Dust Monster

 

 

“All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream.” — Edgar Allan Poe

“Yes, Step Master,” the unsightly creature humbly agreed, lurching along behind his powerful master.

“I was endowed with a figure hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even of the same nature as man.” — Mary Shelley

“I’ll say it again,” the wicked Step Master continued. “I don’t know why you insist on working at that other castle, as a lowly sentinel no less.” The Step Master majestically strolled along the giant turrets, arms casually folded behind his regal silk robe, as he admired his kingly view of the dark city while nagging on his wretched squire. “You are mine; I adopted you, and while I’m not proud of you, I’d surely find you a more respectable job in my kingdom.” The master contentedly stroked his bold mustache on his masculine corporate-warrior face. “If you’d stop resisting my will, perhaps I might make something respectable out of you.”

“But…but,” the Dust Monster stuttered nervously, trying to stay close enough behind while not stepping on his master’s magnificent long flowing robe. “…but I like guard duty; for it allows me much time to read books and think thoughts.”

The Step Master stopped, glancing back over his high shoulders, not quite allowing the lowly squire’s appearance into his view. “Read books, think thoughts? What do you know of reading and thinking?” As always, this was a rhetorical question. The Dust Monster knew well the condescending tone. “I read,” said the Step Master snidely as he began to walk on, “you merely tinker with the pages and ideas like an animal trying to rub sticks together to make fire. Just look at my library.” He motioned casually toward the inner castle walls, in the direction of his private chamber of books stacked from ceiling to floor.

The Dust Monster conceded that few had a library equal to his master’s, but the Dust Monster did like to read, even if he never owned such a great library.

“I am one of the few great readers and thinkers of my time. Just look at my kingdom.” He flailed his arms up toward the great view. The haunting City of Capitalitous stretched out before them with hundreds of tall black castles stabbing upward into the heavy gray clouds of greed. An eerie shadow of guilt loomed over everything though few seemed to notice. The Capitalistic citizens scurried about in steel carriages shaped like giant coffins, plotting and planning and scheming to get their own castles. The tall wicked overlord breathed in the thick stench of ruthless competition and smiled. The Step Master’s menacing castle was clearly one of the biggest, at least the proud master thought so — so surely this meant it was all his kingdom. “You barely walk upright. You’d be swimming in slimy moats, looking for tossed-out refuge to eat if I didn’t do most of your thinking for you.”

“A mere madness, to live like a wretch and die rich.” — Robert Burton

The Dust Monster panned the horizon of dark foreboding buildings, slightly intimidated, slightly unimpressed. He was sure books offered more than knowledge for the accumulation of wealth and power. “Yes Step Master…” he replied, looking back down at his tattered Quasimoto-like feet. “…you are the greatest capitalist, the greatest materialist, and therefore surely the most wisest blah blah blah blah…” His half-hearted sarcasm was intentionally missed, for the Step Master barely ever listened to his adopted squire anyway.

Heading off the high balcony, the Step Master went back to the whole job issue. “Insist on the sentinel duty at the other castle if you must, but you’ll be back. You always come back. But don’t wait too long.”

“Yes Step Master,” the Dust Monster whimpered reluctantly as was expected of him. With his monstrous head hung low as usual, he noticed a familiar form encased in the stone the master had just walked over. Frozen in time was the corpse of an old employee of the master, pressed into the gray block like a big squashed insect. If one looked close enough, many of the castle’s stones were made from dead workers. But the master was no murderer. Many castles in the City of Capitalitous were made this way. This particular worker died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Being fired from his meek cleaning job in the castle was too much stress to bear. Dead like him were the price of a great capitalistic system. The Dust Monster continued over the stone, trying to dismiss the horrific image.

The Step Master babbled on, “If you expect any hope of inheriting this great kingdom of mine, sooner or later you will have to stop defying my wishes.”

Inherit this kingdom, the Dust Monster pondered. That shouldn’t bother him; the Dust Monster had done worse things than be a capitalist. But something still gave him chills about the idea. Was it the sin of capitalism itself, or what he would have to do to ensure his right to the throne of this castle? “He has not acquired a fortune, the fortune has acquired him.” — Bion …the Dust Monster mumbled, reminding himself of something he had read recently. The Step Master heard nothing.

“The more you waste your time there, the harder it will be to win my favor.”

“There is something else keeping me there.” The Dust Monster decided it was time to set his little secret free — perhaps the Step Master would be happy for him. “There is a girl. I think she likes me.” He tried to straighten up his crooked body proudly.

Step Master stopped. “Dust Monster. Not another girl.” Halfway down the grand staircase he paused to shake his head and then started down again. “You know you can’t handle such things. Remember the trouble you had controlling the last one. No, I don’t think it’s such a good idea.” The Step Master assumed the issue was done; that he had corrected the silly Dust Monster with his quick reminder.

“But she’s different,” insisted the Dust Monster defensively. He wasn’t going to be so easily pushed around on this one. “She is much like the Beautiful People that frequent this world, but she does not run from the sight of my true face. And, she’s a Princess — she walks upright, thinks for herself, builds her own castles, is caring to all living things, and so amazing yet so real.”

“A Princess?” the Step Master scoffed. “How big is her castle? I bet I can’t even see its towers from my rooftop.”

“It’s a modest castle. It’s in the Land of Normalities, far far away from here. There she says the size of the castle isn’t as important as its occupants. Here again she is a Princess — above lies, above greed, above vanity.”

“’Bah Humbug,’ said Scrooge.” — Charles Dickens

“You silly thing. The Land of Normalities? Such places are nothing but a myth. Greed is the Law, here and everywhere! Have I taught you nothing? Need I again tell you how much I am worth? Wealth is proof of intellectual power. So surely I know all there is to know!” The Step Master parked his royal rear into the bulky stone throne at the end of a long table covered with a bouquet of food, decorated pompously with rows of sparkling jewels. “I’m not a snob; just a speaker of distinction. My castle is no bigger than the piles of money in my bank account, so I surely could afford a greater place but live modestly, so therefore I am not conceited, but obviously smarter. And I say that if you scratch the surface of this so-called Princess, you will find the insatiable banker that lives within us all.”

“But all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.” — Lord Byron

“Yes Step Master.” The Dust Monster kneeled next to the table and bowed his head. As the overlord was quickly served by a precession of scurrying servants, a dog dish was tossed on the floor before the Dust Monster. “Yes, I concede that greed is everywhere, but the Princess says money is not so worshipped equally by everyone.” His remark ended as his face bent into the dog dish to eat.

“The trouble with the rat race is that even if you win, you’re still a rat.” — Lily Tomlin

“Rubbish. Even if money is not so equally worshipped, this is no proof that a Land of Normalities is anything more than an idealistic fantasy. Just because one of the Beautiful People says they go there, does not mean it is true. Look at me…” The overlord held a goblet of wine high, as if toasting, he smiled, as if posing for a picture. “…I am one of the Beautiful People, but because of my superior mind, I am not deluded with such ideas of a world where greed does not rule all.”

