Paregmenon

Paregmenon (pa-reg’-men-on): A general term for the repetition of a word or its cognates in a short sentence. Often, but not always, polyptoton.

Life, death, life, death, life, death. Does it really go on forever? What will I come back as? It is hard to even think about. I’m pretty sure my dog Skippy will come back as a dentist. He likes to chew on things, so reincarnating as a dentist is only natural. I had my teeth cleaned last week and the hygienist reminded me of Skippy with her barking out orders like “Wider!” and “Bite down!” and “Swish!” I felt like I should’ve brought a biscuit to shut her up. Then she administered the nitrous oxide. I’m not sure, but I think she climbed up on my lap and made whining sounds. Maybe it was just wishful thinking—she sure didn’t look like Skippy! Ha! Ha! With her long blond hair, she looked like an Afghan Hound.

I’m getting sidetracked. What would I, Vince Bengal, come back as? I think it works so you come back to work on something you were bad at in this life. So, if you couldn’t fix your car in this life, you would come back as a furnace repairman or a brain surgeon. My life has been a complete failure event. No wife. No children. No education. No conscience. The list goes on forever. Think of any admirable human trait and put “no” in front of it, and that’s me. It’s not like I’m Charlie Manson or Ted Buddy though. Charlie Manson was a murderous lunatic who liked to boss people around. I’m none of those things. Charlie may have reincarnated as the Pope. It’s possible! Ted is a different story. As a serial killer preying on young women, he has a lot to live down. He could be the Governor of Florida, especially with the Governor’s vendetta against Disneyworld—a hotbed of evils and transgressional employee clothing, where they dress as dogs and ducks, and worse.

So, what about me? This is harder than it seems. My first thought would be: Head of the FBI. I could fit in Herbert Hoover’s shoes. But, this is way in the future—it would be somebody else’s shoes. They would be my shoes. I would fight crimes and shoot at people. It would be great fun! I would specialize in fighting shoplifting, reviewing random CCTV footage of retail stores and food carts looking for crime: a stolen Taco or a pilfered pair of athletic socks. This is noble, unlike my current incarnation. I sell drugs to children in the housing projects. My ideal customer is 9-10 years old and gets his drug money from shoplifting and ‘reselling’ to the big guys who get their money from mugging women. It’s like the “great chain of being” some straight jerk told me about. I specialize in hard drugs, so I give the kids fair warning. Fentanyl is a real ass-kicker, and boy, do they love it. This is why I think I may be an anesthesiologist in my next life (if not Director of the FBI). Think about it. Instead of poisoning kids, I would be helping people: knocking them out without violence so they can be cut open painlessly. Or maybe, last but not least: I could be an airline pilot. I would literally get people high—in the sky! Ha! Ha! No harm done.

Uh oh! That’s a siren—it’s not the police—it’s the EMT mobile headed to scrape another kid off the sidewalk or a shooting gallery floor. I tell these kids to be careful, that they can die from this shit. That’s the extent of my responsibility. It’s like buying a handgun here in Florida: “This can kill somebody. Be careful.” What more can I do? Quit dealing? Ha! Ha! You’re joking.

POSTSCRIPT

The door flew open. It was Toby Griswold’s father and he had a gun. “My son OD’d on your shit drugs. It’s time for you to OD on lead!” BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Vince was reincarnating on the floor as he was bleeding profusely, dying of three gunshot wounds to his chest. The great Karma Dove flew in the window and told Toby’s father that Vince was now a flatworm living in a host in South America. When the Karma Dove left, Toby’s father forgot the encounter, but remembered the message.

Vince was paying his cosmic debt for his wrongdoing. He was living in somebody’s intestinal tract outside Caracas, Venezuela. Normally, as Vince, he would be looking forward to Carnival, but he was a flatworm now. Vince was busy hunting for bacteria, as he went through life without an anus.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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