I looked at the chicken laying on the grass lifeless and I felt bad. Some experiments do that.
I awoke to a fairly heavy knock on the door. Before I even knew where I was, I was scared. That just goes to show the emotions come fast and from some place other than your mind. I stood up and let the light into the dark bungalow. A little Thai man is standing at the door, the guy who owns this place.
“You kill chicken?” he asked.
“What?”
He points to a dead chicken surrounded by stray feathers; my memory comes back.
“Oh, yeah, sorry” I said.
“Why you kill chicken?”
I answered, “Well, there is this Mexican chicken dish at the pub I go to to watch the cricket.”
The Thai man listened in disbelief that there was some form of rationale behind the bludging of a chicken.
I continued, “And I really like it, fuck it is so good. Its grilled chicken with this Mexican rice and a salad, and the chicken has the sauce.”
I couldn’t remember what it was called, still don’t, but the chicken was flavoured.
“And it comes with perri perri sauce and all the flavours just mix together perfectly and compliment each other.”
“But why you kill my chicken?” he asked again, impatiently.
“I'm getting to that! Well, I have the belief that if you aren’t man enough to kill the animal then you aren’t allowed to eat it. And I really wanted the dish, and I have been observing that chicken for a few days, watching it walk around like a mini t-rex.”
“Why did you kill my chicken? So you could have nice meal?”
“Yes, I am sorry.”
“This chicken lay eggs, we not kill this one, you owe me money.”
“How much?”
“Work out later, how you kill chicken?”
This guy and his questions about the chicken.
“I grabbed it and shook it, tried to break its neck, and then I just threw it at the ground and it wouldn’t die so I just keep doing that until it did.”
“You sick man.”
“Your judgement is shared my friend, now please, let me go back to the comfort of my bed.”
He left. As I went to close the door I heard a voice.
“Mr Dyson?”
No one had wanted to talk to me for five months but for some reason today, two people did before I had even taken a piss.
“Yeah?” I reply.
A little man wearing a fedora with a feather sticking out of it, holding a note pad walks to my steps.
“Mr Dyson, it is me, Lenny, we spoke last week, remember?”
“No.”
“You invited me to come because I wanted to talk to you about writing.”
“Why?”
“Because I read your books and have questions.”
“No, why did I invite you?”
He looked at me stupidly, like he had just answered that question, but I was thinking why I would want to talk about writing with anyone.
Lenny looked like a stupid little leprechaun and I tried to play a character that would make him leave, but that was the character that made him want to come here in the first place.
“One sec.”
I walk inside, open the tiny little fridge and get two beers out.
“Here you go” I said, offering Lenny the drink.
“Sir, it is only nine am?”
I walked back in and said to myself but maybe he heard it, “Don’t be a slave to time.”
I put his beer back and sat down, opened mine.
“What do you want to know?” I asked him, as he sat there with his notebook, ready to write something to remember and never understand.
A Russian lady walked past in a bikini, big white tits on an aging body, she didn’t even see Lenny and spoke to me, “Ello.”
“Hey, how are you?” I reply kindly.
“Good and I hope you are good also.”
“Thanks.”
“My son, he say all night he could hear you talking to yourself.”
“Sorry.”
“You do this to relax?”
“I don’t know, I don’t remember.”
She laughed and waddled off.
“Do you talk to yourself?” Lenny asked me.
“Only one that will listen.”
“I am here to listen.”
“Let me ask you something.”
“Sure.”
“Why the notebook?”
“So I can take notes.”
“What are you going to understand later that you cant understand now?”
He writes that down; I smile and take a sip of the beer.
“So you think I should be more present?” he asks.
“Do whatever you want.”
I did not dislike Lenny but if I had a choice of him being here and not being here, I would choose the latter, although, for some reason, I didn’t.
“How do you write the way you do?” he asked.
“How do I write?”
“Angry.”
“I'm not angry!” I yelled and then laughed, I laughed like a wheezing mule and when I came from that land of ecstasy I saw the look of sadness in Lenny’s eyes.
“Whatsa matter little leprechaun?”
“I don’t know, I just thought you would be a bit more wise.”
“See that chicken over there?” I ask.
“Yeah, what happened? Cat?”
