A Silly Foreword
By
--Sir Elmore Diedrich Pewdrow, Poet Laureate of Loren in Edenton
A student of elite schools. Plural, because of duality. Graduate of two
colleges. Each college built of dissimilar mission. One Mennonite, one sciencefocused and adherent to a seemingly illogical course relevant to the Scientific
Method to some of the lay community, yet nothing but seen as the embodiment of
the essence of the word 'logic' in every way in a very precise relationship to the
themes thereof. (the scientific method, you see) A magnificent lecturer. Master.
(Bait.) Without peer in literary and communicative arts. Learned leader. Lessons
taken and passed with grades proving achievement has been won. Straight girls,
bisexuals, and gay/lesbian people alike, impressed upon and made to think, 'What a
guy. What a great fucking guy. I'd like to fuck that guy. Really, I would. I wonder
how big his cock is? I bet it's fucking huge. Tasty, too. Really fucking tasty.
Mmm. Penis'. A master and learned man capable of capturing imagination of the
subconscious and conscious consciousness' simultaneously. Peers and teachers,
lesser and greater, all are entertained. He is a teacher of sorts, of young and old, of
wealthy and poor, of literate and sane. Wild, too.
Comes next, a story. A story written and crafted in such a manner as to
envelop without plagiarizing or copying; the styles, charisma, and feel of the writings
of, and pure singular voicing of characters of, many great American, English
(British), European, and Russian literary greats or heroes, 'The Adventures of
Kavalier & Clay'. Everyone except Mark Twain, Sherwood Anderson, John Cheever,
Gertrude Stein, Zora Neale Hurston, William S. Burroughs, Tom Wolf, Margaret
Mitchell, John Steinbeck, Ralph Ellison, and Jack Kerouac. Plus, Herman Melville,
Joseph Conrad, Henry Miller, and David Henry Thoreau, the only four authors he
has not yet read works of, even though he knows several stories told about each one.
A seemingly unconscious poetry flowing in and out of conscious story telling
creates a trick for the mind to work through as words weave a prominent vision told
through a narrative most peculiar in it's apparent aberration of identity. The
narrative is also peculiar because at times it seems the story is being told by
characters, only for the reader to discover after lengthy passages the voice is that of
the narrator itself, a narrator not involved in the story in the least, and capable of
allowing confusions to become solidified and even galvanized into coherent passages
of great length. Pisses me off, too. But never mind that. Even in this complex
setting, it will feel familiar. Like clothes.
Unique, yes. Talented, yes. Writing unlike anything before. Inspiring
copycats in the future, for sure. A selection of writing can make one proven not to
ever again be worthy in context by definition of the word itself of being labeled as a
'Siranus.' Writers no doubt named Morningstar and other some odd such as this.
Similar and cozy because of the qualities present in the techniques utilized by
the author to convey the story, but all too original a work to be said to have basis in
any writings of the past. Being a student of a huge number of people, many of those
having travelled the path of the writer, it makes possible this originality and
understanding of elements of the writings we all have, at one point, held in high
esteem, and have thus been uplifted by an understanding of. Creating a piece of
work embodying human spirit, which is a tough challenge for any writer, and being
able to put the reader into a world that is believable and real in the thoughts of any
reader, though obvious it is this is a work of fiction, has been achieved by the author
in the following pages.
A great tribute to the masters. In this, the masters will live forever. It is his
way.
Hints, flavors, techniques, characteristics, and styles, are endlessly mixed and
thrust against each other in the following pages from paragraph to paragraph, line to
line. The study of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Charles Bukowski, H.P. Lovecraft, Toni
Morrison, Virginia Woolf, and even that diabolical blowhard Stephen King, is evident
within the pages of this text.
Philip K. Dick would approve, I think, as would Kerouac and Burroughs.
Approve of the ease with which it may be read. Approve of this work's interesting
nature.
Though an amalgamation of ideas as opposed to a full and rich focused
dialogue or story perfected through a single stylistic element, the winning and
persistent achievement of this work is creativity. It is hard in the modern age to craft
something that could be called creative, one might extrapolate when viewing most of
the examples of this craft that have come out over the last 800 centuries. Or, that is
what I am led to believe in reading much of what is coming out in our modern time.
But not in the case of this novel.
Complex sentences roll off the tongue when read aloud, or glide upon the
fabric of the brain when read in silence in such an aggressively purposeful bent so as
to allow the readers of the work to be lost for thousands and thousands of words only
to have a picture solidify and become one with memory like any real life event with
all tools for complete understanding, as does the purest water from the coldest
stream quench the thirst of a parched traveler with cold blood. Dense, but not hard.
Hard, but not dense. KABEWM! Then, soft. Then, silky. Then, rugged and brazen
and cold. Hot then, then cool. Sexual intercourse, then orgasm.
Continue into the following pages. Beforehand, prepare. You are about to be
inundated with prose almost indescribable, the likes of which come once in a
lifetime and may never be repeated again. Purists will cry. Foul!
The first work of a man who will be known as a father of a new style of
writing. Changing the landscape of writing forever by putting forth something
magnificent, yet simple, elegant, gentle, and thorough in allowing the reader to feel
as though their strength of mind is as much a part of the story as they read as his
strength of mind and will was when the story was written. I have never heard some
of the ideas presented in this book before this book was written, though none of
those ideas are sunk in the miasma and doldrums of useless fantasy, irreverence for
society and government, or intolerance of the truth that each reader will always form
their own opinions about anything they read, and although some of the ideas I am
thinking of as I write this sentence now are fantastical, and part of the fantastical
nature of those ideas is the way in which the writer seems capable of moving the
reader through those ideas or varying trains of thought by ranging from obscene to
childish in relation to either the topic at hand or descriptions thereof, sometimes
within the context of a single word or two, I do not find these new ideas
disconcerting to the heart or illogical within the realm of mind. This text welcomes
the reader to form their own conclusions about the characters, the events within the
story, and the ideas presented through the storytelling. This is achieved through the
writing in matters of quality, sentence structure, and plot. Three things that are done
as well in this novel as in any novel I have ever read.
Thank you, Bradley Dean Sommerfeld, for this creation.
Hold it with pride, in your hands, reader. And I beg of you, pour yourself a
dram or more. Make it of the best, whatever your preference. Or, take it with water,
if you must. Loser. Water is for babies.
Sit down in anticipation of joy. You will only be lifted up by the prose and the
story, to walk around in astonishment. Preach it to yourself.
Prologue
The lovemaking between the two, counted over the previous two years, really,
when all was considered, consisted of nothing but long, sensual embraces during
conversation. Yes, for two years they were together and did nothing more intimate
than talk. For them, it was almost better than sex. For both, alone, they would
dream it was so. The science would prove, if done according to all logical
understanding of the word, that the woman between the two believed the non-sex
part of their lives together was about 58% better than sex, and the boy believed it was
about 110% better. (mostly false)
He would rub her feet, she would talk. Sometimes, he would be silent as
much as two hours before she would inquire of him something to say. Sometimes,
her inquiry was only to see if he was tired of listening to her talk or not. The answer
was always not, and sometimes the boy was at the moment of opportunity to speak,
so enamored with the girl he deigned to keep his mouth shut, but also this would not
work some of the time, because he feared she would find him rather useless in
continual silence. This was not always true, but then, he knew, he loved rubbing the
feet of the woman, her legs across his lap, and the love of the feet of the woman,
because of the kind of woman she was in his eyes, and the kind of feet she had,
which promoted the idea in his thoughts of what kind of woman she was in the
affirmative, almost always outweighing his strange and almost overpowering anger at
those times when listening to her became a chore or a bore. Her feet, her face, her
body, the innocence of her infantile ideas, would work to dissolve his anger at those
times. He just kept rubbing her feet and listening, and never would he say a thing to
hurt the delicate nature of the creature he believed her to be.
Sessions like this had happened many times. During the two years of this
peculiar lovemaking, it happened on greater than two hundred and fifty-nine
occasions per year, each of those years. Her body is covered with clothing. She is
relaxed as she lay down on the couch with her legs across his legs, as he was always
sitting erect during those times so she would bare her feet and allow his naked hands
to massage those feet. He did not ever suspect she only liked him to listen to her
and rub her feet because he was the only person within 4 billion miles not wearing
gloves on his hands. Such perfect feet, he knew, sometimes only thinking of the feet
and nothing else! In this way, over many hours had they loved with intensity. He
thought it quite a feat, at first, getting her to allow him to be with her in this way,
hands and feet. He thought it was true, before the first time of rubbing her feet and
listening to her speak about various nothings, feats, non-feats, and non-feet, and feet,
and some not-so-nothings as well as other topics, he might just marry the girl.
Throughout the passage of their lives during that time, all things led up to the
decision he made at the moment the feet made this thinking an absolute in his mind,
but it wasn't a new idea because it had occurred the first time the feet were naked
and exposed whilst on his lap.
Often, the speaking and touching, though never nude, would lead each of
them to orgasm. Violent orgasms. Sudden, long in duration. Because he could
achieve an orgasm just by listening to her voice and her espoused stories and by
rubbing her feet, he never gave credence to the idea she might be selfish in wanting
to talk all the time, wanting to make him understand her while showing no sign of
wanting to understand him herself. 'She wouldn't ever be able to understand me
anyway,' he would think at those times when he wished to say something but could
not because her mouth ran like a nuclear reactor, never off, never motionless, never
able to be interrupted in a safe way. (i am highlarryus, i do declah!)
Of the two lovers, one of them wrote poetry. None of it had been published.
(so you know it wasn't Stephen King, ha ha) Neither one of them knew of other
people who shared as strong a love or union, or a friendship similar, (right now
Imagine a great vocalist singing the phrase 'friendship similar' with pronounced
meter) and their relationship was documented in the poetry one of them wrote again
and again. They agreed, in addition, outside of poetry one of them had created,
never had they read of lovemaking similar. The circumstances of their love that grew
in those two years was beyond their ability to explain or describe except in words
infused with infatuation of each other and words fit for poetry.
They were two lovers never touching beyond the boundaries of their clothes
and yet achieving simultaneous orgasms during elaborate lengths of soft embrace
and speech alone. Profound love, they called it. They were able to keep each other
from despoiling the secrets of their flesh those two years, and though it was a
challenge to be able to control their desires and savor the less obvious approach, they
kept at it like it was a ritualistic practice during that time, in fact, like all of existence
in their living realities was.
They were drunk with all of it. The idea of it, the reality of it. She with his
willingness to listen to her ramblings, for that is what her speeches and questions
with self-actualized responses was, and he with her white, clean, feminine, feet. Feet
of elaborate contours in shape at the arches and balls, and toenails whose tips
extended a slight distance beyond the tips of each toe and in turn were painted with
a shade of white which made him shudder at times because it was a color almost
identical to the color of the woman's skin but several hundred degrees richer, or
deeper.
For the strong young male, a man from a good family, a boy standing over six
feet tall and weighing around 170lbs, in perfect shape, the ability to stay in control, to
keep his thoughts on the greatness of what he and she had, instead of focusing on
what could or would be one day, was accomplished through enormous focus of
willpower. Feet were the primary force of action toward this being continuous and
unbroken, though many things in the world were more incredibly gaining in their
talents, for lack of a better word, to do the exact same.
For the fine, intelligent, atheistic young lady, a small girl of no more than
100lbs, she felt her own self-control was a mark and nod toward the high society she
grew up in, a result of having a rich upbringing in rich circles, where the benefits of
wealth were taken for granted and abused and the abuse of the wealth was
something to be celebrated, and the celebration of the ability to be in a position to be
wealthy and abuse the power of such and celebrate in ponderance of doing so
continuously without pause or considerations toward any other life, was only
matched by the celebration of having perfect health, great bodies of obvious power to
attract sexual partners, and a desire to let every commoner know that to be in the
presence of the selves of their class was to be as a mortal man before Aphrodite
herself. She took it for a grain of salt, really. He knew this about her, and it made
him wonder. 'Will she ever truly love me?' Of course he could not know, and she
would not ever dare say it, but in her mind, being only 100lbs. meant that everybody
must think of fucking her sideways and upside down and right-side up all the
fucking time whenever seeing her in good form.
Casting aside his doubts allowed the two of them to feel grand. Collective
power, they felt in their love. Each of the sessions they had left them with great
energy and confidence. When she would allow him speech, they talked about being
able to attack the world together. She was intimidated by the world away from her
home. They both agreed they had a naïveté that must be overcome. Their idea
about tackling the world and conquering the difficulty of living away from home after
schooling was over was more potent in effect, they believed, because it was
undiminished by consecration of the flesh of their bodies that were not her feet or his
hands.
In whole, portends undeniable. (totally hinting at being proven truth) Their
love. It is to say never, which is not wise. They would say never and they would
agree it was not wise. Undeniable be true, more understandable in light. No thing
may be impossible and permanent. These words are a small sample of the ideas they
shared.
(Do you mind if I interject your thinking in regards to 'It is to say never,
which is not wise.' ? I say this shows a sign of marked intelligence in matters of
critical thinking with the accompaniment of not only incredibly complex thought,
but humorous nature as well. It kinda says 'never will this be done, proven true, but
it also can be read to be saying, 'never will it end up not ever being proven,' and also,
'it's something rare, let's down downgrade it any.)
Among the young man's family and friends his female lover was a mark of
accomplishment. The mark belonged on a long piece of leather with many more
marks. The leather existed only the minds of his mother and father and little sister
and older brother, but once he got up in the middle of the night like everybody is
taught as a child ne'er to do, and he ended up kinda accidentally-on-purpose
creating the leather in the material world and sticking it up everybody's anus. This
was a great moment and a bad moment simultaneously, bad because of most of the
asses, but great because of the realization Santa Claus might be true. He knew,
however, she was tangible proof he was on his way to mastery of life. Her essence
and being represented to the world his worthiness to be included. She was the
embodiment of his potentials. She represented taste that is flawless, sense that is
doubtless full of vision, and the ability to see a vision to an end, and nothing could be
more powerful in all the universe than having been able to captivate her, he thought.
Even without sex. (imagine now Spongebob Squarepants saying 'sex,' but
elaborating in great length of time on the 'e' in a mocking-the-retarded way/voice.)
For her, finishing college without becoming so involved with a man as to be
married or become pregnant, raped, beaten, or killed, yet still having a man with
whom she had a relationship based on trust, love, and strong moral convictions that
were tested from time to time, but not frustrated by lack of sexual release, and being
more secure about living alone, became a source of pride within her. True pride, not
the false pride those she had been raised by had encouraged in her all her life up to
the point when she went to school. Greater pride, a real pride that allowed herself to
slowly become more confident in herself as she spoke, as she worked, as she formed
an idea about what she would become, and thought on clothes, make-up, hair-spray,
nail polish, and other things foremost in her mind. (just a misogynistic joke, friend.)
This greater pride manifest in her as radiant beauty and empowerment. Through the
sheer, raw, natural human perfection the relationship was thought by her to be, any
possibility of self-consciousness or other weakness' had been killed. 'Vanquished,'
she thought, 'forever.'
They were growing. (the AIDS within them? No, I wouldn't dare take this
story down such a horrid path.) Their trials were difficult because of this growth,
though in the end easily assailed. One of her friends had said at one time they
thought the two lovers were fools in love, though more foolish than that because they
did not even have the benefit of sexual intercourse. This girlfriend was dismissed as
a whore.
Two years into the relationship they had gone and then the prospect of
stripping naked to be exposed and viewed by each other with lusting eyes for the first
time, though lusting eyes whose lust was more the love of a friend than the wanton
lust of a wild man chasing a primitive female through the endless forests of the dawn
of time, after being 'more than friends' for so long, became difficult to resist. Is it
not ridiculous, after all, they realized, to bake the finest wine/beef/cake combo plate
each second of each day for a hundred years and never taste it yourself?
Sometimes, they sat on the apartment floor. He would be leaning against her
bed and could almost smell her in the sheets and covers. (It was hard to tell for sure
though because in her bedroom there were 12 ounce samples of Pope Poopy strung
from the ceiling on fishing line and fishing hooks spaced no more than twenty inches
apart.) She would be laid out on the floor, once again her legs and feet in his lap.
Impassioned, he would thrash energies upon her legs and feet, massaging and
hugging them until he could exert no more force and must release. (It was a pity he
had the ability to randomly generate a source of pure energy anytime but never
realized how much money he could make by sharing the ability with others beside
the girl.) Telepathic intercourse was easier in the apartment.
On more intimate encounters, she would lay with her head in his lap. Her
breath, he could feel through his trousers. His penis would harden. In her
precarious position, one of potential passionate ruin, she would reach out with eager
and vital flutterings of the hands in verisimilitudes of whoredom, and lightly squeeze
his form upon her cheek of milk and honey. Thrashing against the fabrics of his soft,
cotton pants, violent energies.
They were not celibate in having been sworn off sex. A unique predicament
or situation, they had created their cage in their relationship with honesty, of their
own accord. Neither were virgins when they had first met.
Like any relationship worth the test of time, they first became great friends.
These friends did not recognize feelings of love for each other until after realizing,
and talking about the fact, they had gone thirty days without separation except by
classes or work shifts.
They had talked about sex. Each of them were curious and eager to find a
friend to share it with. Each of them had suffered from useless sexual encounters in
the recent past.
Excited now in their mutual friendship, they wanted to feed the love they felt.
Time flew by. After two years of lusting in their way, however, of fostering a fragile
but real sense of love, they still held back. Yearning and growing and tensing.
Resisting. They knew it would come to a head. It would be lovemaking designed of
such ferocious will and damned instinct, to destroy walls of tyranny across the
universe entire. Transformation was coming, and coming soon, and it would be
epic. (compared to church)
(The phrase 'listening to buttholes forever' will never be used in the form of
it's own acronym, if the first-letter method is used. 'LTBF'? Nope.) She wanted
and made arrangements to coincide their unavoidable initial intercourse with a trip
overseas. A way to mark the occasion with an amalgam of memories. Such an
excursion would promote fluency in the polyglot languages of her education anyway,
and consecrating their bodies to each other wholly for the first time in a country far
removed from the school and their families was a way of securing the independent
nature of their friendship, of proving the might of their strange habits.
He wanted to save money, pay his mortgage months in advance, and afford a
proper engagement ring. Perfection for his magnificent friend and lover of shared
life.
It came together. Wildest imaginations come true. Their lives were joined
and shifted into a higher gear. A better gear. A gear with odd angles and spikes and
jutting levels that could never be placed in the mechanisms of any outside design,
excepting of course in a video game.
Each of them worshipped the body of the other as though they were made of
the most sensual, sexual, and needing components of gods and goddess' ever written
of or conceived otherwise, and the first time they had intercourse, his penis and her
vagina did not stop taking and receiving for more than six hours, and then, after the
first six hours, she wanted to take him further, and she took his entire cock into her
asshole. He fucked her asshole for another hour, and then, when they both were at
the ends of their energies and needed to eat and drink and rest, she had an orgasm
with his cock in her asshole and he came deep into her bowels.
One of them was about to die.
Prologue II
Simple. Prequel version. Initiate. Respond.
Potential for massive wrenching of the heart and numbing of the mind, due to
unfortunate retelling of non-existent events, increases. A crystalline illusion
shuttered by SHADOW-CREATURES of simple and errant thoughts who are
themselves in fact in the shadows of the shutters of the window beneath the sharpangled eaves of the house above the window where the rain always smashes, the
winds often blow leaves and dust against, but birds never shit. (heavenly place for
any life-long citizen of New York City) The window belongs to the bedroom,
perhaps, and perhaps someone is reading there. Perhaps. It could be in a onebedroom house, on the side of the house where the winds batten and the rains batten
too, and birds never shit because the only tree is far away from that side of the house,
closer to the driveway or the road or the sidewalk. Or, maybe the house is sentinel,
lonely guard, of a single hill in a land of flat terrain more than five miles from any
path of civilization except for the ruts of one who walks home after walking away to
do something else besides to be in the act of living on the property of the home. And
it is not on a farm. It is just a home on a hill far from civilization where birds don't
bother to visit and never there is a bunny or a squirrel but there is a doe. And the one
who lives in the home knows there is a doe and that is why the one who lives in the
home must always return. Because they know the doe is there and the doe beckons
them. The doe beckons. The squirrels and rabbits do not come but the doe comes
and the doe beckons when she is come to the house. She grazes and idles and waits
to become more than a doe. The only way she can become more than a doe is to
take a buck. She will take on a buck even as the buck is on her, and then she will be
more than a doe for a long time afterward. When the fawn comes then she will only
be a doe again, but she will love the feeling of being only a doe once more. Then she
will again take a buck, but she will not want to take the buck then, she will have to.
The buck will make his way into her and make her into more than a doe again and
she will again have a fawn. The fawn will grow up without the rabbit and the squirrel
and skunk, but there on the hill, late in the second season for the fawn, a badger will
come and the badger and fawn will quarrel and the fawn will lose a nip off the tip of
the nose and the nose will become infected and then one day the doe will wish she
had never sought to be more than a doe. She will lose her fawn. The buck will be
back some time after that, after the winter. A winter with little in the way of moisture
that was a good winter for finding things to eat to pass the time and wash the pain
away but was bad for all the deer in the land surrounding the hill and house property,
and once spring has started to keep the temperature high above freezing several days
in a row, the buck will be back but the doe will be very adamant about not becoming
more than a doe a third time. The doe will lose. The buck will win. The buck will
always, forever, win. Until the doe dies. Until all those does that live will die and
leave the bucks of the forests alone forever, becoming like life will if all the waters
ever freeze and there are no more ways to make with the fire already. The buck shall
overcome the doe and will always, always, always, win. The doe had seen a human
female once, and after careful observation had known the thing she saw was
feminine like she herself, and the doe had wondered right away if that kind of doe
ever had to deal with being unable to choose for herself whether or not to become
more than a doe. She sniffed the other doe and scented menstruation on her and
knew she was a doe that had not been made to be more than a doe. She wondered
why not. Why not had a buck of their species made her into more than a doe in the
way the buck did every time he came around. The buck that always came around
when he was not always wanted and seemed to come to her only for one reason. The
doe that was a doe thought the doe she saw that was not a deer was a lucky doe.
Losers become grandiose in verbosity. Masterful creators mired in seas of
intolerable submissions themselves become submissive to their own masterful
creations and dismiss submissions that should probably be accepted, while
accepting submissions that would be rejected if they- the masterful creators, had any
balls or ovaries worth a great damn left anymore. None of the kind do at the end part
of the part before the end. And does there happen to be a wind? Of course. It
doesn't take a genius to figure out the air is never unmoving, nor silent. And, if the
air were to ever become silent, you better watch out. Watch out for the sucking fuck
luckless hacks of noise that seek and beseech thee bid yourself not, a due warning,
and instead seem to you to always be persistent in the punching their lives out in the
act of staying in the realm of silence where they belong, where nature bid them adieu
once, where the breeze died into a calm once, where maybe a serpent or a rainbow
glided or stayed put, moved to encroach or retreat to safety. Like you should, if ever
there is never a breeze against your house, your office, your vehicle, methods, ideas,
friends, lovers, children, or the ghosts of your mistakes that without the breeze would
become tangible doubts hard enough to bring you down almost endlessly until death
do part you without lube unless, that is, you are willing to become the next wind
yourself, keeping yourself alive by forcing the winds to exist only because you believe
they should, they might, they could, they will, they do. What are we but not
something responsible for some things? Perchance there is a consciousness that
only thinks of the winds as something that must exist, and there so and now byeand-bye they do. Thinking of it, what are we, each of us in turn, truly responsible for
or not? Can anyone actually be not responsible for anything at all? You enter this
world we live in, and you are sucking air, expelling dirty air. Hurting everything, or
hurting nothing, who knows? Bury your body in the soil then, should you become
the wind, so you can rise out when near exhaustion with the aid of friends to be
reborn back into a world where the wind blows. And, when you rise, remember
explosions do not belong to the wind, and so if ever the air is silent again, if ever a
silent night comes, don't panic and be like Hitler or Schwratzkoph and put
explosions into the air. Rent not a piece of the sky with a bullet, nor do anything else
foolish like try to rent the cheese with the hammer, nor your understanding of the
vital necessity of the air that it always be mobile. Because if you do, then what are
you doing anyway, but trying to make the air still? Don't do it. Do not still the air.
Then still becomes steal, because air must always return to take its rightful place.
And if still is steal, then steel always steals, because it is the most still of most of
matter, the steel of the Earth, that is to say, the iron core, where there is no air
anyway, except in minute amounts and hidden in sheaths of the most interesting of
nature's molecules like a canker sore lives in the mouth of a voracious drinker of
wines or orange juice.
They are on their lonesomeness-defeating way back to the house on the babybook-memory-remembrance-inspiring hill in the middle of the entry place for a word
place without civilization. The doe knows they are close. They are walking, and
their walk is secure, confident. Where they walk the ground is flat, but the hill is
close and the beginnings of the hill can be seen as the land begins to rise to create it.
They carry the bag they took when they left the house in the first place. The bag had
been empty then, just two handles of rope, and a fabric woven beneath. Now the bag
is almost full. It contains a needle, for thread, a thimble, for sewing, a roll of yarn
that was too expensive but also so pretty as to not be ignored, for sewing, a jar of
sugar, for tea, coffee, and cooking, a bag of candy, a new piggy bank to replace the
old one that was broken before leaving the house, a trap for flies, traps for mice,
some new sheet music to study for playing on the guitar at the house, a new pair of
yellow and red work gloves, and seeds for planting the garden this season. Before
turning off of the sandy road, the person walking back to the house stops and the doe
hesitates, not going forward to lead the way like usual. There is something new in
the area, and they cannot figure out at first, what it is. The light has almost gone
from the sky because the sun has decided it has made enough of work for the day
and is low on the far horizon. What is it? What is the new thing? What was seen
that was not there, was seen that should not be seen because it does not belong?
Then, the person heading home with the heavy bag sees them. The bag is like
weightlessness now. There are figures in the woods. Everywhere for miles around it
is woods that are parted only by the road. The moving figures are in the woods on
the left side of the road. They appear to be a short walking distance away from the
road. Shaded and like the color black. Making a dark solid where there should still
be a little color and light in the spaces between the trunks of the trees. Are they
men? No. They are too small to be men, and too wide. And, the shapes that are
moving in the woods are not black just because they stand in the shade of the trees
in the failing light of the end of the day. Those shapes are darker than that.
Whatever they are, let them stay right where they are. They will not follow. The doe
doesn't know about them. 'I will walk straight to the doe and the house,' it is
thought, 'They will not follow.'
Desolation, isolation, slow pacing. Seasons changing. How fast or slow, no
one knows. 'Die,' cackle old crows.
Prologue III
Quit smoking, but not like me. I quit smoking about 20 times per hour, on a
regular day. A pack of Camel brand cigarettes everyday is nonsense. More than one
pack borders on retardation. It is recognizable in many people many people will
never recognize it in. You could save enough money to afford a semester of college
education. Community College. Take an English course. Learn to speak proper
English and learn to write a sentence if you have the will to do so, to become better.
Try Parliaments. Plus, think of how busy you will be doing something other than
lifting out a cigarette from the pack and then smoking that cigarette as though it
means you are doing something to pass the time.
Stop drinking tequila. Otherwise, you may end up in a position not to ever be
able to walk into your favorite haunt again. Of course, the primary enjoyment factor
of that established reality center is drinking the tequila. Try to quit and do it without
becoming incorrigible to friends, great friends or acquaintances alike. Nah, fuck it.
Do what you want. Listen to words of weight. Do not pretend.
Get a grip on your conscious efforts. Work toward the conclusions you
require to achieve what you desire. Change in the alignment of your will leads to
happiness. It is not unusual.
Once the situation is grasped within the mind, do not stray or deny your
dream. It is the key. It works everywhere. Put it in, turn the lock.
Speaking of happiness and locks, can you imagine, or maybe you have
experienced the feeling from the following idea. Of turning the lock to something
that is brand new as your property, and is maybe a place, a location for you to be
with a lover or other kinds of friends.
What do you say? Nothing more. No mere chance, to be brought around
upon a higher rock to observe this stance I have taken. It takes two to tango.
There was serious consideration of my elimination. The decision was tough.
Live on, young one, it was said once the decision was made. Your home shall be
pleasurably healed. Your mind, too. In time, your path revealed itself to you. It was
what you wanted all along. The course may never be concealed again. Steal the
present. You will gain advancement opportunities.
Steele, the present.
Some long, some short, all along. In succession they come. All willing. Each
day, even unto night. Into night, even unto day. Every opportunity presents itself
with needs. Some are met, some are not. Needs are not as important as wants,
desire, will, dreams, imagining.
Solar heat as the sun rises, feel the power stretching to you. Also from the
shores. The moon sends tides. Where will the moisture rest? Deep inside her
cathedral. The laundry flapping in the air, full of the scents of budding spring, tells
you it is true. The cloth anointed with gentle thoughts. The terry cloth, too. The
humble movement of Earth's greatest tool, is a force you find undeniable. For two
decades you did not know it was there. Leave Scotch Brite out of this.
An occasion brought true horror. Events leading to the discovery were
opportunities he took advantage of. A man's life is altered. Change within the grove
one fall. A crisp air throughout the day, bled into starry night, which itself became
blood.
Hunting season, fishing and camping, high school sports. Driving drunk on
a daily basis. Burning rubber in a cul-de-sac at three in the morning, several young
punks wake up the elderly to remind them they no longer matter. The judge may
one day remind the youngster, especially if the youngster is poor, that what matters
and does not matter are not for youngsters to decide. No doubt, the judge will have
a crack at him.
Drinking, smoking, movies, plays, local artists, bowling, little league. No
music theatre lovers. No superb culture enthusiasts. Maybe a symphony orchestra
performance beyond expectations. No Vivaldi, Brahms, or Tchaikovsky. Only
Bach, Beethoven, Mozart. No one realizes they each have heard it all before. They
go for the saying of having gone, not for the music, nor even for just the act of going.
Few season-ticket ticket-holders care. Fewer still have noticed the lack of variation.
It is a well-rehearsed orchestra. An orchestra local colleges sometimes turn out fresh
graduates to paying gigs with, without causing much trouble.
A person reminds me the symphony orchestra indeed plays Vivaldi and works
from other composers I will not mention. I remind them I write fiction. I remind
myself, 'never share a sample of my writing with others until work on that writing is
done.' (some oops have happened in relationship to that previous comment when
the word previous is applied to the comment previous this one) Period for
exclamation. An exclamatory period. A period of exclamations. Ex clams now
shells used as decorations. Are there any questions? Shut up and continue to read.
You paid the entry fee. Or, you should have paid something.
Prologue IV
The man comes home after many hours away. Sounds pretty boring. He was
not at work. Less boring, some might think, not so elsewhere, etc. Smoking and
drinking on the cheap futon they call 'couch,' the she is waiting and wanting. What
she is waiting for, what she wants, she couldn't say. She doesn't think like that.
She loves the dildo. He bought it for her one Valentine's day. She loves the
deep. (I used it first, Adele.) (*2)-(better) She loves pulling her cushion from under
the futon, and kneeling. She loves it after laying on her back for awhile during which
time she has been suckled and caressed at the pussy. She also loves to feel his cock
in her anus after hours of oral and dildonic stimulus. At all hours. The dildo has two
shafts. Each shaft is of a different length. One shaft is large, from a lifelike penis
mold. The other shaft is thin, with round bulbous partitions along the length
dwindling in size from the base of the dildo that is shaped like testicles to the tip of
the shaft. The shaft with the bulbs is for her anus. The penis-like shaft is for her
vagina. God Damn she loves them both fully utilized, inserted to the maximum
depth. When they are using the tool to its fullest extent, she is happy.
Not to interrupt the story, but I just realized it is possible someone invented
this penis/bulb-shaft dildo was because they were Christian fundamentalist minded
and thought, 'well, if people are going to put things in their anus, I might as well
fashion a dildo that is made so only a penis-object goes into the vagina and only a
non-penis object can be placed in the anus.' or, they might have said the same thing
but pronounced 'anus','anouse', because they don't like to say 'anus', and they may
have no problem with correct pronunciation of Uranus, or they may say 'Urainowse'
instead. I don't know.
She has been waiting for hours. Hours of life spent smoking and drinking
and staring into space. Hours spent being bored. Occasionally she rises to change
the music, piss, or shit. She tries to read for her book club, but the book she picked
to fulfill the 'western' genre requirement fucking sucks. She will listen to his
suggestion next time, instead of listening to her girlfriends and boyfriends of the
book reading club. She can trust him, he buys the perfect dildo.
Inter-personal taking-on-of-burdens is how she brings the doom. Released
upon the lover, the doom leaves no chance for good fortune. Sheer willpower alone,
survives the loquacious multitude. Babies.
The children are asleep. The children are safe. Separate rooms. Snuggled
with blankets and stuffed pets. Stuffed pets have become friends to the children.
Friends made of fluff and imaginative vision.
One child has less vision than the child should. This visionless child, a boy,
is like the dead walking. Killed by his favorite leader. His father. Killed in mind, in
spirit, in essence, life. Not any kind of life I would want, or wish on anyone else.
What else is there for the boy? The heart beats. How long until repairs are
complete? No one is sure. Is a traumatized child a construction project? No one
can be sure, yes or no. How long until the trauma is turned into a beneficial
experience? Only the son and the father know. But the son knows in truth; father
will know before any people otherwise. Oh yes, father will be the first to find out.
The rest of the family? Oblivious and ignorant. So the father hopes.
You'll find I talk in casual tones of things related to interpersonal
extrapolations within context situation to situation without being overly arrogantly
and pathetic in doing it while also trying to impress the importance of being able to
recognize such. Do you, writers of this reading this now?
What to do? This father left his own father. He knows nothing important.
Now that is a lie. Through faults of his mother, he left his father. His father didn't
fight hard enough. No care to resolve conflict. One time he was excited about going
to a concert, and father had said that going to the concert would be okay. Then, at
the last possible moment, mother said no. Father changed his mind and when
questioned why, all he said was "Well, what can you do?" As if it were a fucking
force of nature when only it was a mother.
(joke on all of us, really.)
Father will read over my dead body. I will not die. The pain will be
tremendous. I suffer, and like a tub drain opened beneath waves of endless water,
engulf in the grief. Fantastic falling bricks.
The grief.
The grief of it. All of it.
Sick of it. All of it.
Musical numbers full of shit. What gall.
Bladder.
My brothers and sisters, I shit you not.
It must be this way. His life is escaping quicker and quicker now-- but I have
no resolve to find and make it one again. Like I could take a can of resolve and spray
it like its carpet and make it one again.
I am not willing to abide such rule-mongering. That I edit this. I won't
waste an ounce of my lifestyle to spend a moment hence. This work is complete and
it is time to move on.
Brothers and sisters encompassing creation and destructive forces like they
are alike. One who eats. One who shits. One who builds. One who adds. One who
subtracts. Push and pull levers, hang on.
Connect and let me survive. Alone with a F. Scott Fitzgerald tale. Do not
endure another moment with perfect father. (Much more on perfect father later, and
his church. But not in this writing.) I have not been a perfect father, and therefore
cannot compare. Nor will I. You say what? Does it matter when you do? No.
Prologue V
Child psychologists offer parenting seminars. No, not children psychologists,
but psychologists that specialize in fucking with children. Adult child psychologists.
An only child, she was. A pale face without freckles. She likes fishnet
stockings with black boots to go with them. Black boots all the way up to the base of
the knee. Today she is wearing a blue skirt that stops on the thigh, midway between
the points of the hips and the knees. Her breasts are ample. Boobs, to some. Still a
child herself, though she is twenty-eight years old. She's quite a fuck-up. For one
thing, it is impossible for her to bear children due to horrendous circumstances.
Test tubes. The words suggest an option. To have a test-tube baby, though, in her
estimation, would be to stoop low and the thought of having to stoop so low brings
her emotional pain and self-loathing. Test tube babies are unnatural.
What genius forms within minds of terrified people?
Her terror.
Child psychology is a logical choice in light on her life experience. Logical
inside a frame built of psychology, not so logical to her parents or one-time friends.
So it is for every member of her profession, I reckon. May we assume? In her case it
is science and fact. At age seventeen, a pony impaled her uterus. The damage
forced surgeons to perform a hysterectomy. I call it a pony. It was a horse. A
wonder she survived and continues to live.
Shine on you crazy fucked-up diamond. Shine your black light upon the
innocent not yet ruined. You'll push 'em over the edge, won't ya, bitch? I'll bet.
You'll fill them all with your story and make them wonder about everything they
thought was secure and their thinking will flower and become more like yours. You
stupid fucking bitch. You goddamn insolent poop. Disastrous sop.
It was a real fucking mess. A gentle animal used for her own purposes. All
fine at first. Purposes of good use for such a creature, in the beginning. Then, when
she acted out on the purposes imagined in youthful lust and ignorance and boredom,
it was not for good, the use she put the creature to work doing upon, unto,
throughout.
Society, nor her parents, will make a claim of responsibility. Their story is,
'She fell off her horse on the high hill above the iron-wrought fence.' The real story
is her neck snapped as the horse rammed her vagina during bestial intercourse. The
passion of the horse? No. Just the nature of the horse, I suppose. The horse
unbridled, lifting and smashing her into the wall. Her screaming brought the house
servants, but to no avail at first. Her cries shocked the purebred, causing him to
snort and rear and kick even more. During his manly tirade, her body remained
stuck. One moment of ecstasy followed by a lifetime of regret. After panicked
kicking, the horse jerked his phallus free from her torso. She remembers the sucking
sounds and responsibility would dictate her subconscious and conscious minds both
be cleansed of the entire memory. No one capable gives a shit. Those kinds of
people are busy securing the unwarranted pain of others whom they deem a danger,
in choosing to ignore the evidence or truths and assigning pills in place of wills. The
so-called 'experts' exert talents trying to dominate those more powerful than they will
ever be in matters of living, experiencing the irrational, and in thought, sometimes.