“The meek shall inherit the Earth, but not the mineral rights.” — J. Paul Getty

“Yes Step Master.” His words garbled as he tried to reply without removing his head too far out of his patronizing dinner. Maybe the master was right, he thought. The strange Beautiful People moved in and out of the City of Capitalitous, often in so much of a floating happy daze it was as if their minds were far away in a land the Dust Monster could only dream of. This of course did not mean the Land of Normalities existed, no matter how many of the Beautiful People claimed it to be so. And the master, with his castle so much bigger than most peoples, he must surely be so wise as to know the truth.

When dinner ended, the Dust Monster curtsied before the master, thanked him for a wonderful dinner with splendidly torturous conversation, and made his humble way into the dark city streets. There he pulled his remnant hood far over his hung head, hiding his mutant face from the traffic of Beautiful People racing about. Forcing his irregular animalistic hobble into a normal stride, he picked up his pace, trying to get home without making any accidental contact with the citizens that would surely burn him at the stake like a witch if they witnessed his true form. As always, the rain started filling the streets and a fog rolled in. The Dust Monster leaped from shadow to shadow, corner to corner, like the hooded Elephant Man fleeing down gloomy London alleys. He could have produced his Jack the Ripper mask for protection, to scare away any Beautiful People he might happen into, but the evening at the Step Master’s castle had used up most of his Courage Dust.

“Then black despair, the shadow of a starless night was thrown, over the world in which I moved alone.” — Percy B. Shelley.

At his own humble castle — a cardboard box under a low bridge — the Dust Monster found his calming shelter. Of course, now inside again, the rain stopped and the sun appeared to heat the streets for the Beautiful People. Like a filthy troll he curled into his one-room box, burying himself into his books for warmth, wondering if maybe the stories covering him were encouraging an over-amplified fantasy life. After a brief thought, he decided that was okay; it was all he had to keep him warm on the lonely nights.

Pondering the vexing reprisal from his Step Master, he fought not to recoil his feelings for the Princess. After tossing and turning, the Dust Monster whipped out his mental projector and broadcast before him the reassuring words from the Wise Wizard with the Large Wand.

This curious creature was unto himself in all ways. His inviting glow was similar to that of the Beautiful Peoples’, but clearly his mind and soul were not so shallow.

“So many men, so many opinions; everyone his own way.” — Terence

The Wise Wizard with the Large Wand, Fixer of All Broken Things, was the personal priest of the Princess. So his words of wisdom had helped so much to move the Dust Monster toward a bond with the lovely Princess.

“I have known you, Dust Monster, a long time here.” The Dust Monster put aside his books to listen. As usual, the Wise Wizard with the Large Wand spoke long and true to the Dust Monster late at night at the guard tower of his employment. “And I believe you are good, for you do not trouble me as I come and go at all odd hours. When we speak, you have much thought to offer. Yes, I think the Princess may like you. Plus, anyone who enjoys my song can’t be bad.”

“I have heard your song echoing deep within the castle,” the Dust Monster replied. “It pleases me.”

“I’m glad it pleases you, for nothing, not the spending of money, not the threat of duty, for nothing matters but pleasure, yours and those whom you love. Waste not time or energy on that which you do not truly value.” The Wise Wizard with the Large Wand was truly an insightful soul, yet he knew all men must find their own path, so he didn’t preach to the masses or judge any of them, he only shared his happy way with those standing at the all-you-can-eat buffet of life with him. “Here, have this pizza; may it too please you.”

“So, you do agree that it is proper that I pursue the Princess?” The Dust Monster asked again, needing the reassurance.

“Yes, but be warned of one thing. I have counseled the Princess for much time here, and I know that there was once a frog who pretended to be a prince, and he hurt the Princess trying to force her to shrink to fit on his little lily pad. Do not pretend to be a prince, for she does not admire royalty, be who you are and she will love who you are.”

Clearly the Wise Wizard with the Large Wand thought the Princess would not be reproached by the Dust Monster’s continued pursuit of her. And with this memory supporting the Dust Monster’s troubled mind like a pillow of fluffy dreams, the Dust Monster was able to dismiss the discouraging dinner and find sleep at last, without the usual nightmares coming to haunt him.

“I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad, the dreams in which I’m dying are the best I ever had.” — Roland Orzabal

The next day back at the guard tower, The Dust Monster waited anxiously for the beloved Princess to come by. He was as ready as he would ever be. All morning he scrubbed, bathed, and perfumed his grizzly cuts and mutant form. With as much camouflage as his uniform would allow, most of his hideous body appeared well-groomed — like a drooling wolf in sheep’s clothing. He’d have cut off a few limbs, sand blasted a few monstrous blemishes, and hammered down some of the spikes and horns protruding out from him, but he was afraid if he continued to violently refine his horrific appearance there would soon be nothing left. Besides, the Princess had already seen him, and so far she didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps mind, what a beast he was. Sadly, he feared maybe she was merely taking pity on him, tossing him a few courtesy bones to amuse him. But tonight he would find out for sure. There had been enough long talks. It was time for something more. He was falling in love. If it was all a game, he needed to know, now.

“Hi Mr. Dust Monster,” the beautiful Princess smiled, sleekly sauntering up to the guard tower, seeming genuinely excited to be there.

At last, he thought. Her bright smile was the most endearing thing he had ever seen. It electrified something inside him that had been dormant for years. Every day tons of snooty Beautiful People passed the guard tower not even noticing the monster looking down at them. To them, he was nothing but a gargoyle perched near the drawbridge. But she stopped. She always stopped, smiled, and noticed he was alive.

“Would you…” He suddenly realized he had become a tiny puppy, and it was too late to reach for the Courage Dust. He was so nervous and so excited. He fought desperately to refrain from jumping up and humping her leg. “…consider going out with someone like me.” Her spell over him was crippling. He about melted when she brightened her smile and agreed.

At his humble place, he introduced her to all his little printed friends.

“A good book is the best of friends, the same today and forever.” — M. Tupper.

With wonder and merriment, they talked of dreams, read to each other tales of happiness and woe, and shared themselves, heart and soul. For many days and nights they merged minds and tossed crazy ideas back and forth. Soon, neither the Princess or the Dust Monster could deny they had become the most intimate of companions.

“And love can come to everyone; the best things in life are free.” — Lew Brown

The private moments they spent together were wonderful, but the Princess wanted more of him in her world. “Tonight, I’d like you to come and meet some of my friends. I’m sure they’d like to meet you. I’ve been telling them all about you.”

Suddenly, the Dust Monster crumpled into a ball, throwing his long monstrous arm over himself, trying to hide. “My god, what did you tell them?” He was horrified. People talking about him? Friends of hers talking about him? They’d surely think she was mad.

“Oh, you know, about how we talk. How we roam off to other parts of the castle at night to be alone. About the amusing poetry notes you send to woo me.” Her honesty made her all the more beautiful and her smile slowly calmed him. “So, do you want to come meet them? Then we can go off by ourselves somewhere.”

“They won’t want my kind there. I am too tainted with the stench of pain and anger. Your world is too pure.”

She tried to put him at ease with her insightful view into humanity. “The Land of Normalities, with all of its Beautiful People, is often as full of lies and deception as the kings and queens in the castles of Capitalitous.”

“We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds; our planet is the mental institution of the universe.” — Goethe

“But you,” the Dust Monster questioned, “…you’re so perfect. You hurt no one, you deceive no one. How can someone like you exist in a world with falsehoods?”

