V.P., Part 1

The Moon is talking down to the Boy this time, he says: Pedal your bike, Boy.

He says: We watch you while you sleep.

He goes: It’s me, Demos, Phobos, the hands under your bed; we know you’re tempted to tell your mom about us, but you better not. Just don’t. Trust me. You won’t like what happens if you do. So don’t.

Just pedal your bike instead, Boy, because the summer is here and the nights are wet and warm, and because above all else John Smith has told you to be young. That’s what he said:

“Be young.”

Fuck him. Let me tell you something about your little hero there, Boy: I’ve got something special in store for him.

Heh. Smith. He’s your hero. Right? You look up to him, do you Boy? And what’s wrong with your old pal the Moon? Huh? Couldn’t you see yourself up here, with us–or do you not believe in the salutary nature of a light so bright it sears you?

Understand that we want you to be with us, up here, in the extremes, and we won’t stop until we’ve got you.

Is that something you’d like to do? Be up here? With us? You can choose to do so, too, if you want. You can always make that choice before we do. If you want.

Look: I think I can help you to understand me a little bit better. I think that someone’s filled your head with nonsense and outright lies concerning me, but hear me out: I can help you. Help you to understand my wisdom, to appreciate the symbolism of the craters that mar my face. Would that you’d let me, I could induct you into the sect, welcome you into the fold–have you up here where even the rocks know enough to scream for some mercy, and the souls of the dead in orbit are rent with great horrors for their sins. I’d teach you to breathe such that dust tears at the lining of your lungs, so that those desiccated things thereafter are torn in their own eruptions, emitting into low gravity plumes of mist, ruby-red, so that choking on nothing your chest heaves up twisted chunks of clotted tissue and gore. A powerful lesson there, Boy, one given freely and from the goodness of my heart.

But, you don’t like that? And yet you like John Smith!…

Hey. Hey.

Okay. So it’s to be like that. Well then here’s my face. And hear my voice: Pedal, you little shit. Pedal because–

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