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May Hilton-Sanjurjo - No Country for Nerds

Survivor Moderator
How much is too much? Nowadays, there is usually a defined, concrete medical answer. For example: 10g of acetaminophen is considered “too much” for a single ingestion. As always, with rules come their outliers. Those who live on the fringes of society, pushing societal and cardinal laws to their very limit, bending and contorting their own definition of “too much”. As the rules twist and squirm under ever-changing definitions and dependencies, torsion turns “too much” into “sufficient” and “sufficient” into “not enough”. Such a blasé attitude towards life is the very genesis of Mayonnaise “May” Hilton-Sanjurjo. Left to her own devices, a father too engrossed with chasing instant gratification to attend to the exigencies of his new family.
1981, Burdensome Beginnings
Born on a dreary and rainy day, May was born to Sherri Hilton and Darrell Sanjurjo in the St. Peregrin Hospital of Louisville, Kentucky. Sherri had been 12 hours into a methamphetamine bender when her water broke. Due to previous complications in her pregnancy, Sherri was put under for a cesarean delivery. Medical anesthesia and methamphetamine would prove to interact disastrously, killing Sherri, but not before Mayonnaise was delivered. Blackout drunk in the waiting room, as he was mid-bite into his Spiffo burger, Darrell was delivered the news and given the registry to name his child. In his state of shock, or perhaps just out of inebriation, he stared, blinked, jaw hanging open. Bits of half-chewed pickle and mayonnaise dribbled out of his mouth and onto the clipboard. “Mayonaesh, I t-think that’ss a pretety namme” he giggled spasmodically to himself, as he traipsed the pen around, spelling the letters out on the ketchup-stained form.
Hailing from Louisiana, “Dirtbag Darrell” would engage in his fair share of illicit activities, eventually landing him a spot in the Louisiana State Penitentiary. Condemned to serve 15 years in “Angola” for armed robbery, Darrell conceded to his fate, enduring 12 of his 15 years in the penitentiary. During his sentence, he would encounter Dr. Robert Heath of Tulane University infamy. Him and 42 other patients and prisoners would be dosed with LSD, bulbocapnine, and methylphenidate. By the end of his sentence, Darrell emerged a nigh incoherent man, frequent bouts of psychosis and onset PTSD resulting from his stealth-drugging in prison. During his rehabilitation into the outside world, he would meet the love of his life, a caretaker assigned to his halfway home, Sherri Hilton.
1993~, The Rapscallion
“May, put the fucken foil back, my head hurts, coo-yon” A ray of gleaming sunlight burns its way from the gap in the aluminum over the window, through the dingy, tepid, faintly ammonia-smelling air and onto the couch, projecting a radiant circle where Darrell’s face lays. As quickly as the hole had appeared, it covers up as May throws a sheet over the dilapidated curtain rod. Darrell groans as he rubs his bleary eyes, “B’fore yuh go to school, I’ma needja to go down the Liquor-ty Split ’n ax Frank t’loan me anuda fifth’a Jack. Comprenez?”
The old run-down trailer home was always dark, always musty, and always smelling of ammonia. The distinct pungency of methamphetamines soaked its way into the furniture, the floorboards, their clothes, the food even.