Jealousy kills with merciless abandon. Squelching, ripping, tearing of flesh and
other sounds. Sounds are her memory. These treasures in proper context are used to
great effect in movies like Hellraiser and other creative and imaginative Hollywood
film features, but the true context of sounds like those she knows, oh how she now
knows, these are such you'd only hope to have been reserved by GOD for punishing
Hitlers. They exist in car accidents and war.
After the initial trauma, as she lay dying, very near death she was, in a pool of
horse sperm, blood, and her bowels; the horse trampled her. Coup de Grace. The
horse was trying to escape after filling her womb with seeds. Just like American
Fathers have done. He was trained by his master, but not for this. Hoofs land harsh.
The sound of breaking bones. Nature has no mercy. Nature is all-powerful.
Human bones under horse hooves break against the wooden floor. Owie, geeze! I
mean, right?! Wow. Holy shit. Quite the balls/penis extravaganza! Me like.
The horse achieved an exit. The horse, busting from her bedroom, bolted out
the front door and down the marble steps of the giant mansion she had taken great
care in guiding him across during the previous hour. He then bolted across the
driveway and through the botanic garden, leaving a collection of steaming balls of
shit to float on the surface of the fish pond as he ran through it.
Before passing out, her brain sensed the truth. She had suffered the creation
of a new asshole deep within her abdomen.
She makes one wish every day for the duration of her life on Earth. 'I wish it
never happened.'
She lives through her shame by asking herself pitiful questions and making
false claims instead of giving thanks for her life.
Instead of, "Thank you, universe, for sparing my life.", there is, 'Why was I
not spared? Oh the wrath of ignorant animal lust and consequence. No one cared
for me back then. No one to watch me. A horny house servant would have done the
trick. Or horny neighbor boy. But no. Mommy and Daddy would not let me play
with any of the neighbor children. No one to keep the pony still. No one to protect
me. I couldn't ask because they would be angry. It is their fault. I thought he
would stand and be gentle. I thought he would love my innards and I thought I
could handle it. Horsey should have loved being inside.' She regresses back into a
younger mindset as she thinks. 'I thought he would allow me to sit beneath him. I
was mounted and willing upon my white stool. I thought he would love my body on
his penis. Oh the penis, the penis! I was willing to take all eighteen, horse. You
fucker! Instead of being kind and strong and gentle he became uncontrollable and
loose and free and all in and all over and ran through me like a terminator. I
survived, and I guess that is good. I have to make sure it doesn't happen to anyone
else. I have to ensure no other seventeen-year-old girls are left to the dangers of
horse impalement. It is my civic duty. My life's work. I am complete now, with my
degree and my knowledge and my work.'
How terrible it was. She will remember till death, and know it all, each
waking moment of her life from her on.
The Earth laughs.
She is traumatized and all those who know of the horsey ride were incorrect in
their work with her. In turn, she asks every client of her own the same question.
'Could no one save me?' The Clients never answer, because she asks through other
words, words without the same meaning to those who hear them. She poses the
question in an indirect way. With misdirection she is always guarding the well-kept
secret like elected officials guard us from living free. No one knows, no one cares,
no one listens.
For example, upon psyche or will and forever existent within the mind's
myriad flowing eyes, pray thee tell; how do you know when you reach a treacherous
and esoteric moment during your fight to be alive? The answer is, 'when you're
there.' Laugh.
When all is lost or useless flair, yet you live, then you are a ghost within a
complex framework of ions adherent to naught but your self. You dither and dally to
no avail. You are lost, but immortal in life. You may never comprehend the meaning
of this, nor of this task. Varied and simple in the minutiae, vast and complex as a
whole. Beware the eloquent and artificial summary; it is common in purpose as the
vulture.
Prologue VI
Questionable decisions made by the persons elected to hold positions for the
people casting votes in the city council, (shitty, shitty decisions, really.), racist cops,
ignorant and spoiled control freaks, (most of whom are female. You know the type.
Don't pretend you don't.), are; district attorneys, prosecutors, detectives, clergy
people, business owners, and respected members of society. These and more are
part of the machine-like gun-toting aspect of the local civilized populace than you or
I, (if you and I care more about keeping children safe in school than we care about
earning the city revenue through enforcement of traffic violations.), and these things
permeate a majority of the reality of the people included in that population.
What of the judge?
Murder at the wake.
Nine shot, two dead.
Police answer no phones.
Eight shot, eight dead. One up for trial facing the death penalty.
I mean, why on Earth are not children the number one priority of our Policing
and funding?
Serial killers or babies in a microwave with a side of toddlers in the clothes
dryer. Or, flensed bones of a nine-year-old discovered on a pile of tree branches. All
real.
What is your heart moved with? Without? Within. Deeply seared and
ultimately scarred. Scars are surface deep, though exist to create depth because they
thicken the hide. Let 'em lie.
Defense attorneys sit in for judges to see over cases involving bail bondsmen
charged as drug dealers.
Get ahead in the factory tier when you do a rail of meth with your supervisor
on lunch break. Bring a fifth of Jack Daniels.
Get your work.
Get your work done.
Get your work done and you are complete.
Work hard and put the band on the backburner for a few years. No one will
miss your sound. (If they never hear it, it won't be missed.) Grow up and be handy
to your neighbor. Look the other way. Watch the neighbor's house burn down.
Watch the neighbor rebuild the house. The house is bigger and better now. Plus,
the neighbor has a new motorcycle. Look the other way.
I think not. I think there should be a drastic change and re-write here.
I did my best. So little to work with.
Charles Bukowski would not approve of this fucking abomination of
communication, this shittance upon the language he himself was so quick to use
eloquently dis-eloquently so long, so frequent. Cheever would laugh. Stephen King
would send me to bed without supper. Stephen King would have me locked in an
asylum for one year; still with no supper. Forever sentences run on without
delivering so much as one tasty thought or unique use of verb.
Before you get all in a ruffle, have a falafel.
Before you get ruffled, so-called enlightened ones, I will tell you to remain
calm. There will not be any descriptive or 'nasty' porn scenes, as you read further. I
know some will be disappointed at the reading of the sentence previous this one.
Not even a morsel of emotion, passion, lust, jealousy, or weakness is going to
be portrayed. Should old men read such as this prose seems to be? No.
Yes.
Should I speak it to you now? No.
Yes.
Should there be anything for anyone to go on but a supposition of happening?
There should be a lot more than simple vagueness void of tangible confrontation.
Fine, then.
Prologue VII
The man crossed the kitchen. He had entered from the backdoor just off the
rear of the kitchen next to the stove. Before entering the house, he was titillating his
senses while fondling his balls and enjoying the view from the deck of the wooden
patio where he was standing wearing a black coat/jacket, jeans, a shirt, boot/shoes,
socks, underwear, and his watch/no watch. Now he is walking toward the threshold
of the dining room.
Balls stick a peter, peter stick a balls in the peter, in the peter, baallls. Balls
stick a peter, peter stick a balls in the peter, in the peter, baallls. Balls stick a peter,
peter stick a balls in the peter, in the peter, baallls. Balls stick a peter,
In the dining room, upon a rug of red, blue, gold, and green, sits a naked
female in the Lotus. (Yep, I just decided all but one Lotus are now wiped out in the
story. Just kidding. I lie.) The colors of the rug are patterned in a way that may
remind one of how the world appeared when they first glimpsed it as a child;
everything flowing and connected with nature, with nature's law and might and
order and secret, deliberating, quick-to-strike decision-making.
The woman in the Lotus position has her heels tucked to her groin, her hands
resting on her bare knees. No intimation of sexual activity or arousal, though she
wears nothing from the waist down.
'Whore,' the man thinks, but does not say.
The man announces his entrance with the rustling sound of a pack of
cigarettes which he draws from the inside breast pocket of his light jacket. He raises
the cigarette to his lips, lights it, then exhales. The bluish white smoke climbs
toward the ceiling.
The woman glances up to watch the smoke. 'The smoke is graceful,' she
thinks, but does not say.
"Don't smoke in here you belligerent ass," she says. It takes skill for her to
speak and remain focused on her meditation. It takes skill, and she is lacking the
skill, and this is not good for her.
Is she sitting in Lotus position because she is practiced? Does she value
implementation of physical or spiritual release and renewal? Is she trying to impress,
only in Lotus position because it is popular with others, in her mind? Is it something
she does out of a shallowness which can only be matched by self-loathing? She does
not think so.
The man now inside the room with her, however, does believe her to be
shallow. Shallow, droll, ditzy, loose, and stupid. But, he loves her vagina.
So it goes, more often than not. So it goes.
The man stares beyond her figure through the windowpane behind her. It
allows a view of the neighborhood coffee shop.
"Fuck you, dike bitch," he says, "I do not need permission to smoke in our
house. You, for a long time, were the one with the bad habits. Still are. I have to
live with them and deal with them in some way or another you fucking dike. You
bitch. So I fucking smoke cigarettes. So fucking what? You goddamn stupid
fucking life-killing stupid-ass hooker. Smoking will not kill me as quick as you
would if I were to deal with you day-to-day without the pleasure, if somehow you
forced me to live without this simple release. I have an idea. Stop what you're
doing, turn over, put your head down and your ass up. Put your ass in the air. Pout
with your anus and vagina pointing up. I want to fuck it. Be useful." The man is
pacing. He waves the hand holding the cigarette in circles, but does so in a lazy
way. He continues, his speech uninterrupted, making the same mistake he has for a
long time now been unable to keep himself from making, in the way he talks to this
woman in the room with him now, "Sure, you pay the bills. You must. I'm the one
who sacrificed my whole life for the glory and love and honor of you, though you
never loved me back. You never did, did you? Love me? You never loved me, did
you? I doubt you even care. Whore. Dike. Bitch. Oh did you ever love me? I
imagine you only work a fraction of the time you claim. You probably have an entire
social network outside my realm of knowledge. Something that keeps you going and
working and bettering yourself that has nothing to do with me. Someone you really
love. How can you live and not ever love? Goddamnit. For once in your fucking
life, do something without being pampered or manipulated. Do something for the
fuck of it. Do something that feels good because it is good, and recognize the good
in doing it. Do something for the fact it feels good, instead of for an imaginary sense
of security or pride or ego or public acceptance! You love security, and you cherish
your pride. You don't love me."
She pays him no mind except that she must stay deep in concentration
making sure she can ignore his hurtful words. 'Moron,' she thinks, but does not say.
'He always does this to me.'
He is a moron, she believes. 'He is a scared little boy in a man's body,' she
thinks, 'The problem is, he has one helluva fine body.' And, she loves his cock.
His inner rage, his unfettered self-hatred for having held so much esteem in
her throughout much of his young life, has been filtered of the positive. It seeps as
poison. His soul is alive with it, and he is drugged by it, and it makes him do things
he should not do, in order to try and drug the girl the same way he has been drugged.
She is accustomed to being drugged, however.
Somehow she won. In the seconds following the words that escaped his lips,
he knew what he now had to do. He had to take the power back. He had to reverse
his polarity. The poison had fallen on deaf ears. He could switch it up, though. It
was easy. As easy as thinking.
She beats him to it.
"Not a chance," the woman says. She scowls and opens her eyes and begins
stretching.
"Go fuck yourself," she says, "Die. You fucking bastard. You pathetic piece
of shit." Her eyes glass and cold, her body vibrant and warm.
"Fine," the man says. His response is filled with a new tone, it seems he has
had a change of heart. His tone shifts from that of an egocentric, hateful, petty child
and obstinate asshole, to that of an easy-going life-lover. A mood swing
extraordinary. One of his finer skills.
"I'll get some lube," he says, "Start yourself up."
He leaves the dining room and walks to the kitchen. Opening a cabinet
above the refrigerator, he retrieves a product in a tall, slender, black plastic bottle
called Sex Grease.
The woman rolls her eyes and then commences to begin a full stretch, to
release following the few minutes of yoga and meditative trance.
Her red pubic hair sticks up, rising into the air like a Mohawk. The pubic
hair comes to an abrupt end two inches above her mound. It is trimmed with
articulate care twice a week.
Prologue VIII
body.
She relaxes and is trailing a hand along her thigh. Goose bumps cross her
The man is standing nearby. He is smoking again.
She continues to caress her skin. She is trying to raise as many goose bumps
as she can. She feels the goose bumps that have risen on the surface of her thighs.
Bending her left leg, she feels for goose bumps on her skin where her calf muscle
bulges. There are some forming there. She stretches straight out again, and then
she bends the right leg to feel that leg's calf muscle. Goose bumps there, too. She is
laying on her back. Her hair is flat on the ground behind her skull. She blinks. Her
hand comes up along her left hip, up around her left breast. Her other comes to her
mouth.
Licking a fingertip, then, caressing outer labia. Raising finger to clitoral
hood. Repeat. No care in the world now, except the opportunity to shame him.
Again and again. One more time.
He never, in all the years, figured how she hit. She wins every time.
Cold Io streaks.
"You are a real woman," the man says. He isn't going to explain this idea.
He envisions fantasy among her playing hands and open body. To welter
among the flesh.
He places the cold bottle of lube on the rug. It is useless. Unnecessary.
Holding his cigarette with a free hand, he gets down on his knees and kisses her
toes. He stays on his knees and sits up on his haunches. Returning the cigarette to
his mouth and holding it between pursed lips, he removes his jacket while inhaling
the last drag. The jacket hits the floor. And, he wants her. Kneeling at her feet.
Bending forward. He licks her toes.
His cigarette is done. He gets up, carries the fag through the kitchen and
tosses it in the coffee can on the patio by the back door under the awning. He has
left the woman, but what he sees outside and what he had seen and now imagines
going on in the dining room are one and the same in many ways. All ways, except
there are noises outside that belong to the city, and there is a train in the distance.
Then, police sirens. Then, a person on a bike riding fast through the alley. There is
the garden.
The woman in the house on the rug caressing her skin and fondling her pussy
knows she is real. She waits for the man to return to his place of servitude. She likes
his insecure manner. She encourages it by pretending to ignore him. He turns
servant as she needs, when she wants him too. Whenever she wants.
The man returns. He is surprised, finding his friendly enemy going at her
redheaded vagina with fervor. It is not normal for her to become interested in sex to
this degree. What has changed does not matter.
He returns to the kneeling position before her feet. He cleans her feet and
toes with his mouth. In their years together, seeing her in free and open sexual
liberation like she this, was rare.
Then, it comes to him. He knows she is no longer his. Maybe she never was.
Sight is sufficient. Several visions of emotions related to extreme satisfaction
from days past, leave a mark like valiant scars upon the spirit. Scars bring forth
copious blood flow.
At last, a spoken word. "I know," she says. She allows him access to her
toes, repeating the ritual enslavement technique.
If only he knew where those feet had been. She has rinsed them. Before that,
she placed many organic materials in the large garden behind the home. She had
embraced what she was doing as something kindred to delight, feeling the materials
underfoot while pulling weeds, tending flowers, and worshipping nature, allowing
nature to know she is pleased. Squeezing the Earth between her toes in as sensual
an embrace as what she is doing now, on the floor in the dining room.
No matter to him, and she knows this. Easy as one-hundred percent. There
is little clue in her physiognomies of the truths he is denied as her toes are in his
mouth. She knows he will place his mouth in grittier places. Gritty is relative. Truth
makes her happy.
The thoughts of the woman are consistent. If he is good for anything, it is
cleaning my feet, my pussy, and my asshole, with his mouth. He is good for filling
holes. I can allow nothing more.
'He doesn't know how lucky he is,' she thinks, 'I let him cum in my ass. A
fair exchange for the duties he performs. Only a brief respite, but worth it.'
She wonders if he knows his fortune.
'He is not smart, is he?'
His teeth on her ass where it connects to a thigh. He had moved away from
the feet and has rotated her body so she now lays on her right-hand side. He is
behind her.
'Maybe he knows.'
She lays back, pulls a blue cushion underneath her ass, and rotates her hips.
She is now on her back again.
He is upset by her recent movement, but then she adjusts herself to provide
him easy access to her orifices below the waist.
'That will do just fine,' he thinks.
He begins caressing her anus and labia with an eagerness of the tongue.
'Maybe I am getting shafted,' she thinks, 'If so, that is fine. If not for him I
would be dying for a shafting. I would take any shaft.'
'This is fine,' she decides. It is who she is.
'I am going to make the most of it,' she thinks. She wants to cry out with it,
using her entire being, but dare not.
He is aghast. Gleeful and in shock, because of the circumstance now. 'No
lube, even,' he thinks, 'She is easy to wet this evening. Her anus and pussy are
potent in outstanding taste. No longer dry. No worrying. No worry, no worry, no
worry.'
Ready to indulge her, as he imagines her requested indulgences, he imagines
too a meeting of will. Will supreme sex into being. Like few times before, dominate
the material flesh.
Real brain power.
he wipes the edges of his mouth with the underside of his shirt. Pussy juice
flows from his chin, and something else, coating his beard that is scruffy and like
wire. Finding her pussy and asshole wanting now, he removes his clothes.
Converse brand shoes removed with swift jerking of his feet. There is no
concern shown by her, or mention from her, about the smell of his socks. The room
is quiet. The air conditioning quits. The room quiets a little more.
Outdoors, a breeze breathes life into leaves, foliage, against the houses, the
people, the cars, the critters and such.
He kisses her toes. He works his way up with speed. Her skin is soft, lined
with raised bits of tension. He can see the textures. Each part of her, smells. Smells
of health and cleanliness. She is strong.
The doe beckons.
The woman on the rug in the dining room reclines, propped on one elbow
while her other arm and the hand attached to it is treating her clitoris. She looks
down upon his scalp as he begins to feed on her sex. Time marches on, everyone.
She lathers his head, her own breasts, and more of each of them within a
cocoon wrought of her sexual bodily fluids. It is her silk, now, and she is no mere
worm. She will have his cock in her vagina and asshole for many momentous hours.
This part of the relationship had worked well for both of them as a common
thread which held them together even against their better judgment and ultimate
wishes for happiness.
They had yet to reach the part about the sperm.
Prologue IX
Mecca for illegal immigration, Mecca. Penalized and deformed society,
society. Magnified waste and expense. Mere gratification. No life to live.
When compared to American lifestyles, the life of illegal immigrants pales. It
must be a bad gig trying to grow and live as they do. Hard to imagine it could be
worse, taking into account the extremes and violence extreme. But, it was worse,
upon a time. Days ago. Weeks ago. Months ago.
As of this writing it is worse now than it was when the previous was originally
written. Republicans and Democrats know who to blame and no one else does.
I know a white man who argues this; "Even the poorest black families
struggling in poverty," (in the shadow of his hilltop house, I might add.), "have it
better than three-quarters of the rest of the world's population." I, myself, would not
know. I have never left Kansas. Now that is a lie. Although, a rich Angolan pilot
once persuaded me to believe otherwise. He also tried to offer me a woman.
For the average white youth, vital, strong, smart, and capable; it is a taught
(tight) rope-trick to achieve status and stock enough to go to college. I know people
with college education(s) but work at Wal-Mart.
Goddamn. Existence stays the course.
It is no stretch to say sex with lower-quality mates is acceptable to the mind
after years spent trying to make a living working at Wal-Mart. And you go there to
buy art, Star Trek, bibles, but after years as an employee of Wal-Mart, the only
greatness one might have left is fucking.
They is gonna have you a party of five kids in a seven-year period they is,
those Wal-Mart ho's. There is nothing better to do. Get dirty, drunk, high, then
fuck. Fuck credit-card limits, bills of minor importance, and say goodbye to setting
goals or illuminated so-called planned living. Sex is everything. If you are lucky, it is
good sex. The happiest Wal-Mart employee in the world is a woman with no ovaries,
an immunity to sexually transmitted diseases, and an easy way. The saddest WalMart employee is her stupid-as-sin husband, on the first, second, and third days he
finds his wife working with a teenager in the parking lot in the back of the family
Chevrolet Suburban. Two Wal-Mart security guys have been watching her take
young men into the Suburban on closed-circuit security monitors in an office in the
Wal-Mart for several years now. They laugh a lot.
Make luck with perseverance.
Produce.
Expend.
Shopping centers thrive where country music and wrestling videos sell but
improvisational music, jazz, psychedelic rock, and books, books on digital devices or
on tapes and compact discs, interest less than three percent of the population. The
Pink Floyd Laser Light show, by contrast to this truth, is different. While on lease to
the science museum during spring and fall months it outsells the museum's income
from the other exhibits showing throughout the rest of the year. Old people go to the
Pink Floyd Laser Light show because they cannot find, feel they no longer need, or
cannot afford marijuana. Young people go in order to make using marijuana a more
memorable and meaningful experience. Both groups agree it is a phenomenal show.
The museum has a breakthrough once, making more than a few bucks with the
travelling exhibit called 'Bodies.' You cannot afford to go.
Amusement parks suck donkey dick or lick camel balls, in aspects of quality,
safety, design, and amusement factor. Even the best of rides are second-hand. Most
of these would be at home in the kiddy zones at higher-end, more respectable
amusement parks. These rides belong in the trash. A sad irony, a twist of fate which
would do justice to the most cliché of Star Wars scripts, these so-called amusement
parks cost twice as much as Disney per person, per day, and offer zero shuttle service
for the distance between the parking lot and entrance to the park, which for some
reason is about the same length as two football fields. Thus, the park goes bankrupt
after ninety days of operation. This news affects few, but it does bring tears to a fiveyear-old who enjoyed the park with her family once. Her tears on the issue grow to
outnumber the laughter she had while in the park that perfect day, ten to one.
Constant rain during the first two months of the opening of the amusement park did
not help to keep it from going out of business.
The land is wasted now.
The child, a girl she is, and she is delicate as she is fierce, forms an obscene
view of life on Earth as a result of the closing of this blasted amusement park. She
later only remembers this: A ride-park was created, then taken away a short time
after her first and only visit. Her "Da," as she calls him, works hard to remove the
destructive influence of her warped vision of this true story. He for a time felt
success in dealing with the young girl on this issue, then two years later signs of the
trauma she experiences along with the facts pertaining to the amusement park's
opening and closing, appear. It happens as they are driving by the desolate park to
visit grandparents who live thirty miles north of town. It is a sunny Easter morning.
Everything seems to be going fine. Everyone in the family car had seemed to be
cheerful about the visit to the grandparents' home for Easter Sunday lunch. Then,
the seven-year-old girl begins an impassioned sobbing upon passing by the defunct
business model. A ride or two remain, still unsold, rusting in the elements under a
sky of four seasons. The father realizes his work is not done. Back to work, father
supreme. "Da."
Grow up to work jobs. Make a living so you can marry early and then get a
DUI on the way home after taking your spouse to an AA meeting after you first got
off of work then went to the bar.
Go to college or drop out of high school; the end result is similar. Maybe get
your G.E.D., kid. :
Smoke weed, drink Pabst Blue Ribbons or Coors' or Budweisers or Millers.
Repeat for 40 years the same existence your parents have now lived for 60 years. We
already talked about college, right? Rack up considerable debt to Citibank, and yes,
the interest rate is detestable, but so was the guidance counselor, is the school, are
your parents, and is the government. The government gives Citibank grant money.
It might as well be called grant money. You pay though. Citibank raises your
interest rate. You are one of a cherished and proud race of suckers. The few, the
proud, the marooned. You always pay on time and they know you always will. They
stick it to you nice, long, hard, slow, and with an eye on your as their permanent
prize. Fuckers. The student loan officer told you Citibank was your only option.
Holy shit, where are the feds? Congress realizes the fraud, that there is a fraud.
Congress loans Citibank MORE interest-free money. I didn't mean to yell, but... .
Your rate is reduced by congress, back to what it was in the beginning of the term of
the loan when you were just beginning school. But, four years later the interest rate
shoots to levels not seen in any realm of finance since 1979. Meanwhile, a certificateof-deposit earns one-point-four percent at the bank that is locally-owned, and even
less at other banks. Now that is a lie.
Prologue X, or, Prologue IX.II, or, Prologue IX-ninerdelta-II/IX.II/X-I also known as Chapter: Nein
Farming is best. Everyone else loses. Farmers read a lot, and some write. All
of them love music, and some pen songs. Their pens are in their imaginations,
though. What is the point of city living? What of a society made up of clique-y joints
with patrons that do not appreciate anyone with a fresh perspective is enjoyable?
Nothing. Madness brings pointlessness.
Mind your own.
Take care of your needs and get the fuck out of Dodge. Otherwise risk
becoming a barfly. Worst case scenario: A powerful barfly with erectile dysfunction
and no writing ability. No writing ability means no speaking ability. Writing ability
and speaking ability are one and same. If you can speak, you can write. Unless
you've got a problem with your hands, that is. I guess I can't speak for everyone,
after all.
Nothing doing in the country but wide-open spaces. Long straight roads and
intersecting highways separate vast expanses of natural environment. Do not forget
fences. Remember the fences always. Fences do not grow naturally from the Earth.
City people don't know this.
Ghost towns, ghost farms, ghost tracks in prairie fields.
Cities are not different from towns. The larger the population, the more
elaborate a facade to visiting folks the population builds. Facades are tools.
Inhabitants utilize such tools daily. The taller the tales, the higher the hopes and
steeper the slopes become.
No need for ambitious vision, no need for friendships, feelings, goals, or
winnings. Unless you buy lotto tickets. ... Remember, you cannot win if you do not
play. Ask a crack-toothed white maid. I'm sure she told you once before. The
simple matter of paying bills, contributing to the local, state, national, or global
economy with the purchase of coffee, beer, occasional sporting events, and home
electronics.
The wife will nag you without shame as you approach a stop to smoking
cigarettes. She may not realize it, or she might be doing it intentionally. You will
never know the answer to that, mind. She will not listen as you explain in kind and
patient tones how she is exacerbating the hardship of the path you have chosen to
tread. It is her program. You sucker. Women are secretive in almost all things they
do and know. To them, not doing something, is doing. It is not free for you to know
her. In fact, whomever does know her has earned the right to know her well, and she
will not hesitate to justify an affair while you pine away. She is trained to work
against your health and your wealth, have you any. it is her only purpose, killing you.
If she must trick you into beating her within inches of her life in order to end yours;
she will. Then she can fuck whom she wants without being labeled. Whore. Every
woman's ambition is to marry rich and put the spouse into prison without having to
have killed anyone and without a promise to save herself.
Learn from old. Oldness. Fucking with the Union is fucking with the Mafia.
I take that back. Old likes to feel big. Local gangster kids are fucking with the
Mafia and this makes the kids dangerous beyond reason. They get big heads about
it. Gangsters like to feel important. Their parents? Their parents could not care
less. Gangsters get away with almost everything. Only when gangsters cross the line
with other gangsters, do they lose.
Murder ensues.
Avoid neighbors who experiment making Methamphetamines. Keep your
children's hopes and dreams alive. Propel your kids far from your surroundings.
Send them away to elite schools with hopes you will never see them again for their
own sake.
Daydream about bombing the ghetto. Some do dream about it.
Teaching your children people are people, and they are people too, yet
knowing in your heart your beliefs are along the lines of, 'illegal immigrants are rats
who are the ruination of my station. Illegal immigrants have less to lose and so win
every battle. They should be killed when found,' you often think. But, you are
friends. Didn't your cousin marry one? Yes, your cousin married one. Another
cousin married the daughter of someone that is a LEGAL immigrant. You like to
listen to her father-in-law talk. He is a large man, and intimidating, but he is also
warm and inviting and in your opinion, he 'kicks ass.' There is no better to put it.
Maybe HE can straighten everyone out. Maybe we should find a way to kill. That is
one thing he says. Be we, he means Americans. You know, for our country. It is the
patriotic duty of men of this nation. However, there are no people in our nation
willing to follow through. Our own government and the police who uphold it have
made sure of it. This is because the government dictates punishment for such
actions will be implemented, calling doing such a thing, 'murder.' We are dead.
Toast.
Kaput.
By the way, did Hitler die? Did the Nazi's lose? Nope.
Go far east, west, north, or south. The perspective changes. Racist and
ignorant patriots are the enemies. The immigrant is a person. Like anyone you
meet, they try to obtain a better life. No harm, no foul, is the socialist-bred
philosophy. No one is responsible for anyone else, and if one fails it is not his or her
fault alone. We get along in this way. No one is mad about the innocent dead Dad.
How could they be? The people responsible for failing, let it fail. They made it go
down. In ignorance, did they fail? We do not know. In purpose? A great question
which no one answers because the question, like all great questions, no one asks.
Did it come down hard or what? Yes, it did. Those are the questions and answers
asked and answered. We all saw it. Reality shifted, motherfuck.
There are those who live for others. They take responsibilities on, resulting in
the allowance of things perfect and imperfect to transpire. Those people, whether to
achieve a better life or because they believe, choose to lead through sacrifice. They
exist in every community. In the middle, at the far reaches, and beyond. Their spirit
permeates and propels the will of peoples, even when people have lost their will to
exist. The soldiers, the warriors, the pawns of a President. Into the gaping mouth of
hell, they obey. Even for dictators who forget their duties, they obey. They are
heroes never winning and have chosen a path of sacrifice. Forever they march. Into
battle and despair they march. Seeking victory, into death, dismemberment,
insanity, they march. Never done until the mind is undone. Never to cease until the
body is wasted. Zombies real. There has to be answering. There must be a sense of
right, for peace. Fuck peace in the anus of it's goddamn useless visionaries' brain
mouths. Someday. Time does not exist. The heroes that chose to sacrifice, know
this.
Prologue XI, just Prologue XI
Desolation, isolation, slow pacing, and seasons changing again.
Only an indelible prick of foulness most pontificate of deepest pits of antihumane thinking or malicious controls would goad a crossing of a path that crosses
over us in such manner and brevity as has been done.
Reading with zest? Gusto?
Fulcrums open skulls. What am I saying? Are you pretending to listen? To
pretend listening implies a sense of care. But of course.
But of course once again I refer to the King. He is right, you know.
Telepathy! Bitch!
Not willing to pretend. Many, it seems, go about their day. 'Perhaps,' such a
lazy word for it. You are not agreeable. There is most assuredly an issue of you
among the rest of them. Is there not? No issue? Narrow view is not for you a
pleasure, a simple tone with which to carry out your will. Others congeal an attitude
of defiance, spite, and amusement as one body united against you, still you have no
narrow view.
Strength beyond human, larger and many in color your creative enterprises.
More than one prize. So much virulent peace of purpose in mind. Yee-haw!
Universe must dictate of you a supplicant posture against the wrath of they own ego.
Ergo, you be fucked homey, otherwise.
Some long, some short, each day along. Even unto darkness or night. Do not
suggest grammar is necessary in order for me to achieve my goals as I communicate.
iii I know it is. If you are up to the quality of master Brent Johnson, knowing now
B.J. is a great friend of mine, maybe you are worth some hay. Hey! Do not ask what
the sentence previous, means. Instead, turn your dulled mind upon the normal
things following. We were then and are now still on the first sentence, really. Really
a unique and precise collection of moving thoughts. Really a woman in a bed
somewhere, reading, thinking of her children always or the fact she has none,
sometimes. Such a torrential rain befallen you, this complicit arrogant verbiage and
wreck upon the brain inside your cranium as strokes of incitement misogyny.
Hegemony or subjugation? Doe. Did you remember the doe? The doe beckons.
Lesbianism or homoeroticism among homophobic old men could hardly be as
difficult as this. Do the homophobic old men in the church spend their time gazing
at the artifacts and the congregation and the pastor and the alter boys as a whole, or
just at the alter boys? Are there no alter boys at the church you waste your mind and
talents in? Not a waste, after all, was it, for those of you who went to church for the
first time after reading what is written here. Shit, I'd fuck a doe!
Probably was.
Remember the doe? Or no? Nein?
Simple living is derivative of complex tools of engagement. What we have
here, are human beings, machines, Earth, plants, organic life, machines, water, more
organic life, machines, air, other elements, ether, space, machines, human beings,
animals, magma, iron, magnetic forces and other forces yet to be understood. Waste
and consequences yet to be determined or proven to exist. But we have machines
and people and waste, for sure. Did I mention we waste? Did I mention we buy,
consume, and produce waste? I try not too be guilty as most are. It is hard. I like
electricity a whole fucking lot. You do too, but you do not respect it like I do,
possibly. Do not argue with me, or we are finished.
The machines, once wrought into motion, presume all human beings to be a
tool the same way a human being presumes the things they consider to be tools to be
steadfast and singular in what it is the tool was produced to do and why it is the tool
was produced as well. Machines are, as people see them; an assemblage
manipulated for achieving profit. No more will the tool allow, before the human
beings in question are either:
A. Wiped out
B. Moved into the higher order and receiving large profits as a master,
or
C. Pressured to a breaking point. A point of time wherein the
mechanism and tool will keep the subject locked down for all existence in a simple
way.
The masters of the tool and die from which the tools are made assume the
religions human beings believe in are either too simplistic, too old, or too silly to be
real. A number of masters are Gnostic. A number of masters are Agnostic. Some
have reason to suspect larger, more powerful forces at work in and of our universe.
Or, assume other dimensions of existence exist as of yet unproven or unknown.
Were it the norm that Gnostic and Agnostic are equally consequential or
inconsequential, easy living and dream would be alike. Fahgeddaboutit. No one
thinks to count the blue whale of Earth's oceans as the Human Being of Earth's
grounds. What are the blue whales or human beings of outer space? Of origins
inter-dimensional or not? Of the realm of spirits?
There are few human beings outside the following categories: Agnostic
masters that are controlling toolmakers. Gnostic masters that are controlling
toolmakers. Sheep-like, mundane, simple-living folks living against but receiving
almost by the make-up of their wills, massive catastrophic domination at the hands
of toolmakers.
People among exception to the ideas presented in the previous paragraph are
one-hundred percent sure of the origin of life as it is known by them. Neither
Gnostic nor Agnostic, at any given time. They do not doubt the existence of reality
outside their experiences on Earth and at times they also do not believe in a god.
They know the reality of life beyond this plane of existence, and know about planes.
They are human while among us. These beings are one-hundred percent sure what
the secret to life is, and their own individual purpose on Earth is, what is wrong from
right, and what changes would be best to bring about in any given less-than-perfect
situation. They are not confused about religions, do understand what science has yet
to prove, and thus have the most tortured lives. In life eternal, there is no ignorant
bliss. On second thought, there is. Sorry. Wasted effort. Damn.
Back to the exceptional. Since their population effect is small in proportion to
all humanity otherwise, it is easy to explain why the knowledge of those exceptional
peoples in not commonplace. Combine the fact of existence with the fact of the
Agnostic toolmaker's need for the continued successful enslavement of the rest of us,
(you and me both, you may believe, if you desire it be so), into their ideas about
gods, and it will be easy to understand how it might be impossible for those of the
genius exceptional to make their mark upon our global awareness, consciousness, or
the possible subconscious mind connecting large groups of us all as one. However,
with great collective efforts born of stubborn will and greatest human work, all things
will be possible.
Hint.
Of course, this supposes something impossible to ignore. Like the fact that I
just said balloon. It is a fact, through their individual and more-often-than-not
pointless, existence, these specialists can influence the world with efforts miniscule
relative the efforts of all else that seems to be with power.
There is nothing wrong with anything staying as it is, then, for the most part.
In the minds of the super genius', they have an understanding. What will be, will be.
There is no need to exert energies while they live. No need for haste. They know
they are right, know how they came to be, know how to come back again. Nothing
will stop them. Nothing can harm them, coerce them, manipulate or change them.
Oftentimes they are the persons least likely to succeed on Earth and are the people
least expected to. In this way they are a perfect fit between the other groups. They
are just like everyone else. We all play our superb and useless parts, and play those
different parts alike. Some people never grasp their own reality, forever living a subor un-conscious life. Some thrive in that way, too. Many times, the subconscious are
most productive.
To awaken from such slumber is great, like any truth. In fact it is one of the
finest achievements you or I could attain. Wakening comes first to people bringing
truth upon his or her self. Make it work and last.
You can do it anytime.
Is there an echo?
Check the door.
Is there anything more repulsive or vile than a sinister Mexican with a
Cadillac and gun? Sure is... his child or children.
I kid.
Why so serious now, all of a sudden? Ha.
'Remember,' you say, 'not all illegal immigrants are of the same country or
race, if you are talking about illegal immigrants. Think broadly. Try to get along
first. Deduce and move, not to ignore or combat others, but to embrace what they
are and what they know and how they came to know it. Base any decision on your
impression(s) of them upon their reaction to your initial willingness to befriend, and
nothing else.'
Against true passive acceptance, none can stand. To avoid such is the trick.
Blessed are those who never meet another outside of their circle of birthplace.
Painful living is among the varied and many who are built to oneness with struggles
or inability to pay their own way.
Never fear. So easy to say. Two words almost everyone knows, too.
Do not lose a happy place. Must every person resist losing peace for terror, or
lust for saving face? Have resolve, live responsibly. What you wish, think, see, hear,
or want, is as powerful as what you do, IF you have conviction. It matters not if your
conviction is of the heart. Conviction is conviction, however, and thus, the heart will
always have a say. Otherwise, you are... ... . Your God-- if real-- would want you first
to believe these truths; your own powerful body, your brilliant mind, your visions of
the universe, and your God would want you to believe these are tools of greatness
and magic~(k)~, opposite of; useless seed, impurity, and loss. No, probably not at
all close to truth. Do not disservice yourself or others, including your own God, by
holding yourself low and below, though. Realize some choose their own self as their
own God. Do not hold yourself low and below. In fact, do a favor and do not
concern yourself.
