The Phoenix Also Rises # 7 (from Hart)

As Laszlo entered the shed he was immediately overwhelmed with the pungent stink of shit. He immediately assumed that Joey had emptied his bowels, a reasonable assumption given Joey’s propensity for clothed defecation and certainly understandable given the dog-boy’s current predicament. However, as he acclimated to the stink of sweat, oil and feces, Laszlo realized that the most potent source of the stink lay to his left. He turned his head and noticed a white plastic five-gallon bucket. As he looked closer Laszlo noted that the bucket was brimming with what appeared to be collected piles of dog shit in various states of decay and petrification.

“Fuckin-A right, Bitch!” screeched Laszlo’s youngest brother, BB. “Took us all fuckin’ weekend ta git all that turd! We figured since yer little doggy-boy girlfriend likes turdin’ on ‘imself so much we’d help ‘im out an jus cover ‘im in all kinda turd!”

At the thought of this, BB’s excitement boiled over and he started leaping from foot to foot. “EEEEEWWWWWEEEEEEE! TURD BOY! TURDY TURDY! YOU GONNA LIKE IT TURD DOGGY! YOU GONNA LIKE IT!” he screamed at Joey in what could only be described as the frighteningly oblivious squeal of a prepubescent sociopath.

“Cool it, fag!” screamed Erogenous. Though he was less than a year older than BB, Erogenous had the eerie calm present in those for whom the abuse of others is not a diversion, but a calling.

“So, what’s it gonna be, freak?” he asked Laszlo, “you gonna get in on this shit and show dog-boy who’s boss roun here, or you gonna jus stand there sweatin’ and lick yer little girlfriend clean after we give her a little bath?”

Laszlo looked to Joey. Joey was no longer barking with any volume, his whimpering constant but barely discernable. His ankles and wrists quivered rapidly against the thick strips of duck tape that bound him to a steel chair. His eyes conveyed hopeless fear and bewilderment.

Laszlo had a choice to make, and that choice cut to the very heart of the existential dilemma he battled every day—to act or to observe? Would his action (or lack thereof) even have an effect on what happened to this pathetic little boy? To his brothers? Most importantly, to himself?

As for Joey’s fate, Laszlo was confident that the boy was about to be tortured despite any protestations or attempts at rescue. In fact, any attempt to intercede in the act would likely only result in an intensification of the abuse. A friendly intervention on Laszlo’s part would only serve to alter Joey’s perception of the events, and Laszlo didn’t really give two fucks about what Joey thought. At least, he hadn’t…

As for the brothers, Laszlo had decided long ago that their minds were warped beyond repair. His only hope regarding them was that he might endure long enough to see society take its role and sweep them into the corrections system. It was only a matter of time.

Laszlo’s own fate was much cloudier. Would his actions today have repercussions beyond the moment? Would allying himself with his brothers release him from their subjugation, or would it make him more vulnerable to their machinations? But again, that spoke to the effects of today’s acts on his brothers. What would happen to him—gentle Laszlo, wise Laszlo? Would the torment of a weaker human harden him? Would it free him from a sometimes overwhelming feeling of bondage and debt to his fellows? Would it show him that he could seek his destiny with pure and complete self-interest? Perhaps. Or, would it steal his purity? Would flinging shit at a harmless and helpless retard lead him to an existence where his only source of validation came in the dominance of others? Would he lose his self-sufficiency, his ability to self-gratify? Would the calm and confidence of his thoughts and his journal be replaced by a maelstrom of guilt and uncertainty? Further, what would be the consequences of making a stand against this violence and humiliation? Would there be any at all!? He would soon find out.

These questions ran rapidly through his head, and as he struggled to answer them, Joey made his decision. As he did so, he blinked three times rapidly, but his face did not change. Stone faced but with quivering hand, Joey bent to his left, reached, and grabbed a fistful of moist, steaming turd.