you can plan a pretty picnic but you can't predict the weather

[Buko]

Ace had been in peak physical fitness when he had arrived on this island. Tall, fast and strong. Broad shouldered and lean. Clear eyed and full hearted. Eleven days in? It was hard to describe him as such. His shoulder ached, a bullet wound marking it and it’s exit on his back. His head pounded, his eyes still sullen and discolored due to Justin’s handiwork nearly a week prior. His ear was missing, also kudos to Justin. Beats was hungry and scared and cold and wearing dirty, old sneakers with no socks. He'd seen better days, if anyone was asking.

A duffel bag over one shoulder, the strap of the BR-18 over the other, a pistol in one pocket, a pistol in the other and another in his waistband. He had plenty ration bars, a lot of water—LSD if he felt so inclined. He could pop a few and just take the next few days and whatever Fear & Loathing came with 'em. He wasn't gonna do that. Ace wasn’t built like that. Still--he was doing what he felt like when he felt like it. He wasn’t thinking ahead if he was thinking at all. That had to change. She told him that--he knew that. There wasn't that much time left for growth. He'd live or die as the man he was, nothing more and nothing less. In football, if you were thinking--you were losing. But this was a different game and he needed to do something different.

“You've got to start thinking ahead a bit, game's ending soon."

I’m tryin’ Miss Jackson, I’m trying.

[ Ace Ortega Continued From: Make Happy ]

To keep his focus on the planning and not on anything else, he began humming. Singing choruses to the last song that was in his mind and the last joke that had made Saku laugh. It was hard to feel a grief that was unique to her and didn't disrespect anyone else. This was the third time this shit had happened in a week! What was there to say? What was there to do? She had died, he had cried—time to move forward. There wasn’t time to process grief in a real way. There wasn’t time to feel guilty or feel doubt or insecurity. He had tried and what had it got him? Those were lessons that this island had taught him. That was the strength he had gained from the game. Ace didn't like the coldness in his heart but he didn't mind so much the strength in his step. Even if both of those things were all pretend.

Deep down inside, Ace loved the game—every game, all games. He was addicted to how winning tasted. The son of the struggle and the godfather of the grind. Keep moving and keep moving forward. Love the game, love the hustle—but know the rules of both. There was no love in it and it didn’t love you back. It was kill or be killed. Survive, no more, no less. Ace had done a good job so far…but he had been weighed down by that unwinnable battle against self. The answer was simple—stop fighting it. Stop questioning it. Accept it and move on from it. When you lose, don’t lose the lesson.

He kept humming, he kept singing, he kept on trying to think of a plan and focus his mind. Music was an old tool. The beat of the drum was much more reliable than the beat of his heart. He couldn't win a war or plot a murder with his mind completely clouded and lost. Beats needed focus and calm. Ace needed to give those things to himself. Why not try what always worked before? The sorcery of song.

“I’m sorry Miss Jackson,” he whispered to himself, “Oooooh,” his voice cracked “I am fuh-reeeeeeeeeeel.”

Then--Wham! Bam! Slam! Poof! Like Magic! There it was...
Beats’ Beats (Ace Foolin' Ace Remix): Outkast - Ms. Jackson

A trick his mind played on him. He heard the musical accompaniment and it echoed in his voice. He beat-boxed along with the rap style of Andre 3000 and Big Boi. In between head bops, he found a large clearing. He made his way to it and placed his back against the wood of a tree. Beats sat down and if he was anywhere else he might’ve closed his eyes. Instead he slipped off his duffle bag and gripped the BR-18 tight. He fished out a water bottle from his bag and took a sip. He tried to plan the rest of his day and how he was going beat the absolute shit out of Justin when he got a hold of him. Ace didn’t know if the music in his head was comforting, but it guided him all the same. He forced it to play all the same. Visions of the music video fought with the visions in his head. Visions of gunfire and bodies hitting the floor, of kissing girls and killing them, of being ready for death but scared to die.

You ain't playin--but you ain't the one to play with. It may be a game--but you gotta stop playin' 'round.

Who's voice you need to hear it in? Meilin, Ivy or Saku?

Beats answered the drumming of his mind with the humming of his spirit. The music of his soul won out over the sounds of suffering for a second. Ace loved the taste of victory. He swallowed every ounce.

[Buko]

The sun was hot and the water was warm.

It felt cool going down his throat regardless. Was he imagining that or was he so desperate his mind was playing tricks on him? He found that idea more disconcerting than the music he could feel but not hear. Beats removed his hat and rubbed his bandaged temples. His finger tenderly brushed up against his former ear and he flinched. With little prompting he poured a big portion of the water onto his head. It soaked into his dark brown curls and dripped down the sides of his skull soaking the gauze and the bandages. Ace placed the hat back on, bill backwards. The water was warm and his sweat was slick. The cooldown he was seeking remained just outside his grasp. He choked down another sip. The water tasted like lukewarm tea.

The song in his head ended as the last drop dribbled down his chin. Ace gripped the plastic hard and heard it crumple and crunch. He threw it on the ground without a care for the opinion of Smokey the Bear. Beats rose up from the his sitting position and grabbed his bag. He placed it on his good shoulder and adjusted the strap. It was a routine now. Old habit. Used to be-- phone, keys, wallet. Now it was--BR-18, .45, Kel-Tec, Luger. The spare gun in his bag, the big ass rifle accompanying it. More guns than he needed. More bullets than sense. What was he doing? What was he planning? How long had he denied it? What in the world did he truly want to accomplish by sticking onto this path of violence and vengeance?

"I just wanna finish this, go home, and drink and smoke until I don't remember this bullshit. You know, the dream."

“Me too T,” Ace said to himself, “Me too.”

He knew what that meant. He knew what he was planning to do. He didn’t want to do it—but it wasn’t about what he wanted to do anymore, it was about what he needed to do. Ace needed to start thinking ahead. He knew that. So much had changed and that had remained the same. Whether on the island or on the field, he couldn't serve to be a prisoner of the moment any longer. He needed to break free from the shackles of self. Beats had to start seeing the forest for more than the trees.

“Two more days,” another hushed breath, “I’m gonna do what I gotta do—whatever it is I gotta do is what I’m doin’,” he shook his head, “I’m not gonna fuck this up. I can’t fuck this up. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

Beats made his way forward through the woods. His focus singular and his mind murderous. Mantras and meditations. Fake it till you make it. One goal, one mission and it was quite simple…

“MAKE IT!”

“I’m still tryin’ Mei,” he whispered, “I ain't forgotten,” he pleaded, "I'm tryin' my best. Still. Y'know that, don't you? Y'know why I ain't lettin' up..."

For you. For Wyatt. For Ramsey. For Saku. For Ivy. For Bret. For Dante. For Angie. For everybody. It’s no more hesitation, it’s no more feeling bad, it’s no more second guessing.

Just forward, forward, forward.

Fightin’ to live but ain’t afraid to die.


[ Ace Ortega Continued In: The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows ]