Sporty Twins and the Capitalist

First I'm going to start off with 3mins of free writing:

I'm piled into the coffee shop with all the other motivated seekers. Folks with ambition for change, disillusion hanging in the balance, at the bitter end of that $8.00 Colombian drip. We're here to see between the lines of politics and entertainment, to satisfy our fantasy of a system that just works. Striped shirts and baggy pants talk shop about their redneck parents, "my mom's a fucking idiot." "same." Across the street folks are lined up for corned beef brisket, local meats, eggs, the money stays in the city. The money, stays in the city, what?

I found myself at the top of a waterfall peering above ancient ruins, hieroglyphic tomes, emerald rivers reflecting the purple skies. A labyrinth of canals revealed among the hilltops and colorless towers stacked against logic. Two sculpted fancy boys, fresh off the master's chisel, mirror images of each other, appeared at the crest of the falls, familiar upon closer look. Our eyes met and a panic of topics flooded in preparation for the imminent conversation; their likeness to one another, pumping iron, shit.

"Chad, Brad, that you?"
In unison, "It's us, the Vanderbilts!"

Growing up the Vanderbilts lived up the road, they spent a lot of time lifting heavy rusted weights in their front lawn and telling each other "No homo," I spent a lot of time inside drawing maps to navigate around their house. One was a doctor, the other followed around his twin, the doctor. They're on Forbes 40 under 40 and a neighborhood watchlist for numerous noise complaints (death rattles and buzzsaws).

The conversation - thats not fair - the longing for a spontaneous wave to lap the shore and carry me over the falls - ended abruptly when we spotted a small group of teens dancing down below. A 50's quiff bounced behind a viewfinder, commanding the subjects to quit it with the improv. A small crew of grip and electric twiddled their thumbs while the aspiring director battled the urge to maim the children for going off script.

"Do you see this? What are you- What's that say?"

The Quiff stabbed a hole in the page and scoured for replacements, screaming over the roar of the falling water.

The rest of the kids wandered a twilit cave behind the falls, a makeshift green room, gear closet. A film light appeared to be breathing, a new day hibiscus, speaking in colors.

We took cover behind a boulder jutting out over the film shoot. The twins grunted, flexing for each other on their way to a squat. I tried to figure out who was who from a puddle reflection and wondered how we got here. This intangible twin link created unease, a power imbalance, brittle rubber-band synapses ready to snap.

Shadows raced across the ruins, pools of refuge swallowed the hilltops. The Quiff rambled among the torn up pages. Smoke clouded the lens and concealed the kids from an embarrassing meltdown.

The sound of crackling branches forced our attention opposite our evening entertainment. Below the boulder a stovepipe hat peaked above the trees, a profit hungry rattle like golden shackles of the free market, the film crew ran while the kids smoked and The Quiff melted.

A final tree snapped at the edge of the clearing and the scene fell quiet. The water tip-toed over the rocks, the cigarettes sizzled beneath the haze, the film whirred and clacked, birds migrated early, and The Capitalist cleared his throat. Beneath those gold chains a septic heart beat like a firing squad.

Meanwhile the spelunkers circled the blooming fixture, awaiting instruction. Meaning reveals itself not in a word but a world of signs and oppositions. The circle constricted the ethereal messenger.

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