Hold yourself high and above. Holding yourself thus, you become as you
envision high and above to be. It does not mean you must ride on a jet airplane. It
does not mean you should listen to Nirvana at the bequest of the person in the chair
next to you on the plane you have ridden on. It does not mean turning off your
Metallica tape, either. Aaand, holding yourself high and above doesn't mean to get
high, necessarily, as the word could imply to the inundated by weed. Oh weed oh
weed oh mah jeebus mah jeebus joint yeah oh. Jeebee jeebee jop. Blew 50 cent on
the breath analyzer. Blew 50 cent, yeah. Not goin' to jail for ewe, or anybody, po-po.
Can't get out of this mind-jail you've all built, either. Great good pie allright allright
allright.
Else, may you deserve the sadness wrought unto your world. Put what has
wrought sadness unto you, into your world, into a place without love. Separate the
evil or pestilential from what you seek, or once had. Then, you will have it again.
Only by chance will you avoid further tragedy. Tragedy should be spelled 'tradgedy.'
Tragedy is for one person to suffer both sadness and no love and yet be
incapable of comprehension of either. The doe.
Speed and conquer, live and flow. Many and wondrous are the mating you
will know. I plan to carry out many and with a lot, my avenue for dominance will
not... cease. Until I gather a flock. Not even the grandest bull shall hold sway over
me, nor ORION, and you will see when four hundred years later I have been proven
to be responsible, at least in part, for that which has rewritten humanity.
Ha.
Repeated many times before, as in the future as well, will be right now, and
over again. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Nevermore growth. Always incomplete. Wash,
posh, circumstance. Floss a little. A little grain for supplicant grass. Now that is a
lie.
For always, for every one, present tense is core of all potential success. But, it
is true success hath been trampled upon by those who came in the path of the writer
before me. I pray thee shall never find where.
Something about a priest always bickering about the price of his coffee, but
hid it within a veil of false humor. Hoo hoo hoo.
Prologue XII
Hunting season again. More fishing and camping. More high school sports.
More drinking, smoking, movies, plays, local artists and their creations, bowling,
little league.
No real music theatre, no superb culture. Plenty is one side and not quite
enough the other. Beseech unto thee, a blind eye for no order. Peace and resonance.
Have a good time. Absent but paying nonetheless.
Child psychologist hosts parenting seminars in spite of being an only child,
the newspaper headline reads. It looks more like this:
Child Psychologist Hosts Parenting
Seminars In Spite Of Being An
Only Child.
All stereotypes are intact, firm, and weighted with gruesome clarity.
Clairvoyance attained through tedious focus during years of marathon college
courses brings heightened sense of importance to troubled and masochistic youth
responsible for fucking his friends and mother and father and sister over by being
unreasonable about his limitations, abilities, and either the prominence or lack
thereof.
Never a questioner, always obedient. Only the middle-aged with children
asked questions, and they have not yet graduated. Never will. Several honorary
degrees are in the future, however. For the middle-aged. For, the middle-aged never
come all out with their every weapon of knowledge, do they? I asked, but it was
stated as an exclamation after the point.
She is twenty-eight. Twenty-eight years old. She will never bear a child. She
has multiple degrees and one Ph.D. Perfect preparation to become a psychiatrist,
but she is a psychologist. If only she had been a few more letters correct when
browsing the pamphlet. Fuck. We're all fucked now. Damnit. But, with the other
degrees in hand, she is perfectly prepared period. For one thing or another, hard
work obtains. No losses. Simple loan fees, bills to be paid like everything else. A
mortgage. Otherwise loose liens in various hotspots with action and satisfaction.
Multiple orgasms at the tender age of twenty-seven. Get her good and gone
before the wiser up the stairs come. I made you come, bitch.
What genius can grow within the mind of the most terrified? Nothing,
probably. Justified, in mind, as a logical career choice because of trauma, the
decision she made. 'Ponies rape people,' she thinks, 'Why did no one save me from
pony rape? No one heard my cries as they went on for minutes and minutes. The
stomping hooves, oh my god the stomping of the hooves on the floor of my bedroom,
shaking the entire structure and bringing such noise to my ears that it was like being
in World War One, with blood on my hands and pieces of brains of comrades stuck
to my cheeks and then being coated in the intestines of the one that tried to escape
the trench but was cut down by a shell. Poop. Poop everywhere. The whipping of
the coarse tail bringing lashing sounds into the fray and then my pleasure to pain
unfathomable, in a single instant. Not like the instant we find out who the new
President is or the instant a nuclear bomb goes off, no. Because I did nothing to
lead to the circumstance in this situation. I did not plan this.'
The question drives her studies throughout early adulthood. She asks each
client the same thing, although not in a direct way. Indirect, with much
misdirection, with lack of resolve and no flying carpet. She stands tall in this way.
What way do you find you are able to stand? Posing questions outward, yet asking
only one question, repetitively, inward. Communication has failed.
She does not have to be discreet.
No one would ever guess.
No one even wonders.
No one knows, no one cares, and no one listens.
Maybe it has all been said before.
Her body can still 'hear' the horse seed and torn womb sloshing about her
abdomen as loose as aids-- a Hindenburg of blood and cum. Disintegration of
normal with fury that is without regulation. An accident as all accidents are. She
should join the Marines.
In every accidental situation, some person was doing something. Not always
a young and vibrant lady so recent in maturation from innocent youth doing a pony
in her bedroom, no. Sometimes it is a whole clan of vibrant and mature people, like
those who knew Adam Lanza before he killed, killing twenty-eight in total, including
his mother and himself.
Rare.
Rare, indeed.
No one knows.
I do.
May you?
The doctors expected the massive volume of the fluids of the pony's orgasm,
which sent forth myriad spermatozoids into the abdomen and womb of the youthful
female, would doom the girl to horrific battles with infection. No one gave a fuck
about her mental acuity enough to talk to her on a personal level, friend to friend, for
example. Van Gogh might have lent a bitch an ear, but can his painting heal the
conscience? Instead of wondering about the mental health of the girl, the doctors
and nurses wondered instead at the scientific opportunity to monitor the body of the
girl as it managed to absorb most of the horse spermatozoids and accompanying
fluids through her intestines and other organs in the area. The force with which the
pony had traumatized her, in a twist of luck, had exposed the fluids of her womb to
her digestive tract. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaaaaa. Luck.
Her case, studied in vigor by horny virgins with aspirations of becoming great
scientists or doctors in the fields of mental and physical health medicine, throughout
the period of her recovery, was thought of as a miracle of chance to those students
and the professionals overseeing them throughout the globe. Curious as it was, still
her estate ensured her privacy remain secure. Her estate and her family are one and
same, to her.
Cannot cross the multiple millions or billions or trillions or soon-to-be
quadrillions of the established few. The order is civil. And, within that truth, no
fiction can be obtained without suspicion. Or, without prescription. I now prescribe
this literature to all readers in the whole world, in all the worlds, and also to those not
yet literate or who might never become literate, prescribing the reading of this text to
those fitting that description.
Get over it.
Get over the obscurity.
Get over yourself.
Get over your self.
Set out.
She lived or, she lives.
Prologue XIII
Shitty city council decisions and racist cops again. Wear you down. Ignorant
and spoiled control freaks are district attorneys and prosecutors. Again.
Murder in the wake. The wake is upon a lake.
Nine shot, two dead.
Police? Answer no phones, son.
Serial killers kill. Parents microwave their babies. Boyfriends put their
girlfriend's children in the clothes dryer. Boyfriends enjoy clothes dryer toddlers.
Where at?
Where defense attorneys act sometimes in place of the judges. Where you can
get a factory when you do a rail of meth.
Get.
Get yours.
Get my work done, and you get yours.
Get yours done.
Get done, the work that is yours, and you are complete.
Mecca for illegal immigration. No, we need Mecca for illegal immigrants!
Search to work with potential employers without leaving your home.
If you are lucky.
Make your own luck with perseverance.
Produce.
Expend.
Used cars, Target, shopping centers, all attack.
Country music sells always, the new state motto. Wrestling sells. Jazz or
psychedelic rock acts break even sometimes.
A reproduction of the Pink Floyd Laser Light show put on by the local air and
space museum. Old people go see a Pink Floyd movie on the dome. Maybe it is
because they cannot find marijuana on the streets anymore yet still yearn for those
days when they used to get high. Do you yearn for a high? I burn for a high school.
Nah. Let's not go there right now. Okay?
Young people go see the same Pink Floyd movie at the same IMAX theatre,
but have marijuana. They want to make the smoking or ingestion of
tetrahydrocannabinol more meaningful. If they knew how to spell
tetrahydrocannabinol they themselves would have more meaning. Now that is a lie.
At the homes owned by the parents of those pot-smoking kids, there is more than
five pounds of marijuana hidden in the deep freeze.
Both groups agree.
This is the life.
Then there is a sore throat. Sickening, hurting, annoying.
Gone.
Amusement parks go bankrupt. Kaput. Land wasted. People hiding want to
fuck anybody. No one gets caught except the genius with the roach going ten in a
five and listening to music too loud to hear the roach smoke hitting people in the
face as he drives by. You need to realize smoke can hit people in the face. Smoke is
not Jesus Christ of Nazareth. I guess Jesus Christ of Nazareth is no longer Jesus,
then, now that I think about it, since you can hit somebody in the face with a VHS
tape copy of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, the movie. VHS tapes have very hard corners
to them, too. Many more hard corners than does an Iraqi shoe. Shoo, rhymes, shoo.
Eventually sonar pulse sensors found a way to get our planes over the water.
Targets were destroyed. Yay. Fire happens in real life anyway, right? Animals and
forests get wasted. Maybe nothing is really wrong. The truth is out there. Mr.
McCormack said he never saw a neighbor last week. Said the coyotes had been at it
two nights ago, and that he remembered a night a while ago when it seemed like
there might have been a hunter out with hounds on the coons. Said the only reason
he knew about the get-up we're into right now, was he had heard on a cb radio
channel, channel nine or eleven, there was something afoot. He sure seemed into
the story, though. Don't think he is an attention-seeking criminal mastermind, but
cannot rule it out with his level of basic curiosity and curiosities. Porn and taxidermy
shop? Weirdo.
Get up to work, slave. After dropping off your spouse at their AA meeting, go
to a bar and sit next to someone from the AA meetings you like to call your own.
Share your painkillers. Attend college or drop out of high school, get a G.E.D.,
smoke weed, drink Pabst Blue Ribbon, Coors Light, or maybe opt for Michelob
Amber Bock. And, do this whole dance for forty years.
On the other hand, learn to drink Pale Ale from microbreweries. I can
recommend one. Write for an answer.
On the other hand, and above even the beer I will recommend, try to find
someone who brews good beer at home. It is as superior to the beer I will
recommend to you as the beer I recommend to you is when compared to the beers I
have mentioned.
The government gives Citibank the grant money, not you. Fuckers. Holy
shit. Holy Spirit. What's the fucking difference?
Citibank no longer exists. Your debts still do. Can you get a witness? No-only on national television, and now tv is not interested in paying anyone to complete
research into that or any other matter.
Farming is preeminent and the lifeblood of Earthly living.
To farm, you must be willing to accept getting up earlier than the sun some
days in order to achieve what MUST be done to keep the livelihood you have of
farming that farm going. You do not have to do it everyday, though. Sometimes you
can sleep in until the butt crack of only-god-knows-when. You might be in a
situation once or twice when you have to work away from the house for more than 48
hours straight, though. And, you might have to get up before the sun the following
morning, too.
Often, on the farm, the farmer owns a blanket finer than the most expensive
blankets sold on Earth, and that is something. To farm, you must be willing to
accept prices for your products that are dictated by forces outside your control. It
isn't like you can hold your cattle or grains for an indefinite period of time and wait
out the tides of the economy and then drop your merchandise on a fool that needs
what you have the moment you decide you're ready to sell. On the farm, though, you
have plenty of open space without the public and you can use some of your time on
that space thinking of everyone else, all the buyers and re-sellers, the forces of the
markets and the governments of the world, the librarians and politicians, the school
teachers and therapists, all the girls that got away and the girls that just can't refuse,
their mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, the spaceman and the writer, the
movie-makers and the journalists, the police and the gangsters, as fools.
To farm, you must be able to think about the patterns of the Earth's seasons
without having to put forth a conscious effort in doing it. Many who don't farm can
do this, but a farmer is lost without the ability. The Earth and it's seasons must be
unto you as how you learned to walk became. But, you are so damn busy, it doesn't
even register. The only time you concern yourself is when it has been too long
without good rain, or when the water comes in too great an amount and floods the
seeds from the soil or kills somebody you knew, or your livestock.
To farm, you need to be vigilant in stubbornness. The stubbornness must be
refusal to do something. That something is give up. This stubbornness breeds a
brand of finest mental acuity to certain things in the world. It makes cheering for a
basketball player more fine. It makes hearing a good song more fine. It makes
seeing somebody do for themselves what no one else can do for them and no one
would lift a finger to help them do, fine. It means that when you have mud on your
boots, you weren't playing around. It means when you change a tire, you aren't
wasting your talent. It means you can buy fuel and pay for it and know the price is
right because tomorrow that fuel will go to good use to make more money at market
values based on the price of the fuel. You never rip anybody off if you work as a
farmer works. You can kick a dog and no one will ever know, but I don't know any
farmer I've ever known to kick a dog.
To farm, you have to know other farmers. It is the way of things. It just
happens. No farm is ever isolated between oceans. Not that I know of, anyway.
Plus, how else does a farmer get seeds to plant? Do the seeds that farmers use to
plant crops with just appear out of thin air in the middle of the floor in the shop or
barn, waiting for the farmer to decide when to put those seeds in the planter or drill
and put the planter or drill behind the horse, the mule, the oxen, the tractor, or the
wife and kids? Ha. That last was a joke. Speaking of tractors, planters, and drills,
the farmer has to do business with the most unsavory of characters. Employers of
engineers from colleges and employers of the basic factory worker always use a
middle man to get their products to the farmer. The middle man can be almost
anybody, but usually it is an agricultural equipment sales company employee.
Sometimes the middle man is just another farmer, or a farmer that is about to
become either a retired farmer or a failed farmer. Sometimes equipment is
purchased at a farm sale, and the farmer is buying more to promote the goodwill of
the memory of a dead farmer in the mind of the children of that farmer than because
he needs what he is buying. That could be a lie.
To farm, you have to be willing to put up with watching a television
weatherman deliver you the news about the coming weather. You don't have to
listen to any other member of the public talk about it, though, if you don't go to
town.
To farm, you have to be willing to believe nothing you ever hear, and yet
everything you see, and you also have to accept the fact that nothing you ever think
will ever amount to a hill of beans. Then, you go check beans on the markets, or
plant some beans, or harvest some beans, or till some beans back into the soil
because they don't look like they'll even make 10 bushel this year. You HOPE that
never happens.
To farm, you have to be willing to see dead things. Sometimes, you have to
be willing to make some things dead.
The vehicles a farmer owns are almost always in good running condition.
The women a farmer knows are almost always willing to let the farmer be himself
whenever he is around. One cool thing about farming is you can walk around as
though the birds and bees better do as you'd have them do. The doe beckons.
Everyone else is lost.
I'll tell you one thing. If a farmer ever says, "Did you see THAT?!", you
better pay close fucking attention you stupid fucking puke with your stupid fucking
I-Pad and your stupid fucking lover and fucking useless shoes. Where are you going
with those shoes on? To bed?
The doe beckons.
Take care of your needs and get out of Dodge. Truly a sad case never to be
scrutinized for long. Why bother learning from the failures. They were not winners.
Nothing doing here but wide-open spaces, long straight roads, and
intersecting highways separating vast expanses of almost natural environment. They
do not grow where you find them. Putting up fence isn't growing something. It is
fences which do the most to bring about the unnatural in the environment. It used to
be fences. Now it is much more.
The cities are no different from the towns. Now that is a lie.
The larger the population of the city, the more elaborate the facade the
inhabitants present to each other on a daily basis. Tall the tales. Forgot the whales.
Make that a lie, god. 'Okay,' god said. High the hopes. Steep the slopes. In
realism, it is all the same. Facade-- a reason to buy albums of horrible music acts
from out of town. A reason to stop honoring your own personal agenda. A reason to
quit fighting others back and away. They want you to become a night prospector.
No need for ambitious vision. No need for friendships, feelings, goals, or
winnings. Enter a drawing at the hardware store and win and give the winnings to
your four-year-old child and fuck the four-hundred-dollar barbeque grill.
No writer will ever be able to use the word friendships' in a sentence and have
the word be correct. Isn't that funny? No.
Winning is for losers.
Unless you buy. a. lotto. ticket.
No get out of jail free. Don't go.
Jail is for the poor and helpless who deserve to be poor and helpless; in jail, or
dead.
Do you really believe that? What is that? It is a four letter word containing
two t's, one h, and one a. Can you think of another that the same can be truly said
about?
If your home is in the city, the wife will nag you with endless abandon about
things that do not matter. Her efforts double when you try to stop smoking. Every
day that you smoke, she pushes it on you in secret as she states she would prefer if
you were to quit. She doesn't want to live without you, she says, when she is sixty.
Of course, if you were able to pay for your own smoke products-- she would join you
once in a while. Money dominates pleasure in everything she chooses to receive in
life. Her mother trains her to work against your health until the day one of you three
are dead. It is her only purpose, killing you.
Then she can fuck whomever she chooses to.
The Scarlett letter is fucking dead.
Nazi cunt bitch dike addicted to dick. Not your dick. You wish you was a
Nazi. Now you wait a minute.
Hey, hey-- get a clue man. It is all gravy. Just be sure you are okay with the
train she rides.
Listen hard so you are not shocked when you find out her idea of love is
protecting you from knowing how bad she fucked up, fucked you over, and fucked
others without your consent.
If only she would invite you to her world. No. She is afraid your love cannot
be trusted. Trusted is contained. She is no longer capable of believing your love will
carry you on to the end of the line which was set in her list of goals as the end of
time. It is the nail in the coffin surrounding your life.
Prologue XIV wrought of Prologue V: No Repeats
Learning from old people. What kind of learning is that? In truth, old people
should die before they become old. Now there is talk of pill popping magic to make
you live to be 150 and luvin' it. That also is going to be a fucking problem. Either
we decide to kill some people off or let us just throw away all the poor, eh? There is
no point in living if only the rich can survive. Why cannot the rich pay for the lives of
all the poor? The rich must trample to gain wealth. Responsibility for poor by the
wealthy is not going to happen. Best to kill those whose muscles and minds falter
and whose resources add to nothing more than the ideas media culture provides.
Most certainly it would be more humane than pretending to give a damn while
avoiding responsibilities. In this way even the wealthy would be subject to
termination. Paris Hilton no longer a problem. Hooray! Now that is a lie.
Communist fucks of America! There are no United States of America! Just
United States. Pretty soon the Federal Government will not be able to continue the
sham.
Communist fucks rape employees and gain wealth beyond wealth. Time to
get 'far beyond driven', in the 'immortal' words of Pantera. Too bad Philip Anselmo
never obtained a nationwide media audience like Al Roker, it would have been pretty
right on for at least five minutes.
Far beyond bad, our society does not do as much to listen to paranoid
schizophrenic individuals as much as it works to get them handguns. Rest in peace,
Dimebag Darrell Abbot, Rachel Scott, Daniel Rohrbough, William David Sanders,
Kyle Valesquez, Steven Curnow, Cassie Bernall, Isaiah Shoels, Matthew Kechter,
Lauren Townsend, John Tomlin, Kelly Fleming, Daniel Mauser, Corey DePooter,
Kayla Rolland, Daryl Allen Lussier Sr., Michelle Leigh Sigana, Derrick Brun, Neva
WynKoop-Rogers, Dewayne Lewis, Chase Lussier, Chanell Rosebear, Thurlene
Stillday, Alicia White, Naomi Rose Ebersol, Marian Stolltzfos Fisher, Anna Mae
Stoltzfus, Lena Zook Miller, Mary Liz Miller, Ryan Clark, Emily Hilscher, Minal
Panchal, G.V. Loganathan, Jarrett Lane, Brian Bluhm, Matthew Gwaltney, Jeremy
Herbstritt, Partahi Lumbantoruan, Daniel O'Neil, Juan Ortiz, Julia Pryde, Waleed
Shaalan, Jamie Bishop, Lauren McCain, Michael Pohle Jr., Maxine Turner, Nicole
White, Liviu Librescu, Jocelyne Couture-Nowak, Ross Alameddine, Austin Cloyd,
Daniel Perez Gueva, Caitlin Hanmaren, Rachael Hill, Matthew La Porte, Henry Lee,
Erin Peterson, Mary Karen Read, Reema Samaha, Leslie Sherman, Kevin Granata,
Catalina Garcia, Juliana Gehant, Ryanne Mace, Daniel Parmenter, Gayle Dubowski,
Daniel Parmertor, Russel King Jr., Demetrius Hewlin, Nancy Lanza, Rachel
D'Avino, Dawn Hochsprung, Anne Marie Murphy, Lauren Rousseau, Mary
Scherlach, Victoria Leigh Soto, Charlotte Bacon, Daniel Barden, Olivia Engel,
Josephine Gay, Dylan Hockley, Madeleine Hsu, Catherine Hubbard, Chase
Kowalski, Jesse Lewis, Ana Marquez-Greene, James Mattioli, Grace McDonnell,
Emilie Parker, Jack Pinto, Noah Pozner, Caroline Previdi, Jessica Rekos, Avrelle
Richman, Benjamin Wheeler, Allison Wyatt, and too many others that have died in
recent years from too many similar fatal wounds.
I would say the answer lies in the fact it is probably not a good idea to
schedule the keeping of large groups of defenseless children in one place for many
hours at a time, during the same hours all the time, in fact, I suggest science shows
one possibility is, shutting down the schools could be the answer. But no, because
someone killed a bunch of peeps in a movie theatre and I like movies and do not
want all movie theatres wiped off the face of the planet in American territory to be
the end result.
Keep the Christmas spirit alive, parents. The Christmas spirit is giving
presents. I can't remember a time when there was a mass shooting on Christmas
day. Keep repeating the things you think and feel while buying and receiving
presents at Christmas or any other time, alive all year for your children, and maybe
when they grow up with difficulties to challenge them, a present will interrupt
negative thinking at just the right moment, at just the right time, for just the right
reasons, and keep them sane. Even hardcore Jews couldn't hate that kind of spirit,
even if it is based on Christmas. And if some Christians have some argument against
it, look at it the following way. If Jesus was a man, wouldn't he love having his
birthday celebrated way more than once per year? I would.
Too bad we can't say 'rest in peace' to some things in this world.
Bushmaster, for one. Local news, for another. Ah, the argument could go on forever
in this world, and we've not all the time of the world left to us, either.
More now about old people and the lessons they teach. In fact, the word
'parent' being used in conjunction with the word 'gangsters' makes no sense. No
one spanked the unruly bastards as they grew up, and now they die. Shame.
The old people tell the stories well. After all, they read (red) the paper for fifty
years, and those stories are the same every day. The only differences are the
arrangements of nouns, adjectives, verbs, and punctuation marks. The old people
tell stories because they like how it feels. (It feels like a nurse washing your backside
you silly lout.) Interview a ninety-year-old person. Did you think I was going to ask
you to interview a doe? No.
More now about old people and the lessons they teach. Every time you
interview a ninety-year-old person, they will mention 'the days without air
conditioning.'
Schitzel-witchel-haber-dasher! Ka-zing! The stock market becomes half the
value it had less than twelve months ago. It's like fireworks getting sucked back into
their mortar launchers, but real, and at a different rate of speed, and in the places
where nobody cares, far less colorful. Value becomes a word of past tense in the
places where people do care. Fourteen years will pass before it rises to match the
previous high again. By that time, old people you listened to for great advice will
already be dead. They all died poor and broke. Move on and up and outta there and
on toward a new idea. Move gold, quick!
Avoiding neighbors; you are suspicious they experiment developing
Methamphetamines. Work hard and keep your children's hopes and dreams in
realms far away from the current surroundings you and they now live in. Send the
kids away to; contests of intelligence and aptitude, experiences of culture and arts,
(which are not things excluded from contests of intelligence and aptitude always),
and to private schools. Hopefully into private business or private practice dealing
only with the well-to-do. Daydream about America. Daydream about bombing the
ghetto and having enough money to buy all the lands thereof afterward, preserving
your own way of life for as far as your eyes can see, from the seat of a commercial
jumbo jet or some other thing that takes to the skies in the thousands of feet above
the ground where the rules don't apply like they do when you must walk or drive or
otherwise sail across the surface beneath the winged and wing-ed. Wicked.
In your clenched anus, I say.
Teaching your children that people are people yet knowing in your heart you
are prejudiced or racist, fascist or passively obscure, like the sun without heat or the
moon without a place to shine from or upon, but in a much colder place than where
it resides now in Our Solar System, keeping you from thinking it could hide in the
center of the Earth or somewhere else tidy and warm.
You know the illegal immigrants are rats who are the ruination of culture and
civil obedience among your otherwise well-reared children. They influence all they
touch and talk to into irrelevance toward prosperity. It is what you learned. Greater
parenting. You grow up jealous. The illegal immigrants have less to lose, so win
every battle. Kill them, according to your upbringing, but you are friends now. You
have no choice. It is not all bad; your cousin married an illegal immigrant. Do you
know their race or heritage is as deep in their philosophy as yours likely is? What
about the other cousin that married a legal immigrant, son of a man who has become
one of Arizona's most powerful businesspersons and may one day rise to be a
Senator or other great penis of vagina-dom? Maybe he can straighten out the
children of the irresponsible parents of the illegal immigrants, or maybe he will enlist
you to help him kill them all, which was an original idea he shared with you to begin
with.
Tough questions with no answers.
You are a prick devoid of erection.
It is the patriotic duty of men of this nation to kill intruders with our own
guns. Says so in the bible. I mean, the Declaration of Independence. I mean, the
Constitution. I mean, the biblE. I mean, the bibLe. I mean, the biBle. I mean, the
bIble. I mean, 'However, there are no people in our nation willing to follow
through.' Our own government, police, and law, have made sure of it. Impossible to
defend through violence. Now that is a truth. Because violence is being made
impossible to defend while shooting a goddamn traitor or illegal alien is akin to
consensual sexual intercourse violence, which never hurt nobody.
Illegal immigrants do not matter any more than the hair on your knuckles.
Lawyer's world.
We are dead.
Toast.
Kaput.
Did Hitler die? did the Nazi's lose? Nope to both questions. They are
laughing at us from the beyond. Their victory was the great lie of loss. Losing is half
the battle. Winning is a fifty-fifty chance. Try to try again, lest you die by the hand
of nothing. Accomplishment brings your doom.
No one is mad about the innocent who have died and freedom does not pay
for security. Freedom wins while people die and that is how it must be.
Of course, there are those among us who have lived for the rest of us and their
lives were the lives of responsibility that allow all these things perfect and imperfect
to transpire. For some of the living, repeat the sentence previous this sentence and
change the word were to are. Those people, whether to achieve a better life or only
because they believe in simplicity it to be right to do so, have chosen to lead through
sacrifice. I wish I could orate the previous sentence live on television and do it just
like Hitler seemed to do in old-timey videos I've seen, passion-wise, that is. Texas
Tea. Black Gold. Propellers are broken and the broken propellers are in the way of
the flight of the people, achievement-wise. And people who should dictate, forget
their duty.
In the meantime, get your head out of your ass.
Once upon a time, there was a doggy. He pooped. Now there is doody on
the ground. I watched it happen, and that is how I know. I told my ma and my pa
and they said, "So what," or something like that. I left the doody there and then
when Johnny Appleseed came by, walking up to the house with a bushel of apple
seeds and a basket of apples and holding hands with a smallish negro boy, the
smallish negro boy slipped on the doody and fell face-first into the upturned hoe my
pa had left on the ground and his face got cut in half. He didn't die for a long time.
I fucked him in the ass with a carrot and then I poured gasoline on him and then set
him on fire. He still didn't die. My pa said then, "you really should do something
about that." And then I said, "about the doody?" And pa said, "yeah. Someone
else might come along." So I cleaned up the doody and next thing I thought to write
down one day was when the ladies from the nearby witch farm came to visit and told
me they would teach me to read and write and suck their pussies clean of all their
menstrual fluids and fluids otherwise when they weren't having their menstruations
and I said, "Is this what happens to little girls who don't repeat back to their ma and
pa 'So What' when their ma and pa have gone against their original words 'So What'
in relation to the same subject they had used those same words on before and then
the girl goes and does something about the thing their parents had said 'So What'
about before?" And then one of the witches said, "I reckon so, pardner." And then
I said, "Tell you what. You come on over here around to the back of the house. I
want to show you something." And I looked at each of the witches hard in the face
in turn, and I tried not to let them see on my face or in my eyes or by my hands, feet,
shoulders, abdomen, or any other part of me, that I knew there was doody back there
behind the house where I wanted them to come. And, it worked. Soon, there was a
whole pack of witches laying on the ground all over the place, and none of them
could get up very fast, and I ran into the house and got the Witch-B-Gone my pa said
his pa's pa before his pa's pa invented. I ran back out into the yard where the
witches where and held the Witch-B-Gone thingy out ahead of my body with both
my arms and hands. Low and behold, the witches each turned into white dusty
creatures a moment, then turned into exacting figures looking just like the negro that
was laying on the ground with the hoe in his face a moment later. That was when I
realized my pa probably meant 'the negro' when in fact we were talking about
'doody.' Pa would never contradict himself. He always said I was a little slow to the
shucking, he did. I guess I hadn't ever realized it till that moment when the witches
transformed into hoe-headed negroes on the verge of death. Johnny Appleseed came
out of the house a few hours after I had decided not to tell anybody I knew anything
about the increase in the negro population around our house, and I was still in the
big 'ol dusty shed where cats liked to poop and pee and catch mice and there was
always plenty of mice for them to catch and I could see Johnny Appleseed and when
I saw him react to the new batch of negroes laying about I knew right then and there
Johnny had a soft spot for negro boys. The first thing Johnny did was come to the
shed where I was a' hiding and get out all our mess of washtub basins we used to use
to feed the horses water when we used to have horses. Each tub was as big as a full
grown man. Johnny Appleseed carried the tubs in stacks of five all the way to the
yard from the shed. He put one tub over each of the burned and hoe-be-laden
bodies. Then Johnny Appleseed went over to the pig pen and got big rocks out from
where they had been put to keep the pigs' snouts out of things. Each washtub was
covered by one of those rocks. I guess I knew then that it wasn't any good to have a
bunch of almost-dead negroes on your hands, but it wasn't my fault. People are
stupid. Doody is dangerous. It's best to watch where you go as you go no matter
who you are with. There might just be a hoe. I sure did like those apples Johnny
Appleseed brought. And, from his bushel of seeds I know we were let to plant a
small grove. It was twenty trees in all, after they grew.
So speaketh the doe.
You do not contribute to any culture, either as a creator or as one who
admires. Ninety-two percent of the human population of the geographical middle
two-thirds of the United States are willing slaves. The ratios are worse on the coasts.
Unwitting, yes, but willing. Many people enjoy making sure they do nothing to work
toward having anything. It is their job to earn the right to have it all, yet they will not
work.
This is a great fallacy and is prevalent in American people. Being insanely
wealthy or having great power in finance and starting an enterprise to lead your
family and friends to greatness through charging high interest and ruining the ability
for others to save. These are not values of a healthy or highly advanced people. It is
treason. It is a nature of rude aspirations belonging in the minds and hearts of those
having grown up from birth with everything paid for in advance which makes us all
sick. Combine unhealthy greed with religious majority one day and there is hell on
Earth.
The religious majorities, in particular people born and raised in Texas,
Kansas, Oklahoma, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, Iowa, Ohio, almost every state
in the South, and in other places throughout the world outside of America, are of
great concern and are detrimental to our national health. Wait on that thought. It is
not correct, nor is it a lie. People everywhere are a great concern. In fact, we must
ask ourselves, "Why do we have a Federal Government?" All the military is statepaid, really. All taxes come from citizens of states. Weird. A great lie, the United
States of America. It is the most powerful fully-functioning, willing and happy-to-be,
slave-ownership company in the world. The good 'ol USA.
The doe speaks.
'Because it is relatively cheap, living in the Midwestern States promotes
wealth hoarding among the capable and incapable as well,' Sir ButtFuckYouMunch
once said.
Generational sloth is worse among the wealth families of the old coasts,
perhaps, but not by much. The majority of evangelical and Republican Party finance
are generated through entities existing here in the Midwest. Nowhere is the public
more controlled through tradition than in the Midwest. Or more controlled by
radiation. Tradition in church, tradition and radiation through the television
programming in: sport, politics, and education. There is a dangerous lack of
accountability. There is no motivation for these people to be interested in the world
outside of their vision. Few have gained original vision here, and that makes the
problem exacerbated. They are not moved to feel connected.
Concerts, plays, movies, visiting leaders from other lands, all these things are
important. School is not very important at all.
Do not forget the Mormons when the topic of the dangers of organized
religion comes about. The creator of the Mormon religion was a twelve-year-old who
made up a new bible story and called it the word of the Christian God. Morons
follow this but do it so well as to appear to be leading the rest of us to salvation of a
kind. Do not underestimate them. They breed fine, fine, fine, fine, fiiiiiiine F I N E
fine-looking daughters and breed them for the sole purpose of fucking men like me
and the rest of us into nothingness. Their stated goals are to be the majority of the
entire population of the Earth by the year 2050. That is what I was told once,
anyway. Smart plan. Dangerous plan. The danger is because the majority of willing
Mormons are frighteningly stupid creatures. The old adage 'never underestimate
large numbers of stupid people gathering toward a common goal' never meant more
than it does now with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints forming their
war-machine of pussies, breasts, blowjobs, anal sex, vaginal sex, and baby-making.
Can you imagine if Mormons were to take over the minds of Latinos? My goodness,
I should have kept my mouth shut. (While I wrote it, I did.)
Fuck you, Texas. (First I need a drink. Wife didn't open the bottle of wine
like I had hoped.) Damnit, I forgot the legs of the Mormon girls. Wait, no. I didn't
write about it because I haven't seen their legs. I've seen their shoes and the socks
worn by one of them leading into the shoes, though. Immaculate. I wanted a
conception to take place, but none came. HA! I would write this little bit about the
Mormon girl back in the paragraph it belongs in, but I'm making progress here and
will not go back. This book is going to be published and make me a millionaire.
Ah yes, Fuck you, Texas. You pollute Kansas and every other State in the
Union. Why do I say 'State in the Union' instead of just saying State? Elementary,
my dear watt sons. It calls to the mind of those who know of them, the State of the
Union address committed by each President for a while now. Working on many
levels.
Ah yes, Fuck you, Texas. Texans are filthy in dress, speech, intelligence,
hygiene, philosophy, ancestry, and worth. Impossible of course to say it, because it
is a generic statement about a large group of people. Must be a lie. Then again, one
has to wonder. I would speculate illegal immigrants outnumber legal residents
within Texas. They probably keep better homes than some Texas-born folks do, or
can. Better meaning cleaner, by the way. You are worth zilch. Die with dignity
through civil war.
Bastard sons of dirty Mexico. A few words for them. Stop trying to come to
America in order to live better lives. You will just fuck this land as you fucked your
own, and we don't need your fucking help. You should only be allowed entry into
this land if you are willing to be enslaved by masters of this land into generational
slavery. If you have learned English, are not a criminal, have a job waiting, or family
here willing to pay your way for as long as it takes for you to succeed, you may come
in peace and we welcome your sorry brown-like-white-bread-toast asses. Pendejo.
Some proof that your language is not welcome in America is that all word processors
in America when set to English do not recognize the word 'pendejo.'
Legalize drugs, President. All drugs. Let American citizens take the power
back. It is only prudent. No local, state or federal law enforcement has been able to
stop the black market, or maybe those powers do not want to. I don't know.
Fuck you, drug war. Life would be better for everyone if Nancy Reagan had
died in high school. My sincere apologies to Ron Reagan, the brilliant son of the
other Ronald in the Reagan family. And fuck you to all you fucking retarded sons-abitches that seem to think it smart to goddamn use the name Ronald Reagan all the
fucking time. Jesus fucking Christ, you'd think the whole world existant in the
minds of some of you freaked-out politicians centers on those two fucking words.
Ronald Reagan. Holy fucking bat-shit Christ. I now solidify Jesus fucking Christ
and Holy fucking bat-shit Christ as one and the same idea, but make one of them
Mohammad just for fun. I hope Ron Reagan is not insulted about the other words in
this paragraph containing a wish for her mother's death before he was born and a
comment about those who use his father's name all the time.
You honestly must think, o you supporters of the drug war, that your fellow
Americans are so stupid as to not comply and understand the drugs you rail against
if taught about them for 14 years from elementary school on through high school,
that if you established knowledge of the drugs in question, and facilities for their
proper use for adults, nobody in America would be able to work within that system.
Well, then I ask, 'What system are you really for anyway? One to incarcerate
indefinitely people within the confines of prisons of our penal system? Why? You
underestimate ourselves collectively at the peril of all to come and here now.
Fuck you, Cheney and Bush.
If those two were killed anytime before September 11, 2001, and had their
'team' gone with them, the day September 11, 2001 would have been normal. We
would have stopped the plot. As it stands, you and your cronies, Dick Cheney and
George W. Bush, got away for a time, with our gold. For you, peace will not last.
Die. Your organization has left most American retirees and most young families and
most American adults with no savings, no work, no income, and zero future. Thee
deserves to die a thousand deaths. Your families shall be removed from American
soil for the duration of their lives.
It may not change. Until the old are dead and cold, it will not change. If
something magic happens here it might shift. Do not count on things unclear, as
they are similar to piles of shit.
Remember the doe. Right now, the doe walks. The doe parts branches of a
tree.
