Tales of Amethyst Part 3: "Brick, if you need to curse my name, curse me good!"

A lot had happened with everyone's favorite female protagonist on this here blog. Sure, she's the only female protagonist we've had on this here blog...but at least we're trying, right? Ha ha...uh.

In addition to landing several high profile interview subjects for her insatiable boss, the incredibly self-involved Eugene Pterodactyl, one could say that this past summer had been the summer of love for the purple loving producer.  A certain someone had young Amy smitten and craving the end of the work day like a dog craved a steak. Was that an insensitive comparison? Lo siento.

Yes, Amethyst had spent the last few months in a state of tantric ecstasy, pulsing with joy as she floated through her most productive few months at the TV station yet. Lonely shut-ins had gathered 'round the old boobtube in force to watch the non-stop layouts and poorly downloaded second-hand material, which Eugene Pterodactyl's documentary series specialized in, as they never had before.

Amethyst's star had never risen higher. She had even begrudgingly earned the respect of her hard-to-please employer, the aforementioned Pterodactyl. Pterodactyl had a poor reputation when it came to his producers. He went through them like a pack of Kleenex on a sneezy day.

Understandably, in this perpetually orgasmic mood, Amethyst was sitting on top of the world when Brick stumbled into work. In a moment of uncommon charity, Amy actually wished Brick a good morning with a hint of sincerity she hadn't used with him since the beginning of her torrid affair with her as of yet unnamed BF.   

The color had long since drained from Brick's skin. He was like a healthy looking zombie minus the brain diet. The lowly video editor had his hair cut short and his prickly stubble shaved to try to regain some self-respect. No luck.

Brick sat down and stared at the blank timeline on his desktop screen. That's all his life had become. An empty timeline that refused to stop.

John Slate, Brick's immediate supervisor burst into the common office area with a swagger previously unheard of. He marched over to Brick's desk and slammed his fist down.

"Where the hell have you been?" demanded the impatient editor.

"I was..."

"I don't care where you were, you get to work on those goddamn promos right now. The biggest episode of Pterodactyl's show is coming up and if the promos aren't ready, no one will know what to watch."

"Take it easy on him, John," said the surprisingly compassionate Amethyst.

Slate walked up to her, grabbed her by the waist and pressed her up against his body in a passionate kiss right in front of Brick's eyes. Devastation could not begin to describe the suffering Brick's tattered psyche endured in that moment. Amethyst glanced over at him, pity in her eyes. The first domino had fallen. The rest were soon to follow.

  

Mortality and the common Brick or what not to think about on one's birthday... "Someone take these dreams away, That point me to another day, A duel of personalities, That stretch all true realities."

And so on a random summer's day, Brick reported sick from work and stayed home. Home was what he called a claustrophobic crawlspace that is disdainfully referred to as a 'Studio Apartment'. A lonely crimson guitar hung above the broken futon that Brick used to slip into temporary oblivion between dusk and dawn.

He hadn't slept that night. The air was oppressive with its mixture of humidity, heat and haughty disregard for one's ability to breathe. Stripped down to just a sweat-drenched pair of slacks, Brick stared at the bare wall across from his hopeless body. Exposed red bricks stretching from floor to ceiling played tricks on the vulnerable Brick's mind.

Beside him sat the omnipresent specter of G Mod. Brick no longer remembered who he was or what he had done to him in his former life as the troubled leader of the world's worst band, MFUJ. G Mod was just the darkest shade in a room desperate for illumination.

"What is a man?" asked the incorporeal one.

"I don't know anymore," relied the recumbent Brick.

"A man is a vessel for change. He is a sentient being capable of making decisions that affect not only himself but the lives of those around him."

"..."

"What is a brick?"

"Useless..."

"It is a tool used by men to build something. Or it can be a weapon. It all depends on the man's intentions."

"Huh..."

"What is mortality?"

"Mortality?"

"Did I stutter?"

"No..."

"Mortality is the measure of a man's limits. Health, endurance, luck... A man's time comes when he has depleted these three."

On the walls appeared the faint outlines of MFUJ band members Shadow, Tigerman and Slate.

"I know these faces.. from somewhere."

"I'm sure you do. The question I have to ask you, Brick: how long is the life-cycle of a brick under duress?"

"I don't know..."

"Okay, fair enough," declared the ego-stroking G Mod,"What is depression?"

"It is drowning without the water...without the hope of coming back for oxygen. It is the constant feeling that one's life is devoid of purpose or fulfillment. It is cancer of the soul, hell on earth."

"So what's holding you to this world Brick? What is preventing you from finding peace?"

"These dreams filled with the dead souls from my past and present. My spirit swerves out of their way, but  they prove overwhelming. They make me crave my own demise, a demise I will never achieve on my own..."