<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Cinzel&display=swap" rel="stylesheet"><style type="text/css">.dote_container{position:relative;z-index:1;width:540px;background:#3d3d3d;border-radius:0 0 0 0;border:1px solid #142020;}.dote_container p{margin:0;}.dote_image{position:relative;z-index:4;margin-bottom:0px;border-radius: 0 0 0 0;}.dote_message{position:relative;z-index:10;width:480px;background:#191919;text-align:justify;font:12px 'Times New Roman', serif;padding:15px;color:#3d3d3d;}.dote_name{position:relative;z-index:15;text-align:center;color:black;text-shadow:0 0 4px #B5B0AD;letter-spacing:16px;font-size:36px;font-family: 'Cinzel', serif;bottom:20px;}.dote_title{position:relative;z-index:11;text-align:center;color:black;letter-spacing:2px;font-family: 'Cinzel', serif;}</style><center><div class="dote_container"><div class="dote_title">( i'm just here to fight the fire
oh, a man ain't a man unless he has desire )</div><div class="dote_message">
<p>
He’s been dead so long now he doesn’t remember what it was like to live.
He certainly doesn’t remember what it was like to die.
And even if he did, what good would it do?
<i>Gather around, children, let me tell you a story.</i>
He had never been a particularly good father, Antidote.
And he made an even worse grandfather. It made him itch when they arrived, some frightened, some relieved. They were delivered to him as if he were some kind of shepherd. Because the universe made good on its promise – your relatives will be waiting for you when you cross over, there is nothing to fear. But Antidote was the same mule-headed prick he’d been in life (if he could remember that far back, he might have laughed at how little things change) and he had taken to pretending like he didn’t know them. In most cases, he didn’t, but there was something in the eyes and you could always tell. But they’d come to him, their gazes glassy, their brows furrowed with their confusion. They all asked the same question, some stilted version of, <i>where am I?</i> and he’d say, ‘I don’t know, I guess you’re dead,’ and he’d leave them to it.
A shepherd he is not.
There are none left now who remember the story of Antidote. Even the few who’d been blessed (or perhaps cursed) with eternal life have faded into obscurity. And even if they do remember him, there is certainly no one left who has any interest in hearing about him.
But if there were someone willing to tell the story and someone willing to lend an ear, the story would go like this:
The life was largely unremarkable. The life of a herd stallion. There were no wars fought, the old bastard never had a heroic bone in his body. Perhaps things might have been different if he’d had a lick of aspiration or ambition, but he’d been content in his unremarkable life. He’d loved a fine woman and, as far as he could tell, she loved him just the same. They’d had children and they were fine children, as far as he could tell. Even the one Cuerva Lista rejected, Texas. He’d caught wind of his son’s success once and had a hearty good laugh about it. Because wasn’t that just the way life worked?
The death was unremarkable, too. A gradual fading, a diminishing of the light in his eyes. The soul got heavy and, quite frankly, he got tired of carrying it. If he’d had any goals in life, he would have said he’d accomplished them. In reality, Antidote had accomplished very little. Though, perhaps, that was an accomplishment in itself.
In the end, he just got tired. He looked at the woman he loved, said, ‘I think I’ll take a nap,’ and laid down and died.
You see, it’s not a story worth telling. It is certainly not a story worth hearing.
Perhaps this is why he has forgotten it.
So that he can tell a different story. A more heroic story.
Or, he would, maybe, if anyone ever asked.
He is standing in the shade of a giant oak now, still quite pleased with how he can manipulate the landscape to suit his mood. (He has been dead centuries now, but there are some things you never get used to). There is a figure approaching, someone he does not recognize. He can tell by the stagger in their gait that they are recently deceased and he doesn’t bother with trying to stifle the groan that swells up the column of his throat. “Christ,” he mutters darkly, rolls his eyes.
‘Excuse me,’ the figure calls from a distance, ‘excuse me, where are we?’
“<b>You’re dead!</b>” he shouts. The gait falters and he has just enough time to see their confusion collapse around the edges of their horror before a fish hook catches him in the belly. The corners of his mouth slant downward under the weight of his own confusion as the ground beneath him begins to dissolve.