Prologue XV: Shifting into Deeper Drive
The man always dresses to work indoors. Lucky domicile havin' wet hole.
This means he wears town shoes. Town shoes, by chance, rhymes at times, with
clown shoes. This is, in and of itself, a phenomenon that occurs only once in every
as-of-yet-to-be-determined-number of words in common language usage around the
planet Oh What Eye Did To Her That One Time, on the edge of the galaxy He Is
Talking About Licking An Anus I Do Believe Spoken In A Tone Of Voice That
Makes You Think Of An Old Farmer From The Movie Deliverance But Instead Is A
Character Pretending To Be Kinda Like That On The Show Aqua Teen Hunger
Force But It Is Re-named ButtFuckYouMunch Of The Apollo-order Of Living
Spaceships That Never Wanted To Blast Off But Are Not Criminals Like The
Suicidal Challenger Was And Forever Must Be Known As Being So As Of Now
Against All Arguments Of Bradley Dean Sommerfeld To The Contrary.
Smooth jazz plays twenty-four hours a day, bursting from his silver and tan
sedan like fireworks. It does this even as he rolls the city streets. 'Fuck the pathetic
sound systems in other cars built to populate the streets with shit music by shit
artists for shit people,' he thinks, or once did. He thinks rap, reggae, folk, Celtic,
hip-hop, any music with a female singer, and Christian music, fall into the category
described in the thought. The funny thing is, he doesn't know much else, musicwise.
He has arrived and he slams the car door shut. The morning is brilliant and
cool. He knows the sun will rise hot by noon. He leaves his car in the care of a lot
attendant, a tall and skinny 17-year-old black male wearing a three-piece suit and
black leather shoes who is ready with sparkling coffee power inside his body. The
attendant is wearing a worn-out suit of grey from top to bottom, and he's got his
white shirt on underneath, with a bold purple and silver tie. The attendant has got
driving passion, that is, passion for driving, and he's got knowledge of the streets.
True powers, in other words.
Now afoot with brisk pace, the man who owns the car makes for the nearby
intersection, hoping to beat the lights. Waiting and sweating, two things that piss
him off. 'Aww, too bad,' he tells himself in a mocking tone, 'Failure.'
At the intersection on the corner of What's It To Ya Comma To Be Said In A
Casual Tone? and Who The Fuck Are You?!, the man shifts his jacket, tucks his
newspaper under his armpit, and fishes objects from a front pants pocket, though he
is only trying for one of the objects, and in him is a flood of mild consternation at an
idea, the idea he has so many things in his pocket other than what he wants right
now. After this thought subsides, doing so only after his hand finds what he is
looking for, he is lifting a cigarette to his lips. He lights it. The traffic light changes
and off he goes, leaving smoke above and behind while charging for his place among
the other worried folk. He stopped thinking of the other city dwellers as being his
kinsfolk in recent times, something about concentration. He is alone and does not
mean to hurry, but cannot help it. The season are changing soon. This year he has
an opportunity to complete enough work to be allowed to take a week of paid
vacation before fall flushes out with the rains and the rains become ice crystals, each
individual and different from each other. (supposedly, according to science.) He
has other opportunities this year, too. I don't know what. You'd have to ask him. It
is sad though. You don't have the time. Time for concentration. If I told you you
could tell the time with absolute accuracy all the time without a clock or watch or
looking at the sky or shadows on the ground would you believe me? He would. This
man walking now toward a destination, you see. If there is to be any time for fun,
the man knows, he must get more work done. 'I must get more work done,' the man
thinks. The desolate isolationist finds slow pacing impossible when the seasons are
changing, and no season will not never persist against change. They can be kinda
incorrigible about it. That should tell you something. Maybe what it tells you now I
demand will be forgotten. Roads bisect old cemeteries leaving haunted mansions
scarred and empty with no access to them except by back door alleyway easements.
The End.
No matter what time the sunrise or sunset, each day is forged identical within
the third eye of the mall janitor. Wake up in the cool, then become warm. Get wet
some. Cold or hot, indoors is her lot. Capable of destroying rot. All for naught. All
knowing about where the contaminants lay she becomes, and she is now like a God
in that aspect. Thinking of Greek Mythology though. Busy packing her cart and
doing it busily, she sets about her tasks, listening all day to the dreary-eyed mall rats.
The mall rats are the people at the mall. She has never seen a rat any day of her life,
this woman.
'Where did my naughty little boy run off to?' A woman wonders in silence.
Fear to violence. Soon there will be a hailstorm of vocal thunder-clapping the likes of
which no mortal soul should be required to bear or learn to bear from a moment of
solace otherwise. Unless there is a God of some kind, or are Gods of various kinds,
or everything everywhere every when is chaotic to a fault. The mall janitor
disapproves of the mother's tirade. 'It was the mother's fault,' the janitor thinks.
'Too many mother's got no love,' the janitor muses.
'Why don't those teens get a fucking room?' The janitor is thinking or
musing again, 'God. I hope that young girl's mother and father have taught her the
virtue of birth control. Probably not. Maybe the girl doesn't have a vagina. Probably
not.' She asks herself why it matters and whose business is it anyway, her mind is on
pay now, and hopes and dreams. She dreams her children may one day come to pass
like each night comes and lasts for a long time, thinking of her unborn that they are
already real.
'Maybe a coke before waiting for the bus to come tonight,' she thinks. She
can afford this small reward if she ignores the stores after her chores. Each store is
built to take her paycheck before she can save. Better to buy retail than invest in the
market. A grand joke. The long standing family is toast even as the immigrant
worker whom trusts no bank has assets saved in the form of cold, hard, cash.
Some long, some short, all each day along, unto the night. This old rap again.
It matters not when the sun rises or sets. For her, the workday means sun rays will
be something she will not get to experience for awhile. Along the route, in a most
efficient manner, forty or fifty tests of restraint meet the wallet. The purse holds a
modest and meager sum to be spent before rent, and nothing left to save.
Fathers and sons, especially rural ones, mark the calendar for great times in
friendship and bonding during ritualistic killing of fellow mammals. I'm the one
who makes the mammals killed during hunting rituals 'fellows.' In irony, this makes
it impossible for the fellow mammals to have their own bonding ritual. Maybe no
guns are involved. Some prefer line and hook. Boat on water. Bow and arrow. A
plank of wood high in a tree. A spear!
Others have no desire or purpose for togetherness until the fall games of local
high schools are ready for a look. Glancing as old men do, a chap of 45 years of age
ogles the underage cheerleaders. His son is fucking one, he knows. Junior rocks out
a fashionable play on the field. "Good job, son!" The dad shouts. He makes sure
everyone knows Junior's name. Bartholowmew Long Johnson. Satisfied eyes cry
while the owner of the eyes, Bartholowmew Long Johnson's dad, remembers a
simple time when life could fly. Reality is not far. Hunting season has brought an
end to fishing and camping, like it always does. But, there are still high school
sports to be played and they can be a joy. Especially if your son never strayed and
always stayed on par. High School sports are a killer to some fathers. Those fathers
had sons who strayed and never got back to par.
Fuck 'em.
Golf is for men who will one day lead others in finance, which is a way of
saying get yours while you can cuz in a few short years I will be the man and then
you will do what I say and behave like me if it is something I command. No matter
how farcical I act.
Within context there is not harm in killing the lesser beings of this planet.
Contextualize context, harm, killing, and lesser. You cannot.
For a spirit to experience life on Earth as a human being, first it must have
experienced all life otherwise. One cannot become human until one has lived the life
experience of everything else. It is sad none of your reading this, except maybe one
or two, will believe this as truth. Sad for the other several billion, and sad for the two
or three of us otherwise. The truth of my reasoning is clear, has already been made
clear, or will become clear to you if only you persist in reading this entire literary
work. This work that is part novel, part poem, part rant, part text, part word of god.
(Just leave it lower-case.) By the time you become able to choose life on Earth in
human form, you are to be able to communicate with your ageless spirit anywhere
and at any time. You are human only to support the ecosystem and susatain the
happiness of the experience not just for yourself, ... , but for everyone. The reason for
destruction and foolishness and lack of respect for life is, there are too many humans
doomed by the shock of birth or other things equally strident against the nature of
the womb of thy mother, should your mother have been able to provide a healthy
womb, and the evil(s) of church(es) and other masses, and have forgotten their
purpose, or, the meaning of life. Isn't it easy to conceive and believe perhaps one of
the greatest mysteries facing those seeking the meaning to life is the fact they have
known the meaning all along but have lost their natural connection to what knowing
the meaning means because of the shock of birth or later for some, other shocking
things? I use not lightly, the word 'shock' in this discussion. Never mind me now.
Read on.
For this reason, religion should be destroyed. Especially religions which were
not created by children, which is every religion, almost. The fucker responsible for
Mormonism doesn't count in this discussion, but his Church does. Now, now. No
need to rush to conclusions. It is a common pronouncement based on a summary of
one years' worth of thought. Basic. The foundations are those of a thinker that is no
more a statue than my balls are right now being fondled by your tongue. Remind me
to not invent any edible products shaped like balls. Balls of any kind. Some are
greedy and nothing more. Pure and simple. Know not. Everyone does in the end-as in the beginning. Code a statement as policy before it is one, test the waters.
Listen to the transcription, not its tone of utterance. Wait until the challenger rises
and speaks from deep within the core of your existence. That's one thing I do.
There is no good in religion. Religion detracts from the responsibility of a
human being to the creatures of Earth. Ask a whale and he will tell you. Whale is to
water life as Human is to land life. Have I forgotten? Is it possible that leagues
beneath the surface of our oceans a form of intelligent water-breather bi-pedal
creature exists? Masters of the waters as we are masters of the lands they would be.
We share air. I bet undersea species are pissed off.
Fuck Republicans of America. Patriots should rise up and kill. It is the right
thing. Kill every Catholic Priest, Bishop, Cardinal, and the Pope. Kill every Baptist,
Methodist, and 7th Day Adventist. Kill every Assembly of God and Mormon and
Lutheran and Jew and Wiccan and wanna-be Pagan and whomsoever says love and
will are not law. Kill betrayers of the creators of the love law and will law. Hate
breeds love, mind you. Every Prison must be regurgitated or destroyed! Shit, I
cannot name all that abandoned their right to life. Why did I not gain the power of
the so-called Archangel, Gabriel? Maybe I have but as yet have not remembered how
to use it? Perhaps there is one who did create the Greensburg, Kansas tornado with
will alone. Was it George W. Bush? Does he have keepers prepared to receive the
wounds thrust upon him? What exactly went down and where did it land? Are we
dead or what? This is hell and we are demons playing greater or lesser roles. Is that
it? does perseverance mean anything? Probably not. Only willpower means
anything. Exercise well, frequently, and get there babe. Ruth was a worker. A
shopping-mall janitor of goal-setting.
Will we ever know the things we cause?
Ha! A genius. (the only genius is in the silly foreword.)
If there is not any harm in killing, there is only responsibility and
irresponsibility. Kill what you will, if it is responsible. Think about it long and hard
and you will realize the truth within the statement. Death would be less tasty if sex
were more spontaneous, accepted, hasty? Sure.
Your Mother got back from a meeting and she wanted to talk. The meeting
was a seminar titled, 'Psychology of Raising a Child.' (no pun intended.)
Your Dad met her there, her-- your Mother. They do not live together. You
are happy they have found a way to separate amicably, and would not go back to
living under the same roof with both of them there with you. Insolent child. (you
wish.) You hate your Mother and love your Father. If only you knew what love and
hate were. (shut up, Pinhead.) You chose to live with Mom because you can pull the
wool over her sheep eyes. (careful. Pinhead is in the house. He might give your
Mom some different eyes.) Enough, creep.
The psychologists and psychiatrists had your Mom going, but Dad was
combatant. (they killed him off-hand. just kidding.) It made no sense to him. The
lecture was delivered by a twenty-six-year-old white protestant female, for the most
part. She might have been twenty-seven or twenty-eight. It does matter, but not to
you. She does not have children of her own and was raised by one of the Earth's top
100 most wealthy individuals, this particular psychologist. She was an only child.
Her name is Alicia, and her father is named Bradley.
When your father asked the young doctor what inspired her to become
educated and preach to parents about the intricacies of raising children, the young
doctor (lady) had to comprehend for a moment before answering the question.
Doctor had a tough time grappling with the word 'intricacies,' you see. (plus, she
needed fucked. And, your father is an attractive man.) When finally the young
doctor answered your father, she recounted a story how as a young only child in a
multi-million dollar home she had brought a pony to her room.
The story went as follows. "After hours of boredom I became curious." This
was a lie, she did it all the time. "I began fondling the pony's penis, which became
erect." The erect penis of her shiny pony perked her arousal and she tried to set up a
chair beneath the pony in order to obtain sex from it. The pony, carried away,
impaled her uterus. She almost died that day, the now child psychologist.
She became a doctor and preaches to parents all over the world. Her life's
goal, the work she performs, is to make sure no other parents make the same
understandable mistakes her parents did. She blames her parents for the mistakes
that led to her self-rape upon her own pony in the bedroom of her parents' multimillion dollar mansion, and she blames the pony for the subsequent non-self rape
involving the obliteration of her uterus.
Your Father, while he was laughing inside himself for all the world at the
hearing of the story of the psychologist's past, commended the young woman for her
efforts to save the youth of the parents of America and the world abroad from the
violence of pony rape and then invited the girl to dinner at his place to be carried out
that very evening. She accepted. Your Father and the young doctor, who, at the age
of seventeen had been raped by a pony, gave each other a spontaneous and rich
night of sex. Then, they each gave one another a shamrock. More on the shamrocks
later. Your Father got a refund on the money he had spent attending the seminar,
though your Mother was the one who had paid for it. Your Mom spent the same
night, that very same night, telling you she was going to make sure you never were
bored enough to end up making the same mistake the good Doctor had made. You
are a male. Now, about the shamrocks. You see, the shamrock given your father by
the lady female girl doctor, your Father took across the ocean from his home in
America to an island off the shores of the European continent and formed Ireland.
The horse fucker stayed in the United States, reforming America to be greater than
ever, then ventured across the Atlantic Ocean and toured all of Europe and Asia,
then crossed from South Korea to Japan, then returned to America. She is now worth
several hundred million dollars. That is all you need to know about the pony stroker.
As of this writing it is 2:37am, January 10, 2013, a Thursday, and Ireland is about sixty
seconds old. And now as I edit again it is September 10, 2014 at 10:17am CST.
Tomorrow I have a physical with a female doctor. More on that never.
Remember, the child psychologist is a horse fucker and a female and is worth
millions and billions of dollars and fucked your Dad and asks each client the same
question, but indirectly. The End.
One day, city council hosted a public hearing. The proposed three hundred
and forty-two million dollar downtown arena was up for debate. Not one citizen who
attended expressed an interest in seeing the plan go forward. Among their gripes
were the increasing costs of maintaining roads and civic health services, the fortyfive million dollar shortfall in the education budget, and other important
responsibilities that taxpayers in large communities fund. The city council voted a
week later and passed the bill. Sales tax increased one percent. Property taxes
increased three percent. Over the next two years the economy slowed and twenty
percent of the citizens were laid off by their employers. Several students attend
classes in tents throughout the school now and the student-to-teacher ratio is forty to
one.
The arena is half built now. Completion has been delayed. The lead
contractor for the building project has been arrested on suspicion of embezzlement
in his company to the tune of ninety million dollars. This was supposed to have been
occurring over the last two years, according to the newspapers. The FBI had been
helping conduct the investigation of the building contractor. The case is to be tried
in district court. The lead prosecutor for the city handling the embezzlement case is
an ignorant and spoiled control freak. She plays with the media to strengths best
suited for a high school play. She runs for re-election twice in the years following the
initial investigation, all before charging anyone on the city council who may have
been involved. After every press conference during the ordeal, she raped an intern,
forcing them to lick her anus, then fuck her anus. Then, the third time she forced
sex between herself and the intern, he got her pregnant, even though she made him
jizz in her mouth and swallowed his come twenty other times first. Shitty. City
council decisions. Shitty. District attorneys.
The farmer answers to no other human on Earth. His own sense of
responsibility is just that, all his own. Having to do with the farmer on an unrelated
note, if they told you 'If I fart in your mouth and tell you a it's a hamburger, you'd
believe that, too.', you would believe them. They are MASTERS of their own failures
and success'. This makes the wise farmer get up early and sleep light. No human
can sneak up on him, by him, around him, through him, or steal his property without
being seen or discovered by clues. If you are on his property, the farmer knows when
you are sleeping and knows when you are awake, even if he or she is asleep. He will
not steal from anyone else in even the slightest fashion. He will make no deal
involving his treasure that any other person can benefit from. Though, too, he will
not ever be known as making a raw deal. He is the last great King. He has no army
and no enemies outside of government, market, and the expensive tools that strip
from him sometimes, his daily bread. Make no mistake in questioning whether or
not the farmer knows what is up and what is down. He is the only leader of all the
lands in that regard, son. So you better wise up. This is the reason you see him
frown, this unsaintly god-like knowledge of things. It is also the reason you see him
smile. Knowledge deep and wide, greater than an old cow's rawhide. You best not
be on the wrong end of that smile, neither. Cuz it is the rest of us that dictate what
he must do, and that really don't sit too well with him some days. His worry is
deeper than that of Barack Obama, and I won't put another living President
anywhere near this sentence. I would tell you why, but you can figure it out for
yourself. I surely hope you can. Don't get on the wrong side of my smile, boys and
girls. If it weren't for the rest of us that dictate what he must do, the farmer would
support himself and say 'fuck all' to you and me. Best get on your knees and thank
him someday. That is all you need to know about the farmer. Same goes for his wife
and children. Farming is the best life and everyone else is lost. The same goes for
the female farmer and her family as for the male farmer, and do not confuse yourself
of this. Now that is a lie. You are alre ady confused.
Old people again. How old is old? After seventy years on Earth you may be
deemed by some to be 'old.' Sometimes those who are ninety years old have great
life left. May we set a new standard of old? One hundred years of age is old by the
standard acceptance of reality regarding age today, and thirty years of age is old if
fifteen years out of the thirty in question were spent strung out on Ice, Crack,
Heroin, the opposite sex, television, video games, church, hatred, violence,
molestation, oppression, torture, war, famine, sports, homelessness, or politics.
There should be a standard for old so we can begin taking out the trash before it
becomes a burden greater than our system can handle. Put the old on cruise ships
and sail them into Arctic waters for one year. If they survive, let them live a little
ways north and west of Delaware where nothing matters. A better idea, force the old
to recount every lesson, every moment of their life, every belief they have. Store all
that junk in a new Great Library of All Knowledge of Humanity. Discover their
opinions of everything. How they voted throughout life and why. Find their dreams
and find out if they achieved one. Uncover everything they know for future
generations. Listen to them and make policy changes where it makes sense.
Learning from old people.
I placed a large value on voting didn't I?
Shut up you arrogant fuck.
The End.
Final Prologue: The original text of the previous pages.
Desolation, isolation, slow pacing, seasons changing. Hunting season,
fishing and camping, high school sports, drinking, smoking, movies, plays, local
artists, bowling, little league, shitty city council decisions, racist cops, ignorant
spoiled control freak district attorneys and prosecutors. Defense attorneys as judges,
bail bondsmen as drug dealers, get ahead in the factory when you do a rail of meth
with your supervisor on lunch break.
That is the Midwest.
Mecca for illegal immigration, go to college to work at Wal-Mart. Produce,
expend. Used cars, Target, shopping centers, country music sells out, wrestling
outsells top 40 acts, amusement parks that belong in the kid's zone @ most theme
parks, but cost twice as much as a day in Disney. Grow up to work for life and marry
early, go to college or drop out and smoke weed for 40 years. Farming is the best life
in the Midwest, everyone else is lost. What is the point of city living if society is
made up of clique-y joints? People do not appreciate newcomers or anyone with a
fresh perspective.
That is the Midwest.
Nothing doing here. Wide-open spaces, long straight roads, intersecting
highways separating vast expanses of natural environment. Ghost towns, ghost
farms, ghost tracks in prairie fields. The cities of the Midwest are no different from
towns. The larger the population of a Midwestern city, the more elaborate the facade
the inhabitants present to each other daily, the taller the tale they tell, the higher the
hopes, the steeper the slopes, but it is really all the same.
That is the Midwest.
No need for ambitious vision, no need for friendships, feelings, goals, or
winnings. Just paying bills, contributing with purchase of coffee, beer, the
occasional sporting event, or avoiding neighbors who experiment making
Methamphetamines. Keeping your children's hopes and dreams far and away from
your surroundings, so sending them away to elite schools with the hope you will
never see them again for their own sake, hurts less.
This is the Midwest, and it may not ever change. Until the old are dead and
cold, it surely will not change. If something magick happens here, it might one-day
shift. Do not count on things as unclear as heaping piles of shit. That is the
Midwest.
Chapter One what the fuck
"Why?" The woman-child asked, and yet it was exclaimed from her too, like
an eruption, no less violent than a powerful geyser, as her pain mounted with speed.
She was only seventeen years old. Her voice was fierce like a determined call from
the hooked beak of a massive crow, and it was shrill, like a banshee warning the first
to sail the seas, "Go Back You Bloody Fools! Back I say!"
The alarm in the voice of the girl sent shivers through the young man
kneeling near her, and it pierced his bones. Lucky for her that it did, because it
caused the boy to pause. Though only for a moment, it was important in the long
run.
'Too late now,' he thought.
He adjusted his position a bit, on the crumbling and dry ground in the field.
The girl was shaking, and lay face-down. Because of the strike of the truck
against her body, she had lost control of some of her bodily systems.
Within the confusion her shriek had brought, plus following the confusion of
his own actions, he could no more answer her simple question than take back the
actions meant to be preemptive against such as the desperate cry from her lips was.
Then, she cried out again, "You almost ran over me!" Again, her voice a
shriek. There were tears coming from her eyes, she was groaning, or moaning, and
her body went through several spasms.
Strong as her voice was, she had to wonder why she was having no luck
getting a response with it, wonder why the young man would not answer. She
thought it must be a mistake, what had happened. A horrible mistake, but it had to
be a mistake nonetheless. The young man would save her. Somehow, he would find
a way to help. 'A terrible mistake has been made, that's all,' she thought, 'People
make mistakes. Maybe he has gone for help. Throughout the evening he had been a
perfect gentleman. His offer to help, in the parking lot of the Church earlier this
evening, had seemed genuine. Besides, no one belonging to the Church of Jesus
Christ of Latter-day Saints would harbor ill-will toward another person. Calm
yourself, girl. It was an accident.' She kept telling herself, 'An accident.' She told
herself this again and again in the first moments after getting hit in the back with the
man's truck.
But, there was something complicating her reasoning. She was in shock, and,
as the mind is wont to do when confronted with shock, she had not come close yet to
grasping the reality of the situation. In no way was she thinking anything about this
along the lines which would soon prove to have been the cause for the course of the
man's actions against her. Her mind was trying to create a perfect lie, but the lies
were going to be proven as such sooner or later. Useless, as all lies are in the end.
Even without having succumbed to a typical degree of shock, it would have been
hard for her, perfect and loved Brittany, to fathom the facts of what had befallen, this
is even more so for the things yet to be throughout the cool evening.
Delusional denial of reality commencing, her mind escaped, and in its void a
depression of some parts of her central nervous systems commenced. It was not
really tangible to the person with her, but she began undergoing a sort of calmness.
The heartbeat was up, yes, but something was telling her the worst was over, now
she would be helped.
Never in her life, this girl had had to deal with an encumbrance without the
aid of a Mother, Father, or sibling. Nothing major, anyway. Once she forgot to take
her homework to school. That was in Kindergarten. All her other problems were
much more minor than that had seemed to her to be at the time it had occurred.
There are not a lot of people in this world who can say the same, I'm afraid, but then
again, what is going on in the field with Brittany and the young stranger tonight just
might go to prove none of us are safe from happenstance, that the world is truly
unfair, and when living among those who, like us, are not 100% understood by
everybody who knows them, anything can happen if not ever vigilant.
Chapter Two Prayers
God made her too beautiful to ever be harmed, she believed, unless by
accident. 'God save me from anything horrible,' she prayed many times in youth.
Everything would soon be all right, she was allowing herself to believe. He wasn't
helping her because he too, did not know how to react. She thought, 'He has gone
for help. I didn't hear his truck start up. Maybe I did and he's already gone for
help.'
The air was crisp and cool. She thanked God the ground was not harder than
it was. 'I thank you, God, this ground is not harder than it is,' she thought. The
young man was going to help her soon, or was going now to get help. She knew it in
her faith in who she was. Everything would be fine. He was only kidding when he
had said, "Perfect little women deserve to be taught via thingies in their vaginas
without their permission when such opportunities arise." How long ago was it she
had heard him say that? 'Earlier,' she thought, 'before the pain. Before the accident.
We were talking about something from the Book of Mormon, I think. A joke. Not
meaning harm. No meanness. He would never do anything mean to anybody. He's
just a young man, the same way I am a young woman. He is a fine individual. Like
most people are. A fine individual who, along with a brash sense of humor, must not
now be able to see how hurt I am. God? Why is it taking him so long to get me
help? Everything will be fine. Does he suffer from an affliction, God? Maybe he has
poor eyesight. That's what it is. His eyesight is poor, like the sight of so many great
people and lesser people who have been given poor eyesight as a test of their faith in
the God that brought them to life through their Mothers and Fathers on Earth in the
same way Jesus and Joseph and Jacob and even Maroni had been brought to life
here, upon a time. We know what God says about people with poor eyes. They and
those with similar afflictions are here to teach us we must be willing to help those in
need, and you never can tell who is in need of help or who is not unless you talk to
them first. Find out what they know about God, about life, about sanctity and
salvation. People with bad eyes are blessed by God for they are good with great
talking abilities. No wonder he could talk so well. He has poor eyesight. He can
walk, too. God brought him to me. God gives us the ability to walk so we can
discover where we are needed. Yes. God help him. Help him to help me. Now. I
need help. It hurts.' Then, the pain settled in enough to break through her brief
respite of prayer brought about through the machinations of mind that shock is
known for. She fluctuated in and out of consciousness during the bouts of pain, for a
short time. Then, she spoke, but her words came quiet and she spoke quite to
herself.
She said, "Where are we? How far from town? God, I trust you. Oh God, oh
God."
Her thoughts fought then, in an attempt to rediscover an outlet to survival.
Through the intense lifelong training of the Church, God was prominent in this
activity. She had no defense against the fact, and had no knowledge either of the
fact, that her training in and of things having to do with God as understood by those
in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was useless now, except as
something her brain could grasp easier than almost anything else in this moment of
pressure, fear, isolation, and need. It was useless, however, as it brought her no favor
with the young man, outside his plans for her, plans he had been developing over
many weeks before this exact time.
Chapter Three And, she's naked
Her reddish-blonde hair flowed, a black sheen upon the grey dust of the
ground below the winds of nighttime air moving like oil within water, and maybe
disguising something sentient, too. It had become several degrees cooler during the
recent minutes. Seventy degrees it had been at five pm, but the temperature was
now fifty.
Moonlight revealed the true reds of her copious hair as it shone through
fantastic cloud formations overhead. There are the little clouds which overhead were
moving at a quicker pace than the larger. Aside from a small spot of wetness from
where she had lost control of her bladder and had peed on the ground, another spot
of wetness formed between her hip and the folds of the form-fitting dress she wore.
The dress is made up of a silky material of pale blue and pale green colors. She feels
the wetness on her hip, thinking 'A minor scratch from the fall, I hope is all it is.'
Her legs are open wide enough to stretch the bottom of the one-piece dress
up and over the bottom of her hips, revealing the curves of her bare thighs and bare
buttocks.
'She feels no need to stifle the pleasures of making herself available to me or
anyone else with undergarments,' the young man thinks, seeing the girl is naked
beneath her dress. 'Such restrictive tools they can be,' he thinks.
What he does not know is that Brittany is only without panties because she
forgot to wash her sacred underwear the night before, all of which was dirty when
she woke up for prayer time this morning. The washing was left to her Mother to do,
and Brittany was punished for not having done the simple chore of washing her
underwear by being forced to endure the embarrassment of having no panties on all
day, knowing it would be possible for boys and girls and adults in her life that day to
see her naked buns and maybe even her bare and barely-hairy vagina if she weren't
extra careful, and she had been so today in this regard, keeping her legs closed,
staying conscious of being naked beneath the dress all day long. Because he knows
nothing of Brittany, he can not know that Brittany has no desire, nor even enough
knowledge to have ever been tempted with the desire necessary, that would have let
her develop the idea to go without panties for the fun of it or to entice prospective
lovers. He does not know that to some believers of the tales of the Church of Jesus
Christ of Latter-day Saints it is best to be as God made you than soil oneself with
unclean garments if the wash has not yet been done. Anything unclean of the
material world fosters danger. It is best to be without in almost every situation than
have a part of your own body come into contact with something found to be unclean,
or believed to be, based upon your knowledge of the thing or based on your own
better judgment following observation of facts.
Brittany is not thinking about her nakedness right now, but the young man
with her is. He very much is.
Her nakedness fuels the young man's desire to have her. Just the particular
way he wants, too. He wants to be her king, while she is a mistress or slave. He will
be a murder-king too, and he will murder her innocence with his lust and
imagination and penis.
Yay unto the balls and penis and stick it in the peter. No, though yay he
might stick it in the peter, he won't today, no, today it is about sticking it in the
vagina of the virgin of the Mormon faith of seventeen years of age and female and
nice, clean, ready-to-be-licked anus.
And, though now the light is fired and lifting off the surface of the planet a
giant monstrous thingy to be orbiting above like a satellite or something like a
satellite but maybe with cargo or people and shit, you know? Well, anyway, back to
the rape of Brittany! Hooray!
Chapter Four And now for Brittany,
The bliss of the young. The cataclysmic shift of self-consciousness in
youthful thinking and the experiences of youth, into self-confidence in young
adulthood.
The day of realization, for this young girl, is here. Reality is not always what
you prepare for.
As a prepubescent teen and some three years prior to her night in the field
where she now is, Brittany had not ever experienced a difficulty, not at any point in
her young, care-free, and super-sheltered, highly-organized life.
She had six brothers and four sisters. All her parents' children were each as
happy, or happier, than any person has a right to be, including the new baby brother.
The family prayed together for an hour every morning, but this was not seen
by Brittany or her siblings as a task hard to enjoy.
The family ate breakfast early each morning to ensure Brittany would be
getting to track practice on time and her siblings could be ready for the beginning of
the day too. Two of her sisters were older and Brittany looked up to them, always.
Two of her sisters were younger, and they looked up to Brittany in the same way. All
but one of her brothers were out of the house, grown men. The youngest brother was
the youngest of the eleven children, the baby and pride and joy of each other
member of the family.
Then came the only time before the night in the field which caused Brittany
any real trouble, the only time she really fucked up aside from the time of forgetting
to bring her homework to school in Kindergarten. But, the trouble was not strong
enough to shake the foundations her parents' ideals and parents' religious ideas that
had grown inside her, so it is relegated in her mind to a trivial thing meaningless of
point and purpose of teaching her a single iota of information about herself or life.
Brittany had been left with baby brother so Mother and Father could attend
an intervention with members of the Church for a fellow parishioner. (A person
discovered to be butt-fucking babies in the barren bible-banging bordello/room of
the Church itself during operation of the Childcare service it provided parishioners.)
She had not thought of it for almost three years, but thought of it now. It was a
horror then, and she shivered in her prone condition upon the Earth, as the memory
came upon her, if it were come it would have had to be in the context as though she
was a great whore of swallow. She had hoped to avoid this memory throughout the
rest of her life. Too bad now!
"God," she asked, "why must I remember?" (The temptation that God
begins chanting throughout the rest of the story about the night in the field between
Brittany and her attacker 'Oh your anus, oh your anus,' is insurmountable almost!)
Her voice quiet, prayerful.
The memory marched into her consciousness, right into her consciousness
like the Nazi's into France. It was the worst parts of the bible, in her mind. She
would equate it with being trapped in a house with no known exit, having been
brought to the house by unknown characters, characters wrought of stories she knew
had no basis in the works of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and were
worse than the worse parts of the bible because of this fact. Thinking along these
lines she did happen across a little more determination in her faith of God and of the
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She would not undermine the words of
God by thinking those stories that were not read at home because they were written
by those with lesser faith fortitude than those who had written the bible stories had
greater representatives of evil in their characters, or somehow could come close to
matching the terrible nature of humankind at its worst as described through
characters and tales not of the books of the bible itself. Still, the fear she felt as the
memory came rushing toward her, gripped her. She could feel it begin a coiling
about of her somewhere inside her body. She couldn't comprehend in her condition
however, that most of the stress she was feeling was mentally created.
"I don't want this," she said. Then the memory was upon her. The replay of
the crucial moments of that day flashed and were gone very fast, but then her mind
turned to the results of the mistake she had made, and for a long time in the cool
night air on the cold, hard, crenellated ground among foliated rocks too, she and the
fear pushed aside the pain and even a little of the shock.
It had happened to come about while she had been using the phone on a call
with a male bible-study friend she had often envisioned marrying. She and the baby
had been cuddling on the couch near the front door. They were both enjoying
sunlight sparkling through large bay windows nearby. The baby was drinking
Pedialyte, cooing softly, and was by all accounts, content. Distracted by
conversation pertaining to The Book of Jacob from her Book of Mormon, Brittany
did not notice the baby crawl down and away. When she realized the baby was no
longer upon her bosom, she started. Her eyes searching and frightened out of their
wits found the baby fiddling with the pet door leading from the living room into the
laundry room. She was relieved. Calmer now, as she neared the boy, she watched as
his hand came to rest upon the metal strip of decorative and functional edging that
had been nailed down, keeping the edge of the carpet stamped to the floor so it
would not peel or catch when walked upon. The pet door had already been pushed
open with one of the free hands of the baby, but now came whooshing down to
become shut again. She could see what was about to happen in the way one sees
something before it happens because what is going to happen is going to be very bad
for someone else. She screamed, then threw the phone across the living room and
rushed toward the baby. The phone flew into the adjacent room, such was the force
with which she had thrown it. The baby began screaming in only the way a baby
suffering some kind of real agony can, even before the phone hit the floor. The
baby's hand was crushed by the pet-door to half the normal width where the hand
had been pinned down. The baby was stuck and bleeding like a pig.
Piggy 'o Pop Pop penis-weasel macaroni-pictures no-piggy Pop eat 'em corn.
The youth on the other end of the phone line, the one Brittany had been
talking with, had heard a loud noise, then the screaming of Brittany. Then, he heard
the baby scream, '...all this trauma coming through the phone,' he thought. After
not being able to get Brittany back to the phone, and thinking the worst, he had then
called his parents to relay his concern about the screaming at the home where he
knew Brittany lived, and almost all the members of the local Mormon church knew
where Brittany, most of Brittany's siblings and Brittany's parents lived. His parents
in turn, called several members of the church to rush an 'action committee' to aid
Brittany in whatever way they could.
Brittany was on the floor when the action committee arrived. She was holding
the baby. The baby, Brittany's shirt, hair, arms, legs, hands, fingernails, some
pubes, toenails, heels, calves, shins, thighs, inner-thighs, belly-button, and the
carpet, were covered in the blood of the dear never-before-harmed baby brother of
Brittany. Baby brother was trying to calm down and grasp his situation as babies are
wont to do in dire circumstances. He was trying to suck on Brittany's fingers.
Brittany was terrified, it seemed, and the adults that had arrived, including a member
of the young-adult prayer group, tried to console her. Before they had arrived, the
baby had had several bouts of screaming related to the sense of fear coming from his
big sister. This had occurred whenever he looked into her eyes. It was the first and
only time, up until now, wherein Brittany had experienced anything in life not
resembling perfect peace except for the few times she had been upset with a sibling
or a parent about something she felt strong feelings about though was not ever
anything of importance in the big scheme of things, at least in the minds of the
others. In the three years between the aftermath of the incident with her baby
brother's hand and now, she had prayed very long prayers along the lines of hoping
in good faith it would be the only time she would know emotions like those of then.
Like fear opening doors to new worlds. Like being responsible for something
horrible and stupid. Like being bloody. Like being a simpleton, as she and everyone
she has ever known is, but knowing this time, that she is.
In the current situation, sprawled in abject terror upon the Earth in the care of
a stranger she had entrusted to get her home, the prayers of days gone by now
seemed as meaningful or wise as offering a bag of rocks in exchange for gold. The
terror was not of the placement of her body upon the Earth and the way she felt
broken, or the strangeness coming from the fact the person she was with was near
but was not doing anything to help, even though he was the only person who
COULD help, the only other person for perhaps many miles, no, there was no terror
she must face in any of that. The terror stemmed from a much more fearful prospect.
The potent idea she felt God was punishing her for being selfish at that time three
years ago. The thought she had been selfish then had come to her following the
memories about the accident with baby brother, when she realized, looking back,
she had not prayed as hard for her baby brother in his pain as she had at that time for
absolution of, or strength against, her fear. She thus came to a strange conclusion.
She thought, 'I must realize this situation is my own doing. This field, the vehicle
that has smashed into my back and has thrust me onto the dirt clods among the
stubble of milo stalks, is my fault.' With these thoughts, a group of instincts began
to bring about a change in Brittany. She became other than the Brittany her family
had known her to be. Her view of reality undergoing a metamorphosis into
clamoring bells and warning signs now, it is. 'Something very bad will happen,' she
thought, 'This is not right.' She could see that truth a little more clear. Also, another
truth started to form in her mind. The truth of this stranger and desire. The thought
that the man with her was a man of lust of some kind outside the teachings best
followed in the bible started, and it began to resonate in her conscious mind with
glimpses of strange happenings she had been privy to now and then, usually from
experiences in gossip with school peers. She started to realize how dumb putting
faith in him had been. Too late.
