THE COURTS & THE HEARTHS
HAROLD COURT WASN'T ALWAYS A HEARTLESS PRICK
HAROLD COURT WASN'T ALWAYS A HEARTLESS PRICK
Harold Court wasn’t always a heartless prick, his hard-cold-uneducated-self came from generations of the Court patriarchs being more interested in what the falsehoods of having power would allow them to gloat over commoners. He craved his father’s love more than life itself. What came instead, a penchant for alcohol and a lesson plan including demeaning women + keeping Asheville pale.
But, still, Harold Court wasn’t always a heartless prick. In his youth, he’d often escape to Broughton where he discovered the limitations of the dumbing-down of the Asheville citizens for political and economic gain. He befriended Simon Hearth, a warm compassionate, educated, young lad, his age. Harold and Simon became inseparable.
They rode their bikes around the mountain trails of Broughton and, if it was considered a sport, they competed against each other. Simon, a fit physical specimen, fueled with nutritious organic foods. Harold a tad sluggish—craving fat and crispness.
Simon truly is a kind soul, he overlooked, even though it stared him straight in the face, Harold’s Donkey Face—an injury suffered by falling face first into his father’s fermented whisky mash. A treatable condition surgery would one day correct.
Harold snuck to Broughton four-times per week—each time he and Simon competed ferociously—somehow, despite Simon’s superior athletic prowess, which often had Simon leading the competitions by a great score—Harold always managed to win in the end. A miracle bringing him great joy. It brought Simon joy as well.
They stumbled into love together, meeting Melinda and Melissa. Simon paired with Melinda. Harold became smitten with Melissa. Melissa turned out to be a brilliant thespian, because she, like Melinda, pined for Simon—a secret to be vaulted to protect their Ashevillian friend’s, fragile heart.
Little did Harold know of the deception, until one day, when he escaped to Broughton to meet with his cadre of friends. He arrived early. He parked his bike on the outside of Simon’s yard where he overheard Simon, Melinda and Melissa.
Melissa, I know you love me, but you’re with Harold, we must keep it that way. And, besides, Melinda, is your best friend.
Simon, Melissa will comply, you are just so desirable, and Harold, well, the Donkey Face—acting is lying, Melissa should win awards. Harold doesn’t have a clue.
Don’t worry Simon, I do like Harold. I will keep up the charade, much like Harold always beats you in the end.
Simon jumped on his bike pedalling faster than he had ever pedalled before.
Harold Court wasn’t always a heartless prick.
AUGUST 3 - 2018
I HATE INDIAN FOOD
I don’t really. I had convinced myself the flavours of Middle Asia aren’t for me. Curry bad. Heavy flavours, yuck.
Could my inner racist have played a role in my disdain or, a deeply seeded flaw added to my psyche from the years of the noise bombarding us daily?
I take great pride in being open and believing people are people; could I be lying to myself?
My friend Jay and I sat at the counter; a gentleman joined us. He lives here. He was born in Delhi. His name is Biran. Conversation flowed freely.
A ruckus broke out a few tables away. The pretentious Court twins, Tiffany and Diana, entered the restaurant; they were in disguise. The disguise couldn’t hide their pretence. Indian food to them was slumming, but they couldn’t resist the aroma and full flavours. They disgust me.
The conversation with Biran continued sliding on an upward skew. He just-so-happens to have movie credits for Black Panther + Guardians of the Galaxy +++ Biran is a fetching conversationalist.
We ordered. Holy crap. I mean holy fricken delicious. The aromatic scents of the spices floating our way opened the pleasure senses to new—tastes I’ve resisted—the chicken lollipops, subtle, approaching orgasmic. Everything we sampled delighted. Much like the conversation.
I selected Mumbai Local—I’m not sure why. I’m glad I did. Growth is a good thing. If we only talked to each other, we’d realise; we’re all in the same game!
Look at the colour of the lollipops: can’t you taste the schezwan chutney perfection!
Did you look?
Oh my, is that Chartwell?
I think he’s going to tell Diana, his squeeze, his trips to India weren’t for business—
And, his visits with Tiffany were—
I LOVED THIS INDIAN FOOD
Ashevillians were unaware of the Court dark family secret. There used to be a third twin, Belinda. Belinda’s hair is auburn.
Harold forced Penelope to set Belinda free due to his crippling contempt for things divisible by three. Perhaps due to his deformity, six-fingers on his right hand and only three on his left.
Belinda, being the third born, became expendable, sent into the underbelly of Asheville where she quickly became a product of desire, in simplest terms, Belinda became easy, a slut if you desire a more apt description. She longed for her father’s love—which came manifested in a soul-sapping desire for giving oral pleasure. At an early age, she discovered she had the power to shapeshift—into other living beings—and oddly, electrical appliances + power tools.
Shapeshifting often arrived during Belinda’s oral escapades.
One time she morphed into a fire-breathing dragon, the next, a blender—a body count began.
2 x HEAT
The first slurp of delectable broth explodes with flavour with a wonderful mouth feel, like a saucy, soulful jam, with a tickle of sweetness caressing the senses. Yum. Pause. The savoury fires into a gender-neutral kick in the junk, the heat intensifies, I want more. I’m in pain—a good pain. Tears start pouring from my eyes. I begin to hallucinate.
What’s the late Brittnay Murphy doing here?
Begin by putting your tears into your broth?
I slurp more. I can’t stop. The more I cry the more I desire. I have a problem. Not to make light of addiction—I’m addicted. My insides are being crucified but I can’t stop. I must stop.
One week later: I’m found in an alley, by a dumpster—chopsticks, spoon, and a bowl of ramen gripped tightly in my arms.
Get away from me. It’s all mine!