Or perhaps he is the one dissolving. </div><div class="dote_name">a n t i d o t e</div><img class="dote_image" src="https://66.media.tumblr.com/5b6717ca6f37becaaee0bb26702920c0/3ff082c05113270c-6c/s640x960/cff037fdfc6c4fdcccb1a843c1f458c706f3a5f1.png"></div></center>
antidote is not affiliated with any land
oh, a man ain't a man unless he has desire )</div><div class="dote_message">
<p>
He’s been dead so long now he doesn’t remember what it was like to live.
He certainly doesn’t remember what it was like to die.
And even if he did, what good would it do?
<i>Gather around, children, let me tell you a story.</i>
He had never been a particularly good father, Antidote.
And he made an even worse grandfather. It made him itch when they arrived, some frightened, some relieved. They were delivered to him as if he were some kind of shepherd. Because the universe made good on its promise – your relatives will be waiting for you when you cross over, there is nothing to fear. But Antidote was the same mule-headed prick he’d been in life (if he could remember that far back, he might have laughed at how little things change) and he had taken to pretending like he didn’t know them. In most cases, he didn’t, but there was something in the eyes and you could always tell. But they’d come to him, their gazes glassy, their brows furrowed with their confusion. They all asked the same question, some stilted version of, <i>where am I?</i> and he’d say, ‘I don’t know, I guess you’re dead,’ and he’d leave them to it.
A shepherd he is not.
There are none left now who remember the story of Antidote. Even the few who’d been blessed (or perhaps cursed) with eternal life have faded into obscurity. And even if they do remember him, there is certainly no one left who has any interest in hearing about him.
But if there were someone willing to tell the story and someone willing to lend an ear, the story would go like this:
The life was largely unremarkable. The life of a herd stallion. There were no wars fought, the old bastard never had a heroic bone in his body. Perhaps things might have been different if he’d had a lick of aspiration or ambition, but he’d been content in his unremarkable life. He’d loved a fine woman and, as far as he could tell, she loved him just the same. They’d had children and they were fine children, as far as he could tell. Even the one Cuerva Lista rejected, Texas. He’d caught wind of his son’s success once and had a hearty good laugh about it. Because wasn’t that just the way life worked?
The death was unremarkable, too. A gradual fading, a diminishing of the light in his eyes. The soul got heavy and, quite frankly, he got tired of carrying it. If he’d had any goals in life, he would have said he’d accomplished them. In reality, Antidote had accomplished very little. Though, perhaps, that was an accomplishment in itself.
In the end, he just got tired. He looked at the woman he loved, said, ‘I think I’ll take a nap,’ and laid down and died.
You see, it’s not a story worth telling. It is certainly not a story worth hearing.
Perhaps this is why he has forgotten it.
So that he can tell a different story. A more heroic story.
Or, he would, maybe, if anyone ever asked.
He is standing in the shade of a giant oak now, still quite pleased with how he can manipulate the landscape to suit his mood. (He has been dead centuries now, but there are some things you never get used to). There is a figure approaching, someone he does not recognize. He can tell by the stagger in their gait that they are recently deceased and he doesn’t bother with trying to stifle the groan that swells up the column of his throat. “Christ,” he mutters darkly, rolls his eyes.
‘Excuse me,’ the figure calls from a distance, ‘excuse me, where are we?’
“<b>You’re dead!</b>” he shouts. The gait falters and he has just enough time to see their confusion collapse around the edges of their horror before a fish hook catches him in the belly. The corners of his mouth slant downward under the weight of his own confusion as the ground beneath him begins to dissolve.
Or perhaps he is the one dissolving. </div><div class="dote_name">a n t i d o t e</div><img class="dote_image" src="https://66.media.tumblr.com/5b6717ca6f37becaaee0bb26702920c0/3ff082c05113270c-6c/s640x960/cff037fdfc6c4fdcccb1a843c1f458c706f3a5f1.png"></div></center>
antidote is not affiliated with any land