Mr. Beast #4

Tracing the faint shadow of the splinter in Mr. Beast’s foot with a toothpick, I came to discover that it was much deeper down than I had originally thought. Sitting in the tree, Mr. Beast hadn’t noticed that we’d come to save him at first. He just sat there; letting insects crawl onto his skin wherever, coming so close to the insect-sized tunnels that lead into his body but still doing nothing. He appeared incoherent, watching the way they would scurry across his naked parts, getting lost in his pubic hairs. I howled his name upward once and waited a moment but nothing happened. It was as if nothing had been said. Once again I called out and, to my relief, a few moments later he began to climb down the tree. It was then, with the professional and I waiting dumbly at the bottom, when Mr. Beast’s feet stomped the ground and met the sharp end of a piece of thorn-wood, looking like sadistic crooked-scissors, risen barely 4 inches beside the tree trunk. His body refuted in a terrifying spasm and recoiled away before floating back down with this sort of sorrowful, pathetic elegance. It’s so strange saying this. Even at the time, it gave me chills. His face, having been poised in its usual stern, stone-like manner, suddenly became all wrinkles, like a stack of pancakes. His ice lips, his chiseled nose, those hard eyes, they all became so sad and hopeless. He fell at the tree trunk, his hands opening out to catch his failed body like in some Greek mythological illustration: he was the damned soul begging at the knee of some impossibly enormous male figure with gorgeous golden skin.

I needed something sharper and thinner to dig it out. Mr. Beast’s large hands came around the sides of the foot again. Wanting the splinter out, his monstrous fingernails clawed the rubbery skin, molesting the same area over and over. Too much skin began going to waste; old skin became new skin became young skin became flesh as the thorn-seeking inquisition came over and over again, digging harder and with more enthusiasm as each time the area got softer and softer. My seconds of focused inspection weren’t enough to solve the problem or remove the splinter, knowing those hands would just return again like curious demons, unwilling to wait any longer. The skin became darker. Clawing with such mindless ferocity, one hand turned to diffuse hatred at the other, tearing down two thick, fleshy lines. It was disturbing to watch. I had never seen any living thing in such a confused, terrifying state as this. It was then I began to wonder about my own well being. Would he turn on me as well? Suddenly I realized my predicament. I sat thinking, if I refuse Mr. Beast help, he could easily kill me there in the heavenly meadow where Mr. Beast crashed the hang glider. The meadow was heavenly. Also, it was quite romantic: with the violently red leaves that covered all of the ground below and obscured the sky above. Red leaves tumbled across the ground like the living inhabitants of this place where I sat alone with Mr. Beast. The professional who had helped me find Mr. Beast before could not stay or wait any longer for us. Given no further excuse, he began walking back to his car, carrying both the ladder and the stick. The wind died down, and all was silent for a moment. By then, I still hadn’t known much about Mr. Beast. This thought catalyzed a production of terrifying scenarios in my mind. My spilling blood could be caught by the red leaves and blown away by a strong passing wind.