“I may not lie or hurt, but I have pain, much like many of the monsters in your world. But my pain comes from being too kind. Sometimes people take advantage of that. And with my need to be liked so ingrained into me, I have trouble saying no. I often give too much of myself, till sometimes it feels like there’s almost nothing left of me. In a way, I guess I do deceive others by simply not being my true self.”

With a quick sprinkle on his head from his hidden pouch, his spell of Courage swelled his chest, perked his grisly muscles, and inflamed his eyes. He was the wolfman, huffing and puffing, ready to blow down any house.

“When I’m good, I’m very good, but when I’m bad, I’m better.” — Mae West

“I’ll kill them all!” the Dust Monster roared, flipping a long shiny blade into view, slashing it about the air like a crazed samurai warrior. “I’ll say ‘no’ for you, and they will all die!”

“Oh, that’s a sweet gesture,” the Princess assured, barely taking notice of his ridiculous posturing. “…but truly not necessary. I don’t want these people hurt in any way. They are all my friends and family.”

“My country is the world, and my religion is to do good.” — Thomas Paine

“I am their kind cupie-doll, but I just want to be treated with a little adult respect, and maybe left alone just one time when they need a saintly Princess to perform for them. I’m always the Florence Nightingale, a reluctant role model, everyone’s shoulder to complain on. I don’t want to be anyone’s hero.”

“Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy” — F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Dust Monster shrunk back into his normal form. “Yes, I guess the one benefit of always being hated is that it’s easy to say ‘no,’ it’s easy to hurt to protect your own interests.”

“No wonder your Step Master thinks you’ll make a good capitalist.” She said it kindly, merely to point out how vulnerable to evil he was.

“You’re right.” He hid his freakish head, ashamed. “But what will you do? How long can you go on allowing people to suck all your willpower away?”

“I don’t know.” The beautiful Princess went sad, almost tearing. The Dust Monster was also sad, clinching his weapons tightly under his monster armor, wanting desperately to defend her, his way. But he would never see the Land of Normalities if he could not assimilate the world without hostility overcoming him. And he would never win her heart with such unchecked emotion.

“If all the world is a stage, I want to operate the trap door.” — Paul Beatty

“Here,” he offered his magic pouch. “Try a little of this.”

“Your Courage Dust is like Fairy Dust, it does not work unless one believes.” The Princess felt weak and frustrated. “I guess I’m not ready to believe in a Princess with her own will, just yet.” She wanted to believe it, but had been trained and consistently encouraged to think otherwise.

Sorrowfully, he began to return the pouch, unwilling to push it on her.

“However, I will try a little, if you will.” The Princess smiled warmly, reaching out her delicate little hand. “Use your great courage to come with me tonight, to see my friends.”

There in her relaxing angelic glow he said “Yes.” Maybe if he could be near the Princess without her noticing his beastliness, maybe others wouldn’t notice. Besides, he was hypnotized. He’d jump off a cliff to be with her. He confessed his perversions and monstrous dreams and she merely pointed out that most people had similar dark musings. His obsessing over them was all that made them feel so severe. Was she right? Who cares? With her, for the briefest of moments, he almost would forget what a terrible monster he was.

“Love beats the demon.” — Oliver Stone

Together, hand in hand, they entered the tavern. The Dust Monster was scrubbed, perfumed, disguised, looking as normal as could be faked for a beast. The Princess looked as beautiful as ever, not flamboyant or showy, just naturally beautiful, like a radiant sunset most pass by, too hurried to realize the glory they just passed. Others counterfeited such inner beauty with makeup, fancy dresses, and arduous workouts, but a painting of a natural sunset is never as pretty as the real blazing sky of pastels glowing before you.

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,–that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” — John Keats

A group of royal court members, friends of the Princess, greeted her and the monstrous escort with benign courtesy. The Dust Monster almost passed for normal if they didn’t use a magnifying glass; they couldn’t see the hideous scars or the gallons of blood soaking down his spirit.

The bustling tavern reeked of social lies and pleasant smiles of dissent. There were good people there, but few didn’t hide behind pretentious yearly incomes, faked confidence and platitudes, fancy job titles, surgically enhanced body parts, trendy costumes, and other masks of acceptance.

“Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.” — Oscar Wilde

The Dust Monster tried to not cringe at the sight of the happy Beautiful People trying to breed with other Beautiful People, all for the greater ego and the continuance of their master race. They clinked their glasses with boisterous toasts and innocent giggles, but the Dust Monster’s phony smile began to crack.

“Do you know such and such, oh such and such is so funny, so cute, so…” Whatever! The prattle of pleasantries, some real and some staged, quickly drove the Dust Monster mad. Inside his cloak he gripped his blade, feeling it magnetically pulling to the throats of the self-righteous crowd mingling around them. The door, the Dust Master’s only means of escape, floated farther and farther away from his comfort zone. The air grew thin and his horns started growing out all over him.

Princess saw the discomfort in his trembling smile. “Do you need to go?” she whispered to him comfortingly. “I’ll understand if you can’t stay long.”

“Oh no, I’m fine,” he lied, noticing her friends peeking at him with suspicion. The jig was up. Any second her friends would see through the make up, past the stage. They would realize the true unworthy monster he was. “Maybe you’re right. I should go.” His heart started to race. The crowd laughed like a cackling mob at a guillotine execution. Beautiful People didn’t want his kind there, and neither did he.

“Stop the world, I want to get off.” — Leslie Bricusse

“I’ll go with you.” She hushed her tone even more. “Truth is I’m bored with these smoky meat markets.”

It was a meat market! And everyone was shopping for good deals, discounts, and top sirloin hunks and chicks at half price. If they looked his way a second more, surely they’d see the horror that he was. The Dust Monster whipped his cape over his face, letting only his depraved eyes peer over his elbow, like Dracula in a room full of garlic and glaring holy crosses. “I’ve got to go. Your friends will hate me for taking you away. I’ll meet you later.” By the last words he was out the door, flapping his arms, trying to turn into a bat to fly away into the full moon light.

He never got off the ground. Hopping franticly down the dark street, he finally found an ominous door to sanctuary. Admission might cost him his soul, but that was like selling garbage, for it was too late to polish his soiled inner self. Quickly, with a magic sprinkle of his Courage Dust, he changed shape, fusing into the form of a lecherous snake. He slithered into the nearby sewer to find peace with his own kind. There in a mad orgy of lust and addiction he partied with the other gutter mutants, swallowing perverse desires, getting high in a swirling sea of joyful transgressions.

“You’re born into this world naked, screaming, and covered in blood, but it doesn’t have to stop there if you know how to live right.” — Robin Williams

From a flying trapeze above, he gracefully back-flipped into the fantasies of other eccentric monsters. The fact that they pleased each other meant nothing, it was the bonding that mattered, the merging of the mind, the uniting of the chaos, bringing a sense of belonging to each of their lonely voids.