Without much of a home life, naturally, May began spending increasingly more time out in town where she eventually fell in with a group of likeminded urchins who clung to the town’s junkyard as barnacles on the rusted hull of a ship past its prime. M-80 was their flavor, the Kentucky Revised Statutes the fuel for their fire. For the first time in her life, May felt genuine solidarity with these scapegraces, the scruff of society, the shrimpy sparks that they were. Nights would be cut short with the distant wail of sirens encroaching on their sanctuary of scounrel-ry, the juvenile thugs dispersing into the dark only to resurface the next evening. With connections comes opportunity, the unpaved path to the fringes of society, those who break boundaries, those who make it on their own. A trick as old as time. Nobody suspects that the grubby Oliver-Twist-urchin is carrying a parcel of cocaine in her pint-sized Spiffo backpack.
“Remember… Only YOU can prevent forest fires.”
With the double-act family often short on capital and Darrell only digging himself further into debt, May took to the streets with a guitar, drawing little attention at first, the hollow cup taunting her artistic aptitude. Perhaps just out of familiarity, the 11:00 singer on the street corner, the cup began to fill gradually, coins, bills, heavier each day.
Lit only by television static, the trailer room’s dim glow casts Darrell’s features rather ominously over his face. Pupils fully dilated, he focuses intently on the flickering screen, unmoving. THUD! Slams his fist onto the coffee table. “May! I gots sumn for you!” he bellows. “Whaaat?” she calls back. In his hand rests a paper napkin folded over one too many times, some barely legible smudged scrawling sloppily inked into one of the corners. A phone number. “You’ver miss my stupid ass when you’s out on’ya lil adventures, give’iss a call. I try. I really try, but yo ol’ Saleau in’t gon be dare fo you always.” May sighs, dejected, takes the sheet of paper in her hand and stuffs it in her pocket, turning to leave.
Sirens draw closer as she lets out a sigh. The night’s reverie is cut short once more by the imminent arrival of the deputies. Clutching her new find, she ducks through the cabin of a burned-out pickup, crossing the threshold out of the junkyard. The tubes rattle in their holders, the glass threatening to crack, splinter and shatter at any moment. The wires dangling from the hot plate swing back and forth, across her legs, acting to trip her as she skulks into the treeline, the sirens by now having reached the entrance of the scrapyard. Beams from flashlights rove the yard, comb the trees as May steals away into the night, out of the woods. For now.
Violently, spasmodically, bubbles spew their way up from the bottom of the rust-colored solution, bursting as they break the surface. Fizzling, simmering, stilling. As all reactions must, equilibrium is achieved.
1999, No Country
“…And what exactly does that make?” comes a question from the crowd. “Yeah, what the fuck is that even?” someone else chimes in. “Well, ahm, I guess it’s greeble snot?” May answers sheepishly, pointing down at the white crystals in the tray. “Don’t fuck with me, I know meth when I smell it” a voice interjects from the back of the gymnasium. Across dozens of other science fair projects stands the school resource officer, tall and imposing, wraparound Oakleys masking the expression in his eyes. Perhaps disappointment, a hint of amusement, one could only guess. “May… what is that?” he addresses her directly. “…Crystal” she mutters, gazing down at the floor timidly. The room falls dead silent as the officer stares her down in an agonizingly prolonged staring contest. “…You’re coming with me.”
Brash and reckless, May cares little for any imposed rules or limits with a flagrant disregard for her own personal safety. Entertainment first, if you’re boring, you just suck. Like, you SUCK suck. Some people just GOTTA be up in everyone else’s biz, telling them what to do and exactly how to do it. That’s just... that shit’s coo-yon. As long as you’re not like, killing or eating other people you.. do you? Oh, and Zeno, guy had a stick up his ass, they’re called stoics because sto- …stick… … you know what just forget that. That was dumb… but yougettheidea!
Late Summer, 1999: Outbreak

