Step On A Crack

Chapter I

It was June 13th, 2017, and this year of all years, on this particular day, George felt something stir in the cosmos. A tiny, odd feeling in the pit of his stomach that he had never encountered before.  Removing his spoon from a bowl of fruity cereal rings, he waved the stainless instrument around dismissively in the air distributing droplets of milk across the kitchen. Then, just like that, whatever it was, the feeling was gone.

George imagined it might have been residual energy leftover from the spectacular moment of his birth or to a lesser degree, maybe the Big Bang. He laughed at the thought he had never experienced it before. His senses we're so finally tuned. Eh. Either way, since he had no evidence to the contrary, George simply assumed that it was always there, the status quo since time immemorial; just another small part of his magnificent existence after all.

George took another bite of cereal and grinned as he chewed. He knew anyone else on the Earth lucky enough to cross his path and bask in his glory, even in the briefest of moments, would be the better for it. The good people of the planet Earth understood this because he could see their acknowledgement of his glorious reality in their smiles and kindly nods as they walked past him on the street or sat opposite him on the bus. They were practically licking his boots in gratitude for his expulsion of carbon dioxide. Even the actors and actresses on the television knew who to thank, George caught them smiling at him and only him rather often.

George paused as the odd feeling washed over him once more, this time stronger, and then he thought of her...his mother, the insufferable self-centered bitch. She never saw George's shimmering light energy pouring from him, gently touching humanity's cheek and stroking it with such magnanimity. "There, there, I am here..." he would coo. Nope, she simply insisted upon slinging her venomous verbal arrows at him in an attempt to destroy his soul's love affair with the world; all of it to bring him down to her level. Her intent in this matter was so blatantly obvious!

"George you need to go out and get yourself a job. You can't just sit around and do nothing all day," she would puke.

"I'm doing nothing at all?" he typically quipped in response. "Mother, just my presence alone is all that is needed to keep this world in its proper place around the sun!"

And then she would laugh at him like he was a fool.

Bitch.

This lack of the warm emotion was commonplace to the man, now in his fortieth year of sparkling, brilliant human reality. However, he knew the absence of her love stemmed from his mother's unwavering denial of his gift even as far back as a young child. George chuckled as he thought of the unwarranted beating he received after his mother discovered his first magnificent artistic endeavor. It was a brilliant masterpiece, a commentary on the state of man mired in obscurity, drowning in a swirling world of shit as it were, painted with his own feces right there on her bedroom wall. Yes, he was only five. Did she recognize his early brilliance?

Fuck no!

"What's wrong with you child? Why would you do something so disgusting, Georgie? Clean this up, right now!"

That singular attack became only the first assault of many more to come, evident attempts to temper the genius' near Biblical presence and mold him, nay, shove him down into the tiny box his mother insisted he should occupy. She made it her mission to generate a constant deluge of insults and verbal assaults to beat George into submission. It was an incremental plan, chipping away at his resolve, day after day, year after year.

"Clean your room! Eat your dinner! Do your homework!"

The disrespect was palpable.

George's world was unfortunately anchored to this tenuous lifelong relationship built on pure hatred and loathing due only to financial concerns. Technically, someone had to work, it might as well be her. Nevertheless, he needed to make it all end and soon. The contemptuous woman only sneered at his intellectual and spiritual brilliance in much the same way the wealthy look down on the unfortunate. It was perplexing to George, even with his massive intellect.

Suddenly, the man found solace in the notion that he was dealing with a far inferior creature in the case of his maternal parent and the notion of erasing her from existence became no more unpalatable than squishing a bug underneath one's thumb. That spark of realization was the catalyst he needed to ignite the energy swelling within him. The impetus to set his size 11 Chuck Taylor's on the path to his freedom. The first chapter in a story so spectacular, it would shake the pillars of the Parthenon and level the Coliseum, but then again, this was just a Saturday morning at around 7:30 A.M. for George.

"I'm going out!" George yelled and left the half-eaten bowl of soggy cereal on the dining table for his mother to dispose of.

"Do you need any money, dear?"

"No mother, I already took it from your purse!" George exclaimed as he slammed the front door behind him, his mother's muffled screeching thankfully stifled by the action. He navigated the small path away from the narrow, single story home's front porch surrounded by varying sized plants, potted or planted in neatly manicured beds. Once more, George promised himself that when his quest was complete he was going to enjoy trampling his mother's real love, that cacophony of ridiculous vegetation she called her 'babies', to death.

With a metallic squeal George opened the 4' tall, chain link gate, passed through the opening, and then closed it behind him with a familiar clang. He turned to his right and proceeded toward the library. He knew that this time it was going to be there and he would finally locate his mother's silver bullet.

The low din of the massive marble structure had a tomb-like quality. George always imagined it to be a mausoleum of books and their dead authors, some he considered resurrecting with a wave of his powerful hand, but decided it would be best to leave them be. Sequels typically sucked. Regardless, he sauntered in the building and made a beeline for the card catalog, just as he had done nearly every day of his life, except when he was forced by the state for twelve years to occupy some seat in that abysmal public school where no one there appreciated him, either. It was horrible, the violent, small-minded, knuckle-draggers and their abusive activities he often found himself embroiled in...correction, the target of. That was then when his powers were in their adolescence. Things have evolved to a much deadlier level since.

He pulled open drawer after precious drawer of cards, seeking, searching. His fingers, as if they were formed from pure magic, glided gingerly over the 3x5" cards, one after another, caressing them, blessing them with his touch until he found the one he was looking for and stopped. He always knew the one when he located it, that special book. George could sense things like this; he had so many wonderful gifts.

"The Great Book of Deadly Superstitions by Virgil Mortimer Horace Hortence Ficklefocker Del Toro III, Esq," the card said.

"Perfect," George thought as he noted the book's location. "But, then again, why wouldn't it be? It is my selection after all."

Perusing the familiar aisles and shelves upon shelves of literature stored in the massive library he searched for the book. Suddenly, the wonder that was George stopped with an "A-ha" and placed a stubby finger on the top edge of a massive, dusty volume. He extracted the large work and blew it off, sending a cloud of dust intermingled with his enchanted breath into the air for everyone to enjoy. The man tucked it under his arm and made his way down the staircase to locate an open spot on one of the many tables, preferably near some attractive woman, all for their benefit mind you, in which to read and make his plans.

George nodded at the affirmation of his glory issued to him by a pretty young woman in the form of a kind smile. He ran the fingers of his free hand through his greasy hair and smiled pleasantly, albeit mildly, so as not to imply that she had any sort of chance with him. He quickly looked away. She was far too below his station, beauty or not, and although he knew she was already lusting over him, he had other important matters to contend with before he could partake of such frivolities. On any other day, he might grant her the opportunity to behold his beautiful contours, however sad it would be for her, this would not occur today.

Returning his attention to the book, he opened the leather bound cover and peered inside. He was not disappointed. The first chapter titled, 'Step on a Crack, Break Your Mother's Back', was exactly what he sought.