They call me the breeze flasher

I may not be workin' for MCA, but I'm workin' for something. That something pays nothing, bien sûr. Lousy, cheapskate internets.

The pen laid perpendicular to the blade throwing burnished gold in sharply angular directions with each shift of my slumped-over form. Pater, père, vader -- I quickly feigned heavy breathing, the cat dashing for cover -- Vater, πατέρας, padre, pai, отец, grapheme stacked upon grapheme in an ever ascending pile threatening to tumble and crush my spirit I don't know how many times, mirrored by an ever descending staircase to nowhere but one more restless, dreamless night in this uncomfortable hovel.

Defiant, I barely managed to stand up, a cut, crooked finger wiping my brow before admonishing the adversary in a deservedly prejudicial inquisition.

"You fucking pest, each and every one of you. What really galls is that you goddamn knew it, took pride in it, placidly staring back hour after hour, month after month, silently relishing this dejection on my face, the fucking salt in my eyes, this sweat, but it dropped on you and it burned, you can't fucking lie to me, don't even try. Remember: you're nothing but long-dessicated tattoos on stretched and scrubbed flesh and your primeval meanings were etched deep inside your rounds and crosses by us, not you, never you. We made you."

I stopped to catch my breath.

"I hope you swallowed that hubris and fucking choked."

Again. I felt I was going to heave.

"No, I know you did, because the very second you were this close to death by asphyxiation -- believe me, I heard your labored breathing, how it jangled and coughed and nearly expired like an old engine struggling up a mountain road, my arms raised in praise to an indifferent cosmos who casually waved me off but I didn't care -- you vomited up your so-called cleverness from an abysmal reservoir that's had me dog-paddling in its boundless ocean, barely afloat with your poisonous incantations seeping through every pore."

My rage bored through the enemy, all but taking bloodied respiration with it. The cut, crooked finger dropped with the rest to the edge of the weathered oak desk as I summoned one last bolt of energy.

"I was tired, am tired. so very tired. But no more. Oh, I'm exhausted, but I've won. Go on, think of me as the schlemiel, but who carved out your secrets, who emancipated after all of these centuries your little ruse that tried so hard at an unsolvable complexity? Some sexless monk buried in a stone cave, walls and skin and bad haircut blackened by acrid torch smoke, Cheetos-stained computer hackers slaving over superheated microprocessors and empty cases of Red Bull, an over-educated half-wit lost in acres of dog-eared pages and margin notations so illegible a burgeoning insanity looped back on itself to lodge gunmetal grey on the tongue? That's right, motherfuckers, me, me and my Little Orphan Annie decoder ring."