“Illusion is the first of all pleasures.” — Oscar Wilde

Maybe he should stop leaving this debauchery haven, he wondered; the Land of Normalities only seemed to be getting farther out of his reach. Here, in the Sewer of Unbridled Lust he was always accepted. Here there was safety…well except for the girl puking up twisted elixirs in the corner, and the guy in the bathroom trying to shave off some burning disease, and the man being dragged out by the constables for giving into temptation and luring innocent souls here against their wishes. Who was the Dust Monster kidding? This place wasn’t safe. These people were all monsters. He belonged there, for he clearly should be locked in with all the other caged animals; the handcuffs, whips, and torture rods were just the self-realization of their own guilt.  But now he didn’t want to stay there.

“We are all of us in the gutter, but some of us are looking up at the stars.” — Oscar Wilde.

And now that a beautiful shooting star of hope and love had visited the Dust Monster’s world, he wanted to go with her, to her home, in the famed Land of Normalities.

“Hitch your wagon to a star. “ —  Ralph Waldo Emerson

No one he ever met in the Sewer of Unbridled Lust was like the Princess. His last romantic chaperon now stood on a table across a sea of bondage, teasing other men the way she teased the Dust Monster. They all belonged here, but he wanted out. Leaving was as easy as zipping up his sticky pants. Not coming back, now that was hard. These were his people. They were all a pack of carnal wolves, eating at each other, night after night, encouraging the lust amongst them. No one got out whole; you’d always have to come back in pursuit of another missing piece of yourself. Legend had it that sooner or later none of yourself would get out at all.

“Man is the only animal that blushes, and the only animal that needs to.” – Mark Twain

Perched high on an apathetic canyon wall, he now looked down over the maze of castles and racing Beautiful People, not caring anymore if anyone saw him. His cape of protection dropped to his feet, revealing the naked horror of his lost heart to the whole world. Next to him was a powerful cannon of temptation, big enough for him to fit in, ready to blow him into shredded pieces all over the crowds below.

“I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.” — Walt Whitman

“You want a piece of me?!!” he bellowed as loud as he could. “Here it comes!” With a mighty leap he straddled the cannon between his leg. Lightning thundered across the cloudy night sky. The rain began to drizzle down in heavy waves, but the Dust Monster sought no cover. “Sweat oblivion!” he yelled at the heavens. “Open your arms!” — Shakespeare. Thunder crashed, rattling the ground all around him. With a flick of a shimmering thunderbolt, the Dust Monster’s hair turned into blazing fire, his teeth dripped into solid fangs, and his skin baked into a black charred ash. This is how he wanted to be remembered, as an exploding nightmare of horror, so the whole world would taste his pain as he dripped down over them in a rain of blood.

“Like books, when opened up, we are all read on the inside.” — Clive Barker

He lovingly stroked the cold steel of the cannon’s width below him. “This shall be the instrument of my destruction, this merciless weapon between my legs.” He leaned to kiss it, with the drops of rain sizzling on his fiery head of anger. “For the last time, make it all go away…forever,” he begged.

“What are you doing?” a sweet voice called with concern.

“I want to seize fate by the throat.” — Ludwig van Beethoven

The Dust Monster flinched away, not wanting her to see him. “Fulfilling my destiny,” he confessed.

“Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing.” — Shakespeare

The Princess floated down onto the cliff top in glowing orb of love, free from rain and thunder. Chimes and angel harps played all around her. Glinda never looked this bright, or this heavenly as she swooped in to guide Dorothy in the land of OZ. “You cannot leave this world now. You have not showed me all your books, your stories, your toys, your artwork. You promised me, remember? You promised to show me everything.”

It was clearly a ploy to stall for time. “Don’t you see,” the Dust Monster cried. “I am not made for this world. I will never see your Land of Normalities. My eyes won’t allow it, my angry heart won’t allow it. At best I’m a small sad headline in the back of a newspaper, another unexplainable statistic. People like me were not meant for good things. I…am…a monster. And nothing will change that, ever.”

“The savage in man is never quite eradicated.” — Henry David Thoreau

“Because you don’t want it to change, do you?”

She was right. Bathe in chaos long enough, it soaks deep into the skin. “I am doomed. It is my destiny. And even if I had the mental stability for a normal life, can you see me punching a clock, playing house, pretending to be wise for babies, growing old, begging for death before I’m too weak to make it too the toilet?! Not for me, thank you! You are the only thing in your world that I want, and the only thing my troubled mind can bare. And clearly, I will never deserve you.”

“You don’t believe in happy endings, do you?” she stated, slyly stepping closer, holding a kind firm stare at the Dust Monster’s burning eyes. “For someone who thinks they’re a beast, you’re being rather noble. Stop it! Please. I’m tired of nobility; I want passion. To heck with what you think you deserve, what about what you want? What about what I want?”

“Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: ‘It might have been!’“ — John Greenleaf Whittier

The Dust Monster recalled what the Wise Wizard with the large Wand said about pretending to be royalty. As the wizard had predicted, the Princess loved him because he was not from the Land of Normalities, and because he did not pretend to be anything more than the monster he was. However, did that justify him corrupting her life with his wickedness? “You will find peace and happiness in a pink house and a white picket fence, with cute little children running and playing. Cease your slumming days and waste not your pity on defective souls such as myself. Get on with your life. You are a Princess, a straight-laced woman, a mother-to-be, awaiting your knight in shining armor, and that is your destiny.”

“And if I don’t want that destiny, should I blow myself out of a cannon to horrify the world in a final farewell?” With each step closer, the rain slowed and the thunder faded away. Princess  eased her way into his heart again, calming him. “Don’t save me from you; only you can save me from a life of royal expectations without passion.”

“Each of us bears his own Hell” — Horace

The Dust Monster bowed down and found that the cannon had gone limp in his hand, his hair of fire went out, and his pale skin had returned. He was just a damaged human with no warranty. There was nothing special here, except their strange loving friendship.

“Please, you can always return here, but for tonight, let us talk,” the Princess pleaded. “Share your thoughts and pain with me. Let me share my thoughts and pain with you. Tonight, put all destiny on hold, and let neither one of us be alone.”

As he turned and let her comforting wing slide over his shoulders, he held his pathetic hands out before her, trying to show her why she should not bother with him. “Don’t you see it? The blood. My hands are covered with it.”

“We cannot tear out a single page of our life, but we can throw the whole book into the fire.” — George Sand

Princess saw only distant stains on his hands, remnants of troubled memories. He had shared the details of these with her many nights ago. “I appreciate your honesty, but it does not frighten me, I told you this. If you are so depraved, why do you write for the town cryer, fighting the war of ideas to save the oppressed and all the poor creatures that crawl across the earth. You seek truth from yourself and your world. These nightmares you tell me of are not that uncommon. And yet not all damaged people are destructive. Many channel their torments into their art. Instead of a cannon, they share their pain with the whole world on a canvas, or on paper. Is this not why you write? Is this not why you chase creative thought?”

“The end of learning is nothing but to seek for the lost mind.” — Mencius

The Dust Monster couldn’t deny it. “It has kept me alive for some time. ‘Art is the food of the soul.’ But I’m nothing more than a mad literary painter, a terrorist of the imagination. No one listens, it will save nothing, I am no hero. Often I’m barely coherent. My head is not right. Whether in my blood or in my environment, the ingredients of destruction are there. I have lost touch with all the world. I am the Stranger in a Strange Land, lost in a rushing river of insane composition.”

