For a time, Allister was an unbridled rebel, but an unbridled romantic rebel. And some would go so far as to say a deeply artistic unbridled romantic rebel with an evergrowing fantasy of how pristine and beautiful the possibilities of the earth could be, but trapped beneath a hard shell of emotional scarring. The title was too long to use in regular conversation and too pansy-sounding to use in knife fights. So, Allister resorted to calling himself Cyclops even though, by all accounts, both of
his eyes were functional.
He mounted his Harley and roamed the highways for months at a time, stopping only to stretch his legs and punch a cop. When he was hungry, he would pull up close to the rear of a passing car and gnaw on their bumper. He would only stop at the dirtiest of rest stops, where clouds of flies swarmed above. And, even then, his sole reason for stopping was to carve a message into the stall. His message was continuous, a novel whose pages consisted of ratty restroom stalls. The story was semi-biographical. Based half on Francis Marion and half on a winged triceratops who rallied millions of fellow winged triceratops into flying kamikaze-style into the oncoming asteroid to save the dinosaurs from extinction. He drew from the romantic aspect of Marion's experiences in the American Revolution and applied them to a beast that probably never existed, but would surely have changed the world if it had.
Cyclops carried an arsenal of paints, charcoals, and markers with him. His graffiti was anything but haphazard. Cyclops painted with the passion of a honeybee collecting honey for the hive-if the hive were in a piston and the piston were furiously pumping and pushing the engine of a hotrod with flames on the side and the muffler too long and powerful to be confined underneath. Colors, shapes, lines. They became a language for him. A language dripping off a brush and onto walls and concrete. Passersby would cry when they viewed his work on the side of an outhouse. It was that good.
For a change of pace, he would frequent some dive bar and swallow shot glasses filled with bourbon. He would pick eight or nine people and repeatedly punch them in the head until they bought him a drink. He would leave his barstool long enough to go outside and bash windshields in with his bare fists. Using his bloody knuckles, he would write haikus on the car hoods and then casually stride back to his stool where he would wait for the car owners to call the police. When they would arrive, he would walk outside cooperatively, knowing that once one of the cops read a car hood, he would be a free man. It was that simple. He bashed your car in one minute and tugged at your heartstrings the next. Anyone lucky enough to be beaten to a pulp by Allister left enlightened. He was a legend. A mirage in black leather mounted on a Harley, and carousing the highways.
Then, one day he grew up. Literally, Cyclops grew two feet and could not fit into his leather pants or jacket anymore. Allister took this as a sign. He had already grown tired of his alias. Cyclops was more myth than man and Allister was ready to be a man. So, that morning, he picked up the classified section and never touched a Harley again.
his eyes were functional.
He mounted his Harley and roamed the highways for months at a time, stopping only to stretch his legs and punch a cop. When he was hungry, he would pull up close to the rear of a passing car and gnaw on their bumper. He would only stop at the dirtiest of rest stops, where clouds of flies swarmed above. And, even then, his sole reason for stopping was to carve a message into the stall. His message was continuous, a novel whose pages consisted of ratty restroom stalls. The story was semi-biographical. Based half on Francis Marion and half on a winged triceratops who rallied millions of fellow winged triceratops into flying kamikaze-style into the oncoming asteroid to save the dinosaurs from extinction. He drew from the romantic aspect of Marion's experiences in the American Revolution and applied them to a beast that probably never existed, but would surely have changed the world if it had.
Cyclops carried an arsenal of paints, charcoals, and markers with him. His graffiti was anything but haphazard. Cyclops painted with the passion of a honeybee collecting honey for the hive-if the hive were in a piston and the piston were furiously pumping and pushing the engine of a hotrod with flames on the side and the muffler too long and powerful to be confined underneath. Colors, shapes, lines. They became a language for him. A language dripping off a brush and onto walls and concrete. Passersby would cry when they viewed his work on the side of an outhouse. It was that good.
For a change of pace, he would frequent some dive bar and swallow shot glasses filled with bourbon. He would pick eight or nine people and repeatedly punch them in the head until they bought him a drink. He would leave his barstool long enough to go outside and bash windshields in with his bare fists. Using his bloody knuckles, he would write haikus on the car hoods and then casually stride back to his stool where he would wait for the car owners to call the police. When they would arrive, he would walk outside cooperatively, knowing that once one of the cops read a car hood, he would be a free man. It was that simple. He bashed your car in one minute and tugged at your heartstrings the next. Anyone lucky enough to be beaten to a pulp by Allister left enlightened. He was a legend. A mirage in black leather mounted on a Harley, and carousing the highways.
Then, one day he grew up. Literally, Cyclops grew two feet and could not fit into his leather pants or jacket anymore. Allister took this as a sign. He had already grown tired of his alias. Cyclops was more myth than man and Allister was ready to be a man. So, that morning, he picked up the classified section and never touched a Harley again.
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