The young man had been put into his own kind of temporary shock, and now
waking out of this state of mind, a state of mind caused by hearing the strange words
of Brittany, the girl on the ground before him in the amazing dress and with the a
more perfect body than any he had ever envisioned himself to be part of being with,
the young man felt compelled to respond. At first, the words would not come. It was
like he had nothing to say. A little unintelligible drivel escaped his lips. This made
him very angry in a quick instant of change, making nothing of it pertaining to
money.
"Just...J-Just shut up," he rasped. Then, not liking the sound of his own
voice and the whispering nature of it, he spoke up and said, almost yelling at the top
of his lungs, "Please keep your mouth shut you stupid bitch!" He had not wanted to
say this, but out it came, like his mind has nothing to do anyway with his ability to
make sound with his vocal chords. Never in his plan was there called for the using of
language against the feelings of the victim. This girl was to believe she was
something he loved. Something, yes. Not someone. Some THING. A body, a
warm place one might have a cup of tea inside of. A territory to be held to standards,
eroding with time any essence of a mind uniform against his choices among it.
The man walked in a circle and kicked dirt across the field. He turned to her
prone body and exclaimed in a fit a rage, "Goddamnit!"
The words of the man frightened Brittany. She trembled something terrible
in a nervous physical manifestation of her newer terror, and said, "I-I'm sorry!" She
tried to be loud and strong as she said it, but a problem with her body constricted the
power of her voice to only normal talking volume. And, it had hurt when she took in
the breath required so she could respond with her voice. It had hurt very much.
Her words, they trickled upon the mind of the man, and did not hit the man
right. Not right at all. His temper was flaring, and he tried to fight this truth, to
maintain control of his mental acuity. To do so he reminded himself of several goals
he had set in the planning of this day. The most difficult tasks were complete, he
knew, and that was good. Getting her immobile had been the part of the plan where
if anything were to go wrong, it would be a big problem. It was done now, and there
did not seem to be much of a problem. "Having come this far," he told himself now,
"to lose it or to quit is not an option." He said these words in a matter-of-fact way,
and out of the hearing range of Brittany, too. He did not want to alarm the girl any
more than he had already done before he was going to follow through with the next
stage of his plan.
Each person in the field, or I should say, both people, (in the field), thought
to themselves. He, walking around and around Brittany's body, looking at the
Earth, not so much at her, but taking very guilty glances at her nonetheless, which
was aiding his thinking process and causing obstacles to his thinking at the same
time. He was new to this and was not prepared after all. He tried to fashion out
some ideas about what next to do.
Brittany stared across the surface of the ground ahead of her and to her left.
She was not able to turn her head without a sharp pain rising up from the middle of
her back and going all the way up to the base of her skull, to swarm in her neck.
The young man, having time to think, came to some decisions. Grace would
be his movements from here on out. Control, his modus operandi. No failings
allowed. Control would be his weapon. Against such a thing as failure, control is
always your weapon of choice when dealing with an enemy or would-be victim. This
is true especially of plans where the victim is to be assimilated somehow to your way
of thinking and your design. Force and persuasion in this regard, are wrought best
through self-control. Perfection was the key. Nothing could be gained from this if
he were unable to maintain and keep many internal promises made in the time
before today. There will be no conscious riddle of guilt, no questions at all. Plan,
passion, enjoyment. She was an object created for his needs or pleasures, and would
come to love and enjoy being treated as such. She was as the moon, or fruit of a
garden, now. There in flesh and blood but of things having nothing to do with
choosing to be, or being able to choose anything without the intellect and touch and
will of him.
He approached her after his thoughts had collected, knowing now he must
begin doing as he had planned. Bent at the waist, he stood, towering over her. He
was feeling something inside, and the word he came up with for this was 'gleam.'
Power against some weaknesses he was feeling, came to him in waves and was
fuelled by the understanding he was already partway through fulfilling many of his
goals for this day as he viewed the girl who lay injured and trembling on the ground
below and before him. Once standing near her again, his height advantage brought
to him the will to overcome fear or rage. He was calm now that he could see her
helplessness, weakness, injury. Knowing she was with inability to fight him off
combined with the sense of sight and he imagined being filled with a grim strength,
a strength of some great power he would prove to be the master of by not letting
himself down.
Brittany was still staring. Looking left, the sight she had made it seem like
the field appeared kinda majestic. The ground was kinda warm now, from her own
body heat. She closed her eyes when she caught sight of something uncomfortable
to see. She did not like it when her sight had gone a little toward the direction
behind her and she could see a part of a shoe and pair of pants belonging to the
young man with her so close, but so immobile and scary because of the illogical
nature of the immobility. She closed her eyes because there was something wrong.
She dare not move. Eyes closed, she noticed for the first time her nose was filled
with fluid or dirt. Her mouth was open already and she took in a large breath, or
tried, but when she did a great pain erupted somewhere from her middle, and then
she whimpered out a cough. Something hurt in a tremendous way when she did.
She again tried to draw breath, this time doing it very slow. Once she had taken in
as much air as she could, she closed her mouth and tried to push the air out of her
nose. Her nose was packed shut at first, but then the air pressure, backed by a
threatening feel inside her body, backed off as the breath she had taken pushed a
glob of snotty mud onto her upper lip, that then slid off her face and onto the ground.
She tried to think about other things. It was too hard. All she could think of other
than the horror was how bad she wanted to eat her boogers. It was impossible to
face the beauty of God's world now, though, boogers or not, in this bad place, and
this was of course compounded by the fact she was now unable to get up and leave
of her own free will. A little time had passed during all this, and she had closed her
eyes after watching the stuff come out of her nose, and she had not heard anything
from the man. She had heard precious few noises from anything except blood
pumping rather loud in her hearing, and the sounds of winds in trees far off in the
distance across the fields. Her field was a half-mile in width from the road to the
trees and was much longer length-wise along the ditch. There was a farm near, but
not near enough, she reckoned she could correctly remember.
'Where is he now?', Brittany wondered. She needed him to help her, she still
thought.
She wanted poopy to come out of her buns.
'Why was he so angry?' Her mind raced with these and several hundred other
thoughts. 'Am I going to miss school because of this? What will my friends think?
Will my parents be upset? What about baby-sitting tomorrow! I forgot! Those kids
will need me. I will need to be in good shape to take care of them. I guess I can't
worry about it now. What if I lose my income? Father will be displeased with all
this. Will I be punished? Is this a work of God? God, why punish me? What have I
done? For my selfish prayers after the accident with the baby all that time ago?
Because I don't want to suffer any more for you? Something else?' Then, in a
moment of sudden realization, her thoughts focused on something. 'Was it what I
did with that vibrating toy I found in the basement last week when I was bored and
home alone and couldn't think of anything I wanted to do? I only tickled myself
with it! Why would you punish me in this way for doing something like that? Isn't it
good to love oneself and to sin sometimes means you are a human like you intended,
God? I'm not a whore, God. Right? I mean, gosh. Golly gee. Holy crap, I'm not
supposed to say words that begin with the letter 'g' unless I'm talking about
something that is an actual noun! Please don't rape my anus! You know I will never
be a whore. What I did was a kind of good, God, I truly believe it was. Help me,
God. Help. Help. Help. Help.' Her pleas were like the consistent, incessant
ticking of a clock, the combined circular and up and down motions of a pump jack
plumbing an oil well, or perhaps the constant that is the determined pinging ringing
off the chisel struck by the carver intent on making each strike of the hammer as
exacting as the one before till the very last all the while building something special
for a great client like Leonardo Da Vinci, nonetheless. She was losing control and
some part of herself warned against further fleeting questions. Cthulhu rode into her
thoughts from the study of the works of H.P. Lovecraft that her teachers of English
over the years had never introduced her to in any way except on accident via the
internet searches of children studying in greater depth the works of Edgar Allen Poe
and ButtFuckYouMunch the Clown Anus-licker. Clamoring warning bells. An inner
part of her, a part that did little to ever blunt or spark her thinking self, gathered
strength and Brittany opened her eyes, all 10.5 of them. She began staring out again
but from a much deeper place in her self than she had seen with before. Instinct
demanded and told her to now focus attention on the situation and attempt to help
herself.
Blood coming from her head, he notices. And there on her hip, more blood.
'Blood on her hip, ohhhhhh,' he thought stupidly. 'A light scratch,' is his thought
about the blood on the hip. Elsewhere there is no sign of blood present. He sets his
vision and thoughts on the pale nakedness below her waist and dress. Or, his
thoughts center his sight to that location of her body. 'She is breathing like a dying
animal,' he thinks.
"Shit," he says.
Suddenly a mound of shit the size of the Space Shuttle Challenger explosion
in the mind of a 2nd grader watching Christa McCullough die live on TV falls right
out of the sky and lands four-hundred miles away from the man about to make
Brittany wish a penis in her buns was all this was going to end up being about.
"Nooooo," that one cartoon-like person said.
Most of the damage done to her body is evident as being on her back.
Moonlight plays with the colors and form of her dress and it is made oh-so-easy to
imagine her as not really human. She is maybe a doll now, but the wetness in the
folds of the dress where it is piled in a wave on her back above her buttocks suggests
to the young man something else... A lakeshore beach, maybe, with the dress
playing the part of the water, the skin of her pale buttocks perform the act of being
like a symbolic representation of the beach. There are no oceans in the young man's
past, present, or future. He does not know this, of course. A little paranoia in the
young man suggested sickening thoughts of the trauma he may have caused the lithe
little girl just now, but then he realizes what has been set out to be done by his
brains, and he pushes thoughts of her injuries away. He is knowing she is in for
more owies, but not physically damaging to any part of her but her brains and pussy
and anus, so he doesn't feel bad at all. It's like an Easter Sunday surprise type of
feeling he has now. He's after eggs, all right. His eyes again trail to gaze upon her
nakedness where it matters most to him, more so than her trauma, injuries,
predicament, needs, wants, rights, or ideas of any kind, really. Her nakedness is
what he was after. He still can't figure out why she isn't wearing any underwear.
'Mormon girls are all supposed to be the most pure,' he thinks. He feels confused,
like she is sending him mixed signals. Any animal would know better. He is not
really thinking like an animal though.
Again, he manages to focus on the marks with his sight along her back. She
is in pain, and he is mindful of, if not concerned with, the truth that, yes, she is,
really, in pain. Such is the world of splendor against reason when the hopes of a mad
person are waged against the rights of hope of any other. He is lost in the eerie
wrongness of his actions and the discrepancies with the reality versus the plan.
There appear, beneath the folds of the dress and in the surface of the dress where it
is still flat on her middle and upper back, indentations in her skin. The indentations
are on either side of her spine, but in equal places otherwise. Oh, along her back,
her back, her back. He knows there could be broken ribs, or worse, a broken hip.
The only way to do what he had done with the truck without killing her would have
been to use the perfect amount of force, a hard thing to do when doing something
like he did. Though, looking at her now, he feels he probably had used just the right
amount of speed and timing when he knocked her down from behind with the
pickup. Besides, if he had failed to calculate the velocity of the impact and had
failed to stop in time, she would already be dead and he should then have just gotten
back into the motor vehicle that is not like a car, van, tractor, space-ship, or bunny,
and sped off toward home or somewhere safe where he could develop an alibi. If she
were dead she sure wouldn't be asking stupid questions and saying prayers or
anything else, though, he thought. 'I mean, Right? Negropolis, man. Negropolis.'
He bent down and trailed his right hand along her back from the base of her
neck, feeling with his fingertips on both sides of her spine, down to her buttocks. He
caressed her there, his hand floating across the skin. It aroused him. Arousal was
not part of the plan. Not yet. He turned away.
She heard him walk away. To where, she could not tell. Back to the vehicle?
The vehicle. She had forgot it was even there. What did he need to get from the
vehicle he hadn't already thought of to help her? Or was he going to lift her up off
the ground and carry her to the truck after starting it first? Either way, she felt better.
When he had touched her, it had been a gentle touch. Like he cares.
Chapter Five Breach OF Trust
Dry and packed mud clots with rough edges mingle with milo stalks covering
the ground below her mostly naked, mostly pained, body. An image fit for a picture,
a painting, or any artistic medium of permanent remembrance and one as if it is
created by an artist choosing to do a piece in the vain of Otto Dix, but using a
human as the focal point of the artwork instead of random objects.
Art is not the motivation of the young man responsible for the state,
condition, and situation Brittany finds herself in, however.
His creative energies were being spent to provide him with a tangible
something else he wanted that was as far removed from the motivations of making
art in most people as the rabbit is from being the first logical consideration when
trying to hitch up a team to pull a hay wagon three thousand miles from the New
World to the West. Plus, what the young man intended, he would not want to share
in the way most artists seek to share what they have done with their artistic
intentions wrought into completion.
Though young, Brittany had begun to mature toward womanhood. She had
done so with natural-born grace.
'Perfect women are made in surprising locations throughout the world,' the
man thinks. 'Here is proof.'
And 'Poof!' went Puff, the mundane amoeba. This was right before the point
in time and space where it was when it had turned into a star-shaped creature, which
an amoeba will do when startled, I'm to believe according to all modern science
studies done on the topic.
He took in the sight of her from where he was standing, near the truck. His
position there gave him a new perspective on what exactly lay on the ground in the
field. Some of the milo stalks had not been knocked down all the way. Some stood
at angles like forward- or backward- or sideways-leaning miniature fence posts.
Some stood almost straight up. She was hard to make out in the light available. The
moon was up as were many clouds, and the light of the day had already been near
the late part of dusk when they had stopped here, pulling off to the side of the road.
She was fluid among the brambles. His imagination soared with the thought of how
pale her skin is, how fine must be the dimensions of her bones. He thought of her
youth, how vibrant she will be in the aftermath. Her struggle captivated him as well.
The lack of ability in her to make a move against him was exactly the thing he was
looking for in this situation, according to his plan. Vivid thoughts greeted him. He
felt full of vitality, of a pure form of the essence thereof. Adjectives, nouns, verbs.
She was the subject, then she was a verb, then she was the adjective for all the nouns
and then the adverb. 'Can we meet in the middle or switch sides?' he thought to
himself. He was open. His thoughts were with motion. 'Everything works both
ways,' he thought, 'Nothing is static. The exceptions are the rules, and all that
matters are the rules. Stop arguing. Let it ride. Please, share a piece of pie with
those in need. Stop the critique.' To him, everything he thought was a perfect
thought bringing the desire to push forward into the dark night of his well-thoughtout and mightily-reasoned plan. This is not to say, of course, there was actual reason
in the plans he had made pertaining to Brittany and her position now, no, but that he
had spent much brain-power trying to rationalize all this, in fact, had been deep into
philosophical reasoning. It was all in the doldrums, really. All but one key
ingredient, but it was molested by the rest, and was sitting there all retarded and shit,
being junk.
The milo had been transformed with the presence of the girl and what had
been done. Headless, they were only stalk. This was before Brittany. Now they
were all giant succubae eating sperms of the air particles like my spouse sucks down
semen from various newcomers, all those who have testicles and penis and are older
than 18 1/2 years old and come within two feet of her, actually. (Makes attending
sporting events kinda troubling to me.) The tiny serrations of the triangular
geometrically-designed cutting parts of the combine harvester had done work to
fashion the milo into stalks with sharp ends like rough stakes during the process of
harvesting. The farmer responsible for the crop that had stood in the field where
Brittany now lay had come to harvest only two days after a good rain. The crop had
to be in, and damn all the damage to topsoil and deeper soil by running the many
many many multi-thousands-of-tons machines through the field necessary to achieve
the harvesting of the plants on time. Pliable Earth had succumbed. The weight of
the combine was well-balanced on the massive, almost grandiose tires supporting it
and helped the farmer glide his machine across the field, but the tires had left tracks
deep and wide nonetheless. So pronounced had the impressions of the tires into the
ground of the milo field been, they remained evident even after the farmer had
chiseled once in preparation of putting in next year's wheat crop. Had the Earth
been dry and hard at the time of harvest, no tire tracks would be visible following a
chisel operation. Another pass will be made with the field cultivator which is
different from the chisel in all ways except materials of manufacture and general
purpose. While a chisel will break deep into the Earth pulling down some stalk and
opening to a deep part of the soil, a cultivator will not go as deep. The shanks of a
chisel are straight, almost like knives in that they sink deep into the Earth, but wider
than a blade. The shanks of a cultivator are arrow-shaped and thin, and instead of
penetrating straight down, their tips flow a little horizontal with the ground beneath
the first layer, meaning only to cut roots, lay down the stalks that remain up, and
break the larger dirt clods into smaller ones. The field cultivator also excels at
knocking down weeds. The cultivator creates a more plush layer of fine topsoil than
does the chisel or plow. This allows the Earth to receive the seeds of the next crop
with less wear on parts of the drill or planter being used by the farmer, yes, but the
primary purpose is to create uniformity of seed depth. Good rain, healthy rain, lifegiving rain, as it is sometimes called by those who grow food for a living or as an
answer to daily food requirements at home, will come and help to push some of the
soil on either side of the massive ruts in the field back into place. So very much time,
talent, and money otherwise are spent in creating the best farm tires in the world.
These tires have technologies meant to distribute weight better across a smaller
surface and allow less impaction of the soils and erosion of the rubber of the tires
simultaneously. Rubber is used in making tires to the extent that if you were to
count all the rubber being produced from harvesting of the substance it is made up
of you would count to zero, as it is actually rubber when it comes out of the trees,
anus. I lied. Nope. You did. Nope. We're on the same page, then. Of course, it's
a fucking book, not a mental-rape device meant to enamor your logic with the desire
to be done disservice to all the fucking time you goddamn anus.
Milo stalks are tools that promote a healthy growing medium, desolate
though they may be. That's super nice. Why don't they say 'Hesananus on high,' in
churches with scripted language? That would be wise, I think. Not the way it is
now, but the way I suggested instead, as in opposition to the way it is now. Their
purpose in natural decay is to replenish some nutrients to the soil. Had the farmer
been able to buy a large number of cattle, however, he could opt to place cows and
calves or steers on the field. Cattle can subsist on stalks for quite some time.
Sometimes a rancher will put nutrient supplements in containers and leave those
containers in the field so the cattle can grow extra fat beyond what the milo stalks
would make them do. Having cattle on one of your fields is good because of the
manure the cattle leave behind while they graze. This year, the farmer of this field
has not purchased any cattle. The market wasn't a buyer's market. The cattle prices
were too high taking into consideration the risk of the market and all the bills yet to
be paid before the end of the current quarter. Later, more money will be spent in
order to create more wealth. With all the time I've spent on this novel, I could have
had a job, bought 30 head of steers, and fed them a year, fattening them up, and sold
them for a profit of about $0.30/lb. Ya dip-weed.
Jesusfuckin'christonacrossthemarshestogetlaidforachangeinsteadofgettingfuckedmet
aphoricallyatnochargetohisagreessors.
A field where crops once stood with a kind of power upon the soil in turn has
lent power to the imagination of those who had seen it just before the harvest,
watched it grow, or were present in the harvest. Now all in the field was decay.
Most of the stalks lay twisted, bent, and half-buried among dried mud clots. The few
standing stalks untouched by the chisel stand in the same way a few defiant soldiers
of a vanquished army might stand at the ready for the next charge forward or maybe
have been sent to defend a position of high priority and are unwilling to go down
until fate forces them into submission through shrapnel or bullet, and never going
down until one of those two things happen. If it never happens, they might stand
forever. Or they might engage in butt-sex. Who knows? Not me! Just like soldiers
in the first two world wars, it was only luck the chisel burrowed beneath and raised
the Earth surrounding these few proud stalks, yet missed bringing them down, not
quite yanking their spread and tentacle-like roots.
Julie Leahn Us & Hairy Someone, perhaps a Hairy based in the United
Kingdom. Two proper nouns, a couple of adverbs ending in 'ly', and a couch.
The plans the young man has made involving this field could not be different
from the plans of the farmer of the same field. Though it is, the field and the
preparations for fall planting have created a fitting scenery for the young man. A
patchwork of dead plants, hard soil, a land filled with anticipation fit for such a thing
as is about to transpire. A foundation almost as fitting to host the young man and
his plans, and the now and future pains of the young girl, as though the young man
had created this part of the world himself. The young man has done some research
and has chosen the field as the setting for his initial actions because once the farmer
tends the field again, no evidence will remain of what has or is going to happen here.
Trackers, whether sophisticated or otherwise learned, will have a hard time
discerning any information from the tough and hardy, already tilled, cropland. With
a little more rain, the land will offer those who seek, nothing. He has watched many
episodes of 'Law & Order Special Victims Unit' which, for some reason, contains the
actor Ice-T, a fact which, for some reason, has not encouraged the majority of our
American populace into riots as to the horrendous hypocrisy of hiring a former pimp
to be an actor as a detective of sex crimes.
The rains fallen since harvest had been meager and did little to dull edges of
the milo stalks or smooth clods of dirt among them. The clods of dirt are bigger
than usual because of the fact work had been done in the fields while the ground was
still swelled with moisture. But, field work is done when the time for it comes. The
rare thing is when the conditions of the world match with even the best-laid plans.
The world too often is moving in spite of them. The farmer has to adapt to mother
nature, and she does not have to adapt to him except if the truth is mother nature
relies on human life as much as we rely on her non-human elements both near our
homes and abroad, to survive.
To Brittany, time was dragging on. On and on time dragged. This means
anyone who was taking off their clothes was most likely safe from time dragging on
and on. Well, on is one thing, and off is another, you see. Seems to me like the only
way to him, for him to accept the fact he had just lost his little boy, was to give in to
cuckoldry and demonic resurrection.
The pain Brittany was feeling now was now a dull throb and a dull ache both,
simultaneously now. Now these two physical sensations combined in an instant
happening at the same time, now they feel like a weight upon her back. She feels
like her body is glued to the Earth now. When the weight is lifted, at a time other
than now, should she then be able to get up and deal with the pain, she will
remember this feeling. How it is changing now. Not because she wants to, but
because it is something far removed from any experience she has had before and
because right now her mind is focused very much on how much she regrets at this
current moment the taking for granted of living everyday without having been aware
of what it means to live and not feel the way she does right this second. It seems to
her as though the environment is her life, and she has not had an idea as profound as
this at any time before. She thought this, felt, and wondered.
'Death may come before anything else,' she realized, thinking of how bad she
felt, 'Death may come quick.' These thoughts brought a fresh bout of sorrow. The
sorrow is accompanied by a strange, latent, weakness. The weakness has the
property of being something she has always known, always feared, but always been
sure of herself as being too strong to need place any relevant attentions on the like.
She knows too, nobody will hear if she cries out. No one but the boy. The world is
nothing but a stranger's field, a boy both tormented and tormentor, and her own self,
now seeming to be tormented. Will she become hard and cold like the boy has been
at some point because of this? She does not know enough about it to be able to say
in a very sure way that the answer is a definite 'no.' But, her own self is full of many
things she had never thought real in the world before this evening. Why did not this
young man with her express concern for her well-being, is a question that has been
repeating itself in her head, and she doesn't think she will ever know the answer. He
has not said much in the time since she was knocked down. She thinks it must have
happened at least thirty minutes ago. Whether it has been thirty minutes or if time is
standing still, waiting for her to try again to get up on her own power to prove she is
worthy of being one who is smart enough to tell time, she does not know. She does
not really care about it. She is worried beyond reason about keeping herself from
getting more injuries, and is very worried about the pain that shoots from her spine
up into the base of her head every time she tries to look a little to the right.
'Do the hustle!' The angels gathered to clamor for sight of the sins wrought
soon against Brittany yelled in chorus. No one heard them though, except me. I am
God and they are Angels, and we don't exist.
The contrast between the demeanor he had shown throughout the afternoon
and early evening, with his later command that she 'shut up' while she lay waiting on
the Earth for him to come to her in hurried steps with the intention of helping her get
up, was something else she kept thinking about. It was startling, yes, and terrible,
and also baffled her to a certain extent, knocking her attempts to be angry away at
first, then pushing her to ask herself more questions and sort of forget God, too, off
and on, and for the recent last while. One thing she wondered, was if he had, in fact,
hit her on purpose. 'This cannot be happening.' Facts proved it sure as hell was,
though Brittany has a different choice of words for saying the same thing in such a
way. 'I must not deny what has happened,' she tried telling herself. 'Get a grip.'
She tried time and again. Now she was hearing the thoughts shared with her from
her Father. 'Unable to cope, to adapt, is a slippery slope toward failure. Only when
one can acknowledge may one conquer.' Her Father always taught 'strength
through acceptance of transformations into controls, which, if given to God at the
moment forged, will allow a person to secure a future full of profit.' She never
understood some of the things her Father would say. She smiled and nodded a lot as
he spoke to her, and said, "Yes, Father." Too late. 'Profit means nothing when
broken and isolated from help,' she thought.
The self-actualized dialogue Brittany engaged in... It was like a conversation
between herself and her Father. This helped make her feel less aware of the physical
side of things, and was welcome in it's differentiations or ability to be different from
those things. Brittany did not know whether or no it was to last long, and had she
seen coming what was coming, she would have got up and ran and ran and ran. She
did not, though, not knowing when it would all come to a end. Not knowing made
her want to go poopy and be 'fwee-and-a-half years ode.' (Maybe you won't notice
how retarded I know you are if I let you think when I was 3 1/2 years old I said 'fwee'
instead of 'three,' you know, like your dumbass assuredly did.
The young man had grabbed some items from the toolbox in the bed of the
truck. He had something to do first, then was going to get situated in a more
desirable place near his victim.
Brittany heard the slamming shut of the lid of the large toolbox she could
remember stretching across the length of the width of the bed of the pickup truck.
She had not heard it open, and she could not think of anything he might keep on
hand that could help her now. 'Maybe a blanket,' she thought. She stayed still and
quiet and kept with the idea she should be so.
It was a long time before the person responsible for not helping her now in
her time of need came back, Brittany thought, when at last he did. Truth be told, it
had not been long at all. Only a few minutes.
Chapter Six Bearing Down
He had carried some materials to a wooded place a little way across the field,
away from where Brittany was laying down. And now, he had now come back now.
Saying nothing, ignoring her painful breathing and the vibrations of her body,
kneeling by the girl he moved his head, tilting it a little toward his right shoulder, to
aim, them planted his right hand into the mound he was aiming for in the space
below her buttocks.
She shuddered, jolted, gasped a shriek, and then began sobbing. Face down,
broken, she could do nothing to stop him. Then, she attempted to move but could
not. She wanted to pull her legs shut and curl up, but could not. The pain is great
and it is powerful. Then, instinct kicked in and helped her make new choices. She
did not cry out again. There were many problems associated with the movements of
breathing and gathering breath for speech that were very real as pain as a result of
being pummeled to the ground. Her weight, delicate as it was, was now a burden.
The weight she had felt on top of her body, surging and bringing weakness, bringing
more pain. Her neck was sprained, but she did not know it. She has broken ribs,
but does not know it. The muscles of her back are tensed and pulled taught like the
ropes or cables of a ship on violent waters, and her spine is locked in a very straight
posture without its natural curves. She imagined the muscles of her back as being
pulled about between horses in a tug of war. It wasn't going to end for her until
much later.
Her body disobeyed pride, honor, purity as her vagina opened up and let in
what he was shoving inside her. There was new pain. She had no clue what it was
he was putting inside of her pussy, a pussy which had not once, as far as she could
remember, ever had so much as a fingertip inside it. Instincts told her to arch her
back a little, but pain kept her frozen still. The body went into a mode of selfdefense, and she thought she was imagining things as it seemed her vagina was
opening to take whatever was being forced inside, as it forced its way in against her
insides and created sensations she had never known possible of the human body.
She was not in control of her actions anymore. Hurt was not so meaningful a word
before this. It used to a be a simple word. It was a word children learned about from
good people, too. Church mentors, parents that believed in spankings, teachers
talking to pupils in elementary schools about feelings. It was a word used carelessly
on the playground when talking about the fate of others, before this day. After now,
she would not be so casual about using it.
Later, I would laugh when I realized the following, 'Had she been a whore of
the use of a vibrator from the hours after school until the hours before school each
day after each day of school, she would have been orgasm-ing instead of being raped
and pummeled. This is hilarious too, because of her Christianity.
Trying for air was even more difficult now than it had been before, and her
breathing was strange to both parties available for listening/seeing/sensing. It was
quick and then gone, quick and then gone again. Pains were everywhere. For all she
knew, this demon would make her hurt until she reached death. Each breath was
something new. A new malevolence. A raping intruder the young man was now. It
was like he was stabbing her all over trying to impale or divide her body, but there
was too, a defined reality about the thing coming into her virginity.
To him it was a moment both holy and religious.
'Fuck the body,' he thought, 'Use it up entire.'
She felt daggers pulsing in and out of her skin from the nape of her neck to
the core between her hips and back up across her ribs. Fire and pain were bringing
strange colors to her eyes, colors she knew couldn't exist anywhere in the real world.
She was seeing the inside of her own head and knew she was going to die and then
she finally made a sound. A loud sputter.
Her body seemed to have no way to fight him and let him in deeper. She
burned there, between the legs. It felt like there was no way what he was doing
could go on and then her body kept on letting him in deeper and deeper. Each time
he progressed into her further it was like something had broken loose that should
always be firm. Any presence of mind she had held since being hit by the truck she
now let go of. She became wraith, disconnected. Her mind took over from a logical
perspective.
At least she was surviving Contra-style blended with Ms. Pac-Man as played
by a two-year-old boy for the second time with an uncle smoking weed in a Sherlock
Holmes pipe whilst watching the video game commence and listening to Beethoven
on a set of $300.00 headphones that in our modern age would cost $4,500.00/hour to
use style, this initial onslaught against her vaginal canal! Oh, great and yummy
bringer of opportunity for vagina, how can you let this go?! Her thoughts began
turning; first one way, then the other, a grasp of the truth, then confusion. It wound
and came back around again. In no way was what he was doing anything along the
lines of what someone would do if they wanted to help. She did not know why this
was happening and not knowing made reality more difficult to mold and shape
thoughts from. The very idea of somehow finding a way to be in control and take
over the situation was a pipe dream. When would the truth be revealed, leading her
to know the hidden meaning of good in the events unfolding so she would be able to
gain strength as a Christian woman? Not at any time in life, throughout the duration
thereof, would Brittany be able to love others or things in general terms at all, like
she had built a habit up of being able to do at will before this day, or be able to love
as would have been possible had what was coming upon her now never taken hold.
This difference in her became a part of her very fast. It forged her to become other
than the Godly person she had chosen to be a long time ago for the first time in her
life, a new Brittany.
She is so sorry right away about the fact her life is over as she once knew it.
She does not acknowledge pain in the usual way anymore. Only when he moves and
makes her vagina swell open further or when her body moves in sudden jerking
motions does she notice the pain. Because when those things happen, the pains are
magnified.
He is now ready to take her to the place he has long since almost had all the
way prepared.
"Good," he says, "Yeah. I think I got this."
The thumb of his right hand plunges into her, it is not very warm at all, the
nail of the thumb makes way through the skin there, right inside the rim of her
gaping shut asshole.
Brittany lets out a startled gasp. It is not pain she feels anymore. It is
something else and she can only think of the boy and the truck and the dirt and her
body.
'Church was never like this,' he thinks.
'Church was never like this,' she thinks.
'Better not to think,' he decides.
Chapter Seven concentration
He had forced himself many hours to practice what-ifs over a period lasting
several months. For example, 'What if bugs die fast because karma is real and they
are paying the price for bugging people all the time?' Thus, he has developed
internal dialogue in a unique way. The dialogue is made up of different voices. It
was a thing he made come to be on purpose, so he would have something to use to
overcome mental barriers when in the act. He had known enough of himself to
know he would not know if he could follow through with some of his ideas until the
moment was real. Improvisation was not his strong suit when operating without
insanity, never had been in any medium, and so he had run countless imaginary
scenarios, believing in his learning from them, and training his brain and body
according to what he was learning. Once instincts were recognized that were not
part of the plan, he trained mind and body to ignore those instincts. He did the
converse with instincts that seemed helpful. From nothing at first, he began to
construct devices of mind over matter. Scientists everywhere never knew him, but
that doesn't stop them now from studying the case of him over and over forever and
ever with meager and yet not-entirely-unsubstantial monies and resources of THE
GODDAMN FEDERAL GOVERNMENT, GODDAMNIT!
His imagination was strong in the efforts, and well-suited to the task of
training the mind and body to overcome urges and instinct. If she bleeds, I will not
become sick. He asked himself questions and found the answers to those questions.
In the process he discovered many strengths and many weaknesses. He designed
ideas to avoid the pitfalls of either too much or too little of almost everything.
Except for lattes. He really likes lattes. Dinosaurs used to bunch together during
hurricanes, it is now believed by you because you read it and don't know if I'm being
serious or not. Going back to the story soon... without poop... .
Now the act was real. But, he was practiced. He knew what to do. 'Better to
follow through with this like an android. I am superman. I am willful and powerful
and not to be denied. Where is my gold? With ability to command authority of
myself like this, an ability I knew I had in me all along, I should have an army, a
chalice of the blood of vanquished foes, a cache of wealth made up of jewels, gold,
and stock certificates and records of my deceased enemies. It would be easy to
command an army. I should have more enemies, then I will get an army to serve my
purposes. I am a goat. I am creative destruction of things pitied that deserve no pity
any more because I have found the ability to change them. By the time I am finished
here, there will be no one to deny me anything on this shit-fucked planet. I love the
creatures that surround me with their gaping holes. All creatures with holes I can
put my dick in. Creatures that talk and those that do not. I am what I am and what I
am today I will always be forever. A great and powerful demoniac spirit lusting for
passionate ruin of the holy and purity before me.'
His thoughts rambled on, but he was not trying for words. It was his ego at
work. He had developed his ego himself to help shut out certain distasteful things
about the reality taking place. Madness consuming, devolving in a rapid
accelerating process of reverse-evolution from the trauma inflicted upon the self and
the girl both. From time to time a voice of his subconscious mind rose up to speak
against his internal trance-dialogue and the two voices melded. The mixed
messages threatened him, tiring him out. Will someone get a chance one day to try
and unwind the inner workings of his mind? Maybe. If it were up to him, a book
written under his orders would become a model to be used by others like him with
similar ideas, for them to follow in his footsteps for ages to come.
In his mind there is no room left for reality as it was once viewed by him when
he was younger and less dangerous. There is an absence of reason going on in the
spaces inside his skull. Parts of the brain within gave up the ghost long ago. Not
everyone tries to forget instincts on purpose. It does happen in nature as a natural
response to dire situations involving a need to survive, but is not a healthy thing to
allow to persist.
Was it a lot like watching Evil Dead when you were only 5 by yourself in the
basement of the pedophilic rapist's home during a tornado that killed everyone you
ever saw or clamored against in physical libations except the pedophile? No. But
what if you watched it a billion times? Well, then you would die watching it, I
suppose.
Chapter Eight A Little Break
Totally Overboard On Likes. Will he ever say today, 'I never
meant to hurt you.' No.
The day was picturesque today.
There was greatness taking place on the
open range. Multitudinous variety of wildlife bustling, carrying lives toward the
autumn. Self-sufficient are the critters of the land. Appropriate to prepare
throughout summer for coming change. Rustling leaves transform bare roads. Cool
breezes from northern mountains signal as a beacon millennia old. Prepare!
Mansen's time to give thanks now. A day of productive work has been done.
Driving into the yard, his truck stirs up dust. Weeds bend to the rumble and blow.
Custom straight-flow exhaust pipes emanate howls a person with thoughts a little
deeper than usual, or a child with healthy mind, would say was ancestral. Noise
reverberates off the walls of the barns and his home. Mansen quickens at the sound.
'It is a cool sound,' he thinks, listening to it.
Varied tree species planted by pioneers or settlers surround the property. One
lone Elm keeps center post vigil. Centered in the plot of grass making up the front
yard. Shade for the porch.
The drives opens into a large view of the property from the direction of South.
It is a well kept property. Hand planted shade trees border to the East. A relative of
the previous owner grew them from seeds in the early 1900s. Spaced twenty feet
apart, there are thirty-four such trees along the drive. They are Silver Maple, over
forty years old, over fifty feet tall, and beautiful in the waning moments of summer.
They rustle and whisper secrets to those willing to hear.
Long days over many years were spent cultivating this extensive natural
border. Many hands and feet have roamed beneath the canopies of foliage. Deer
love the bark of the trees. Deer remove some of the bark. A willingness to keep
repairing the damages from the deer, keeps the Silver Maple Leaf trees alive and well
through unending trials.
The driveway extends into a horseshoe shape circling a small hill covered in
grass. Mansen brings the Ford to rest in the middle of the driveway on the east side
of the hill.
Pulling his cell phone from his shirt pocket, he checks for any missed calls.
There are no calls, and this being so, he places the cell phone on the middle of the
bench seat in the cab of the pickup.
He opens the door. A welcome breeze confronts him. He gorges himself in
its embrace. It had been warm in the pickup with the windows up.
The truck is old. Like telling jokes about a fart. The door is littered with rust
pits. The metallic blue paint is dull. The rust has not formed gaping holes just yet,
but many little specks of rust litter the fuck out of the goddamn truck. The truck has
many original parts left on it. They may prove to be lifetime capable. For thirty
years and throughout ownership by many different people for a truck the age of the
truck Mansen drives, it has held up well. Through the windshield pocked with age,
blemish, and bug juices, Mansen sees a bird of prey. It is a great bird. It hovers
above a filed in the nearby beyond his home. The bird scans for the next careless
meal. It circles down and up, forming loops, and then comes steady into a hover
again. The ritual of the kill for a meal by a bird like this is a dance Native Americans
remember to this day. The great bird. The bird has Mansen mesmerized.