“Of all those arts in which the wise excel, Nature’s chief masterpiece is writing well.” —  Sheffield

Coming to rest inside his humble cardboard castle, the cave-like darkness let their voices sail softly to each other. The more the Princess spoke, the more a candle of hope began to glow in the Dust Monster’s heart. Her loving eyes could see where his could not.

“But you admit that this is your real world.” The Princess pointed to his star charts taped to the wall. “And here is more of it.” She sorted through a jumbled collection of art his mother had left him. “And here is even more of your world.” She pointed to stacks of papers, homemade games, mental puzzles, complex ideas and dreams. “Clearly you spend hours on these. Much fascinates you about this universe. Much entertains you as well. Here in your thoughts and ideas is your world, not the world of monsters, not the Land of Unbridled Lust, and yes, not the Land of Normalities. You may visit other worlds, as most of us do when we have the courage, but this ‘here’ is your world. You’re insane as any artist, and this is not a crime.”

“Every child is a artist. The problem is how to remain an artist after he grows up.” — Pablo Picasso

The Dust Monster wiped away some tears. “You think I should accept this life and stop trying to find the Land of Normalities, with all its maturities and expectations?”

“The Land of Normalities is a common place to mingle, but you wouldn’t want to live there. I can barely stand it there anymore. I enjoy my time in your world. The stories you tell me, and the topics you mix and debate, entertain me very much. I even wish I had the courage…the freedom to visit those other worlds you frequent.”

The Dust Monster was shocked, imagining this Princess visiting such precarious and erotic places with him. He forced his mind back to the point of the discussion. “But if I don’t escape the madness,” the Dust Monster continued grievously, “I’ll never have a grand castle in Capitalitous.”

“Artistic profits are only a sign of public acceptance. And even the Wise Wizard with the large Wand agrees that life is not a popularity contest. Here, you’ve shown me that yes there is more to life than producing products or babies. Don’t give up that world just to build a castle of materialism in Capitalitous.”

“Seek to become, not to acquire.”– Confucius

“I don’t need a ‘king’ to provide and rule over me,” she insisted, becoming more fervent as she went on. “I long to break free from royalty. I want a flesh and blood creature of passion and love, a vibrant being to help keep my soul afloat above the sea of social obligations expected of a Princess — the home with a little white picket fence, the babies, the social platitudes…I fear it all now. I can’t even tell anymore which I want and which is being covertly forced on me to make those around me happy. I’m tired of smiling for them. At least you let me be myself.”

“Liberty of thought is the life of the soul” — Voltaire

The Dust Monster could barely believe what she was saying. “You want to enter my worlds?”

“Well…” The Princess was apprehensive, admitting her natural fear of change. “…for visits, it will give me the colors and flavors of life that I can only dream of now. Taste my world; it is only of vanilla. Fine for some, but I want to savoir much more of this life than my narrow world has to offer.”

“Variety is the soul of pleasure.” — Aphra Behn

“Places like the Land of the Nudies do call to me, and I know you can fly me there.”

“I sing the body electric.” — Walt Whitman

“But what will your family and friends say?”

“I’m tired of being a prudish cupie-doll, doing what is expected of me, always agreeing, always being the good little girl. I don’t want to disappoint the ones I love, but I see much appeal in your world. To enjoy sensual pleasure without guilt, to think for yourself instead of pretending to believe the sheeply masses, it must feel liberating. Our talks have helped me see the chains holding me down.” She yanked and pulled on little crystal chains tethering her royal clothes over her innocent skin.

The Dust Monster had to object. “But look what my passport to other precarious worlds has cost me. I’m barely tolerable in public. Look what my own world has done to me. My life is always in danger from those who would wish to conform me.” He pulled off his mask to reveal, only for a second, the serpents crawling over his head like Medusa. “And others are in danger of seeing my hideous true form, turning them to stones of fear, taking all that they value from them. The truth hurts, and this makes me a killer.”

“Your world and the worlds you visit all have a price, and I don’t know if I can afford the whole toll, but isn’t there a middle ground? Isn’t there a world between worlds, for both of us?”

“There is no gathering the rose without being pricked by the thorns.” — Pilpay

“A place where you can be you, try the things you want to try, without losing your friends and family?”

“Yes!” the Princess exclaimed. “Isn’t there?”

“A world between worlds.” The Dust Monster pondered it a moment, “I don’t know?” Since he was sure he could never fully enter her world, such a middle ground would opened up several tantalizing possibilities. For one, he could love  while keeping one foot in his own familiar reality.

“Maybe we should go off and start our own world somewhere,” the Princess joked. “Between all the others.” Then a hopeful pause consumed her; why need it be a joke?

The Dust Monster smiled, flattered she’d ever consider sharing a world, a whole piece of life for any amount of time, with him. Then he frowned, remembering who he was. “Sadly, I’m not a starter of worlds. I am stuck here. My mind is not congruent for such dreams. I can’t mimic normality long enough to build a new world. I’ve tried.” The Dust Monster turned away, ashamed, wishing he had launched the cannon before she could stop him.

“But what if you could meet me halfway? I don’t need you to build a new world for me, just help guide me, and I’ll guide you there too.”

“But my mind…” he wept. “…it seems to fly farther away from normality everyday. I do not even know if I control it anymore. Even if it is harmless, I can’t seem to stop obsessing over it.”

She wasn’t about to lose hope now. “What about that witch doctor you told me you were seeing? Can he not bring your mind down to one realm? Can he not give your mind enough focus, enough clarity, away from the pain and anger long enough to help me find a world of our own?”

“Sometimes he helps, but it always seems to pass and the transdimensional demons return, with a vengeance. Each time I grow weaker, complacent, more willing to let the horrors of my mind take over. I’m so tired of fighting it. A wolf can only pretend to be a sheep for so long. Hunger eventually sets in.”

Princess braced the Dust Monster, demanding his attention. “At least keep trying. You can be an artist, not a monster, I know it.”

“For that fine madness still he did retain, which rightly should possess a poet’s brain.” — Michael Drayton

“Please!” the Princess appealed. “For me if not for you. What do you lose by trying to find a middle ground, a tolerable passage through this life? If your nightmares can rest, what is to stop us then?”

Did this mean what he hoped it did? Did she see a possible future together? He sat up to hug her, checking her eyes for their truth. He melted, falling into her embrace, but she stopped the hug…with her lips. She kissed him. He was always the seducer, but not this time. She had sneaked a pinched of his Courage Dust, showing him that she was ready to try to open her world to his, if he would only try to save his mind.

“Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.” — Lord Byron

At the witch doctor’s cottage the following day, new potions were pumped into the Dust Monster. With a queasy glaze on his face he said, “No, now the nightmares are worse, and reality appears too convoluted.”

“Dreams are the touchstones of our character.” — Henry David Thoreau

“Okay, how about this?” the witch doctor asked, pumping in a new potion.

“Better dreams, but now I’m a rabbit.”

Sure enough, the doctor looked down at the Dust Monster and found a manic rabbit bouncing spastically, out of control, smacking his head against the wall, trying to make obscene gestures out the window at innocent bystanders.

“Well, let’s try this blue one.”

