A mildly surreal, personalized explication of entropomancy.

Never Overboard

I. Do not hold your breath.
Follow the pipes and you won’t notice the cliff edge. Then you’ll see the sewage spilling over, kahlua-brown, into the ditch, to God knows where, and the equipment however many stories below where you are, and the Devil, falling with you, wearing Disorder’s mask, chuckling. You, Chance, will survive. Suffer, oh yes, and return, and the ditch will be gone, with your gifts. Tonight will be the last night.
The moon is larger than ever; he can spy it in one of the windows of the high cranes nearby. All around him are gathered immense, rusted machines. He stands alone, in jeans and predictable sneakers, from his knees to his soles covered in mud, the star of chaos a rare glimmer of cream surrounded by black dyed through cotton or wool. Upon running, he will be unapologetically sober, dedicated to the stars over the cliff, where he cannot reach. He will be running from something, yes, but more importantly, searching for what is hidden in the first inches separating his feet from the ground.

II. Screams taken as payment.
In the rain, miles away, heard through the warble of an old radio, “He’ll never make it.” Perfect imitation of Howard Cosell measures out the youngster’s, well, chances with total pessimism; the Announcer’s true whereabouts are unknown to all but the Spectators, who prefer to remain hidden. The cameras centering on Chance are all invisible; the entire event could be a façade. Still, somewhere, a cautious silhouette huddles over the silvered flash of an old time microphone, says, “And now the competitors make their appearance. Truly, this is a great day in the history of dumbass athletics.”

III. Doubt Rising.
Last minute and he’s backing off? Bullshit. Kid’s only warming up. Besides, with what he’s seen just now, developing in the clouds overhead, he’d have to be an idiot to keep going. Chance stopped running, future commentators will say, when he encountered what could only have been an apparition of Evil itself, barbed and still, waiting for him. Faceless, brandishing weapons designed to torture and inhibit, shackles, suspending hooks. Come to close the passage leading over the edge, come to take his—whaddya call it—mojo. Strip him blind like an old hag and fly off, leaving only the impotent remains of the Powerless behind, well, he’ll have it all or he’ll have none of it. The stakes have been established and Chance must reconsider, turn back to the cliff and tense up and reconsider. Find his sunglasses and, ah, yes, now he can only see the moon and the slim rock lip he will vault to find his way. Tonight, by his whim, a monsoon of televisions will occur all up and down the West Coast, coating innumerable beaches with glass and plastic shrapnel. A man stung by a bee will mutate and sprout wings and forever work to serve a queen that does not exist and a hive that was never formed. Chance will find love, Chance will win at every game he ever plays, Chance will loosen his tie and suddenly leave the dense shroud of childhood to become Rebel and temporary god…if he but runs, now, ignores the distance, what could happen for what will happen. All the evil in the world is on his side. It is—they are?—here to watch, and prepare for an assault.

IV. Crescendo and conclusion. The orchestra prepares its triangle.
Falling with the sewage or sewer water, with a mute assembly of observers taking notes, falling now and glimpsing the other side of the cliff, seeing, fancy that, at least three other figures plummeting just like he is now. Other youngsters in the know, to be sure, and how reassuring it is that he’s not alone! Turning coat caught in his face twisting feeling the wind not wind air pressure now knowing again the black voltage of controllable fate yes descending his eyes are blue and full of earth yellow metal up ahead kerplop.
Tomorrow. In full bandages, the hero anticipates the discovery of new holes. Silly Chance; he was so afraid. One of those stereotypically large-chested benevolent nurses comes around; her crisp blonde hair barely brushes past his upturned arm when she passes and she turns to apologize. He knows what she is thinking. For today, he will have enough, and there will be other pits soon. Yes, he’s sure of it.
For the first time since yesterday he relaxes. Calls for a smuggled smoothie and closes his eyes. The audience dissipates.