It’s a dream. It’s a nightmare or a flashback brought on by attacking that piece of shit fucking asshole. He’s back again. Back here against with a shocking clarity that’s somehow more real than any dream, like he’s standing back in the jungle himself and maybe, maybe that’s possible, only
(Did the guy just… Did the guy just say something? Slipped away if he did. Could be anything. Could be nothing at all.)
Only something isn’t right. Only something’s wrong here. Something in the color. The smells. Even the moisture doesn’t weigh on him the way it should.
Okay. Okay. Whether this is a dream or whatever the fuck this is, he’s got to proceed like he’s in the jungle. Go quiet. Stay quiet. Keep away from clearings, be wary of paths, get out of the sightline of anyone who might be watching. Work out a sense of the terrain. And… And…
And the asshole’s wandering off like nothing’s happened. Could be he’s in shock. Could be he’s not thinking anything at all. And what he does is none of Willard’s business, but at the same time, who knows who the fuck that guy is? All Willard knows is he’s loud and he couldn’t take a punch. Nothing that bodes well for his survival.
How many times does Willard have to get killed? Hasn’t he had enough of that? Christ, he’d thought that was over and done with, but of course you never know and some things you just can’t escape.
And shit, maybe, maybe by some fucked-up twist it’s Willard’s fault they’re here. Doesn’t he take the jungle with him everywhere he goes? That’s just what this is, some kind of a manifestation, or, or… Hell, there’s no making sense of it. The point is he can’t just watch the jerk walk off like everything’s dandy.
So Willard speaks without raising his voice, firm but no louder than he needs to be; no sense drawing attention their way. “Fella. Hey.
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. You'll get yourself killed.”
no subject
No, he’s– He’s got to be… he’s got to be…
It’s a dream. It’s a nightmare or a flashback brought on by attacking that piece of shit fucking asshole. He’s back again. Back here against with a shocking clarity that’s somehow more real than any dream, like he’s standing back in the jungle himself and maybe, maybe that’s possible, only
(Did the guy just… Did the guy just say something? Slipped away if he did. Could be anything. Could be nothing at all.)
Only something isn’t right. Only something’s wrong here. Something in the color. The smells. Even the moisture doesn’t weigh on him the way it should.
Okay. Okay. Whether this is a dream or whatever the fuck this is, he’s got to proceed like he’s in the jungle. Go quiet. Stay quiet. Keep away from clearings, be wary of paths, get out of the sightline of anyone who might be watching. Work out a sense of the terrain. And… And…
And the asshole’s wandering off like nothing’s happened. Could be he’s in shock. Could be he’s not thinking anything at all. And what he does is none of Willard’s business, but at the same time, who knows who the fuck that guy is? All Willard knows is he’s loud and he couldn’t take a punch. Nothing that bodes well for his survival.
How many times does Willard have to get killed? Hasn’t he had enough of that? Christ, he’d thought that was over and done with, but of course you never know and some things you just can’t escape.
And shit, maybe, maybe by some fucked-up twist it’s Willard’s fault they’re here. Doesn’t he take the jungle with him everywhere he goes? That’s just what this is, some kind of a manifestation, or, or… Hell, there’s no making sense of it. The point is he can’t just watch the jerk walk off like everything’s dandy.
So Willard speaks without raising his voice, firm but no louder than he needs to be; no sense drawing attention their way. “Fella. Hey.
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. You'll get yourself killed.”