The Gymnosophist The clouds parted in and unusual way, and golden-orange crepuscular rays illuminated the immaculate body of the Gymnosophist. His hair was black and grey, dreaded in a wildly unkempt fashion, which made his face all the more fearsome. Sneering and snide, his physiognomy was terrifying. Brow furrowed, with deep creases, his nose was wide, snorting, and snotty, like a raging bull ready to go on a vicious rampage. The corners of his mouth quivered, twitching, making it impossible to determine his true emotion. When he smiled, he looked mischievous, as though he had ascertained total truth and knowledge of the universe, and felt others foolish and weak, for not having thought of the truth sooner. When he grimaced, it looked as though he sought nothing more than the destruction of all that ever was. The Gymnosophist was not particularly tall, perhaps 5’9”, but he was built like a man who had recently been released from prison. Taught black skin illuminated with eerie orange sunlight covered massive, slave-bred muscles. He looked a hero from antediluvian ages, misplaced into this modern era. But the most striking feature of this Hero from the Days of Old was his complete and unabashed nudity. He wore nothing, and wore it proudly. Probably because that nigger was on PCP. The Occupant, in a purely puerile panic, decided to stay the course, and continue walking home, even if it meant walking towards the deranged Gymnosophist. Turning back and running could mean engaging the Gymnosophist’s predatory response, and perhaps he would give chase. Continuing his course, oddly, seemed to be the safer decision. Drudging on, The Occupant kept to the far right side of the sidewalk, hoping that he would not be noticed by The Gymnosophist. The Gymnosophist skipped down the street with a queer mix of anger and elation, at one point ripping off the rear-view mirror of an old Honda Accord. He promptly took aim, and threw it into the second floor window of a well-kept Kensington house, eliciting a distant “What the Fuck?!?” from the person dwelling in that room. The Gymnosophist continued to walk down the center of the street, with no shame or fear displayed upon face. The Occupant continued to walk up the sidewalk, hoping that he, himself, and his 6-pack of shitty beer would all arrive safely at home. The Godly terror that was the Gymnosophist had yet to notice his presence. He cowered his head and trudged on, hoping vainly to camouflage into the background of abandoned houses and empty lots. Yet the Gymnosophist raged. Rampaging down the street, he had not yet spotted that simple minded fool with no name, The Occupant. Looking like an aging NFL running back with something to prove, his fury was stark and unmatched. Black with bulging biceps, glistening abdominal prowess, and oddly angular thigh muscles, his massive penis swung back-and-forth in a way that made The Occupant feel gay for realizing his dick was swinging back and forth in the first place. The Occupant was not a racist, but quite often did mutter offensive phrases and cuss words under his breath, as a way to relieve stress. This was unintentional, but worked effectively. “Fucking Nigger-Dicks.” As the Gymnosophist bounded down the street in erratic directions, he zigged and zagged wildly, as if searching for something he had not yet found. Looking to the left, and to the right, he finally found the person that he needed to deliver his message to. The Occupant. Standing as vulnerable as a newborn child, the occupant stood still, like a simple heroin-addict freezing in the headlights of a cop car. The Gymnosophist looked on at him like a lion looks at a gazelle. Seeing him in such a sudden light, he bounded towards him, leaping over car hoods and car roofs, with a singular amount of determination. The Gymnosophist would have The Occupant reach wisdom at any cost, regardless of the means. The cheap steel roofs of old model cars simply crinkled underneath his weight, but that did not restrict his mighty bounds, nor did it limit his determination. It was at this moment that the Occupant first saw the face of the Gymnosophist, truly. Looking into his eyes, he was not truly high, or tweaking, or wet, but rather, experiencing an entirely different level of perception. Looking into his eyes were maddening. True and honest despair combined with true and honest Horror, piercing eyes screaming on insanity that could not be qualmed. Bounding off the roof of a lesser car, The Gymnosophist landed quite close to the Occupant, and let out a mighty howl of in-congruent syllables. Stuporous at best, his blundering mutterings means nothing, but his mouthings derived a certain intent that was undeniable. Looking each