Lab C: Chapter 17 - To expect...

Our monk is chained to a recently made, reinforced “him” shaped rack. He stares at his captors, realizing a large woman whose some how always nursing a baby is the one in charge.

They poke and prod at him. They try to break the stones, find the skin underneath, but there is no luck. The whole time, our monk stares, breaths, and waits. At night, he tests his body against the restraints. Though at first they do not react, he believes in his soul that he can.

One night, he believes and strains so hard against the chains, the rack, the weight of his imprisonment, that he feels the slightest give. He can hardly hold his smile. The rush that he feels when he first punches a hole through the unseen beasts in the cave beneath the crust that spend forever trying to eat him explodes in his spine and it takes everything in him not to burst from this container.

His patience is rewarded as the next day the woman in charge appears and sets down a bowl of rice pudding on a table in front of him. She questions him, and questions him, the language so entirely unfamiliar to him that it becomes background noise as soon as it’s spoken.

Fixation sets in. He savors the desire. Savors his inability to get this treat. This desperation and desire so unbelievably foreign to him that it could have been the greatest pleasure in the world were the memory of punching a hole through unseen beasts in the cave beneath the crust that spend forever trying to eat him. Had he not felt the chains give ever so slightly moments before, this need may overcome that pleasure in its intensity.

But he does feel the chains give. And he does remember the joy of destruction of one’s abuser. So when the large lady picks up the bowl and moves to leave, our monk cannot stop himself.

He bursts free in a triumphant roar.

The large woman takes off, holding the baby and the pudding. Large men try to stop him but he is on the war path. They attempt the net again, but our monk is wise to it, and he throws a man trying to stab him into the net. That man flies into another and they both splatter against a clay wall.

Our monk follows the scent with ease into a humble home in the center of this town. Inside, on the floor, is the pudding. The large woman huddles in the corner, her baby resting peacefully on the floor behind her.

The thought crosses his mind, it has been many days of this woman commanding his torture. He could have his cake and eat it too. However, there is a baby, and despite all he has gone through, he still remembers the importance of protecting a baby. The rice pudding is right there, it is so simple…

He picks it up, looks it over as he has done before, but it is not the same overwhelm he expects. He tilts his head back, he tilts the bowl, and in a perfect stream it falls into his mouth.

The sound he makes is new to him, but he does not care. It is good. Better than good. It is filled with a richness and deep cinnamon that cannot be described. The stones of his skin vibrate in tune with the moans and guttural enjoyment that cannot be suppressed.

The large woman sees her chance and begins to sneak out, but our monk stops her with the empty bowl in hand. He looks to her.

“More.” He says with seriousness in his eyes and blood still dripping from his hands. She looks outside and her town is in shambles over his rampage. She looks to her baby and to our monk’s hands. Understanding comes over her. She does not know his word, but she understands his desire.

She does a weird head swooping motion that for all we know is their version of a nod, and the monk follows her. A throne in a large banquet hall is his to rest upon. The town watches as this beast moves into their most cherished seat, dried blood flaking off him as he walks.

He takes his seat awkwardly and says again, “More.” and the large lady does the weird head swooping motion. Within minutes, another immaculate bowl, three times the size is produced.

He stares at it. The town stares at him. He tries to summon in his mind the desire he has felt before, but the bowl is already there. He waits, hoping anticipation and yearn might be sparked, but it is there. He leans in, and bites into the mound, expecting the same immense eruption of flavor and joy might hit him, but there is nothing exceptional.

The difference in experience strikes him like a bat to the head. He trembles with frustration. “Add… add fruit?” he says to the nearest person who cowers in his vision. He looks to the large lady, “you know, fruit?” and he makes a motion with his hands.

At once, all onlookers shriek. The large lady looks to her baby and clutches it tightly, pulling away from our monk. “What? No. No fruit, do you have any…” he steps from the throne and the place empties. He is alone.

He clenches his hands into fists. So much frustration and desire and need and yearn and anger and pain hit him in every little fiber of his being that he punches the throne and breaks its back rest in half. He takes off running and finds the streets deserted.

The overwhelm has nowhere to go as he searches for an exit and he begins to weep. Then he sees a small girl, pointing down a road and it hits him what he has done before. A flash of the little girl he destroys just for a whiff of rice pudding sends him reeling. Eyes shut, hands gripping his head, he follows her direction and goes through the front gate.

Not looking where he’s going, he trusts his feet to follow the road. Without realizing it, he finds himself back in the jungle. He looks around and the silence weighs on him as if it were his own eyes from the past passing some sort of judgement. He has no direction. No purpose.

He experiences more internally than he has even dreamed possible. More than any song, movie, or book has ever promised. Knowing this intensity exists his mind races as to how. Then he remembers the girl, he remembers the people, he remembers the taste of beasts he never sees, and the time he spends stuck in the earth.

Our monk screams to the sky and punches a tree so hard it goes off in a horizontal line. Before it has a chance to fall, he smashes it aggressively to the side and into another tree.

“chuck, ih”

The sound freezes our monk for a moment, until he is able to look over to see a cool little dude, with a rounded beard and bangs that cover his eyes, walking some rabbitish looking animals.

The cool little dude smiles at him. He has on some sporty shorts and a ratty vest. He takes an impressive wide stance that reminds our monk of yoga and he punches with beautiful precision. Holding the stance perfectly, he says “Chuck, yu” and points to our monk, “Chuck gd,” then gives a thumbs up.

Our monk weeps and buckles over onto his knees. His hands grind against his stony face and he ugly sobs. From his lower back, sensation comes into him like waves and floods out of him as though he were a fountain.

A rabbitish looking animal appears beneath him, and sniffs our monk’s face. It boops his nose with it, and suddenly the sensation freezes, tingling and twinkling inside of the stoney body like he is the night sky. The cool little dude pats him on the back, and rubs his stoney surface lovingly while cooing “ps ps ps ps ps”.

Our monk looks at him with the ugliest sobbing face he will ever have. The cool little dude smiles, “yu Chuck. Chuck gd” and our monk, having become Chuck, smiles.