As I am lost in the mix Klippninger pulls me aside, introducing me to his brother and the bride. Our late arrival does not seem to faze his brother, as if it were expected. The truth is, I would not have held it against him myself if he missed my wedding either. This is what happens when you are born with a spirit built for Greeks, for gods, for men larger than should exist in our times; the hugeness of his soul has prevented his horrendous acts from ever going unforgiven. Klippinger’s insanity is that he was born for bronze, a golden age where he could have ruled the peasants and slaves with a poetic cruelty; his first ruling would have been to rid the world of Klippinger’s first and then move on from there.
The centerpiece of the evening is his best man speech, as he takes the microphone wiping his nose of the cocaine that somehow materialized. No one offered me, which is fine; from my one night affair with cocaine I recognize it as an event I would enjoy far too much to ever indulge in again. “You’re all pathetic,” he begins. The cows roll their eyes as his speech turns into roaring demands that go on and on as he surpasses the fifteen-minute mark, he shouts and marches across the stage like a little Napoleon. “I want you all to see what this whole fucking thing looks like,” he seethes, over articulating each word. He cackles like a hyena and the room sits on edge as he pulls out his little black spider. His gun. “Hey, Firefly,” he bellows at me.
Please don’t bring me into this, I scream as I run out of the VFW, the cows all turning towards me, on the verge of stampeding what feels like this deus ex machina moment.
As the doors to the VFW close behind me the gun goes off. Has Klippinger killed himself or a heifer? Or is this a warning shot to be recognized as the start of an internal revolution that will be played out for the rest of our lives, as long, of course, as we all knew whom Joe Klippinger is? I can hear that, I can hear that he has been preparing for that since the day he was born.
There are few people in this world who are born for something, for something specifically; we are all spit out unknown, disordered in birth with only the idiotic destiny of genes to guide us blindly through our great meaningless tenure. Klippinger was born on the messiah-track, among those giants whose future is carved in their tenacity to tear at the surface fearlessly and expose their own truth bolder and louder than anyone else, baring their internal flame to the rest of the world though irrevocable acts by night with no rest. Others of us, the common men fear of some stupid final judgment that will never come, but even our rational logic cannot interfere in this dumb magic show, the fear is too powerful. The gods among us rise above and know inherently that the difference between creation and destruction is personal taste. Klippinger embodies this and breathes it into those lucky enough to know him.
Girls, Guns & Hot Rods:
by Jami Beck