A Hat and the Hand

Flap. Flap flap flap, goes the hat.

And there you go again. That's a damn annoying habit, man. Is it absolutely necessary to try to break my teeth with that ornament? It's not like the hat's gonna fall off or anything. You fight with it on, you sleep with it on, half the time you even wash with it on – sometimes I suspect it's glued to your head. Or screwed on with that spheroid thing that perches on its side. If that was the case, I'd understand why you didn't want to take it off. Having a hole with spirals for a screw gaping in the side of your head isn't very intimidating, is it?

You never watch what you do with your hand, do you? Have I ever told you to watch what you do with your hand? I bet I have, and if I've told you once, I've told you a gazillion times, and you still don't watch what you do with your damn hand.

Couldn't you do that, just this once? Pleeeeease.

Apparently not.

And what's the rush? It's not like we're in the middle of a great-pay, high-urgency job right now, nor being shot at by an angry mob, nor in trouble with whatever run-of-the-mill vampire lord whose cousin's mother's uncle's namesake you incidentally wiped out of the records last week. We're not even stuck in the middle of a wasteland in glaring midday sun. Couldn't we just take it easy or something? You know, ride leisurely along the forest path and enjoy the breeze. Maybe if you didn't clench the damn rein so tightly I could actually tell if there even is a breeze or not.

But then again, you're like this sometimes. Not a thing I can do about it, really. If I didn't know better I'd say we were being chased by something. But there's nothing there, is there? It's all in your head. You're running from the things in your head again.

And then, like always, you start beating on the hat.

Flap flap flap.

Ouch.

I got the impression that you think that if you don't say anything, I won't notice. Well, that's really stupid of you – I always notice. You should know that by now. I don't always say anything, though. Just when I'm in the mood to pick on you. And when you've been beating on the hat for three hours in succession, using your left hand every damn time, I've pretty much got into the mood.

Though I only start bugging you about it when I'm very, very pissed, because once I've got started, sooner or later you do that another annoying thing and squeeze your hand into a fist. If I'm not careful, I could end up with my eyebrows in my mouth again. Or your damn nails. That's unpleasant, man, that's very unpleasant.

And the hat is not gonna fall. It never falls. Have you somehow not noticed? The only times you even mind it is when you're like this, and I bet that if hordes of vampires, demons, fiends, Barbaroi – and crazy townspeople thrown in for good measure – can't even get it to tilt, mere ordinary wind isn't going to stand much of a chance.

It's kind of like a substitute action. But for what, I only wonder.

Flap.

Man, I hate that hat. I'd say I hate you, but that's getting a bit hard at this point. To tell you the truth, I'm starting to feel like we were an old couple. And you do watch what you do with your hand. You just don't… uh, watch what you do with your hand.

If I say any of that out loud, though, then I'm really going to get the nails. Not that they aren't very nice nails and all. Just not in my mouth.

Where are we going, anyway? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?

Flap flap.

Can't we please be there already?

Ouch.

Sometimes I think that if I could, I would just leave. Let you run off on all these crazy stunts and risk your life all by yourself. It's not like I ever even have a say in it. Man, wouldn't that be something? No more vampires, ghosts, sword-fights, swallowing up nasty stuff or having my face jammed against hard surfaces all the time. Just up and go; sayonara, sucker.

Flap.

Then again, we both know that I'd never do that. Somebody has to watch your back, after all.

Ouch.

"Hey, D…"

But my patience has its limits too.

fin