Chapter Nine A Little More Break
Returning to action. A boot with a foot inside it, goes up and sends a plume
of thick dust into the air. Then, Mansen turns back. Inside the cab, one well-worn,
brown, leather boot still rests on the floorboard. The other boot, the one that had
created the plume of dust a second ago, comes off the ground and back through the
air again. The boot stays in the air as he leans all the way over to the right and uses
his right hand to open the glove box of the Ford. He finds there, on top of an
owner's manual, a pile of tax receipts containing at least fifty pieces of paper listing
store names and product prices and payment options used and more, plus an
envelop containing vehicle registration and insurance information, what he is
looking for. The poor boot is not done being bossed around. No care or
consideration for feelings thereof from the owner thereof.
'I should organize the glove box,' he thinks. Thinking about the word box
makes him think of pussy. 'It is a dirty box,' he thinks, 'I should be more careful
with my property.' Now he is thinking about the best pussy. The dust particles of
the glove box are very near his nose and some come into his nose making him
cough. He realizes it would be a good idea to keep his truck clean. Then, his
imagination not quite amused with itself and looking always for an avenue of release,
overworking his brain, he thinks, 'The dust in this truck probably contains various
chemicals. Pesticides, herbicides, stuff from oil and fuel. I might get around to
cleaning this thing up if I ever have nothing better to do. It will be a good thing.'
He has got in his hand now, his pipe and his pouch. He grasps the items
firm, then slams the glove box shut. He sits up, raps on the dashboard with the
knuckles of his free hand, the right hand. In a physical display of vitality perhaps, or
of style, he hops out of the truck. One might say he does it with glee. His boots sail
over the running board along the bottom of the side of the pickup, just as he intends,
and he lands on the ground a half a foot away from the cab of the pickup with a twoboot stomp. He looks around and at the same time has the funny thought that it is
good he is not a midget. This thought makes him laugh at the idea of a midget and
at the idea of a midget driving such a vehicle. "Midget," he says, still laughing.
'The custom suspension on the truck as it is,' he thinks, 'the floorboard inside the
cab must be around four feet above the ground.' "Midget," he says, "a fucking
midget." He laughs some more, thinking many thoughts about midgets and the
pickup.
The engine block of the truck is making a ticking sound as heat dissipates
from its metal surfaces.
Or, 'The God engine Power-wasting-device block Square of Because the
Smaller Deity truck Vehicle-'o-molestingness-against-Earth is Becomes making
Creationist a Single ticking Weird-bugging sound Noise as Because heat Warmness
dissipates Goes Away Much from Outwards its Spell-much metal Hardness surfaces
Men, plural.
A sparrow takes leave from a perch in a nest in one of the many barns, which
Mansen does not see, and shoots from the open barn door. There is more than one
such building on the property. Duh, (from before.)
A cloud of dust stirs. It is lifted up on a gentle breeze and to Mansen. The
dust tickles his nose and Mansen whoops a sneeze. Then, he pulls a handkerchief
from his left rear jeans pocket, snaps it open, and wipes sneeze moisture from his
upper lip.
The fact he carries a handkerchief is itself the kind of thing a story could be
told about. He remembers his father every time he has a use for it.
It was almost as hard for him to get into the habit of remembering to carry a
hanky as it was going to Catholic Masses with his father's second wife for four long
fucked-up years. Church was something he had made an issue of contention against
his step-mother with. Learning to carry a hanky was not contentious to Mansen, but
something his father brought up a lot. Mansen would ask to borrow the older man's
hanky at times they were working together, as he had developed allergies. His father
would always, always, always use the opportunity to say, "Why don't you have a
hanky with you?" He hated his father's persistence in the matter, and the hate was
very similar to his feelings whenever his step-mother remembered about going to the
Church on a Saturday night or Sunday morning and insisted he come along. She was
often backed up in doing so by his father. In CCD class, city kids would give him
shit for having a hanky, if he had one and pulled it out for any reason. He would give
them shit in turn, but for having faith in Jesus, Mary, and going to Church willingly.
He remembers his father now and he also remembers having to go to Church
a lot. 'Going to Church sucked ass,' he thinks. Why, according to you folks, he must
be the only person to ever think such.
He had tried many things to make going to church easier. He would sneak
his Sony Discman in to help the hour go by faster. To do it, he would be wearing a
hooded sweatshirt, even in the summer months, to conceal earbud headphones. The
music he listened to, he knew some would consider Satanic, Atheist, and it sacrilege
to have in Church with him. Some of it was psychedelic themed. White Zombie was
a band he listened to in those days, also Danzig and Slayer. Mansen got delight in
sharing his music with females in class who were so prim and proper by comparison
to himself. "Let me taint your innocence," he had been heard to say to a girl in class
on one occasion. The teacher discovered the Discman, told Mansen's step-mother
about it, and she in turn then confiscated a Slayer CD and the Discman. On the way
home, Mansen berated her with verbal abuse and threatened her life. Once home, he
told his father to stand up to the woman. He told her to chose between his son or his
new step-wife, and threatened to leave, never to return until the bitch was dead. His
father ended up giving Mansen back his Slayer CD and within the year had gotten
another divorce. Mansen became very happy with the stepmother gone. She had
been a 'royal bitch,' in his words.
Not having to go to Church anymore was welcome. Each hour in the Church,
it seemed to him back then, had been so filled with boredom that it felt as though the
hours were weeks.
He did not like being bored then, or in earlier days of youth. Alone, he got
along fine. It was when in the company of others he often felt bored. Having to go
places to be around 'boring people,' as he thought of most people his father
consorted with, doing it against his will, and being forced to do things he referred to
as 'stupid shit,' pissed him off.
He imagined all this about the hanky and the Church and the people related
to those two things in a second.
Today he was in a good mood, and these thoughts did nothing to allay it. He
found it easy to be in a good mood these days. Being one's own boss, own master,
being without the worry of having to deal with others. He was happy to find time
now to do something else to improve his odds of having a good time and prolong the
good mood. 'Time to get high,' he thought.
He looked into the over-sized rear-view mirror adjoined to the side of the
pickup, checking his face for dirt or grime. Seeing nothing but a clean cut of his
mustache whiskers and beard, how his hair is slicked back off his forehead, he
winked at his reflection. 'Handsome person,' he thought.
He left the mirror behind and went to open the tailgate of the pickup. The
sound the tailgate made was loud, tearing into nature with the sound of old metal.
He swung his body up and perched on the lowered gate. His weight landed on the
truck and caused another lurching sound to break into the not-quite-still sounds of
nature all around.
Mansen slapped a bare palm of hand on the bed of the truck and talked. "Yaall-right-there rustinator of rusticationisms? We got a long way to go before I'm
through with you, you gorgeous beast of contamination, fidelity, wonder, and
amusement. Don't know what I'd do without ya. Fuck a midget, I guess. Settle
down, now."
Mansen has adopted a habit of communication with various material
possessions of the farm since acquiring the property. Verbal communication, and
otherwise. No one else is around. It bothers no one. It passes the time. Sometimes
it helps him come up with good ideas. Sometimes it helps him come up with useless
ideas. He's aware of it.
'Yeah man, it's a great fucking day,' Mansen thought, 'it sure fucking is.
Surprising how great it feels... ah yeah, man... being able to sit 'ere and do this shit
today... Yes! ... and then to dangle my legs off the end of the truck bed... Yes, yes,
holy yessireebob.' He wondered if his feet being off the ground had something to do
with the goodness of the feeling. 'It's like the Earth is pulling the tension right out
of my legs with the force of gravity or something,' he thought, 'pulling aches and
pains and the tiredness of having done a hard days' work and the wear and tear of
the body right out of the bottom of my boots. I bet if I climbed up onto the barn and
dangled my legs off the roof of it the gravity would pull even more crap out of me. It
would be right cleansing, it would. I don't have the guts to climb up the grain silo,
though. You can see for miles and miles from atop the silo.' In a pause of thought,
he let his eyes wander a bit, watching the trees sway in the breeze mostly, but not
really consciously recording any sights, sounds, thoughts. 'No need to risk my life.'
'Ah,' he thought, 'If something feels good, it must be good. Won't ever find
me buying into any sacrifice philosophy. No, sir. Feeling great is the real thing.
Feeling great is what it's all about. Got nothing to do with being weak or being
strong, neither. If you work hard enough, you deserve to play and relax hard too.'
A smile broadened his face and he pulled a pinch of the stuff inside the pouch
out and took a look at it, holding pouch and pipe in his left hand. It was a sweetsmelling green and sticky material. Crystals protruded. The extremities wore the
crystals like some kind of spiky armor.
"Your adequate and appropriate coverings will neither save you from my love,
nor keep you from my purpose, me lady," Mansen said to the plant matter in his
right hand that he now held near his face. "I will see you committed to many things
soon, but have something to tell you. Will you bring to me a fair maiden as perfect in
a human way as you are in your current state, but who has the option of being less
vulnerable, and can escape being swept away by my intentions if my intentions are
not akin what I intend upon you now? I require her to share some of your qualities,
you see. Colors of eyes and hair should match you, and color of skin, too. There
should be similar form as far as proportions is concerned, and overall weight. As for
intelligence, be that not a matter here, but no doubt it takes to wisdom to have come
along through so many ancestors as thee doth have, my pretty, precious, perfect,
princess of the nighttime growing habit, and divine influencer of mind. Yes, so it is,
I require the woman that will come to share similarities with your intelligence. It is
decided. Now, what say you?"
Mansen watched the material, so serpentine yet innocent of the blatantly
sinister it is, with a gaze of his full attention. Oh yes, his concentration was up, yes,
and for sure this meant business. Like, all the time anyway it always meant business,
this business at hand, and anyway there was a way here for him to learn about how
he likes to operate in general, when working with material, when thinking with his
heart, nose, and other parts of his mind in unison like a choir and symphony with a
million rehearsals on one tune.
A bird spoke up, seeming to be the response he was looking for.
"Ah yes," he said, "so it is. I shall place you inside this pipe," he said.
He placed the pouch on the tailgate, then lifted the pipe in one hand and
pretended to show the pipe to the tiny piece of plant in his other. "Do you see?", he
said, "You go in here," he pointed to the opening in the pipe meant for placement of
tobacco or other smoke, "and then I will exert the will of God upon thee. Deal?"
'Okay,' a voice inside Mansen's head said.
"Good," Mansen said aloud, "We are in agreement. Yee-haw."
His new lighter was true in the very light breeze. He had ignition. The stiff,
well-cured product sent a steady stream of substance through the stem of his glass
pipe and deep into his mouth. It was deceptive in many ways, being so light, yet
having such power to fill his lungs at high speed after flying down his throat. For
one second he let the pipe out of his mouth and allowed some smoke to simmer in
his mouth and throat, culling the taste and allowing the practice he was participating
in to coerce upon him its nature and will. Just as smoke started to escape from his
mouth he drew in a large wallop of air that sent the entire concoction that had come
from the pipe two seconds ago deep into his lungs. His lungs expanded, and he
could feel them. He drew a little more air in through his nose. He held his breath,
counted inside his head to two, and pounded his free hand upon his chest Tarzan
style. He was holding lighter and pipe both with one hand and the lighter was being
used to cover the melting and smoldering material in the pipe to keep any smoke
from escaping into the air, which would be a waste. He then let his breath out in a
conscious and controlled manner, intent on his idea that he must clear his lungs out
as much as possible. He had been smoking the now-legal substance like this for a
long time, though not a lot at any given time. He felt that his smoking technique
would prevent cancer or damage to the delicate tissues lungs are known to be made
of. Thinking so, he said to himself, "I hope."
Even more than it had been moments ago, Mansen realized now, and thought
to himself, 'It's a good fucking day.'
Mansen noted the driveway could use 'a' grading. Too many washboard ruts.
With the new mini-tractor and a blade attached it would be a cinch. He thought of
the tractor. It makes a cool sound, a 'Pop!... Pop!... Pop! Pop!,' he thought. He
thought about the grading of the driveway, the bright grading blade and sand and
gravel piling against it, shining it up. He enjoyed the contemplation of his new
property. He thought of the barn, having just turned around to get a view of the rest
of the driveway, looking for further evidence of it needing to be graded. The barn
needed some nails, some paint, and goshdarnit, some animals, too. Maybe even a ho
down, or a hoe-down. 'What a cool fucking property,' he thought. Then, he saw the
tree off to the left of the barn that was dying and became sad for it. 'Poor tree,' he
thought, 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't know you had the bagworms until it was
too late.' Then, he changed his mind and thought, 'Wasn't my fault you stupid
fucking tree. Goddamnit. Don't die, tree. You depress me.' Mansen then watched
as a rabbit appeared from behind the corner of the barn near the tree. 'Hey!', he
thought, 'A wittle tiny-winey bunsidy-fluffer-do. What are you doing wittle tinywiney bunsidy-fluffer-do?' The bunny leapt through the grasses and trotted off into
the distance behind the tree in the direction of the silo and disappeared. Then
Mansen thought, 'Oh, what's the matter wittle-tiny bunsidy-fluffer-do? Don't like
being a fluffer? Got an aversion to penis? Better run, little bunsidy-wunsidy. I got a
big penis.' Then Mansen said, in a voice nothing like his natural one and telling of
more than a little infatuation with retarded people and of his life-long childhood
habit of mocking retarded people, "Peeee-eeee-eeee-nis." He said it with emphasis
on the 's' at the end and also said it in a rising and falling tone from the tone of his
normal speaking voice, up a few half-steps, then down to a few half-steps below his
normal speaking voice. Then, he chuckled. A group of words from a phrase of a
song he likes came to him then, and he pushed those words away, dismissing them
for the moment in order to fashion ideas of his own. He thought of the fact that in
the previous year it was reported each state with legalization of recreational use of
the product he was now using had been responsible for a drop in profits by out-ofthe-country organizations known to grow the same stuff by an average of more than
billion dollars per State. 'A billion dollars,' he thought. Then, he used the same
voice he had used when playing around with the word 'penis' to say, "A Biiiillllion
Doooooooolllllllerrrrrrrzzzzz." This did not make him chuckle. Mansen then took
another hit on his pipe. He followed protocol in the matter of doing so. Then he
thought, 'Goddamn this is some good shit. Hell ya. Good fucking thing that skinny
little kid came along when he did the other night.' He was thinking of the last time
he was at the bar then. His thoughts changed again. He thought about women.
Then he thought about football. Then he thought about The President. In his
thoughts of the President, he always thought it should be that both words were
capitalized. He wondered then about what all his old teachers were up to these days.
He wondered about his classmates from school that had been with him all the way
through elementary, middle, and high-school. He envisioned some of them being
very wealthy now, and some of them being married. Not one of them did he envision
as having a bad go of it. He thought of himself as probably capable of having gotten
a number of the girls in class to marry him, but then realized it would only be good if
they were really in love, and as none of them had ever told him once that they had
ever loved him, he doubted if any of them were now thinking of him as he was of
them. This thought saddened him a little, but then he started thinking about
something he really loved doing. It was playing his guitar. He began composing
songs in his head, and tried to activate the part of the brain responsible for keeping
such ideas secure. He then remembered a song he had written once about the space
program. It was not so great, but was like a Jimi Hendrix song in many ways, and
far superior to almost all music of the modern age, he thought. He then reminded
himself that he believed no one with a big opinion of themselves ever got anywhere
with anything as sacred as music. This created an argument for and against the idea
both, inside his mind, as he wondered how in the hell something like Monkleetlebus
could ever become popular, or even ever be discovered. This ended his thinking on
the matter and his next thought, following another hit on the pipe, was about women
again. After several thoughts about women, he thought of a poem involving women
he had read that his neighbor had showed him one day and he thought what an
unfair poem it was. He remembered the poem's details, and thought it was writing
of a kind that would never see the light of day outside the bathrooms and pickups
and shops and homes of friends of the guy who had written it, and he thought that
was probably a good thing. It took awhile as he sat there for him to get his mind off
of the writer and the poem and during the time thinking about that he had wondered
what kind of people that guy knows that would make him think a poem like that
would be something anyone would ever want to see. Then, he reminded himself,
'Probably people just like me.' Mansen then noticed he was getting that hungry
feeling always accompanying the practice he was engaged in, it seemed, and then he
noticed how much cooler it had got in the short time he was sitting on the back of
the pickup. He noticed it was getting closer to dusk. He thought he might go see
the sunset, driving out west of the farm a ways to get into the clearings between the
trees of the fields and the property of the farm itself so he would have an uninhibited
view. "Viiiiiiiewe," he said. Then he laughed. His laughter ended in a very abrupt
way, however, when, still thinking of the word 'view' he thinks for some reason of
Oprah Winfrey. Yes, in Mansen's world-view he thinks all black people are the
same, and he realizes he has thought of Oprah Winfrey just now only because there
is a black woman on a television show called The View and he doesn't know
anything about her so his brain, when thinking of the show The View after several
moments' time his mind had been randomly searching 'view' as a topic, based on his
level of interest in the word 'view' because of the way he had said it, and seeing an
image in his head of a memory that had happened based on having seen The View
for a few seconds on television once in which there was a panel of people sitting on
chairs behind a desk, one of whom was black, his brain had just progressed for some
reason from person-to-person in the memory until he took note of the fact one of
them was black and then, probably because black people are a people he has never
really thought about, and to him are all the same, from there his mind went on to
think of Oprah Winfrey, who is one of the only living or dead black human females
he knows anything about at this time, name-wise. This is a fact of all his knowledge
and life experience. The other black females he knows about and can name are as
follows: Condoleezza Rice and Jackie Joyner-Kersee. That he knows of Oprah
Winfrey, knows she is Black, and that she is involved in television, is just
coincidence.
All Mansen knows about Condoleezza Rice is that she served the country in
some affect. Mansen does not like politicians, but is unsure if she is a politician. He
knows she served the country somehow, but does not remember in what capacity she
had done so, or is doing so to this day. He remembers Jackie Joyner-Kersee is a
woman that was in the Olympics, he thinks. But, he is not sure if that is correct. In
his mind Condoleezza Rice is spelled Condoleeza Rice and Jackie Joyner-Kersee is
spelled Jackie-Joyner Kersey.
Mansen is still thinking about Oprah Winfrey. He knows she is famous and
knows it is because she has been on television a lot. He wonders in what way she
had come to be on TV and why her name popped up when he thought of the black
woman as he scanned his memory of The View. 'Maybe they look similar,' he
thinks. He is not concerned with the fact he could not name more than three black
women alive on Earth or dead if he tried, because as of yet he doesn't know it. He is
thinking about Oprah Winfrey though. 'Did Oprah Winfrey run for The
Presidency?', he thinks, 'Maybe. If not, maybe she should. Who fucking knows?
She probably would be a good president if she doesn't want to be president and is
famous already. She probably has a good head on her shoulders, anyway. I know I
don't want to be president and I've a good head on my shoulders. Speaking of heads
and shoulders, I need some good head. I'm almost out of shampoo, too. Probably
should head to the store soon. Need groceries. Could get a head of lettuce. Maybe
a clump of celery. A pack of wild and angry bananas. Now where did that idea
come from? Wonder what I'm going to eat tonight. Probably pork. Pork. Pork is
yummy. Pork is good. It is good to eat pork and to pork people. Women, I mean.
I'm not gay. But, if I was gay, I sure wouldn't go around these parts telling anybody.
The same way that if I porked a pig I wouldn't write a poem about it and share it
with my neighbor. Maybe if I were a comedian I could write a story like my
neighbor did and it would be funny and I could go around the country telling
everyone a joke about porking pigs. Maybe I should write that down. Write a joke
about porking pigs. Maybe I will make millions of dollars and be able to life all
those who know me up out of the poverty that has been the young part of my life
until now. What am I talking about?', Mansen asked himself, disgusted with his line
of thought just now. 'Jesus. Something wrong about going from pork to porking
pigs. That's like going from view to ewe. Maybe that's why girls don't like it when I
tell them I'm gonna pork 'em. They equate being porked with being pork. Pork
sure is good food. I can't believe anybody would have a problem eating good pork,
and there are entire cultures in the world that don't eat pork. That's fucked up. I
think there are, anyway. Can't name any off hand. Jews, maybe?'
Mansen always thinks of Jews, or the word at least. He kinda does so
whenever he thinks of cultures outside his knowledge.
'Yeah,' he thinks, 'I think Jews are the ones who don't eat pork. That's
stupid. Eating pork is all right. Nothing wrong with a healthy pig to eat. Pigs eat
really fine, most of the time. The grain that comes for the pigs is some of the finest
ground grain there is. Almost as fine as flour, but a lot more whole than most flours.
Flours. Funny word, that. Would a pig be satisfied if all it could eat was flour?
Probably not. Maybe I should put some pigs in a pen here on the farm. Maybe.
Pigs are probably hard to make a living raising and bringing to market, though. Like
anything, I suppose. Just another chore to do. Nothing wrong with that. I
remember reading a short story once where the author misspelled chore as shore.
Famous author, too. What a genius. Fucker. Like writing is anything to be proud
of. I'll think about bringing some pigs to the farm awhile. Good way to make a
living and keep ones own belly full. I'll think good, long, and hard about it. All it
takes is thought. Just a little thought. That's the truth. Think,' Mansen thought.
His next thought was, 'Think I might hit this pipe again. Think I'll do that right
now,' he thinks as he brings the pipe up. He goes through his practice again. The
material in the pipe is almost all black now. Not all of it, though, and this pleases
him. 'Fine day,' he thinks. Every time he has hit the pipe he has had an interesting
reaction to the fire of the lighter, of the fire itself, not of the lighter in any way, and he
knows there is something true and of a great truth in the fire itself. 'Fire,' he thinks,
'is something very important.' He watches the sun dip below the treetops. He
remembers a kite he had lost as a child through the trees bordering a nestled grove in
a valley where water had been trained to drain from a very old field in the beginning
of the time of white men and women on the prairie. It had been in the yard. The
kite string had gone out of his hand and faster than he could believe it sank out and
away from his body where he stood watching the string as it went. He watched for
maybe a second or two and then began running, though doing so lazily, toward the
string, thinking it would not rise up from the ground and he could just chase it at a
lackadaisical pace. Then he saw the bushes and the valley and trees in the valley and
the string became hard to track with his eyes because the kite was flying, zooming
fast through the sky way up ahead and far above too, and the string was not visible
but the kite was and he ran down the valley and when he started to climb up the
other side the tree branches were all twisted and misshapen as though their very
purpose was to slow him, for some reason, ('to make me think,' he now realizes, or
thinks he does,) and having to concentrate in the forest made him lose sight of the
kite, and getting through the branches in the tall but sparse weeds and grass took
time, and he has a memory of looking up to make sure the kite was still visible to
him but all he could see was the sun shining bright at around two 'o clock above and
behind and yet singularly a part of leaves, and more branches, bigger ones, and he
was stopped to see it and it was beautiful and then he saw his kite and he became
very quick at heart and angry in mind because the kite was getting away. At first the
thought was, 'my kite is getting away,' in a kind of worried tone, then it changed to,
'My kite is getting away!' and he was off, tearing his clothes on thorns and rushing
through the woods breaking things. He soon was sprinting very fast over a small rise
at the top of the valley and then down it again. A field erupted into vision and the
world was new and big and his kite was so far up in the sky that there was no way the
string could be touching the ground, he thought, and he began crying and yelling
"Come back! Come back!" and he thought of the design on the kite. It was
designed to look like a very old airplane and it had big red circles on each wing of
the airplane, two to each side, one within another, and it was a really very awesome
green color with details of the lines of the plane in black that wasn't something to
fear in any way, like the green that was unlike the colors that come in Crayola
Crayons boxes and unlike the green of grass or green of anything else, because the
only green he had ever known at that time were the greens of the Crayons and of
traffic lights and clothes and toys and tractors, big giant tractors and not so big both,
the green of stuff that comes out of the body sometimes and a green he could easily
remember as belonging to various forms of animal poop, plus the green of money,
which he never had in those days. He ran several hundred feet into the field and
watched his kite. It left the skies of the field and crossed the sky over the road and
crossed the alfalfa field, a house and some buildings to the left of it, and then it made
it all the way into the woods lining the river and then it was gone. Utterly gone. He
became angry at the trees that had held him back. He turned to them, and began
walking toward them. He did not kick the dirt, he was too angry. He kept going
and when he got to the trees he battened all the branches that he touched who were
in his path. He broke some of the branches, but not every branch he could. He
walked through the valley and up the slope of the yard he had been flying the kite
from and went into the house and found somebody there. Who it was is not
important to know, but what they said is. "What's the matter with you?", they
asked, a tone of amusement mixed with an interest to know why he had come into
the house with such a look of fury and with his legs stomping his feet. He did not
want to say he had lost his kite because he had been taught, or told, how to wrap the
string up around the hand so a kite will not fly away and the only reason he had not
been doing so when the kite got away was because he had made a deliberate
decision to not do so anymore in order to give the kite more height right before the
string had gotten away. Plus, the person asking the question was someone who
would chide him for stupidity at hearing he lost his kite, or worse, ask him, "What
did you go and do that for?, or, "How did that happen?", and he would be ashamed
when he really wanted to be angry. A split second after being asked, "What's the
matter with you," however, he said, "My kite's gone. It blew over the road and went
over to the house where the loud man and his fat wife live."
"Don't say things like that."
"Well it's true! She's fat!"
"Don't say that about her. She loves you."
"Shutup! Dad or somebody needs to cut all those trees down in the valley.
They're a nuisance and they don't do anything but make everything stupid."
"Don't you tell me to shutup, Mansen! Don't you think you could get your
Father to drive you over to the Denault's and get your kite back?"
"~, it flew away! You think its just going to be sitting there in plain sight
when it flew away and disappeared over the trees of the river more than a mile away
from the house? No! It's gone." Then Mansen knew he was just being upset about
nothing, but this kept the anger there just as the person he was talking to said,
"Just let it go, then, Mansen. Let the anger go. You've already made
mistakes with your anger. Just let it go."
"Yeah, and that makes me more angry than losing the kite did. I loved that
kite. It was the first time I ever got it to fly really good, too."
"Save up your money, and you can buy yourself a new one." This was not
what Mansen wanted to hear, but he was done talking and he left the room with his
anger a little away from him, he thought.
Thinking about the kite and the grove, a thing he was told had been around
since early pioneer days, he wonders, 'Where there any black men and women of the
early times responsible for pioneering any land? Or was it just white folks? Not
many blacks live around here. Most of them were white, I guess.' Then, Mansen
remembers the truth. 'Oh, duh. Blacks were all slaves when they were brought to
this country. Can't believe I forgot that.'
Mansen does not know how hurtful those words are. He continues his
thinking, however, while he looks around. The wind has come up a little. Clouds
have formed above. 'It could rain in the next day or two,' Mansen thinks. He looks
to his right and a little ahead. There's the house. The house looks sad and
neglected. He will paint the foundation first, then work on the sides. 'To do a good
job you have to scrape the old paint off first,' he thinks, 'not fun. For a proper fresh
coat and perhaps a new color, you definitely must scrape off the old paint first.
There's no rush. Can't afford all that paint right this second anyway, siiiiir. Next
year.' Paint wasn't in the priority list of the budget like marijuana was. Now that
marijuana was legal, he would soon be completing an indoor growing room so he
could learn to produce marijuana of his own for his own fucking use. He was
spending too much cash acquiring marijuana.
'I bet Oprah Winfrey can buy all the marijuana she needs or wants or thinks
she needs or wants,' he thinks. For some reason BLACK PEOPLE that usually have
ancestry going back to AFRICA are on his mind, and in his mind he thinks of them
as being BLACK PEOPLE and also he thinks all ancestry of all Black people goes
back to Africa. 'I wonder if Oprah Winfrey has ever been on a farm,' he thinks, 'I
wonder if her ancestors were slaves. How in the world do you go from growing up
with slave grandparents to being on television all the time? Must have been school.
A good school.' Mansen doesn't watch a lot of TV, but he has this idea about the
world and television that if you're on television and famous you must be really good
at something or really smart.
"Neeeewwwwwzzzzz," he says aloud while thinking of Oprah Winfrey and
TV.
He spits on the ground. He smokes again. 'The afternoon sure has been
pleasant,' he thinks. 'If only I weren't so goddamn lonely.' He thinks about the
dying tree again.
'Fuck it,' he thinks. "Fuck it," he says, "Nothing to be worked up over.
With the new fence I've put in today, it'll be no time before this new property of
mind is ready to put cattle or horses on. No sheep, though. Won't be any sheep.
Sheep are stinky, needy, dirty animals. Not like pigs do they stink, but they stink.
They aren't as smart as a pig. I know that. When Geezeice drove the demons into
the pigs he should've picked a sheep. Fucking sheep. Maybe Geezice was in love
with sheep, and that is why he drove demons into the pigs. I wonder if you ate a
demon-infested pig if it would be good pork? Was porky pig a demon? All the
Warner Brothers were probably demons. Maybe. Maybe not. I loved those cartoons
growing up, I sure did. Great cartoons. Wish they were still the norm. Today's
Saturday morning lineup could use a little avodah.'
Mansen had picked up the word avodah from his Father. He knows it means
work, and that is all he knows about that word.
'Geezeice? All I ask is that Saturday morning cartoons go back to being the
way they used to be. For all the little ones. The pigs and sheep alike. I know you
don't like to hear from a glory-all guitar-slinging VIP like me, but that's what I want
you to know. Make those you like to call your flock, the sheep of the world, know
that you love them and think they are like me, an ever-loving, horny sometimes, VIP.
I know you can do it, Geezeice. Get busy.'
"Geeeeeeezice," he says, the ice following the other part of the word forming
the same sound as the iss of bliss, almost like the ish in the word English as spoken
in Latin, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! A little joke. Or, just like the letter 's' in
Latin.
"I just remembered something," he says. He thinks about the fence he has
put up today, and realizes there will be no swine on his farm either. 'The fence
required for swine is something different than the fence I made today,' he thinks.
He is right. His fence was not meant to keep swine.
For swine, or pigs, or hogs, or sus scrofa domesticus, you need a fence that
burrows into the layer of soil where the fence is to be. Otherwise, a pig will place
their snout under the wire, and root there. To root, for a pig, is to dig or push
material out of a place with the snout. Their snouts are very thick and hard, though
the skin of the snout is smooth and soft as a baby butt. (Author's note to reader:
since I know that most everyone who will read this book upon publication is going to
be a person trying to grow in a city or town or village or other type of non-farming
non-agricultural environment, I am including various knowledge about the farming
or agriculture around you all in this writing in order to make the writing more
interesting to you not just as a tool of entertainment or to pass time with but as
something that you will find useful as a method of gaining information about parts of
the world you, before having this book, knew nothing, little, or something more,
about.) Please enjoy a humble and sincere apology for the interruptions of the storytelling that are indicative of poor choices, all-things-considered, in terms of making
'Good' Literature.
'Pigs are too smart for their own good anyway,' he thinks, 'Not smart enough
to stay off my plate, perhaps, but smarter than a fence when the farmer isn't looking.'
Mansen thinks about the fence. It is just a single strand of barbed wire across the
top with a common roll of wire mesh made of 4-inch squares a height of four feet
below. Cheap and effective, he hoped. He had not spent a lot of money on the fence
relative to what could have been spent because he was not sure there would always
be a need for a fence around his property. So, it was best to use materials he could
remove easy if need be.
His thoughts shifted without much aim again. Oprah Winfrey, fence, pigs,
sheep, painting the house, the dying tree, grading the driveway, smoking the
sensimilla, gravity pulling toxicity off the bottom of his boots that came out of his
joints and muscles and organs and off his skin like the eggshell off a boiled egg or
chocolate coating off a chocolate-dipped ice-cream or bead of water as it departs the
surface of Mallard rising from the surface of the water in a Hemmingway novel. As
slag off a perfect weld joins angled iron rising off cloth off mast off vessel off
shutdown off ignorance off brains off definition off science off history off future off
Valis off Voyager 1 off radar off monks off playlist off experience off couch off fiber
off plate off stone off volcano off Earth off wonder off question off answer off verb off
adverb off noun off predicate off participle off pronoun off me off university off need
off her off him off lost off often off reading off writing off listening off thinking off
talking off doing off loving off fucking off negativity off electrons off universe off life
off concept off civilization off golf off scotch off cigars off lips off paper off chemistry
off boredom off music off sound off rhythm off bass off Cthulhu off Lovecraft off
shelf off account off printing off government off using off slavery off present off
London off corruption off England off ocean off submarines off coast off hunting off
red off October off doctor off who off shit off pile off radio off pattern off snake off
king off Africa off shore off Klan off white off post off fight off knife off factory off
gun off learning off Microsoft off word off student off retard off fear off falsehood off
church off Mennonite off farm off Germany off opinion off oven off mound off
weakness off lust off lice off anus off gross off lady off ramble off mat off wire off seat
off air off greed off office off funny off Australian off vampire off nest off hair off
problem off stance off look off impression off pain off hurt off vagina off spike off
chair off legs off stomach off maggots off hand off mouth off Black off tan off blue off
desktop off screen off stack off inches off big off balls off incest off faggot off rape off
regulate off shot off should off do off did off whoa off snoop off Jamaica off dog off
CIA off throng off masses off classes off where off Virginia Tech off congratulations
off mentioned off too off infrequently off Metallica off touring off not off should off
Vienna off slime off crap off mountain off back off molehill off monkey off shudder
off fool off aids off Popeye off eating off exercise off raid off mace off face off
shoulder off tackle off turn off celebrating off touchdown off Dallas off good off
Mexican-American off hood off old off gold off Cadillac off Cosby off Manhattan off
licenses off court off judge off cop off tires off wait off weight off Henry off
grasshopper off waiter off serving off cake off cask off cupcake off
somnambulistimationalisticism off new off religion off preparation off test off
timekeeping off masturbating off sin off want off have off give off got off get off ten
off erased off always off big off Sun off star off planet off driver off moon off returning
off yearning off shield off balloons off Apollo 11 off Calvin off Susie off Hobbes off
syndicated off news off coffee off break off chip off Disney off Belle off reading off
Gaston off tallish off walls off sports off betting off forcing off entertainment off film
off developing off Baldy off bagging off sticking off rolls off cinnamon off homemade
off startup off waters off getting off repairs off touched off fabricated off
improvements off designs off engineers off privacy off Iceland off woolen off hooves
off hooting off owl off wise off eyes off ears off mouth off brow off sweated off
tobacco off land off taken off ways off wasted off means off basted off implanted off
grown off seeds off bone off loan off taxpayer off burden off bear off bare off earring
off glint off opulence off Egyptian off basic off depth off study off simple off English
off shall off suffice off lull off atmospherically off adverbs off published off already off
might off chance off hand off foot off orator off opus off offal off hairballs off feces off
dust off eating off puking off ingesting off digesting off reader's off preferences off
Spain off Europe off crass off lewd off shrewd off angels off blonde off window off
viewfinder off saddled off sidewinder off addled off teaching off preaching off
leeching off rape off satiate off desire off calm off down off up off wards off States off
child off destiny off wrong off right off compromise off flight off grounded off tower
off bombs off flour off measuring off sack off Japanese off attack off crumbling off
willpower off Peanuts off planters off sewers off showers off sprinkle off nipples off
breasts off chest off ribcage off spine off line off terminated off reassembling off self
off robot off botulism off lockdown off chamber off doorway off shut off hallway off
buried off below off complex off concrete off land off borrowed off forever off arrow
off head off dying off dead off zombie off Haiti off rise off flies off die off wings off
pulled off put off encased off first off frozen off bait off hook off net off bee off Bee off
be off Ant off ant off six off legs off two off pinchers off red off abdomen off toys off
pubic off public off base off encampment off division off multiplication off brigade
off coming off maps off geography off terrain off worlds off now off won off own off
blown off cover off seeking off shelter off wolf off dilapidated off outside off interior
off space-time off galaxy off no off milking off udders off Madonna off Mohammad
off the Kansas Derby, the greatest horserace in the world, with the finest vixens and
leaders attending with a bated breath of excitement in all breasts and plumage
returns to the fore of the dress while the horses anticipate the purpose that is the will
of God to them that they run soon even though the jockeys are tinier than the tin
man's heated skin beneath miles of endless silver paint and a look in the eye that
says Yes, I was raped by that man when I was but a wee laddy but looky here, look at
me act, but then the Kansas Derby is about to start and the vixens hold their left
hands upon their bosoms hearing the leaders talking about bullshit and wonder
when oh when will the aching part of me be noticed and then the horses EXPLODE
out of the chutes and as they drive down the front stretch each and every one of those
vixens unknowingly see what they want streaking past because each and every horse
in the race is not paying attention to the whip or the rider or the track or the nearby
flowers or the railing or the saddles past and present or the sun or the wind or the
heat or the sweat or the salt or the hairs or the thudding or the vibrations or the dust
or the mud or the sand or the gravel or the leaders or the followers of the Herd
running or the voices or the choices or the scent of recent rain or the skin color of the
people in the stands or the hat, the blouse, the frilly lace near the wrist, the suit, the
tie, the watch, the newspaper, the sheets of odds, the boy with the hot wheels car
model of the new Ford Elite, (See my novel Wanshe.), the girl with the pinwheel, the
large parking lot of vehicles floating in visible sunlight that is to you and me like
seeing the sea for the very first time or the estate where George Washington is said to
have lived upon a time in a land not so far away as you once thought before you
actually visited there and you are a heterosexual boy of twelve and the woman giving
the tour to your people you wished were friends with but are not, not yet, is like so
cultured beyond your understanding of the word before meeting her in so many
interesting ways that you fall in love but don't say anything, don't say anything, don't
say anything all during the tour and throughout the afternoon, the evening, the night
until you fall asleep and after waking up the next day and for every day after that day
for all the days and nights of the rest of your life except when you are dreaming,
because the first vixen that ever existed, the female in the house of George
Washington, is there in your dreams. Always. And why did you not say anything? It
is because she was quicker than you to know you love her and you had thoughts that
mean you want her but then loved her so much so fast that your only thoughts of her
became all about what she wants and making sure she knows that according to your
philosophy of life she will damn sure get what the fuck she goddamn wants when the
goddamn fuck she goddamn wants and that IS the fucking goddamn truth of it and
you loved her so much so fast so quick that just as fast as you learned you should say
nothing you also learned or had the thought that such a female probably goes both
ways possibly but it is all good and you want her to go any fucking goddamn way she
goddamn fucking wants goddamnit and it is okay too because you could tell she was
not pure lesbian anyway the way she commanded to you that you shut the fuck up
and love her from as close or as far as you dare go with her in the house surrounded
by all the others and you and her separate but controlling everything around you
throughout many miles and you stay silent all the fucking days since and you are
now more powerful than that sorry sack of dog shit known by all as George
Washington and not just because he is dead, either, but because you have loved a
prettier woman than he ever did and in his sorry excuse for a house too, on his own
goddamn property and you are superior now than crap, and that is a mighty fine
thing, a mighty fine thing, son. Remember now you are a twelve-year old boy if this
is your favorite story. Yes. Good. So, back to the point here. It is a super mighty
fine thing to be superior to crap and that three word phrase can be looked at in
infinite ways but I'll explain at least three right now. Being superior to crap you are
very great in size because there is a lot of crap in existences surrounding your body,
and even in your body. Being superior to crap also can mean that because you are
able to crap you are thus superior, but that is a very tender and dear thing to think.