other dead in the eyes, the Gymnosophist grabbed the Occupant by the collar of his flannel shirt, and bashed his head into the back of a stucco wall. Stucco crumbled into powdery white dust that disintegrated around the crater made by his head and, for a brief moment, he blacked-out. In the adrenaline of the moment, he did not realize how wet the back of his head was, or why it was wet. He felt absolutely fine, fully fueled by adrenaline, ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice. As he fought to push the Gymnosophist off of him, struggling to keep him away, the Gymnosophist pulled himself closer, right next to the Occupants ear. He then spoke with the diction and dignity of a demented king: “Dat Lady on the TV is a lying Whore! Don’t Trust her, shiiiit! Shadilay!” As they grappled with increasing ferocity, they tumbled on the ground, rolling round and round, and flashed of all perspectives of life flashed before The Occupant as they rolled. Close up, introspective views of cracked concrete, speckled with black spots where some child’s gum had been spit out and stomped over by a thousand dirty sneakers. Odd sideways views of the street’s distant termination, familiar, as that is the way most people look when they are walking, but uncanny, because they were viewed from the ground, and from an unorthodox angle. And lastly, the wide view of the turbulent sky, broiling over with undecided dark clouds glowing brilliantly with seams of unworldly orange rays of tarnished light. It was framed by the oddly earthly context of the second story of brick row-houses, complete with old, malfunctioning and filthy air conditioners that has not yet been removed by the residents despite the chilly weather. It wasn't an odd juxtaposition; The Heavens Above, and Hell Beneath. The Gymnosophist was ended up on top, and raised his massive calloused hand, slamming the back of The Occupant’s head into the ground in the process. Again he felt the wetness on the back of his head, and as The Gymnosophist’s hand turned and shuttered, her felt his hair grind into the sidewalk, matting itself with blood, and perhaps, an old cigarette butt. Straddling him like a sadistic, perverted cowboy would straddle a lame mule, he briefly felt his massive Nigger-Dick brush against his leg. It didn't quite add insult to injury, rather it added pure demeaning humiliation to vague bodily detriments he did not care about in the moment. Regardless, The Occupant struggled, and felt impotent against such a force of nature. The Gymnosophist grabbed The Occupants head with his other hand, his fingers curling around his ears, and forced their heads together, forcefully enough to cause a small cut to appear on The Occupant’s head, but nobody in their right mind could ever label it as a head bash. The Occupant saw his eyes truly, for the first time. Deep, dark, bottomless pupils stained black with knowledge, knowledge of existential terror, learned from planes of existence that would be forever unseen by mortal eyes who had not yet earned access to perceive it. His breath stank, with the dark dichotomy of the astringent bleach of PCP, paired with the earthy weediness of cheaply purchased marijuana. Like an unconscenting wine connoisseur, the bouquet was forced upon him as he drank it in. His eyes were yellowing around his sclera, indicative of a disease The Gymnosophist did not care about. His worries were not confined to such simple mortal dimensions. Disease, death, and mortality were of no concern to a man as wise as the Gymnosophist. His only concern was simple, as he realized that truth transcends mortal boundaries in a way that mortals cannot truly confront. The Gymnosophist cared not about his nakedness, his violence, nor his unconscionable or irreconcilable mind; He cared about only one thing, and that was spreading the good word to those in need. He had seen layers of reality that were invisible to most mere mortals, as they were not willing to take the simple, yet drastic, steps, they would need to take in order to see the truth first-hand. The Gymnosophist did what he did, so he could inform others of the Truth, without them having to undergo his hardship. The arms of the gymnosophist were massive, covered in coarse and short curly hairs, and occasionally dotted with bare patches of scar tissues that appeared to be cigarette burns. Enkidu incarnate, he represented a plight bestowed upon the vanity of urban areas by the Gods themselves, a punishment for the hubristic nature of the modern metropolis. The Gymnosophists arms gripped The Occupants head one more time, and bashed it against the concrete sidewalk. This occupant left the mortal coil for only a moment, but it was long enough.