Someone’s gonna die, Lord Choppington rides again. I know when it’s been too long, when the beard starts to come in, and his fingers begin to grip at nothing. He cracks his neck, shakes out his arms, claps his hands and says “all right.” But it may not be all right, because if he’s here, something needs doing, needs fixing, or something or someone needs embracing. So he’s here to work, and he’s here to get away, in every definition of either of those ideas of which you can conceive.
We want him to prevail, because Lord Choppington rides again. He can direct his attention to laser-sharpness, but he is the sovereign of the non sequitur. Two birds in the offhand are worth one in the conversational bush, but it is never out of ignorance that he seems zany, and to call it carelessness is not quite right either. He is buoyant when he speaks to you, the words bobbing along the surface with ease while the lures of meaning hang down below them. He intentionally forgets anything that he senses you would enjoy telling him a second time. So when it’s time for battle, whether you are in a position to side with him or not, you’re with him, all the way.
There’s a plan with stages, they’re nearly complete, and Lord Choppington rides again. He’ll figure it all out, but for these few days, he flips into machine mode, a reminder to the universe—the cruel universe, the one that gave us emotions other than empathy for reasons which are justifiable by recourse to other emotions only, a knot that binds us together but then makes us wonder why are bound together—that he is latent energy. He told me once he might be a railroad conductor, and I was buying overalls and a stripy cap for him in my head. Plans change, he changes too, but certain things remain fixed.
Oh, he’ll kill you with kindness, Lord Choppington rides again. But just remember: being killed with kindness is still being killed. Indignation rolls through him in waves, but like any other waves, by definition roll away. He has a sense of justice, you’re welcome to share in it, and correct him when there is some reason to doubt. He wants to know what you think, but again, once more, it is death, so think about what you are doing, what you are taking into your hands. There is no crossing him, it is not a status that is available. But one knows when that stare is too locked-in, when the periphery goes dark and the tunnel opens up. Don’t think he won’t hit you if that’s what you request, but don’t think he will just because you solicited it, either.
He’s seen things, because that’s going to happen when Lord Choppington rides again. He saw Furey rip time, and his eyes went wide, he shook his head, hard, to reset them, and slapped himself, volubly, in the face, just to make sure he was really there. And he was, because he came to see things. He never asked me about what he’d seen, likely because he knew I didn’t have any answers, and it was better to leave it that way. He asks Feli about each stop on his voyage, laughs at the funny bits and nods sympathetically at the darker parts, always asks him where he is going next or what new tactic he might attempt. When Feli talks about a secret “Draw 4” card, like from a game of Uno, he and Lord Choppington laugh and take a sip from the hidden, donut-shaped flask. He wants to know Jack, as do we all, even Jack.
It was hard to let go before, and it may be even harder this time, after Lord Choppington rides again. You want to cheer when he walks into a bar, but you’d have to be at the right bar, and he’d have to walk into it. Don’t worry about the others in there with you, they’ll cheer for sure, if they know what’s good for them. Go somewhere filled with people who know what’s good for them, invite him there, and cheer. We’re all locals when he rides, and he’s riding, at least for now.