Dangerous that. Because it means that by going through the simple actions and
trials of being alive you are superior then. How is that possible? I don't know, but
maybe it is. If this were the writing of God in the way Jews and Christians have told
thee their bibles had been written, then the words would also be told to thee as being
words that are absolutely true in every aspect of the idea of truth. But, this is not a
book of any bible in my opinion, so there. The third then. Superior to crap could
just mean, to a thinking not wanting to express thoughts about feelings or emotion,
putting something labeled as being superior into some crap. Putting a bottle of
Bacardi Superior into horse hockey, as in places far and wide is known to be
sometimes called. There is a fourth thought now, but I will keep you from it. It is
not necessary. Ask me the question when you interview me for the first time on
television. I will not do the TODAY show., or the air in their nose but those vixens
instead because they are the same damn thing and the horse knows it but the vixens
do not and the leaders, some of them pretending, give attention to the Herd of rabid
purebreds that are rolling thunderous muscling tenuous on the point of breaking
down just like this off and off came off broke off stopped off continued off latched off
hatched off a skillet. I ain't never seen a man take a hard boiled egg and mash it on
the skillet and mix it with onion and spice, liver and rice, put some Worcestershire on
it with some mustard, peel a piece from the peel of a' orange on into the skillet it
goes with molasses, vinegar, olive oil, sardines, black olives, tomatoes, walnut pieces
ground small, a pistachio, butter, salt, pepper, cinnamon, coriander, thyme, bread
crumbs, alligator tail, octopus, eel, lemon-grass, powdered alum, ginger, nutmeg,
cloves, garlic, powdered sugar, raw cane sugar, real sugar, a splash of Coke, a smaller
splash of Pepsi, a speck of dust off a off b off c off d off e off f off g off rain, some
leftover corn, (I'll come back to this after another word.)
Vladimir Putin really pisses me off. With an alliance of the Sovereigns
Finland, Estonia, Latvia, Belarus, Ukraine, Moldova, Romania, Bulgaria, Turkey,
and all European nations to the West, plus Georgia, Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan,
Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Mongolia, N. Korea, South Korea, Japan, Taiwan, Laos,
Vietnam, Myanmar, Bhutan, Tibet, India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Tajikistan, and
Kyrgyzstan, we could begin ramping up the United States military through forced
service to a massive strength, and could conquer Russia and China once and for all,
forming a second United States from the aftermath.
a sliver of water chestnut, sliver of red, regular, and sweet potato, astronaut
ice-cream, piece of a MRE, pineapple, mango, lettuce leaf, spinach, cauliflower, a
sliced up fresh string bean from an organic garden, a splash of orange juice, a splash
of vodka, blood from the shroud of Turin, turnip, radish, beet, carrot, pea, squash,
zucchini, well-blended pumpkin, oyster sauce, a little bit of Stefani Joanne Angelina
Germanotta germinated, some Stevie Wonder and Lenny Kravitz, wine, a piece of
tobacco from a Marlboro Light,
(You think I'm retarded, don't you? Well, do not. It isn't a pleasure to me and it
isn't pleasurable to those who have to live with DOWN SYNDROME. It's called
having DOWN SYNDROME, or more common among professionals these days, it
is sometimes by professionals I should say, called BEING MENTALLY
CHALLENGED. You cannot use the word retarded. Only I get to use that word.)
a sliver of a single ball off some animal somewhere where balls are commonly eaten
because in their culture they had to rely on eating balls to get protein somewhere
along the line, (probably hillbillies in American historical context or the Royal
Family if in the context of England Historia), and then put a goodish amount of your
favorite cheddar or other cheese similar in usage, add some spittle, (The spittle
should come from some attractive person who does not have venereal disease, a
heart condition, diabetes, fat disease, [see my novels 'Hey There' and 'Hey There
Part Two'.], nor aids, hepatitis, Asian Bird Flu, poor disease- I just made that upthink I'll write a story featuring the ideas presented to me just now by the thoughtmalaria, pantera, smallpox, typhoid fever, influenza of any kind, bubonic plague,
cholera, anthrax, SARS, or the Ebola virus.), slivers of carrot peeled off after off came
the carrot peel, milk in a small amount either from a cow or a Heather, and if you
have anything laying around that says CREOLE on it, put it in her. Heat to just
under any temperature above -195centigrade, the temperature at which liquid air has
reached its boiling point, whatever that means. (I'm not N.D.T. or C.S., nor am I
S.H. or A.E.. I am not a physicist. I am not a scientist. I am not a philosopher
either. I am not S. or P.. I am not a psychologist either. I am not F.. I am not a
therapist either. I am not a writer either. I am not S.K. or B.L., nor am I F.S.F. or
J.C., nor am I P.K.D. or V.N., nor am I D.H.T. or H.S.T., nor am I W.S. or C.D., nor
am I E.H. or J.S., nor am I J.K.R. or F.D., nor am I W.F. or E.A.P., nor am I W.D.H.
or H.P.L., nor am I G.S. or V.W., nor am I Z.N.H. or F.K., nor am I J.S. or his
counterpart brat S.C., nor am I S.A. or C.B., nor am I H.S.J. or T.H., nor am I C.P. or
J.K., nor am I B.L., T.F., or E.B.. White, though, I am. I am not a T.A.R.D.I.S. of
spaceship of any kind for you to climb aboard and ride to worlds beyond.) Liquid air
must be kept in a vacuum insulated flask, according to Wikipedia, the great
blasphemer of blasphemers sometimes, sometimes just a great source of
information.
The horses are rabid because they have riders. Rabid is a condition in this
instance of using a word to mean something other than it is usually known to mean.
If you are being ridden and are to be like a horse in any way, then you will succumb
to the necessity of taking on the idea that in some way, like in the way you want to be
like a horse, you must also accept being rabid.
The Kansas Derby is the greatest horserace in the world because the vixens
are in attendance, and I lied when I wrote the vixens and horses are the 'same damn
thing.'
Mansen has not played any part of the previous 2,778 words preceding this
sentence exactly, words I do admit are not at all like those of a well-educated man, or
woman, or in-between person I am wont to mention because I am aware of the fact
such things do go on as there being human beings alive on Earth without a penis or
a vagina. But, I hope in the words I have used up to this point you have found them
to have purpose and weight, but not gravity. No, not gravity. Because gravity is
something belonging to an other, a thing outside the sphere of the world, a thing we
really have no business developing methods of tracking, measuring, investigating,
but will anyway. Like you reading this, and me writing it. That is living I guess. I
guess we're all just a bunch of superiors. I like to think of myself as being separated
from you know, instead of being a part of a bunch of superiors, thinking of the story
about the twelve-year-old boy, I'd like instead to think of myself as a superior fuck.
Not like Amway, which Microsoft Office Word 2003 just showed me was a
suggestion for re-spelling ayway, which is what I typed instead of anyway four or five
sentences ago. Let us all call those who have died as being ayway from here on out.
It is a new word for it, and I like it. It is superior to dead.
"Mansen, you listening?"
"Yep."
"What you think?"
"Pretty good so far, I think. Is there something coming up I should know
about?"
"Probably."
"Gonna tell me ahead of time so I am prepared?"
"What am I, God answering a prayer?"
"You could be."
"No, Mansen. Keep to your business. You'll know when you know. Don't
be a sad sucker."
"Fuck you, asshole."
"You got it. Wait."
"Wait what?"
"I don't want to be fucked."
"I didn't mean it that way."
"You're a good man, Mansen."
"I know. Why don't you write about Daria?"
"All Daria is a scourge."
"And you fucked it."
"I sure did."
"And then you left it."
"That's neither here nor there, nor any of your concern."
"As you wish."
"Shutup Wesley."
"As you wish."
"Don't get smart with me, Mansen."
"As you wish."
"You son-of-a-bitch."
"I don't play that way."
"I know."
Once the food has been well heated for a period of time lasting no more or
less than minutes, (tee hee motherfuckers), go ahead and name it Good and Plentiful
Better Homes and Gardens Successful Farming Popular Science Guitar Player
National Geographic of Nothing and Everything and say the prayer that follows is a
good lad if only he will get his women rounded up and bring them to the trough. If
only the good lad's women could be brought to the trough today then we can all line
up behind them and have a look and then, good lad willing, get our dicks and dildos
wet with the bodily fluids of the inner portions of the holes of the women who will be
too busy eating Good and Plentiful Better Homes and Gardens Successful Farming
Popular Science Guitar Player National Geographic of Nothing and Everything to
want to do anything about it when we wet our dicks and dildos in their gold mine
holes that the women hath been blessed with by the lord and creator of heaven and
Earth, and unto us many children will be born and we will all name him Israel and
Slalom Runner Pooky-dee-lee-oh-pants the Brown of Girls' Brown Eyes and
Nature's Recourse Into Being Less Stupid Than Thou, O God of I Shouldn't Have
Said That Blessed Be Thy Name Thy Holy King Dong of Bong Hitting and Fart
Ripping Mountain Pulverizing Reversalitteronitroniolonigons, whose nickname will
be George and we will say unto heem all his days, "Where are ya goin' George?"
Over and over again we will just say "Where ya goin' George?" We will say it in
imitation of the sound of the voice of the cartoon from the Warner Brothers Looney
Toons cartoon where there is a dog that works to tend a flock of sheep while a wolf
tends to do something unexpected all the time and it will be good. Then, eat the
food.
'It would have been nice if the neighbor's son could have helped today,'
Mansen thinks, 'But the kid's been gone a week. Something about auditioning for
admittance to a fancy school somewhere. Music, I think. A fine arts school is what
schools like that are called, I think. Performing arts. Whoop-de-do. If the kid were
any good would he need to go to school? Well, maybe the kid is talented. Maybe his
natural talents are beyond the scope of self-teaching. Scope. Maybe someone will
invent scope-flavored marijuana and get a family going on the income he or she has
and raise someone to become The President someday. Maybe I'll be paying big
money to watch the kid play someday. Maybe. Or maybe someone is blowing
smoke up the kid's ass. Oh well. Marijuana flavored scope? I'm down for some of
that.'
'Time to chill out, watch the sunset. I'll take my wolfhound out on a walk to
inspect the fence. Yeah. That'll be nice. First I got to get a beer. Eat some beef
jerky, too. Finish this pipe.'
[In Halstead, Kansas there is a place where meat is cut from butchered
animals and cured into fine beef jerky. There is no beef jerky like it anywhere else,
so come to Kansas and find the store and buy some. I imagine Mansen has a place
where he gets beef jerky that in some ways is similar to the beef jerky I am talking
about. He knows a lot about some, and a little about none. I wouldn't put it past
him to go out of his way to buy good quality beef jerky. I guess we might find out, if
Mansen goes into his house and does like he thinks he is. Unless something
happens to take him off his path, that is. I don't think anything will, but you never
know till you cross the bridge and come into the clearing of responsibility and
reason. What's your policy? Fucking retarded people you are supposed to be caring
for maybe? Killing things? Plotting attacks at elementary schools? I would advise
you to stop. Those kinds of things sorta piss me off. But, I'm not the President, nor
do I have an army. I don't know any gangsters, any thugs, any beaters, and I don't
truck with fantastical ideas about global undertakings. I don't fancy undertaking,
either. I would rant right now about the asininity of wrestling programs, but will
save it for later. The word undertaking made me think of a (use very exaggerated
style with these quotes, now), "pro-wrestler" who called himself The Undertaker.
He was a pretty cool looking dude. Who fucking cares? I do. If he inspired even
one kid to want to be something in life, then his work was good work. Think about
that, trop of harlot-trollop or arab-budmash.] {Forgot to add in some because and the
exact phrase 'you see?'.} (NOPE)
It was a good early evening now and Mansen had got lost in his pipe when he
came to the realization he might have left his tool can, the remainder of the tying
wire, and fence pliers out in the field where he had been making fence and had then
decided to stop working for the day. He checked and sure enough did he see that
those things were not in his truck bed or in the cab. He will have to search the tall
grasses. It was not uncommon in him to forget something in an absent-mindedness
these days, especially when thoughts came to thinking about pipe, smoking, and
leisure time. He had to wonder about his mental acuity. The moment passed. He
smoked some more. He thought, 'multifarious.'
The sun had breached the horizon sending the clouds and sky to the west into
an orgasm of color, beauty. 'A picture perfect ending to a picture perfect day,'
Mansen thought, looking. He thinks it a shame those post-cards of sunsets sold
everywhere are not made of pictures from his own back yard. The sunset he sees
every evening is not something he takes for granted. Seeing the sunset is mighty
fine. He lives for it. He lives for all the good parts of life, and does not let any of the
mundane, harmful, or difficult, get to him. In that way he is like men and women of
many generations ago. Mother Nature has always did for those who have done for
their own well-being, he thinks. We make from what we work with. He had never
had use for meanness or crying or anger. Living without these petty ways has earned
him great respect from a few of the people he has conducted business with. In his
thirties, he has only just begun to understand how well his little bit of internal
philosophy has served him. Those who respect him have started to talk to him of the
ways they have come into victories and successes. This has proved invaluable.
He feels confident one day he will have a chance to fulfill the small ache he
does have, the void that never ceases to be satisfied no matter how hard he works or
parties. The ache is peaceful, for the most part, it is. One that will one day release,
brining him tremendous joy. He knows. It has something to do with finding a
woman. Someone to share his life. He knows he wants her to be fun, and he wants
her to be a woman that likes getting nasty with her lover. He wants her to swallow,
take it in the ass and love doing it, and let him suck on her body and fuck her in
accordance with wild dreams. For years the majority of his daydreaming time has
been spent imagining himself and his future spouse. He wants her to have the
strength and abilities she needs to be able to fend for herself, too. He wants her to
be a career woman, one that has worked for her own way in the world. A tall order
that so far has not been filled for Mansen. As the years had gone by he began to
wonder if it ever would be, but now he is confident. He sometimes would be
satisfied and thanked the stars that he could still count on the singles bars and
alcohol to get him laid occasionally, and told himself at those times, feeling it, that
maybe no man deserves to be truly content. Maybe being content is akin to signing
a death warrant on one's own ambitions. Later, with Brittany, he would learn this is
not always true. Best to keep an eye on the prize, nonetheless, he tells himself, and
keep on keepin on. Mansen agrees to relationships at the bars if only because of
what he has picked up in the few books he has read and from other men in similar
situations or circumstances as he and their supposed real-life stories. Though most
of his ideas in this regard were fashioned in his young life, he will not ever regret any
of those relationships. Mansen decided a long time ago it is unwise for a man to
deny his own sexual desires just to present a politically correct face to the world. To
him, every woman worth having, and man worth getting what he wants, all know that
sex is perfectly acceptable as being the greatest and most important aspect to healthy
living and happy relationships in one's opinion. And literally fuck all else, too. Fuck
your cowardice or meekness and just go for it. Just do it. Go for the gold every time.
Tell them what you want and what you are and you are most likely going to be
served what you want, and get what you need to stay in perfect resonance with what
you have always been and always will be and while you will, or may, always have
room for improvement in yourself, telling THEM what you want and telling THEM
what you are means that THEY will never be able to doubt you.
As he let the smoke and method flow over him, through him in a weird way of
putting it, as he always did when high, so high, he treasured his time this day with
this pot and his small dreams. Mansen only half-consciously noted his wolfhound
running up. He only half-noticed the great grey one stop and watch, resting on his
hind quarters and anus, tail curled about his rump. He then noticed the wolfhound
come and sit below his feet. Mansen held his pipe and lighter, scratched his doggy,
and dreamt there would be a woman one day to share it all with him in the way he
has always known it would come to pass. Someone to share his world until the final
day of humble peace.
A breeze came up and settled in. It did so as he realized how long he had
been sitting lost within his thoughts, and with the dog and the pipe both. It was
going to get chilly, he thought. Quite a bit. Summer was ending, sweeping insects
away with the departure. The fall is good. Respect the decay or dying things, people
too, and try to pick out the majesty of new beginnings within. Scope what is ayway.
Chapter Ten: Field of black
""It must be nothing like your love""
Her body involuntarily relaxed in a purely instinct-driven economy of
survivals and probably because it was a way to minimize the potential for permanent
damage in places in her body where things were happening that should not have
been possible today. No more pain. 'O Pain 'O. She could take no more pain right
now, neither would anyone within any sane amount of miles of her location want her
to. Something moved nearby. She could hear it, but not see, and her mind, body,
DNA, all parts of her with and without matter as we understand it, understood too
well, even if her conscious self could not or would refuse truth or had gone away for a
time because of these strange things happening and again the knowing these should
not be possible today. Mind spinning in and out of reality like a top, dipping left and
right. Sanity wavered to and fro just as the winds. As of yet, there are not forming of
the winds the kinds of things required to make such monsters that winds are
believed and known and have been seen to do from time to time which are things
that happen that should not be possible today. The Sun tells me that it burns. That
every particle within it is no different to the Sun than each feeling part of us are to
our own selves, except that it burns. It is not good to be a Star, and we must now
give credence to the idea of capitalizing the word Star every time it is used by those
of us who waste lives and times and efforts in writing things down for all to see, or
some to see, or ourselves to see without ever having shared any of it, which is hard to
do, yay verily, when that time comes that you have written and would like others to
read what has been written by you. Selfishness and prickishness and other foulness
is wrought of writing and there is no reason you should ever feel the need. But then
what would we read? Read indeed. What would we read? Nothing. Just watch the
Sun burn and the Moon reflect upon it while the Earth turns and goes around in a
circle, supposedly, around the Sun, along with other planets too numerous and too
far to all be counted, then? Is that what you are telling me when you announce you
have just discovered a new planet in recent months? That your science of the
Twentieth Century has not reached even the meager depths of reality surrounding
the outlaying parts of the Solar System? Because you said that a few months ago.
You said you 'possibly found a new planet orbiting our Sun in an orbit far outside the
reaches of the orbit of Pluto.' And Pluto is not a planet anymore. Should I capitalize
planet every time I use the word planet? No. Planets say that to be put into terms
easy for human consumption thought-wise is a terrible fate for a planet to suffer. So,
we will not capitalize planet. But, I feel Sun should have a hand handed out to it for
what it is suffering in existence that it shares with others of the like and so when I
say Star from now on I will capitalize the word. Some of my closest allies are Stars.
Some of my closest friends are stars. Some of my most cherished possessions are out
there among the stars and you may not ever touch them, nor may you talk of them,
because you know nothing, nothing, nothing, about the fates, destinies- or lack
thereof, comradeship, or any other things in and of the UnIvErSe that are far and
away in your way of thinking from where you are at right now.
Brittany is thinking about how cold she feels right now. The air is strange,
too. Like it has come from a place having nothing, or little, to do with ideas she
grew up with about the world. Some of those ideas are forming new stories and
endings in her mind to the stories she already knows. The little tug boat that got
sent out into the waters did not end up back in the hands of a loving owner, but
instead was thrust up out of the water by a gigantic angry beast of unknowable
origin, something that should not be possible today. This angers Brittany, and she
has not been angry like this before. No, no, no. (I should insert a Littlefoot image.)
(He did.)
'What the fuck. No, what the fuck!?' Rage forms in Brittany for the first time
in her life. Lost and in a world away from her body she temporarily fuses her will
into matter, willing that a death be had upon her assailant. An aywayness. She
knows somewhere in her thinking that it would come, knows she can make it come.
And like there was a spider and then it was gone when I tried to show it to somebody
but then I turned around and all of a sudden like a penis coming on your face when
you were sitting there waiting to finish what you were trying to say but Bradley just
kept on stroking his cock and ignoring your every word while fashioning lies about
insects and making things real unreal and unreal things real but only in his
imagination because he knows that is where his real power comes from that he was
given by his mother and father and you know how annoying it is when he just moves
that way all the time while you are trying to converse with him literally and it just
goes to show how much like his penis he really is is that not correct how I said that
just now no I think it is I know it is I mean really he is just like that cock that one
time but he will never let it go so he was standing over me and jacking it and it was
making me like want to but then I decided because he is such a penis that simply
being around him means I was in a way anyway and so yeah I was just trying to
show somebody this spider but the spider was like all being crazy and stuff and it
was just disappearing and reappearing for no reason because it wanted to I guess
and I kept trying to show it to somebody and every time I turned around it was like
getting Bradley to come on you which is like the most holy and sacred thing in all
the universes that ever was were or could be you know so I had to stop turning
around because I started to think this spider was playing with me and then when I
tried to show it off like it was a sneaky cool thing no one had ever seen before I really
started to get a weird feeling like I was the one being the jerk the whole time or
something weird like that and it was totally weird you know but the weird thing was
nothing like getting Bradley to come on your face for the first time you know what I
mean like how he stands tall and healthy and vicious in his way of being loving and
able to tenderize even the most haughty of standards with that big gorgeous penis I
love so much when he makes it come on me to the smooth sounds of his favorite
music or of a piece of music composed of just one note in whole notes in measures
several seconds long continuing for as long as it takes and it takes all day and even
unto the night like a song but it is just the same note over and over and over and over
and over and over and over and over and over and when you see the music
composition representing this song you see how it is smooth because there is only
one note you see and therefore that is smooth music sparking your brains because
the writing on the paper is smooth in that it has only one level like the floor of the
building that is perfect which is something that has not happened since the time
before writing and writing was invented because something was lost in the long ago
and when we find remnants of what that was we will all shit majestically like the
spaceship majestic above the atmosphere in that split second of reality shift when
there are a certain amount of people inside the atmosphere and then all of a sudden
there are fewer in the inside of the atmosphere because some of us have left for orbit
of the planet awhile and we have no Earthly idea what the fuck that means but I bet
a million dollars when we find out what it really means we probably will stop doing it
for quite some time and maybe forever and maybe that is where the pyramids came
from is outer space anyway and there are like forty billion ants on the planet which is
really a boring joke but there are only seven of us left that keep reliving our lives of
the times in the spaces of time in the places of time on
How could he do this to anyone, let alone her? 'What have you done?' The
thoughts rolled like whales within violent oceans past eating millions of fragments of
memory, and forging mental steel from the remains. As quick and her proud and
powerful imagination against her torment had formed however, it was all gone and
reality flooded back in. Is she a cave? I think not. No one must be as a cave must
be explored, you see. Back to the canvas of her horror story of rape and violation and
betrayal and now pure evil reality floods in.
I have replaced the words 'drawing board' with the word canvas in order to
show that it is not good to make of art the things foulness is about, but it might be
wise at times to use such things as tools for which you may place the fruits of your
experience you rely on to make art a place of power to be stored and when
experienced later, either in your lifetime or otherwise, restored by, transforming the
truth of the beauty of your artwork and the fact of the realities we think we
experience into knowledge which is above all other realms of thought when put into
the mind of those open to the thought. Can I get some 'Cut the cheese, Madame?'
In her mind, all her body was being filled with unmatched purity of evilness
straight out of the heart of the horrid and dark lord everyone in church said they
feared but never spoke of, and Brittany was now beginning to think, maybe was
false.
The three longest fingers of the same hand containing the thumb embedded
in the anus of Brittany had already long ago (it seemed to her) found her virginal
vaginal opening and then fought through the vagina bones and tissues. Brittany
envisioned a memory of U.S. History class. Having nothing to do with anything
about being of class.
The young man made two strong forceful pushes between two retreating,
jerking motions of his hand to get his three fingers into the first three inches of the
virginal vagina of Brittany. For a moment he forgot the name of the girl, such was
his concentration. The feeling he felt once the fingers had reached a tight point
among the vagina made him think he could hear a pop. Not the Boston Pops
Orchestra, but a small popping sound. His fingers were pushed deep enough to
reach the knuckles of his hand at the place where the fingers meet the palm.
Busting bones blistering and bouncing loud as they broke back to a new size.
It had taken a bit of effort. He relaxed. Then, he looked up at the navy blue
night sky. There was moisture upon his brow, moisture as well, upon the pores of
her skin. Both his brow and her skin were aglow in the sunlight reverberating off the
moon's cheesy fucking face.
'Stupid moon,' Brittany thought.
An animal, large but wary, broke brush in the hedgerow a half mile across,
over from the terrain of the field, and from the direction of being across the road
behind. A doe, most like, scampering back to her fawn. A buck would have been
much faster, much more powerful and thus, louder. The young man looked and
could not see, then returned to his purposeful activity with Brittany. That means
now that both the young man and the girl with him are blind each of one thing so far.
The young man does not know it, but he will later, a little later, be blind to
being dead.
All the while with his right hand buried inside her, she fought the pains of
every breath. All the while, she tried to lessen her own movements.
All the while he worked his hand deeper. Into her virgin sexual center and
her virgin asshole he went. Mothers of gay boys have experienced this.
Congratulations.
He went deeper while undoing his belt with his left hand.
The belt is light-grayish navy blue. It has a brass catch hold for the belt to
slip itself through in order to be grasped with great security and steadfastness. It is
of a material that if one were to be whipped by it, it would not hurt very much, but
would leave burn marks.
All the while.
Once his belt was free, the young man slipped it on his throat and choked
himself to death. Nah.
He slipped it from the belt loops of the polyester-blend black dress pants he
had worn today, just for this occasion. He ran the belt under her throat and
commenced choking her. Nah.
As the belt slipped under her neck, she pressed her forehead into the Earth,
fighting against each whimper all the while. Whimper, all the while. All the while.
She was trying to make it easier for him so he would not become angry again and say
'Goddamnit.'
Brittany cringes each time she hears the word Goddamnit. She did not like
the word Goddamnit before the night in the field, and she has liked it even less in the
time since then.
Once he had the belt in position, he whipped out his sword and fucked
Aphrodite like a man almost mammalian. Oh wait, that was Orion. I forgot.
Once he had the belt in position, he relaxed, rested again, and thought about
this thing he was doing as some sort of entrepreneurialism enterprise.
"Errrrrrrrr, Spock?"
Brittany shuddered to think, dared to breathe, and masochistically kept from
moving because she thought every motion she would make from here on out could
betray her her remaining life. Betrayal.
I think after this has been published to critical acclaim I will be having a tray
of all the stuff I think I can afford to give to my guests at the location on the date at
the time to be determined later on after all this crappy hard difficult talentless effort
in writing a story about nothing that ever happened which is a retarded thing to do
but I hope one day will bring about the doom of my detractors allowing me to buy
more tractors and get a certain group of someone's together sometime to do
something with not involving any ideas I have in connection with imagining my own
funeral which happens to be something in the past that I have recently come over in
a manner of speaking which is to say I have gotten over with it and done which was
something that had my life not taken so many interesting angular turns for such a
long period of time might have been easy to avoid but which I will not dwell on
except at this moment.
He was trying to conserve energy, as she was trying to save herself from
agony. Agony.
All the while she tried to focus her thoughts. All the while. And it seemed to
her she was trying so hard to focus thoughts all the while while the all did little to
nothing to help. No smiling faces within the canopy of dirt upon which she now lay
without a blanket, she thought. 'Fuck,' she thought, 'Where were good things
hiding? Universe has forsaken me. All the while, I lay here in ruination and
tarnation and what a poopy nation. Can I will this all away?' [Only if I have earned
more than twenty million dollars before I die.] 'Will I be able to break through to
him and force him to stop? Somehow. Somehow? Somehow? What are my options
great goddess of the moon and the light refracting from and the oceans, too? Since
my own God has abandoned me, please tell me goddess, what are my options and
why am I being punished? I have lived for you my entire life. I never accepted the
Christian god, not really.' Thinking of her one-time god in the way she did, without
a capital G, hurt her feelings a little, but she kept going with it, 'He is not here
anyway, at this time, and here you have me ruined and dead and for what? Save me
now you stupid cunts! I hate you. I am dead. Just kill me. Please kill me. God, I
didn't mean it. I love you. If you save me now I will walk for you as an example of
your mercy.'
Her mind fucked herself. Her body became the tool that opened her mind
and spilled its contents across the ether. No more sane than a dog that gets beat.
She was gone in pain, fury, hurt, betrayal. Totally lost in a miasma of things
she had never before known. Betrayal. Her thoughts float away from Earth for the
moment. It is good for her she is not focused on the young man's doings. It may
have saved her life throughout to the end of the ordeal. Where do the tortured and
spent martyrs and victims get their life-fuel? From somewhere no one else sees.
From a place we cannot visit as the other people do. From the universal life we all
come from to begin with. Sometimes a superstar musician, well-known athlete,
genius, or leader, can tap that power without the trauma. Sometimes it can be done
by a man at work doing mindless tasks. Sometimes it comes on a woman when she
is being jizzed upon. They are the special ones, the ones that millions adore and
love, but few hate. A boy and girl touch hands in an accidental way. Brittany would
not be one of them, not at any point in her life. She would not have. Her only
chance to feel the powerfulnessness was taking form of her violation and rape.
The chores he has laid out for himself were going to be difficult for him to
carry out. The challenges now were both physical and mental. It was not like he had
received the finest training in the world at the services of some wild armed forces
situation, or mild armed forces situation, or regular armed forces situation, or armed
forces he was a part of otherwise, to accomplish a mission. This was his own
depraved work. All for one, only one. He had worked to prepare himself, but this
was test number one. He envisaged hundreds of such encounters all wrapped up in
the reality of this real and current activity.
Confident he could accomplish what he had intended for all this time, his belt
now re-fastened about the neck of the waif and slung under her throat, her head
down, her body stuck to the Earth, his left hand grasping the belt just behind and
above her red hair, a thumb deep in her flexing anus, his index, middle, and ring
fingers fully extended thus, but in her pussy, reaching and grasping near the cervix
of her uterus, he was ready to lift.
First, he picked up a balance transfer offer with a promotional rate of 0% for
the first 18 months, and a variable rate based on the prime rate after that, which
currently is 9.99%, looked it over, decided against using it for anything, and then
placed it back on the ground. At that moment he noticed the balance transfer fee
had been $10.00 or 5%, whichever greater. This made him doubly glad he did not
initiate a transfer for the promotional APR.
A brief feeling of small stiff hairs forming a wall of protection from whereupon
but the surface of her mons veneris and outer labials of the labia majora thereupon.
Hereupon how they prickle the surface of his straining hand like whiskers of a cat,
but more numerous just like the whiskers of a full grown man who doesn't bother
shaving but who always trims his beard and mustache to exacting lengths of just the
right size to make your butthole clench, if you be foe, or quiver with excitement if
nothing of foe. Either she had recently shaved or had only just begun to grow pubic
hair around her pussy pussy pie pie, (Throw in a peephole, too.), and he thought not
that she was one to shave her pubes. He was right. He brushed aside the thought
and brought his attention full bore onto the task coming, or, I could have said
brought his mind to the task. [I already said I am not V.N.] {Addendum stating
neither am I M.C.}
It was not imagination now, but a thing only few know about enough to be
able to describe, a thing living in darkness like nothing else. This thing took over
him throughout the evening of doom, destruction, and violent action he had pursued
in the advancing months toward this day. From this point in time forward through
the rest of the evening everything was like balls. Just like balls. Balls ripped off.
Balls thrown asunder. Balls strewn about on the battlefield like wolf candies. Balls
of a kind that Willie Wonka would never fashion, of course, unless Willie Wonka is a
fucktargator or something stupid like that if that is balls. Balls cut off. Balls lacking
recourse of a fustigator because the owner of the balls fustigated too much and got
what he deserved. Balls 'o plenty. "It is a male plane." "How do you know?"
"Can't you see its little balls?" Laugh again, fools. "Please pick up my missing
balls and hand them back to me," he said on the battlefield. "You've got bigger
worries than that," was the reply. "Not really," was the answer. Right or wrong, it
takes balls to sum up all your life in the recognition of your ever-lovin' testicles. Reform the word testicles and you can get sicletest. I'll develop the definition of it now.
Sicletest is a religion, I have decided, and the religion is a science, and the following
seventeen lines shall be the whole of the potential of this new religion. Here goes:
The writings of the hieroglyphs, an appropriate name for it, are all lies.
The pyramids are all vast spaceships that millennia ago brought aliens.
The aliens were invisible to the naked eyes of humans, perhaps, at first.
The aliens spawned as spore made out of the ships and ripped space-time.
The space-time was replaced by the sand of the desert in that area.
That explains the almost perfect and seemingly intelligent designs.
The alien spawn trekked as far as possible in several sure directions.
The aliens were invisible at that time because of how small they were.
The aliens have grown since that time and grown and grown. Niggers.
The history of the world involving Egypt and Pharaohs and their gods,
whom we think we have learned of, were created by the aliens themselves.
The aliens and their space ships wrought the first Pharaoh of a random
person, in an instant, and when he proved evil as sin, it was seen as good.
The first slaves of the first Pharaoh were brought from on high out of a nowsealed inter-galactic porthole of some kind. The opening of the portal can
probably be found near the first of the pyramids, and will have a walkway.
The first pyramid is still buried in the sands. We must find it, and destroy.
Or, all the first ancestors of all the races each had a pyramid spaceship.
His creative mind began telling him interesting stories about the reality he
was having, getting, producing, fathoming from hours of procedures and thinking,
making it seem more like fantasy.
The veins of his hand looked like they were feeding her, into her. His arm
was the udder of a cow and his hands delivering streams of milk through pumping
veins into her vagina. 'Ware the vagina, body. Body as a word for mah peeps and
shit. Sans shit. I was going to say, 'ware the vagina, then insert a word used by
common folk to describe one who is thought of as being a male human and when the
word is used in an appropriate way in accuracy within the framework of the Scientific
Method as opposed to being misused against the moral, always lacking of
surreptitiousness of the Scientific Method, what it upholds so well, in such a
practical but absolutely gorgeous way as it does so, like so man, woman, child, can
do just by being such, then the word also as properties relating to age in years lived
on the planet Earth. The planet Earth we are all adherent to in a violent way when
we are not thinking of it subjectively. This was blood, however. It looked to him like
her vagina was straining to suck the blood flowing through his vein apparatus' for
the entire world. Pow, in the kisser! I mean, Pow! The world! Pow Pow Power
Wheels. Pow Wow. Her vagina. Eating him as it conformed and then clenched
upon his fingers. Of course, her pussy was not eating him. He again snapped back
to reality and the fascisms' of the task, fascisms' that never would have ever crossed
his mind had they not been thrust upon him in the middle of his formative years in
the public school system, you stupid fucking dumbass retarded mind-blowing-ly
absolutely infantile old world wheel and stone hammer quality of thought compared
to NASA Space Shuttle quality goddamn lazy, worthless bags of shit known as
teachers, educators, school planners, politicians, preachers, and fucking goddamn
rapists. This story is for you. The task long though of was now literally at his hands.
He felt the wonderful hot skin of her flesh as her body convulsed to adapt to his wills.
Force.
Wiiiiiiiiiiillllllllsomnomubumuanimalonidon.
Hmm. I think I'll change it back to force. Well, instead I just put force after
the period. Then there was another period. Sometime I want to watch a very sexy
girl have a period.
Blood, oh blood, oh yummy yummy blood! (hopefully this is future
experience.)
Blood began to trickle from a tear in the base of her vagina. The blood added
to his delusional thoughts. Ace of Base is not very jazzy.
Maybe she was forcing this act upon him as opposed to the reverse being
true, he began to wonder. It was so weird how she did not fight very hard. He
redoubled his efforts. He gained absolute control, then, a break of clarity without
fear, emotion, wandering thoughts or violent daydreaming. [Hey Black People, and
Black People sympathizers, I used the word Nigger to make you feel a deepness of
emotion and outrage throughout this passage. Don't give it up.] Now he was
machining once again, a feeling that empowered him beyond normal strength.
He squeezed tight, feeling his thumb and fingers touching each other
through her vaginal and anal walls. Then he pulled, and lifted her off the fucking
ground by the sex and the belt about the neck.
There was no tortured scream.
There was no witness or protest. Silent night.