This went on for over twenty moons. The Dust Monster offended many and tormented himself with fears of going completely mad and disappointing the Princess. But during brief moments of clarity and control, when he could see through the fog of potions and insanity choking his mind, the Dust Monster and the Princess carefully journeyed to many tantalizing worlds together, bringing their friendship closer and closer.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” — Charles Dickens

Finally, the Dust Monster could no longer put off introducing the Princess to his Step Master.

“So, how tall is your castle,” the master asked sternly, pouring himself another goblet of corporate blood as servants put bowls on the floor in front of the Dust Monster and his radiant guest.

The Princess evaded the rude question. “Surely not as big as yours.”

The Step Master almost let out a smug giggle. “Well of course.”

The Princess struggled to get down on her knees to eat, with a repulsed grimace on her face as she looked down at the bowl of slop.

The Step Master actually noticed the Princess having trouble. “Eating down there too good for you. I suppose you want to sit at the table with me. The Dust Monster had claimed you were a Princess.” Clearly the Step Master was amused.

The kneeling Dust Monster clinched a fork in his jacket. Now that someone he cared about was enduring the master’s ways, a violent rage began to boil within him.

“Actually, I’ve been trying to get the Dust Monster to stop calling me ‘Princess.’ I would prefer just ”, nothing more. However, surely I don’t need a title to eat at least from my lap with real food utensils.”

The Step Master tried to sidestep his arrogance. “Well, how was I supposed to know that’s what you wanted. You didn’t speak up, so I assumed you and the Dust Master enjoyed eating down there.” The Step Master snapped his gold-plated fingers and servants came running with dishes and chairs for the Dust Monster and the Princess.

“So…” The Step Master tried to change the subject. “What are your intentions with my Dust Monster?”

The Princess was not about to deny her fondness for the beast. “Well, we are very much in love. The Dust Monster is my champion at arms. He has given me hope that I will one day be free from all the social chains reaching out to get me, and he chased away the discourteous hobgoblins from my charitable castle. Though his instincts overdo his protectiveness sometimes, he is my faithful defender, and I could love no other.”

The Dust Monster licked his pit-bull paws, stroked his ears proudly, and snarled affectionately toward the Princess.  He was thrilled to have put his beastly passion to her service. “In turn, she protects me from myself.” She returned with an understanding smile and a feline purr, sending her sensuous love to the Dust Monster. Should it have been another occasion, they would have rubbed up against each other under the table, on all fours, letting their animal heat consume them in a lurid act of passion.

The Step Master smirked at their loving gaze toward each other. “Love is for the foolish. Look how happy I am, and I have no one.”

“Actually,” the Princess stated proudly, “we’re thinking of joining our hearts together in matrimony.”

“The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved — loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves.” — Victor Hugo

“Marriage!” The Step Master was shocked. He demanded the Dust Monster’s attention. “You didn’t clear this with me. Where was I during your courtship?”

“I grew weary of your distrust and ridicule, so I refrained from sharing with you all the poems I’ve sent her, all the nights I’ve been with her, and the tears I’ve shed for her. But make no mistake, regardless of your approval, I love her.”

“Again you defy my wishes. She is not a good influence on you.”

The Princess and the Dust Monster reaffirmed their passionate gaze, trying to ignore the Step Master’s insults.

The Step Master threw up his hands in disgust. “I see the matter is out of my hands. Don’t expect me to provide for your babies and his frivolous artisan lifestyle. He lacks competitive direction, and you obviously lack practical sense. My money is for weighing down dusty bank vaults, not for enjoying.”

“Thanks anyway,” the Princess replied politely.

“The man is the richest whose pleasures are the cheapest.” — Henry David Thoreau

The Step Master fretted with rage, trying to concoct a way to retain control. “Give me your accounts, your records, and I may help you make something of the Dust Monster. Surely he is worth nothing to you now. He must be trained, ordered, secured to a short steel chain. Do as I wish and I will concede to pay for this senseless marriage, but it should be private, for us royal relatives only. A small second party for all the unelite friends can be held later.”

The Princess couldn’t help but gasp. “My father is no pauper, and many of my friends are as a part of my family as those by blood.”

The Dust Monster grew angry, trying to be civil as he had promised the Princess he would be. “A big wedding will make the Princess and her family happy. No one asked for your economical, snobbish input.” The Dust Monster was ready to defy the Step Master like never before, and he didn’t need any magic Courage Dust.

The Step Master shot his nose up in the air, acting offended. “How dare…”

Always the cordial Princess, she dared not alienate anyone. “You will be invited of course. And if you truly wish to be apart of the event, you may help with the wedding party dinner.”

“Fine…but no children, and the event will be where I want and will cater only to my family.” The Step Monster sipped his wine deviously as he plotted the self-centered event in his mind. It would be about praising him, as he was accustomed to, not about the new couple.

Horrified and upset, the Princess whispered to the Dust Monster, “…but this is our wedding.”

The Dust Monster didn’t need to hear more. Still in pit-bull form, he leaped onto the table knocking goblets and plates far away, growling as hateful foam dripped from his sharp canine teeth.

“Come not between the dragon and his wrath.” — Shakespeare

The Step Master didn’t flinch. “Bite me would you?”

“I’ll chew your face off. Ridicule me no more, harass the Princess no more, and don’t forget that it is us getting married, not you. Abide by these things, and that is not a request.” The Dust Monster crouched down, ready to pounce on the Step Monster’s next cruel words.

The Princess quickly searched her satchel for the reins the Dust Monster had given her to use in such emergencies.

The Step Master snapped his fingers, a curtain parted behind him, and out rolled a giant catapult. “Keep it up Dust Monster and I’ll eject you from my kingdom and my life forever. I won’t miss you. I need no one. But without me, you are nothing but a spineless beast, and I know how such a fatherly rejection will hurt you.”

The Dust Monster had been threatened with the catapult many times, but this time it didn’t frightened him. “Hell has no fury like the rage I shall wage upon you if you do not cease your discourtesy.”

The Princess threw the reins onto the Dust Monster, pulling him back, reminding him that his heart belonged to her, and she would be hurt if he let his hatred come into being.

“Anger is a short madness” — Horace

“That’s right, listen to the Princess.” The Step Master stood slowly, staring down the canine blood shot eyes gleaming at him with contempt. “Perhaps she can control you, and perhaps even turn you into some resembling a human. Until then, I’m not going to any wedding.”

The Princess pulled back with both hands, and the Dust Monster let her win the tug-o-war, slowly pulling him back off the table. “Perhaps we should go,” Princess  insisted, politely nodding to the Step Master as she pulled the Dust Monster out the door. “Nice meeting you. You’ll still get an invite to the wedding, in case you change your mind.”

“Yes, leave me. Take that wretched animal out and have him beaten till he learns his manners. For I am the rich and powerful Step Master and I declare that no one approaches me in such a way, or they will be…”

The Princess got the Dust monster out and he tried to resume a more dignified form. She removed the reins and returned them to her satchel. “I see what you mean. He is an odd, petty man. I’ve never met anything like him.”

Humbly, the Dust Monster dusted himself off. “You should have let me eat him.” But he knew she was right, that’s why he gave her the rains in the first place. It would have felt good to pounce on the Step Master, allowing the many years of anger to unload in a moment of savage ecstasy.