“I killed it.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s who I am, I am a killer, I love to kill, I love seeing life leave a body and return home.”
“Are you serious?” he said.
Poor Lenny, I could tell him anything I wanted.
“Yes, listen Lenny, do you fear death?”
“Of course,” he replied.
“And you're alive?”
“Yeah?”
“If the living fear death, do you think the dead fear living?”
“I don’t know.”
“Me either.”
He wrote something in his notebook. I loaded my pipe, sat with my hairy stomach looking like a mammoth’s forehead.
“Do you think you need pain to write?” he asked.
“Do you?” I replied.
He didn’t have an answer, never thought about it for himself. The problem with Lenny is he thinks I have some sort of insight, that I am clever, but I knew I was nothing, that anything I had ever written I didn’t even know where it came from, that its just an expression and its got nothing to do with the chicken murdering man that sits in front of him now. The best thing I could do was make this experience as horrible as possible for him, so he wouldn’t have the naivety to do it again. But my soul nagged at me like an empathetic loved one, and I couldn’t be mean to Lenny, not Lenny.
“What's your name?” I asked Lenny.
“Lenny” replied Lenny.
“That’s a fun name, it suits your hat.”
“Thanks, I got the hat after.”
“That’s pretty funny Lenny.”
I could tell he wanted me to like him so I did.
“You talk a lot about suicide in your writing, it’s a common theme, do you have suicidal thoughts or just your character?”
“Nice questioning Lenny.”
“Thanks.”
“What was it again?”
“Do you contemplate suicide?”
“No, death and I will cross paths eventually, we can both wait.”
“What do you love most about writing?”
“Drinking” I reply, as I drink.
“Is that true?”
“I don’t waste time with lies you little fuck.”
“Okay, sorry.”
“Don’t apologise Lenny.”
“Sorry.”
I laughed and he actually did laugh a little bit too.
“Lenny, it bewilders me that you are here asking me for advice, honestly, about anything, and I'm not saying that to be proud. I genuinely have nothing of worth to say to you.”
“Do you think its shameful to ask another man for advice?”
“No, I have learnt a lot from others.”
“Like who?”
“Jesus, Socrates, Kurt Vonnegut, Homer Simpson.”
“Who is your biggest influence?”
“You,” I reply, I didn’t know what I meant. I didn’t want to admit my influences because I try and not notice them so when I do write, its just happening, and I am not trying to be like someone else, I didn’t tell him this, it was too real. But eventually they will all find out I just copied Bukowski.
“If you could do anything in the world Lenny, what would you do?”
“I don’t know,” he said, without even thinking. “You?”
“Right now, get a head job from all three of my ex-girlfriends at the same time.”
“I didn’t know you meant it like that.”
“Either did I.”
I couldn’t be bothered talking to Lenny anymore, I didn’t know what it would take to get him to leave, so I laid on this wooden chair and closed my eyes and pretended he was a therapist.
“I am in constant fear of breaking my leg and feel I am going to manifest it through the fear,” I say to Lenny.
He writes it in his notebook, as if he was also pretending to be my therapist.
“Do you believe in things like that? Manifestation?”
“I believe in everything little Lenny the leprechaun. Do you have leprosy?’ I ask him.
“Not that I'm aware of.”
“It would be good for alliteration.”
“Yeah.”
“See, maybe I am a literary genius, I know what alliteration is. Do you know I still don’t know what a verb is?” I ask Lenny, smoking my pipe, a bronzed mess melting on the chair.
Lenny sat with his little feather blowing in the wind, “No.”
“Guess I haven’t had to yet, you just never know do you?”
“Know what?” asked Lenny,
“Anything.”
“I might have that beer now,” said Lenny.
“Now we are talking, help yourself, its in that tiny little fridge in the corner.”
He walks into the bungalow, I hear the door open, a rattle, then the door close. He walks back into the day and I hand him the bottle opener.
“Tiny fridge isn’t it?” I ask.
“Yeah” he replies.
I fell asleep. When I woke up Lenny was gone. On the table with empty bottles and tobacco covering it sat a note. I opened it and it read, ‘Thanks.’
I looked at the chicken laying on the grass lifeless and I felt bad.
Some experiments do that.
