk, Dear Reader.

Jim.

Jam Jump.