“No I shouldn’t have and you know it.” The Princess took the Dust Monster by the hand and helped him through the crowded streets. “Freedom from abuse is one thing, but you have been rebelling so long you’ve gone to an extreme. Hate has limited power.”

“Goodness is the only investment that never fails.” — Henry David Thoreau

“…and you can’t be in my world if you will react like that. It would be your undoing.”

The Dust Monster stopped and dropped to one knee before her. “Again I ask you, is it not my destiny? Look how many times I have gone too far. I am a monster for sure.”

“But never with me.” She leaned into him with a soft reassuring voice. “I never see the monster. I see only a panicked child before me, trying to live in alien worlds.”

“I have not loved the world, nor the world me.” — Lord Byron

She was right again. He looked down at himself and he found a young boy’s body, shivering in the cold and still breathing heavy after his abrupt temper tantrum.

“There is nothing to fear.” The Princess took his hands and kissed him softly. She had learned to make some of her own Courage Dust, and now stood before him as a little girl. “Think not of this world,” she said pointing back at the Step Master’s castle. “Let us go home, play with our inner children, talk deeply, dream sweet dreams aloud, and continue to build our new world together. It matters not if we ever come here again. Forget it all. Let us run far far away from such vile places.”

The Dust Monster looked up thoughtfully at the castle. “But it has been such a large part of my world for so long, it has become an appendage.” He glanced down, bringing her attention to the rope of flesh wrapped around him, leading all the way back to the castle. “We don’t always see it, but it is there.”

“But look, my family awaits you.” The Princess directed him toward her parents.

The Dust Monster looked back over his shoulder. There on a glowing horizon was an accepting King and Queen, waiting for the Dust Monster. With a bright smile they opened their arms and called to their daughter and her unkempt lover.

“They know you well,” the Princess declared. “In fact, my Queen knows your rebellious ways from long long ago. They cannot deny that the passive ways they have passed onto me have made me vulnerable. In fact, didn’t my Queen hope you would help me grow the claws they failed to give me?”

“Yes, when I asked them permission to propose to you,” the Dust Monster acknowledged.

“See, you are different, but offer me much that I want and no other can provide. With their sincerest love, all my King and Queen want is you to make me happy. It matters not what world you come from. If I am happy, they are happy.”

The Dust Monster hesitated, trying to speak through all his emotional shame. “I can do that. I can make you happy.”

Her smile was ready to answer. “Of course you can. This is why we’re together.” She pulled out a pair of scissors and cut the connection back to the Step Master’s castle. It snapped and fell easily to the ground. “See, that didn’t hurt at all. You are free to be yourself again.”

“Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.” — James Baldwin

A sense of true liberty overcame him like never before. As they walked, he floated, free, inches above the ground on a cloud of happiness. Into the night they consummated their devotion and planned for the coming wedding day.

Suddenly a roaring crowd could be heard in the distance. From the dark windows, marching torches came toward the Princess’s castle. It was an angry mob, demanding the monster’s execution.

The Dust Monster leaped to the window in fear. The Princess hid behind her silk sheets, begging the monster to hide. “Don’t get into it with them, they know not what they do. No gruesome confrontations, please.”

The Dust Monster tried to be reassuring. “I promise, I’ll be polite. I feel very stable. The witch doctor potions seem to be working, and I’ve learned so much from you and the Wise Wizard.”

He opened the front door with a boisterous smile, determined to talk things out with the swarming mob. “Bienvenidos Amigos!” (Welcome friends)

“There it is!” one of the angry Beautiful People screamed, directing the crowd into a stampede toward the door. “Get the beast!”

“What seems to be the problem…” Before the Dust Monster could finish, they tackled him, threw him over their heads, and rushed him to the town square. “Um, excuse me…” The Dust Monster politely kicked and tugged, trying to get down, but the mob wouldn’t allow that. There in the center of town, cheering spectators awaited the execution with delight.

“The world is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those who feel.” — Horace Walpole

The beast was tossed onto a small square stage raising out of the ground to meet him. Before he could protest any more, manacles appeared magicly from the stage and clamped onto his hands and feet.

“Now you will pay,” one of the angry rioters announced. “How dare to drag the Princess  to the land of the Nudies?” With a verbal slash, his hurtful words leaped out like an invisible whip and stung the monster on the back. The Dust Monster squealed in shock. “But she wanted to go…” And blood splashed from a long slice tearing down his back.

Another mobster stood tall and proclaimed her issue with the beast. “You think you’re too good for us tavern girls. We were friends of the Princess  first.” And another cut tore into the beast. “How dare you not stay and play social small talk! You’re an arrogant jerk.”

Refraining himself from an instinctively sarcastic reply, all he could utter was, “But…but I thought you preferred that beasts like me not be there.” The polite rebuttal was true, but an ineffective defense against their hatred.

“Where has your penis been? You can’t date the Princess till your desires are pure and holy…not curious, not open minded.” The accuser waved his torch in the air, calling more angry citizens to the lynching. They were all going to enjoy this.

“Is sex dirty? Only if it’s done right.” — Woody Allen

The beast took the bloody gash with a painful cringe. “But my curiosities don’t preclude the ability to be loyal.” The Dust Monster couldn’t understand their distrust of him. He was good to the Princess, and she was happy with him. Clearly they wanted to dictate what type of happiness she was allowed to have.

“I hear you honor demented dead sadists. Does this mean you’ll beat her?” The words sliced into the Dust Monster with angry force.

“No, never. I have no oppressive desires. But I do relate to enslaved authors who were wrongly accused by prudish historians. Is that a crime?” The trivial details of his defense were irrelevant; no one would hear him.

“Yes, everything you think is a crime!” the crowd roared. The Dust Monster strained in agony as the flood of accusations stung like razors all over his beastly skin. He could not escape, he could not retaliate, all he could do is take it, and whimper in with his explanations, hoping someone might listen, hoping someone might believe.

“I heard he keeps romantically stimulating paraphernalia at his castle. He does not care that this will defile the Princess’s pure thoughts.” Some screamed for his death, others laughed at him, others threw their own accusations at the helpless beast. It was a whirlwind of pain for him.

“Self-righteous morality is the herd-instinct in the individual.” — Nietzsche

“She wants me to keep the sensual things, so she might enjoy them with me.” No one heard it. By now he was laying on his tucked knees, head down, crying as they lashed at his back. His clothes were in shreds, soaked with the blood of his draining happiness.

The accusations kept coming at him, like a rain of nails sealing him more and more to the Stage of Shame holding him. The spectators cheered and yelled. The beast was going down beyond saving, praying for death.

“I’m so sorry,” came a candy-coated crying voice. It was the Princess. The Dust Monster gathered enough strength to raise his battered head. To his horror, he found that the Princess was also being dragged to a Stage of Shame. “I’m sorry,” was all she could say, over and over. She was sorry for disappointing them, and she was sorry that the Dust Monster now suffered at the words of judgmental friends and family she so cared for. Of course, the mob, under a giant umbrella of self-righteousness, assumed she was apologizing for her sins — of being tempted by such an evil monster.

“I wouldn’t recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they’ve always worked for me.” — Hunter S. Thompson

Her apologies were not enough for them. “You need more church, you need more booze, you need to join the flock again, stop thinking for yourself, for only we know best….” They beat her down, just as they had done to him. “..you little insecure tramp. You only took pity on him because you were desperate for companionship. You’d take any monster in town.”

