Jinx threw the apple core into the grass and scratched idly at the scar on the back of his head. The scar was a reminder of just how upsetting a little chaos can be to those who don't grasp its essential role, its language. The six or seven well-dressed, weak-minded assclowns that split Jinx's scalp didn't want to have a little fun, to beat on a lone Punk for the chuckles, they just couldn't accept the Chaos, could only digest the rules, the Order, this fucker with the mohawk is just WRONG, he shouldn't be, he doesn't fit in the machine, let's kick the shit out of him, use our reptilian brain. But Jinx could accept that behavior, realizing that they became Agents of Chaos even while trying to stamp (literally) it out. There is nothing more life affirming than getting the shit kicked out of you.
Chaos, the governing principle of the universe, madness in the continuum, sworn enemy of society, humans struggling against it, trying (and most often failing) to enforce their will against it, the incomprehensible behavior of quarks fucking with your mathematics, weather pimp-slapping the meteorologists, sweet, sweet insanity. Embracing this prime physic, this fundamental principle, takes a special mind: a mind that doesn't mind accepting the futility of existence but is still capable of persevering, if only for the sheer morbid hell of it.
Jinx had two distinct problems at this particular moment: boredom and a powerful hunger. Most humans would fill the need first, fuel the imperfect machine, then pursue some pointless game or "lucrative" endeavor, hide from the boredom, push it back, idle hands will do Chaos' work, assign meaning or the whole fucking thing just explodes, is wiped out, replaced with uncertainty and unfeeling mayhem, those beasts swimming just outside of your peripheral vision waiting to pounce on your rules, your order, and show you that it never really was.
But Jinx knew a little of the secret, knew he could satiate the physical need and throw a cherry-bomb in the toilet of society at the same time, make the bastards wonder, they can't think about it, only marvel that things they would never understand happen, that Chaos just flicked their noses, winked, and walked casually back into the void.
"Hey, Jo, I'm really fucking hungry. I want some Chinese.", Jinx said, over his shoulder.
"Uh, we're broke...", Jo replied, raising the pitch to make a question out of her words.
This was, in fact, true. But an Agent of Chaos doesn't let facts interrupt his process, his essential function. He looked around, saw Jo's 35mm, some plastic bags, put a hand to his hair and excused himself to the bathroom. He emerged a few minutes later, mohawk flattened against his head, and grabbed several ziplocs.
"Ok. I am Frank Dubowski and you are Susan Brown. Let's get to the strip mall."
In the orange Volkswagen cruising along the suburban streets, Jo didn't even blink when Jinx revealed his plan, his mission of Chaos, to her. It was just stupid enough, just dangerous enough that no one would ever believe it, not even the cops nor, moreover, the owners of a stripmall Chinese restaurant in Southern Maryland.
They pulled up in the lot, Jinx donning a flannel shirt, the only piece of clothing he owned that would not immediately tag him as a freak, and Jo pulled a plain sweater over her shirt. She grabbed the camera and they set out across the parking lot.
"Ok, we gotta be straight. We can't go in there and start laughing or looking furtively around. Just take a few pictures and I'll get the stuff."
They entered the restaurant and asked for the manager. She appeared shortly.
"Yes, we are with the health department. We have some reports of some tainted shrimp that have been circulating around town. We just need to take a few samples.", Jinx announced, adopting his best out-of-work radio guy voice, "I am Frank Dubowski and this is my associate, Susan Brown."
Jo snapped pictures while aggressively avoiding eye contact with her accomplice. They were led to the kitchen where Jinx produced the empty ziploc bags with a flourish.
"Uh, yeah, just a few of those jumbo shrimp, I believe they are the culprits. And we better take some of the produce nearby, just in case. Yeah, green peppers, some of those onions, Ooo!, some of the hot peppers as well. That will just about do. We'll be in touch soon. Best of luck: to you and especially your patrons."
They turned and quickly left the premises. The Chaos would be pleased, Jinx surmised, grinning like a city rat in a baby crib. And we can eat a little something, to boot.
The scar on his head was nothing more than the mark of Chaos. They just couldn't see that they were completing the ritual, marking him as an Agent, bringer of the absurd and the senseless. He would flash the sign to the initiated, flaunt the mind-crippling charm of someone who just doesn't give a rolling turd about why the universe does what it does to the sheep. Oh, and, yeah: Fuck the bastards. I'll laugh at the very moment of my death if the joke is a good one.
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