Hands through the window, the shades thrown off their mount, bending and snapping haphazardly as the aimless appendages continue to swipe through the window. Banging at the door, one, two, four, no, more. May tries to shake the man awake, but Darrell lies still, blissfully unaware of the cohort of would be home-intruders at the very gates of their sanctuary. “Darrell! FUCK you! WAKE! UP! Dude this is NOT the time to be nodding!” He gives no indication of either noticing or caring. CRASH! The front door splinters off its hinges as the impetuous shuffling makes its way towards the bedroom. Grabbing Darrell’s .357 revolver, she raises it to eye level, preparing for the very worst. One, two, four, no, more cross the threshold into the bedroom through the open door, closing the gap, ever moving, ever shuffling, arms outstretched, mouths hanging open, faces decomposing. The door, the wall, the window, the pistol, the trigger, its face, an opening. Almost a single movement, almost an insurmountable task, she takes aim at the man wearing a polo shirt clawing through the window. Front, rear, trigger, squeeze, BANG! The force of the round snaps its head back at an impossible angle as the body drops to the ground. An opening. Just enough time to steal away into the night. Without Darrell. The napkin weighs heavy in her pocket as she slinks off, away from her home, away from her family.

Cornered in an alleyway, the horde approaches. Clutched in her hands is a glass bottle filled with a composite of melted soap shavings and gasoline. Rubber-banded to the side of the bottle are two windproof matches. She only need light them and throw the bottle and it will shatter on the ground, spilling white hot homemade napalm onto the ground and the surrounding legs. The bottle sails through the air, careening, tumbling, falling, shattering. A great woosh, like that of a pilot burner being started after letting it sit, and the horde bursts into flames, staggering slowly, more slowly in her direction as they being to fall at her feet. One by one, they crumple onto the ground, conglomerating into a corpulent conflagration of burning clothing and hair. It is done.
“Life has never been normal. Even those periods which we think most tranquil, like the nineteenth century, turn out, on closer inspection, to be full of cries, alarms, difficulties, emergencies." - C.S. Lewis
Topic starter Posted : 29/07/2022 7:35 am
Survivor Moderator

Late Summer, 1999: May Hilton-Sanjurjo Will Have Her Revenge On St. Bernard's Hill

?: So.. what inspired you? To write on this.. cataclysm? Do you know anyone from Kentucky?
D: Mm, nah, I guess it kinda just.. came to me?
*A bold faced lie*
?: Mh. Seems like you already have a decent grasp on the mindset of this character. Anyways, continue.

Good fires burn only as bright as you let them, but the best fires will thrive, propagate, spread themselves throughout, an artist’s brush painting a thick layer of ash onto the grass. The narrow corridors of St. Bernard’s streets provide yet ample room for the blazes in the streets. BANG! BANG! One after another. They flinch as the bullets hit their mark, the grand conflagration marching tirelessly down the street in pursuit, the lead only fueling their putrid patrol. Blues and reds flicker and rotate beaming color into the night, the forlorn wail of abandoned emergency vehicles only barely audible over the shuffles and groans of the hundreds of fallen. Interspersed in oranges, crimsons, and gangrene black, the night wears on. Strips and stores give way to terraces and homes, still glowing in the absence of their owners, their kitchen lights a twilight’s last gleaming. Step after step, her ears still ringing from the cacophony of the summer night, as the sun peaks just over the horizon, the cerulean dawn encroaching on picturesque suburbia, May stumbles through the front door, collapsing onto the couch. The people have come out to town, and we can’t expect the emergency services to do all the work. Matches lit, pistols primed, teeth gritted, may the most tenacious survive.

Weary legs and wary eyes,
The eerie men may tarry not,
Though lead and brass will stain the grass.
Oh weary legs, please carry on.

Topic starter Posted : 29/07/2022 10:08 am
Survivor Moderator

Early Autumn, 1999: Heavy Rain

?: Well, what next? Where does she end up?
D: There’s a lotta walking, iunno, kinda extraneous but you gon wanna hear this next part I wrote.
?: Shoot. I’m all ears.

Pitter patter. Blanket disarray in a world of entropy. Every drop for itself. The first to the ground wins some untold prize. Smashed against the ground, life, the price of greatness.
A gray morning for a state in doldrums, Kentucky’s autumn never felt so… liberating. Perhaps it is the lack of structure, the last vestiges of such rigidity abandoned and infested by equally as bellicose but all the more straightforward forms of life, taxmen and deputies alike in some joint operation to consume flesh.
But none of that matters here. Rain slides off the window as May slides into the trailer’s booth seat, a cold cup of coffee presumably from three nights ago and conspicuously not smelling of flesh rot. The smooth soothing texture and its coarse bitterness in confluence to create something not all that terrible for once. The storm wears on and the coffee remains cold, but oh so luxurious, oh so familiar.

Topic starter Posted : 30/07/2022 7:13 am
Survivor Moderator

Early Autumn, 1999:

?: So you say there are.. two ways? The way of.. the world? And the way of man?
D: Nature, well, da world in this story’s a mean place. Everything dey do to make themselves feel better’s fighting da world.
?: Not quite sure I follow..
D: Aite, whaddabout tattoos? We all like tattoos. It don’t not seem outta place?

Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable. From her comfortable position at the table, the buzzing of the tattoo gun, the burning of the needle does all it can to disturb her. A lapse in judgement, perhaps a dare gone wrong, a night of revelry years ago emblazoned above her knee, only to be covered up years later. May watches the artist go to work, more fascinated with the intertwining concentric design emerging than on the discomfort brought on by the tattoo pen. “Dis is suppose to hurt?”, she blurts. “Shh, shhh, let me focus”, the artist responds. The pen moves in continuous strokes, tracing and etching. Lines, curves, circles, webs. Hands, table, cocaine, transaction concluded, the memories, or lack thereof, of one night many years ago buried under newly inked cobwebs.
Order in entropy, normalcy in in aberration, even in cataclysm can one find antechambers in which the last glimmers of civilization reside. Art for drugs, in a crude recalculation of the principles of civil money laundering, yet in the false self, there exists a trace of the true self.

Topic starter Posted : 30/07/2022 7:31 am
Canned Food Collector Survivor

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Posted : 19/08/2022 9:01 am