“I’m so sorry,” was all she could bid, not wanting to offend them by pointing out their snobbishly blind notions.

Still offering no resistance as he had promised, the Dust Monster’s remaining strips of flesh began to melt in sorrow, watching the one he loved being ridiculed for loving him. It confirmed all he had suspected; death would have been better for him, then at least she would be free from this social madness. “Leave her alone; it was all me, I’ll confess to anything.” For her, he would weaken his tone even more, accepting all blame for her sins. “…yes, I tempted her, I poisoned her mind, anything. Just let her be free to think for herself.” But no one heard his gargled plea through the painful blood dripping over his cut lips. It hurt his mouth to lie to protect her innocence, but his eyes and ears bled more, in heavy red streams of sadness, hearing and seeing her suffer at their prejudice words.

The accusations mounted against them, and the two punished lovers filled the streets with red sorrow from their bleeding hearts. They both begged in silence, hoping the angry crowd would tire of beating them down and leave them alone to lick their wounds. Only that hope kept them alive.

“One word frees us of all the weight and pain in life. That word is ‘love.’“ — Sophocles

High above, on a tall menacing castle, the Step Master yelled into a powerful funnel. It was supported by family servants on the castle rooftop. They helped send his hostile message over the crowd and down upon the Dust Monster’s injured skin. “Yes, and don’t forget to humiliate him with his unwillingness to be her king. Does she have the penis? A man’s place is chained to work, and hers is in the kitchen.” The Step Master wanted to contribute to the thrashing, and his long bullwhip of anger hurt both the Princess and the beast.

The Dust Monster would have endured it all, if the Princess would have wanted him too. But maybe she had tasted too much of the free worlds, maybe she was too much in love, but either way, she couldn’t take any more. “Life is not a popularity contest.” It had been ringing quietly in her heart through the whole ordeal, a bit from the prayers of the Dust Monster, a bit from the prayers of the Wise Wizard, a bit for her own common sense, and the rest of it came from seeing her beastly love fiend take far more than even he could have deserved. She turned her weakened head to the sobbing Dust Monster, and with a sweet, sincere smile, she closed her eyes and nodded, setting him free.

“The tree of liberty only grows when watered with the blood of tyrants.” — Bertrand Vieuzac

With a thundering Godzilla roar echoing across the land, shattering windows and shaking the ground, the crowd covered their ears, looking about in a sudden panic. When they returned their eyes to the Stages of Shame, the Dust Monster was gone. The shackles had faded away and a Trap Door of Focus swung loose. It had freed the beast, allowing him to stop caring about their hurtful opinions.

Frantic cries swept through the crowd. “Where did it go?” The dark sky grew cloudy and lightning crashed all around them. They could feel an icy chill snaking through the crowd. A vengeful ghost was among them, hiding in shadows, leaping from corners, sometimes camouflaged as one of them. Their nervousness only made them more vulnerable, and they knew it. The startled crowd spastically searched about themselves, trying desperately to see the monster coming at them.

The Dust Monster had consumed all his Courage Dust, and was now at his peak, ready to strike down his cruel pursuers. With insidious whispers, like an assassin popping up behind its victims to slit their throats, the Dust Monster appeared, told the cruel truth into the ears of the accusers, and suddenly vanished. Painfully absorbing his words, the listener would gasp, trying not to act offended, then would suddenly fling off the ground as if hit by a cannon ball of reality, parting the crowd with their fleeing pride.

“The power of thought…the magic of the mind!” — Lord Byron

He compared them to their esteemed gods, he directed their eyes to mirrors of hypocrisy, he revealed hallowed secrets, and turned their swords of distrust against each other. All the while, sneaking behind their backs with a proud smile, knowing he had only told the truth — the last thing they really wanted to hear about themselves. It was a mass attack of the most vicious sort.

Hurling away, with painful screams of shame, one by one the crowd thinned. Like popcorn in a hot kettle, the panicked mob exploded when hit with the Dust Monster’s words.

The Princess wouldn’t watch as the Dust Monster attacked, doing what he did best. He could have been more harsh, but out of respect for her, he only did what was needed. When he stung them a little too much, he bowed, apologized, but made it clear that he could have stabbed them through the heart if he had so wished it.

At the high castle, the Step Master turned away, refusing to see the mobs defeat, drifting back into his world to count his stacks of Gold Ego Coins.

Some of the accusers limped away, hurt though in denial of it, but surely few would dare confront the Dust Monster again. But if they did, he’d be ready. They could always try to beat him down again, he was actually human after all, but when it became a question of who could push the hardest, who would tempt going over the line the farthest, the Dust Monster had no equal among them.

“Damaged people are dangerous…because they know others can survive as they did.” —  Josephine Heart

As soon as enough angry eyes were off the Princess, the Dust Monster shot through the wind to her side. He kneeled down gently and offered to help raise her. “My Princess, the obligations are gone. You are bound no more.”

She looked up cautiously with her weepy eyes, unsure of herself. “But they will return.”

“Yes, someday, and again I will chase them away. I promise.” The Dust Monster grinned.

“But you didn’t hurt them too badly did you?” As always, she cared for even those who would enslave her with guilt.

“I showed mercy, with the baring of my soul to any one of them who cared to see my scars. If they don’t want to know the truth about us, then I can’t help them endure our differences.”

The Princess could accept that, for it did seem fair. She slowly stood with his help, and she marveled at her bare wrists and ankles. It felt good to be free, and she agreed that the Dust Monster could not and should not change his leopard spots all together. He would conceal them to please the family and friends, as long as they kept their discernment at a great distance, but nothing more.

The streets slowly cleared and the harsh belligerent storm of judgement was over. With a slow, passionate embrace, they kissed each other, healing their wounds. The clouds above parted, the bright full moon smiled upon them, and they knew that no future bad weather could hurt them as long as their hearts were together.

“At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet.” — Plato

Ringing bells clang joyously throughout the town. White rose petals drifted down from above, like soft snow. A red carpet unrolled down the street, landing at the foot of the stage. Steps of pride appeared below them, to help them down from the shameful stage. Laughter and happiness sang in around them. Pews appeared on each side of the red carpet of love. A steeple grew in, and the wedding was here.

In the distance, at the end of the long aisle, the Wise Wizard finished clicking the heels of his magic slippers. He had put on the finishing touches at the chapel and at the new world in their private kingdom far away.

The monster’s Mother was also there, visiting from the far away Land of the Glamorous. All who mattered made their appearance. Now everything was perfect.

The Dust Monster and the Princess smiled with delight, following the Wise Wizard’s signal to come down the aisle. They were so thrilled, they cared not about which of the token attendants approved or not. The Beautiful People were all restrained by their own etiquette in the sacred place. Nothing could stop the happy couple now.

“Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be.” — Robert Browning

With an elbow up for the Princess to take, the Dust Monster asked, “So, my sweet Princess…” He paused, seeing her polite correcting glance. “…My sweet Precious . Do you want to dance with me…down the aisle to our new destiny?”

Gladly, she took his arm. “I do.”

 

 

The End…

 

 

“And the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.” — Walt Whitman

 

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