Chapter 6 - I Prefer Salt

It's been awhile since I woke up in that downtown park, curiously finding myself under the care of a homeless couple. I'm pretty sure Papa Jon had no idea what he was doing, but when the blood stopped pouring from my forehead he hoisted me to my knees and bid me to stay kneeling in the grass. He and Mama Shirl took a moment aside to discuss some serious business, so I lowered my head to better hear their faint whispers. I was still uncomfortable with the situation I had woken up in, and having come to the conclusion that this was in fact not a dream, I wasn't about to let two people get away with secrets.

I was too engrossed in my attempts to overhear my bickering parents, but in retrospect I realize that anyone passing by would have witnessed a shirtless boy miserably kneeling in the grass, hair matted with dirt, dead arms hanging loosely behind him, head bowed with a dried river of blood that history once saw trickling southwards through the Valley of Eyes, across the Plains of Fuzz and finally falling off the edge of the earth from Mandible's Cliff. I'm surprised a jeering crowd didn't form around me, chanting "Kill the hobo" as business men and politicians - same thing - sold tickets to my execution, keeping the profits for themselves of course. I guess that's the best part about executions.

But then again I looked homeless and was hanging out with homeless people. In fact, now I was homeless. And while most would never willingly admit it, most don't actually give a shit about homeless people. They’re just crazy drugged-up shovers who at any moment could crumple to the ground, convulsing and salivating like dogs with rabies. I won't complain though, as general indifference is much preferred over my own public execution.

Left to myself, I persisted in my attempts to catch faint morsels of meaning emanating from the pine trees Jonny and Shirley had hidden behind. For the most part the couple managed to keep their voices low, but every few seconds their exchanges became heated and their muffled yells could be easily heard.

"Are ya out o’ your mind? There is no way in hell we're usin’ that!"

"Oh Jonny, snap out of it! Sparkles is so cute."

"I don't care!"

For a moment their voices died from my being, but the calm didn’t last.

"What? Like the cat?"

"Yes like the cat! What else would I be talking about?"

"I don't know! The spice comes to mind."

As their voices withered for the final time, they seemed to have reached an agreement and together they emerged from their hiding spot. Jonny picked up my hockey stick and slowly lowered it until the blade came to rest on my right shoulder.

"Oh, Boy of Bleedin’ Head," he started, with his deep resonating voice, "whom Jonny, Son of Doug, Son of Mike has found here in this field unconscious."

Jonny paused for a moment. I figured this was some sort of designation and that it was my turn to speak. What with the hockey stick on my shoulder and Jonny's ominous voice, it was obvious I was being knighted in some fashion, however crudely, and even though there was no audience save a couple of deranged homeless people, I felt it was my knightly duty to say something clever and bold, not to mention sexy. This sudden realization sent electric shivers down my spine.

The situation's absurdity and Jonny's seriousness collided chaotically, fusing into each other like some deformed chunk of metal which just so managed to lodge itself somewhere in my throat, leaving me with a strong desire to laugh and cry at the same time. Despite the severe emotional confusion, I managed to compose myself enough to not do either of these, and stuttered the first thing that was able to fight its way through the calamitous obstruction in my throat. "Y-yes?"

Jonny lifted the hockey stick slightly off my shoulder, and delivered a sharp whack to the side of my head.

"Ow! What was tha-"

"Do not speak, Boy of Bleedin’ Head. It is not your place to do so yet." Jonny paused again. Any fear I once had turned to terror. The desire to laugh disappeared, only to manifest itself in my bladder moments later as a burning need to relieve myself. I looked up at Shirley, perhaps in an attempt to find comfort, but she stood with eyes closed and head down, hands clasped together at her waist. Stop praying and help me god dammit! But no, Mama Shirl remained closed off to the rest of the world talking to herself like a babbling lunatic, ignoring my gaze's quiet plea for help as she remained in useless prayer. I squeezed my eyes shut, mostly to keep from soiling myself.

Maybe this was an execution.

Jonny continued. "Oh Boy of Bleedin’ Head: Some day soon we shall hope to see ya heal, and with this newfound health, Boy of Bleedin’ Head will become obsolete. It is with this realization that I, your father, have decided to bestow upon you a new name. While I understand that Boy of Healed Head would suffice and still manage to preserve alliteration, I have chosen somethin’ else entirely."

Jonny paused. All trepidation evaporated immediately, giving way to the return of the farcical preposterousness that replenished the overwhelming desire to laugh. But laughter would surely procure another gash to the head, and thus I intensely resolved to hold off on taking part in such an activity. Holding back giggles, however, is oftentimes very difficult, and even if one is successful, embarrassing and odd guttural noises are normally the price to pay. Such sounds, I reckoned, would also procure a gash to the head.

As I struggled to keep silent, the fear and the urge to laugh battled back and forth, finally settling in my stomach as nauseous anxiety. It felt as though a bunch of drunken kids were on the verge of heaving their alcoholic beverages all over themselves and their friends. And doing what drunken dumbasses do best, they decided to start a game of Twister.

It's unfortunate that I wasn't ridden with suspense as to what my new name would be, but I wasn’t given much choice. The endless perturbation wreaking havoc on my gastro-intestinal system consumed all of my emotional capacities. Queasiness quickly took over, and finally the irresponsible children in my stomach couldn't keep their balance anymore. They crumpled onto the Twister mat and violently projected their sin all over each other.

I turned my head to the side and vomited into the grass.

I looked back up, feeling much better. Shirley was still in prayer and Jonny was looking up to the sky, no doubt summoning some powerful force from the Heavens. The pair had failed to notice what just took place, so I quickly wiped my mouth with my arm and waited for Jonny to continue.

"Oh Boy of Bleedin’ Head, from this point forward you shall forever and always be known as Pepper, Son of Jonny, Son of Doug."

With this, Jonny raised the hockey stick off my right shoulder, arched it over my head, and carefully lowered it down. As the blade made contact with my left shoulder, I shuddered at the rippling shockwave that traveled throughout my every extremity.

* * *

Side note: I found out afterwards that my name wasn't directly inspired by the common spice known for making people sneeze. Rather, "Pepper" was the name of a black cat Papa Jon and Mama Shirl once owned. Unfortunately, their cat's name was taken from the common spice responsible for making people sneeze, and therefore by association I am named after the spice responsible for making people sneeze. What's worse, however, is the simple fact that I'm named for a deceased cat. Really? A dead cat?

Needless to say, I had better been endowed with the ability to make people sneeze, or else I would be severely disappointed.