[Several thoughts have occurred to me while I smoked a cigarette outside just
now, following the typing of the words Silent night. First, I understand that Silent
Night is a song with lyrics based in Christianity. I understand that using the phrase
here could be to some Christians as using the words 'Hitler was a great man' would
be to some Jews, (supposedly. I have no fucking idea. I am not a Jew. I only know
of two people I have ever met that are Jews. Maybe three. One of them is one of the
most sexy human females I have ever met, and while I want to fuck her, I don't want
to be in a situation where we are about to fuck and then I decide I love my wife too
much to want to fuck another woman if she does not want me to. It makes me very
angry my wife does not want me to fuck other women, but I do nothing with that
anger except try to show I love and care and could give a great goddamn rats ass
about weather or not the female I love the most loves me enough to let me share my
love sexually with other females. Part of the only reason I even bother with learning,
reading, writing, practicing guitar, studying music, or think, is because my wife and
I have an agreement I hope she will be able to live up to that states if either of us ever
get a chance to fuck a very attractive famous person, then it is something of an
opportunity not to be denied each other by each other. And the other Jew was a
young adult male, or maybe still a boy, who argued with me about whether or not
Jews should be taking land from or giving land back to, Palestinians. My opinion is
irrelevant on the Palestinian-Israeli topic, as I don't know a fucking thing about
Palestinians or Palestine, or Israel and the Jewish and other populations calling
themselves Israelites. I had taken a stance in the argument that it seemed through
the way the news came out the Israelis were guilty of doing to a people as had been
done to them by Hitler for a time, in the time he closed shops just before he started
doing much worse. I cannot believe there are ovens somewhere that living people
were shunted into, and I don't like using the word shunt in conjunction with the idea
of those ovens because there is a show for children called Thomas the Tank Engine I
think is a pretty allright English show that tells stories about English-bred morality
and other gobbledygook and in that show they always talk about how Thomas the
Tank Engine shunts, shunts railway cars. Really spellchecker? You've decided,
spellchecker programmer and English literary authorities, to tell me how
gobbledegook is spelled? I can't spell it with 'de'? I have to spell it with 'dy'? Want
me to lube your asshole with ky before I fuck your civilization with goddamn
electricity from the fucking sky granted to me by Zeus? Fuck you. Anyway. The
phrase silent night was used because it calls to the mind of the reader knowing of the
song silent night the ideas of the birth of Jesus, and this part of the story of Brittany
and her night in the field is changing from all the things that have happened to
change her to things about to happen that too, will change her further, and I wanted
there to create contrast in the minds of some readers from the 'evil' of the actions of
the 'young man,' or 'boy', or 'tormentor', but keep in spirit with the level of evilness
going on, and Silent night was a perfect phrase because nothing is more evil than the
story of Jesus Christ. Amen.
For a moment he thought her back would break in half. This, even though
and although he was straining to give the length of her body as much slack as
possible, doing so by extending the length of his left arm far in front of him as he
started out. With his left hand he grasped the belt, and, situating himself as best he
could, tried to transfer her center of gravity toward her head as it hung strapped in
the sling created by the belt. His right hand is still balls-deep in her non-verbal
digestive and reproductive orifices, except for the mouth, nose, and ears, and of
course, the pores of her skin, and he held her out in front of him. One of them was
like a ballerina in thrusting pose. I forget which. I will remember witch, however, all
my life. You will too, Jesus. Nothing against ye, be ye so named in this day.
The animals in the woods a ways off had sensed her blood, her strife. Not a
creature stirred. The animals hid from the monster. The animals watched. Maybe a
part of their life-knowledge hinted as to the gravity of the situation, maybe the
animals liked diner and a show, or maybe it was part of survival instinct telling them,
'steer clear, watch here, stay hidden, keep watch, and wait to see what might be.' I
don't know. The young man would be in trouble if the old Native American belief
were true about there being gods that use the eyes of animals and nature to see you
as you work, you play, you move, you pray. This was a prayer that was becoming a
sacrifice masochistic in nature that was not necessary masochism and served
nothing or no one but the selfish young man putting it all out on the table. The table
of self-serving lustings upon which only pain, blood, rape, shit, come, destroyed
youth, and vileness, could be had. Maybe murder, but as of yet unseen.
Why did you die, _ . ?
No more colors conveyed to him, save black and white.
He marched acrosst the clods and stalks toward his open-air non-burrow in
the thicket.
Chapter Eleven Miles Away
...'bout them Chiefs? The word preceding has been omitted in due course
because of the Native American suffering.
Less than a mile away from the twisted young man and his victim, the late
afternoon had drifted along toward the evening with normal aplomb. A few birds
made song in the late hours, signing off until the next morning light. An owl hooted
his approval, or so I am told and have been led to believe. Smoke rose from a
converted 55-gallon oil drum where Mansen burned his trash. Black, putrid smoke,
curling upwards like something being sent away from something, infused the air
with the smell of burning plastics and all manner of material collected throughout
the first month on the new farm. The uncommon odor fought for control of
Mansen's sense of smell, and like a first imagining of something foul, titillated some
of his other senses too, in a very natural way, but a way that one must deny oneself
the temptation of. The crackling branches among the pile sent spark and ash into
the air and already most of the nearby grass had been burnt to dust and there were
dust devils. ... The smells of the fire were almost as strong a scent as the sweet
stacks of bales of hay put up in the dilapidated old shed, bales from the final cutting
before fall changes and that had been baled in the middle of the night before a
coming storm. A much needed, much appreciated, storm. A storm of much and
many, though not SO many. It was like a storm that was not yet ready to do what
storms are known to do, then, and though there was plenty of wind and something
fierce in it, the rain had fallen late in the following morning and without much terror.
Novels written by famous authors whose works have been published by Tor Horror
have had more terror within their pages than did that storm bring, and Mansen and
his hands had talked of the storm as being a storm the way a storm should be, if
somehow someone were to develop the ability to control the way a storm will be, and
the ways in which a storm shall not, which if you believe in God you must know is
something strange, isn't it? That it has not been accomplished yet. Well, if you must
know, I think things have changed quite a bit since I was born.
While the burning trash put up a challenge to the sweet-smelling hay, the
bales won over Mansen's sense of smell and the ratio was four to one.
The Cessna 421 Golden Eagle. 295mph. "Year 421 was a common year
starting on a Saturday of the Julian Calendar. March twenty-five, Venice is founded
at twelve 'o clock noon, according to legend, with the dedication of the first church,
San Giacomo, at the islet of Rialto." "Kafe 421 will be closed Sunday, December 23
thru Tuesday, December 25. We will look forward to seeing you all on December
26th!" [what is in quotes preceding is in quotes because it is almost verbatim off the
internet. Is there such a thing as > plagiarizing Wikipedia?
I do not know if you should believe what is found internetally.
Internetally is a new word now. Use it to describe_& though ends_& move
onward.
Something about Mansen's neighbor Joe. Written in a way that I know not if
Joe baled the hay on Mansen's property and was paid to bale the hay or if Joe baled
the hay and was not paid to bale the hay or even if Joe baled the hay at all. It seems
Joe is insistent on getting paid to bale the hay, but whether or not Joe would bale the
hay even if he was paid to is something unclear because of the way it was written.
Joe was beginning to get aggressive ordering Mansen around the farm, is the next
sentence, and should be stricken from the record. Taking it in stride, the next
sentence begins, Mansen knew that one day Joe would not be required, (I'll say.),
and therefore Mansen would not have to listen to his neighbor's advice anymore.
I miss my old neighbors and love my current neighbors. I do not have
relationships with my current neighbors that are what I would refer to in any way,
except to share little stories about their activities that seem to me to have been
wrought in them as though they have all read too much Edgar Allen Poe or H.P.
Lovecraft and think I am the thing that does not sleep or someone suffering from an
affliction involving the heart and a bird outside the window.
He headed into the house to prepare for dinner. And by he, I mean Mansen.
He washed his hands and face, combed his hair, and shaved. He was going
to prepare the evening meal but had sat at the dining room table to first take off his
boots, which he did, kicking them across the floor, and then because it was there, he
read the newspaper. He recalls having been fascinated by the newspaper when he
was in second grade, but now the newspaper is to his interests as a doe. In the paper
he reads an article saying that the new coach at State expects a lot out of his young
football team this year. Another article states the basketball team, coming off its best
season in twenty years, is back at the same strength if not better strength this year
because of the fact the starters were all underclassmen last year, and there was
success in the off season involving the obtainment of new recruits, in the words of
the coach. And the other article Mansen reads is a matter-of-fact telling of how
evolution, not creationism, had recently won the battle of being the crux of the
science curriculum in this State.
"Good riddance," Mansen said. He loathed the idea of science in the
classroom being threatened by religious freaks with horrible and nonsensical ideas
about The Universe and everything in it. He was not actually erudite, but watched
science programs as a kid and owned a small telescope. It was purchased two years
ago in order to make an impression on a fine woman he had dated following a
chance encounter at the post office.
Um. Because of my neighbor who worked at the post office, I am going to
have to revise fine to being something else. Let me use an internet browser, and I'll
be right with you. She was imposed upon him as though a punishment for an
offense, an offense very small in size, weight, or thickness.
It turned out she did not know or care as much for astronomy as Mansen had
been led to believe after their first few conversations. That she had lied was not
relevant to him, and neither of them cared near as much about trying to gaze through
his telescope as being paid into each other naked beneath the Stars. She was
remarkable in countless ways, but turned out to be a little too enthusiastic and
altogether too wild about coming to be his live-in lover for his comfort at the time.
He now often misses her company, or presence, and her zeal for all things Mansen.
Thinking about these things, Mansen is struck dumb against laws of lands
due to the nature involved around and about the thinking of them. Looking upon his
time with the woman two years ago, he saw the opportunity to fill the small ache he
had thrown away. He had taken her out of his house one night kinda like people in
the old days took out the bathwater. He had done it without kindness, all at once, in
disgust. The truth is it was the only way he was able to summon the strength to
break off the relationship. He felt he needed to bust their lives apart in order to save
himself from being changed almost entire. That is why he had done it like a
sledgehammer. This was all two years ago and only now was he realizing it might
have been the greatest mistake of his life. Amen brother. Even if another chance
with someone else were to occur, there was never a promise it would last. He would
love to take her back and give it another shot, but, he. had. hurt. her. ...in a severe
manner, on the night he kicked her out of his life.
"Yep, I am a fool. A master fool," he said, his voice low.
The house was silent all evening. There had been no calls or visitors. He has
eaten. The clock on the wall behind his dining room table, an old baby grandfather
clock, had struck eight some time ago. It was time to round things up for a good
night of sleep. 'Have to get a move on,' he thinks. He should already have gotten
the tools from out of the prairie grasses long before now. It was easy to be caught up
with television, the paper, and a few drinks with dinner, but, the ball was rolling
otherwise. When the time came that he had cattle and more fences then the fun and
games would be matters of life and death. A different ball rolling. Make it or break
it. There was wisdom in getting used to the idea of how much harder it is making a
living for oneself out here, how much more work there was to be responsible to get
done. Certainly more than had been the landscaping job.
God is a buck. He saves everybody. He tramples under hoof the bodies of
the truly dead using the mass of the Earth to pulverize and mash. The weights of the
justice system come crashing down on those who do not cherish their life dearly.
That is why there is a doe.
God is a buck. He saves everybody. He tramples under his hooves the
mistakes made by the truly dead and uses the mass and weight of the Earth to
pulverize, crumble, and obliterate the mass confusion of Satanists upon the Earth
and its people who are not among the number that do not cherish life dearly.
God, I am a buck. I trample under my own hooves. I have used the weight of
the world upon my shoulders to burden myself your talents, and I am sorry. Send me
a doe. Quick. I forgot. You already did. She is in bed. I had the words of the
paragraph up two from this paragraph come to me as I laid me down to pretend to
sleep. Now that is a lie. I know not why it is a lie, but it is a lie. If I hate you, I will
have you see me, and you will know my name. And if it is true I have reason to hate
you, you will be trampled. Trampled and trampled upon by the full weight of the
Earth, the fucking Globe. I will begin using words that are not known for things that
are thought to be known and there will be a majestic transformation of population
distribution, food distribution, water resources, fuel resources, and souls. I have not
lied just now.
Chapter twelve: Early means latE
Mansen stretched his legs. Plenty of tension there. 'Someone to do a
massage of the muscles in them would do me fine,' he might think.
It was time to take the wolfhound out for a stroll of leisure in conjunction with
getting the fence pliers and can of tools. Mansen was not sure he would work on the
fence again tomorrow and the best way to ensure he would not lose his tools forever
would be to retrieve them while he remembered them and where they were. Too bad
about losing all the light.
He took a beer out of the fridge, set it upon the dining room table. He
thought about it, put two more beers on the table. Three beers upon the dining
room table among a dirty plate and white corning ware he had prepared leftover Tbone steak and baked potatoes in. He stretched his legs and his arms now, and,
taking a deep breath he then let his muscles relax. He pulled a chair out from the
dining room table, his eating chair.
His eating chair. It did not match the other chairs, the chairs the table had
come with. You are chair and I am table and the chairs, because yes, there are
chairs, plural, and the table, have come with. It was cheaper. A favorite chair from
the dining table of his childhood. He sat in the old wooden chair and pulled up his
socks. Reaching left, he grabbed his boots and put them on his feet, pulling them up
very firm. An imagining of nails in the sole of boots. The leather stretched as his
feet set firm against the boot heels. The putting on of the boots made a sound that
sometimes brought the wolfhound running, but not this time the wolfhound running
has come.
Mansen looks to the right and onto the front porch, doing so through sight
that sees through the screen door, a large, simple screen door of glass and mild
metal, old, weakly silver, gray, gross. Emanating a whistle blown loud using two
fingers in his mouth, Mansen called Canker.
A moment later, Canker appeared outside the foyer, outside the house, on the
porch. In the porch light the wolfhound looked large as a tiger. Mansen knew the
dog could not see into the house and to where Mansen was sitting because of the
way light tricks vision sometimes, but Mansen knew Canker could smell him.
The wolfhound has a deep intelligence which belies his fresh youth, Mansen
believes.
Pacing and sniffing the air near the screen door, the dog searches Mansen
out. Mansen, still inside the house where the dog cannot go right now, clicks his
tongue against his teeth causing Canker to go berserk with a happy whining and
pace back and forth ever faster on the porch by the front door.
Mansen chuckled and grabbed a beer. He walked out on to the porch,
making his movements very sudden, intentionally, to startle the dog. The screen
door slams shut. Mansen knows how to take advantage of the youth of Canker, the
wolfhound born just a little over a year and some months ago. It was going to be a
sad day when the dog lost that youth and became wise and old.
"Hi, pup," Mansen says. He pats the silver and gray dog on the head, then
scratches him behind the large and pointy ears. "Whaddaya know, pal?" Mansen
said. Mansen looked deep into the eyes of the wolfhound. He did this because one
time he was told by someone that staring a dog down was an invitation to fight said
dog, and he thought the person's knowledge should be tested on the subject then, as
he does now, to this very day. Mansen once again considered the advice, and after a
moment of consideration, staring into the eyes of the wolfhound the whole time
thinking of what had been told to him about doing so long ago, Mansen came to the
conclusion the advice had been nonsensical bullshit. If anything was true about
staring a dog down, it was a good way to communicate. Mansen was not a mind
reader or thought sender, and hasn't ever had reason to think of telepathy a day in
his life, but he feels that with good eye contact he can almost will Canker to do
almost anything he is thinking about, and force the dog to obey him. He did think
once it felt like Canker was reading his mind in a way hard to describe because of
how that thought came about. Mansen dismissed it as being something maybe all
dog owners experienced with their pets.
The dog and the owner stared each other down momentarily, and then the
dog gave in. Oh Bow-Wow loses, yay. There had been a twinge of fear or
uncertainty in the pup, showed briefly as the dog looked away almost in a mood of
shyness. This withered away quite soon after. 'I win again,' Mansen had thought at
the precise moment he had realized his victory. The wolfhound whined.
"Let's go for a walk, Canker. See if you can help me find my tools ya
sonofabitch," Mansen said. Mansen had a big smile on his face. He was happy to
be spending time with his dog for once. He always called Canker a sonofabitch. He
thought doing so was the height of humor. The dog is literally the son of a Bitch,
and using the word bitch while still being within the structure of usage of proper
language and grammar was very satisfying. It was to him as if a great master of
English Literature had written for him and him alone the names of the objects, or the
names they are generally known as, that is, for his own specific pleasure.
Mansen was not one to be offended easy, except when in the presence of
those easy to offend. People with particular rules of engagement, you see.
Highbrow types, he thought of them as being in their own minds as such. People
who regard their lives as being above the working classes. They are some of the only
people capable of offending Mansen. It was nothing to do with education or
intelligence. Mansen had attended college at Brethren and received two bachelors
degrees in five years. The first degree was in English, and other in Anthropology.
With a more honest effort, Mansen could have attained another degree, and done it
all in four years. But, Mansen had taken things easy, limiting stress to issues with
women. It was at Brethren, which he had gone into the enrollment of with an open
mind, that he learned he had a problem with the trait in some that they care more
about how things might be said as opposed to what exactly was meant by what was
said. Mansen didn't understand it. What good is intelligence and education if you
can only communicate with people of equal or better education or intelligence than
that you yourself have received? It doesn't make the world work right. Then,
through school at the college, he learned intelligence is relative. And, he learned the
usage of one's intelligence dictated to what level or what thing the intelligence one
has is relatable to. He knew great minds in some college professors, minds of great
intelligence it seemed, and those he thought of as being more intelligent than others
were those who chose to bring people up, either through acknowledgement of
something said as being relatable to some fact or known thing out of the history of
the world on whatever subject, or by being gentle in the way they would dispel an
idea that was not accurate with what is known, if they had to, not by pointing out
flaws in statements of the student(s), but by redirecting the topic being discussed
into something very true and doing so with a level of interest or the appearance of
being interested and excited about the discussion taking place as though everyone in
the room was equal with him or her conducting the teaching. He knew similar great
minds in bar folks that had never graduated high school, and yes, there were those
professors who were not kind nor gentle nor seeming to be interested on any level
with those they were being paid to impart knowledge to. Then, there were the
students themselves, some of whom had come from backgrounds where it must be
taught that to be considered of any worth you must first recognize the unworthiness
of others' ideas, ideology, religion, opinions, or clothes. These people were not
intelligent in dealing with others, so how could they be intelligent? Just because they
were going to college? Mansen had seen quite a bit now, a man in his thirties, and
he is proud of the line he walks, so-to-speak. He is an easygoing sort of man, a
fellow with a deep sense of self-loyalty, disregard for a need of loyalty in any form
from others, and Mansen is dedicated to preservation of values and principles he
fashions daily, which are always changing, or, evolving. Like most religions have for
the duration of their existence.
Mansen and Canker headed out to walk together and so Mansen could find
the tools, those left in the elements at the end of his hard day. The man had a can of
beer in hand and two beers in the pockets of his jeans. He also carried a pouch. Of
jerky this time, but he has his pipe and it is loaded. He is wearing a sweatshirt over a
clean white tee. The wolfhound is dressed to kill. He is of high fashion in his
dressings. Fur, padded paws to die for, sharp white teeth less than two years old,
pointy ears that any she-wolf would swoon to and howl into under the full moon or
the bright sun or breathe into hiding in the shade of the porch or under a tree, and
the wolfhound has a keen sense of smell, hearing likewise, and is happy to be with
his best friend in the whole world right fucking now.
"C'mon Canker!" Mansen said. His order sent the wolfhound into running
in circles at the top of the porch steps, his claw-tips scraping the planks of the porch
clittering and clattering with clicks and clacks that sound like Stephen King at the
computer following a brainstorm, except outside, from the claws of a wolfhound, on
the wood of the porch, in circles beneath the watchful eye of his master and friend.
[Did I just use the word clittering? That's a fucking hilarious word, my
friend. Clittering. I will have to use it again sometime in the future, which, sad to
say to all you present-minded folk, does exist.]
Mansen handed Canker a healthy chunk of beef jerky. Well, he gave Canker
such. Canker doesn't have hands, I suppose. The meat was homemade by the local
butcher in a small town about five miles from his new farm. The quality and taste is
high and spicy, but it is well-balanced spice, balanced against the natural flavor of
steak. 'It could not be better,' Mansen thinks, 'Sells for four dollars per ounce.
Worth every penny.' Mansen chucked the chunk of jerky into the air for Canker and
the wolfhound, already having smelled it and knowing of it, knowing what was
coming, had snatched it out of the air in an instant. The spicy meat never hit the
ground. That the spices were something which slowed Canker in chewing was
evident, the way the dog would turn his head about while chewing with the teeth of
the side of the mouth. But, the jerky would be chewed only a few seconds before
being swallowed. The wolfhound had learned as a pup it was not fun to swallow
meat whole without chewing when once he had been given a three-inch-wide piece
of shoulder from a bovine and had swallowed it whole, then had to shit out the bone
once it made its way through his digestive tract. Canker cried for the better part of
an entire night when finally the bone had come to pass through his doggy buns. The
dog did not swallow large items whole anymore after that experience. As soon as
Canker had finished eating the first piece of jerky thrown to him, he looked sharp at
Mansen, asking in his way. Mansen had gone on down the steps to the porch,
however, and satisfied his master would gift him nothing further, Canker trotted on
ahead in search of the companionship of the man he knows as his friend, also in
search of nature's callings.
A great night and neither master nor pet expected much in the way of
excitement. A light rustle of the trees sends the first leaves of fall across the yard.
Canker barks and takes off to chase after a noise or movement in some foliage in the
fields ahead, and behind a tall stand of trees bordering the property of the farm up
there. There is a very dense pasture of grass beyond the trees. Nothing keeps
Canker interested very long. He might find something to clench between his
powerful teeth, or might not. It seemed to Mansen that whenever Canker found
something, it was a stinky something. Washing Canker was a chore and a half, too,
and the stinky things Canker would find were much to Mansen's derision.
Mansen thinks watching Canker off on the chase is something fine. Fine as
in of superior quality, skill, or appearance, not like the post office employee or expost office employee. Canker is almost to the trees when the coyotes speak up with
howling from a place in the far off distance and this makes Canker come to a stop
and point with his muzzle in the direction of the coyote voices, ears turned to take in
the sound all the better. Canker began making impatient circles where he stood
listening to the coyotes, whining a little and then yipping or making a sharp youthful
bark. Canker was nervous about his own voice because of the fact Mansen does not
allow him to bark at just anything or just because he likes to do it. Mansen felt it was
good to train a dog to speak when spoken to, and when raising an alarm, but not
speak otherwise.
'This is about as exciting a life as I could want,' Mansen thought, 'Canker
doesn't need to talk to those coyotes, he just thinks he does.' The grasses of the yard
are silent beneath Mansen's boots. He has just passed the Elm tree. Canker is
thirty-five feet ahead, doing his little dance and saying sweet nothings to nobody
because his voice is stifled through training keeping him from joining the pack.
'Life is nearly complete,' Mansen thinks, 'The only exception is the lack of
women in my life who are worth a damn. Been a long time coming in regard to that.
The evening should unravel as peaceful and pleasant as silk.' A fine thought. But as
fate would dictate this evening, would not become.
It was Canker, the great wolfhound, who first detected something amiss and
what would prove to be grave happenings on Mansen's property. Mansen was busy
thinking and lost in wonder of the beauty of the night sky and other things when
Canker came bounding full bore toward Mansen as he finished a smoke break,
bounding from the edge of a planting of trees that have grown a long time and stand
near the end of the long line of new fence Mansen had just put up today.
Mansen heard Canker, legs whipping the grasses, the tall grasses almost tall
enough to conceal the large wolfhound, then Mansen heard the punching of the
Earth by large padded paws. He saw it was Canker sprinting toward him. Mansen
was standing at a point halfway between the road and the trees where he had seen
Canker sneaking off to a few seconds ago. As life unwound for Mansen following the
day of the discovery Canker was about to lead him to, Mansen would wish at times
he had left his tools out in the field for another day. Not because of Brittany, but
because of himself on behalf of her, maybe, and also because of things much later
that no one could have foreseen or controlled. 'Life could have been so much easier
had I just sat on the porch with my guitar and amplifier that day,' he sometimes
thought, 'ignoring the Earth for once and taking a well-deserved leave of
responsibility.' Time with the guitar and amplifier on the porch was something
Mansen eventually learned he enjoyed more and more every time. It was the only
way to escape thinking about what he was close to experiencing now, and was very
close to having not had to experience, because getting Canker had been a
spontaneous decision, not something he had planned for. Playing electric guitar
through an amplifier on the porch in the years following his experience with his
wolfhound and the little woman in the thicket at the end of the brand-new fencerow
in the middle of one of his new fields was an activity he would turn to in order to try
and forget the shit. Over time, he learned to love it more than anything. It was a tool
to help him cope in having to do with all things Brittany for a long time, then
elevated to love one day, and since then he has played electric guitar through an
amplifier on his porch almost everyday. This is at a new house, he does this, not the
farmhouse. Another thing happening because of Brittany.
Mansen set his beers down before following Canker, who was more excited
than Mansen had ever seen him, and seemed to want to be followed.
Chapter Thirteen: First Ritual- Part I
I. Soltar.
A. Laceracion.
i. She thought her stomach would rip apart as he forced her up
from the ground with the belt slung under her neck in his left hand, and his right
hand in her sex, and more. She knew the word for what worried her involving her
stomach was hernia.
Movement forced his thumb deeper into her anus then, and she could feel his
fingernails in the walls of her vagina and intestines, could feel his thumb and fingers
pinching her flesh like vice-grip pliers. Something made her think of the word vicegrip. She wondered where the thought came from. 'How the fuck can my body take
this?', she then thought, and 'Where is god?' She wished for magic powers, powers
to fight the evil sorcerer working against her, to rise up and turn it around. She could
only react like a stuck pig, however, and she thought of herself as such. Void of any
control, yet unwilling to die. Wanting to scream but unlike a stuck pig, not able to
scream. Fighting against all the pain in her chest and lower back that was telling her
not to breathe if she did not have to. She tried not to worry anymore, but instead to
just try to live. She flexed her muscles as best as she could in order to become hard
like when with friends during sleep-overs, she and they all young and pure and
innocent, they would play a game called 'Light as a feather, stiff as a board.', a game
she now thinks, as she imagines herself trying to achieve the trick, is '...a stupid
game, a stupid thing, a stupid idea, a stupid, stupid, stupid, dumb, dumb, dumb,
stupid and dumb and retarded thing that only a fucking idiot would ever waste time
on. Dumb and stupid like now, like this, being no longer young and pure and in
third grade playing a dumb and stupid game without three fingers in her raped pussy
and a thumb up her butt. (Dumb and stupid like now, my spouse coming up to me
asking me a question about jobs I have applied for today even though it is obvious I
have my computer on and my word document for Massive Angry Heart open and am
trying to FUCKING GODDAMMN WRITE!) She needed to try something,
however, so 'Light as a feather, stiff as a board.' came to her and seemed necessary
in order to save her insides from becoming inside-out and her life from becoming
extinct. This reaction and the thoughts accompanying were instinctual to the horror
befallen her now. She did not care.
She thought a brief time of her loving Father. Father was still capitalized as
she did so, whereas god no longer was. Always being a nit-picky prude with the
English language and Literature elements. She did not think then of whether or not
God has a need for believers to sometimes think of him as being God without a
capital 'g'. Such thinking was it, it was further from her mind than the story of Peter
the Rabbit, or Peter the Great, or Peter and Paul, or Peter, Paul, and Mary, or 'peter'
the word. Every piece of her wanted to call out to her Father when she thought of
him, and she almost did. Then, she shoved the thought of her Father away, away
from her raped virginity and sinful anus. 'Ohhhh my aaaanus,' she thought. 'He
must never see me like this. Father, I will never let you visualize me this way, oh
God, (capitalized now, in prayer), please don't let my Father ever have to visualize
my anus. I promise you, the ground I walk on, I will never let my Father hear the
truth and pain of this bullshit. Oops. I cussed.' She then thought there would be no
undoing her current situation, as well as there was no hope. 'I will never regain
sanity, sanctity,' she thought, 'I will never have salvation. I will never regain sweet
innocence.' Okay, maybe she did not say anything to herself in her mind about
'sweet innocence.' Nonetheless, she thought about things in a new light and it
occurred to her she would have to leave the Church. 'I will have to leave my friends
and family and the old life behind,' she thought, 'I will walk for thousands of miles
and get sick and die when I'm 14. No, wait, I'm 17 now. Shit. Whoops. Cussed
Again.' She felt the way she was feeling because of how impure she thought she was
for being in the predicament. She thought of herself as being unworthy of ever
receiving proper love again. Anger welled up inside her with the thinking of
unworthiness to receive love again and fought to combine itself with the tears,
sadness, the pain of her body, the trauma of the humiliation of the position she was
in, and become one with her resolve to live. While she had never really spent much
time working out feelings of sexual urges or thoughts, she had spent much time
imagining what the first time being made love to by a husband would be like. So she
had some frustrations along with the sadness happening all at once. The anger was
winning and yet matched close with sadness of losing herself, losing the person she
had believed herself to be. It was a very hard thing for Brittany to accept, all of these
new ideas and thoughts having no relationship with who she had been for the first
seventeen years on the planet living in the Mormon flock of Christians and families
and going to Church and praying each day at home like home was Church and being
active in sports, laying down the law on non-believers all the time, putting herself
into the minds of people as a beacon of happiness and light in servitude of the
almighty God of creation of everything since the dawn of time itself and knowing of
the Universe that it is just there to be experienced like a fucking cake so you can die
and then go to the gates of heaven and say, "I am ready to be accepted into your
kingdom you have prepared for me! I know it is my right! I have done well as a
member of the flock! I did lead when you asked and I did follow leaders in turn and
I had much success and I brought proof of your existence as fact to all who ever
knew who I was, saw me, or were told any truth about me! I will accept access to
your kingdom like a virgin, and will prove I have learned to love through my every
deed from the moment I arrive! I prayed before and after every intercourse I ever
had and did not suck penis or have lesbian encounters! I did not let my husband lick
my pussy! I worked and proved myself! I loved and showed mercy! I only ever cut
the cheese when in private! I brushed my teeth almost every day! I wore clothes to
show that those who believe in you like I do are always provided for! I did not rub
my pussy on an antelope! I did not ride an elephant into the jungle just to trample
the ground! I was never charged with any crime! I did not get a speeding ticket and
I did not offer oral sex to anyone to get away with speeding! I did not listen to
Madonna, or Lady Gaga, or Gwen Stefani or Genuwine or the guy that went to court
for peeing on someone and do not like the music of Amy Winehouse or David Bowie!
I did not watch my cousin make out with her friend! I kill mice! I did laundry and
dishes without a complaint! I did not see any movies! I did not vote for Barack
Obama! I supported the President when he went to war against Iraq and again when
he went to war in Afghanistan! I prayed for the second coming! I told every boy who
loved me nothing about my feelings for them and married a man belonging to the
Church and we had twelve children who all grew to be Mormon as well! I graduated
with a 4.0! I told smokers that smoking is not good for them! I did not drink alcohol
even once! I donated all my old clothes to the thrift stores! I volunteered! I took
part in ministry! I always flushed the toilet after each use! I did not get any diseases!
I kept the oil changed in the car, the truck, the van, and later, the RV! I grew
flowers! I had a garden each year! I composted the garbage I could and recycled the
garbage I could not! I cleaned house! I carried the Book of Mormon with me
everywhere and read it in public places in order to encourage non-Mormons to talk
to me about your word! I believe Jesus died on the cross for our sins! I did not
worship Mary! I did not watch science fiction on television! I prayed for those in the
news every day! I kept my toenails trimmed! I did not die of cancer or any other
infliction! I paid bills on time! I invested in the stock market to encourage the
growth of the wealth of the nation! I shopped at Wal-Mart! I lived in Utah for a time
after I got married! I did not talk to Black People unless they were in the Church or I
must! I did not ever spend a dime in Texas! I do not support England! I did not try
to research other religions or cultures with other religions except in a way to include
them in the Church of Mormon faith! I did not kiss my sister on the mouth! I did
not kiss my brother on the mouth! I did not touch the bosom of my Mother at any
time after I was weaned from her breast! I know I am welcome and I am coming in!
By the way, who ever told you I like peanut butter on my pussy lips from a mile away
with jizz in my anus?" She imagined herself closed off from the experience of
getting to heaven and wondered, 'What vaults created by which wounds have I, lay
empty for the demons to come and find?' It was a very sad thought indeed.
She thought, 'Had only I a time ship, that would be a, like, super-radical and
great thing.' She most assuredly would go back in time and undo the day.
Pain again brought her thoughts out of the clouds and down to Earth. The
flood of sensation was immense and she decided could not be avoided any longer.
Each muscle of her body which had been tensed, she now slowly let slip, let be
unwound. Her feet, her legs, moving in the sockets of her pelvis like wind socks on
flagpoles. She could hear several bones or joints pop when the pressure was relieved.
More pain then, and it strained her stomach muscles, then she relaxed more. She
could feel a gap in her vagina between the walls of the vagina and the hand of her
assailant, and felt air enter her vagina. The wind there was so cold it did not matter.
She became limp.
When her whole body relaxed, he knew he should stop or else risk falling.
He managed three more steps, shifting her weight between the belt and the
hand inside of her while trying to maintain balance and slow down, then, efforts to
balance going the way of Newton's apple, he fell. He fell with her, even though she
weighed less than a hundred pounds. The way she was being carried, her weight
was uneven and difficult it was to carry her in that way. Some sick crapper inside
him wouldn't get the hand out of her pussy and buns.
As the young man struggled, stumbled, and fell, he tried to toss Brittany
forward so he would not pin his right arm in an awkward manner between her body
and his own. This was instinct, as he had a vision of his right arm being bent wrong
and breaking during the fall. Instead of injuring himself, he allowed Brittany to flop
to the Earth. the sound was a combination of all manner of things disturbing to
some aspect of his mind. Her breath was forced from her diaphragm and abdomen
along with a strange sound from her voice, the make-shift sling caught strands of her
hair and ripped some out, and his right hand went even deeper within her bowels
and reproductive system. He managed to catch himself on his right knee as her
body landed. He became concerned about the ground and milo stalks. 'She could
have been impaled on one of those,' he thought. Coming over him in that instant
was a sense of impending doom. For the first time he started to get the feeling he
would regret doing this wrong and sinister thing. Bringing immense discomfort to
another human being, he was learning, was easier said than done. And, because
Brittany is as Brittany is, he thought too, she doesn't deserve this. She really doesn't.
It was the sound she made as she hit the ground responsible for the trigger of
his hesitant regret. It was not a virtue of his own good will. It was a sound sickening
to hear, like the time he threw a puppy in the air just to see if it could fly. He was
four then. It would be a fun thing, he had thought then, to be able to fly. He had
planned on catching the pup if it proved unable to fly, something that occurred to
him right before his experiment as he noted the bird his idea came from had wings,
and the puppy did not. But, after each of the two throws, the puppy came down hard
upon the Earth, and each time there had been a gushing sound as air escaped its
throat, and a sound identified now with a living thing that is broken and irreparable,
and more, a memory of a none-to-pleasant conversation with his father, who had
witnessed the final heave upwards of the small puppy into the air. All that evening
his father talked to him, teaching him of living creatures, their right to live, creatures
big and small, the sacrament of their existence among ours, and ours among theirs,
and humanities' responsibilities involving ideas like 'do no harm.' The talking
lectures gave way to, and added much fearful feelings toward the experience
following, in which his father had forced him to watch the puppy die. Then, his
father had forced him to carry the puppy back to the puppy's mother bitch. The
bitch had barred her teeth and the boy had thought he was a goner. He still
remembers that in his head like a scene from a movie, all in third-person. The teeth
of the bitch are solid white but are like metal spikes. Her head is lowered and
shoulders are hunched, her front paws are wide apart. There is a great amount of
tension in the air. The boy holding the puppy and the bitch stayed within three or
four feet of each other for what seemed like seconds that would never become
minutes or hours or another day. Then, his dad had kicked the bitch and snatched
the pup and tossed it and picked the boy up off the ground and held him. The boy
grew up after that with an unhealthy fear of animals of many kinds, a distrusting
disposition toward his father and every person seen by his own eyes to consort with
or talk to the man, especially those who did so in a framework of reasoning,
informative, or pleasurable dialogue, and along with those persons his father knew,
the boy matched all people throughout all his formative years following the memory
of that time with personality traits of them, and the world became a terrible place.
He started to hate his mother for not having been there that day, and she is not part
of that memory, and she is just something outside of the memory but guilty for not
being something against it. The young man remembers the puppy and childhood
now and begins to cry. A spinning failure in the plan. Until now, there had been
determination to do what it was he had set out to do, and fuck all else. There had
been no malice, no anger, no emotional attachments. Now, though, he feels regret,
and fear, he remembers his fearing nature around others and his father. 'Things are
going way off course,' he thinks. Although right now, his thoughts are a far cry from
something operating nominally.
'I can't just leave,' the young man thinks, 'I could, I guess, but it wouldn't go
well. I've left evidence on her. Maybe not, but I can't risk it. Something is wrong
here. Why can't I move? She looks hurt pretty bad. What should I do? I'll pick her
up and carry her to the grove and cover her with a blanket.'
His hand squeezed what it held. It was all he the change needed.
"Goddamnit!" he said. His voice and rage combined. He flexed his muscles
as it happened. Brittany felt his right hand clench her flesh again. The violence of
this action was not countered. She thought his thumb might rip her asshole wide.
The belt jerked too, around her throat.
She screamed despite pain then and her scream was like that of a small
animal coming to fall upon the Earth from twenty feet in the air. Quick, sharp,
lasting pain. It was then she sobbed, truly without control, for the first time.
She sobbed uncontrollably, but her crying came weak. It took all of her
efforts to catch it before it let loose entirely. She tried to keep it down, let it out more
slow, and keep from feeling the pain associated with her every breath. It felt as
though something was broken.
God, it hurt.
She wanted it, but did not give in to the urge to sleep. To black out would be
giving up and she was going to try to survive this. She was going to stay conscious
until gods or Earth or universe or all things as one body and in perfect unison forced
her to die. Ayway. Her will was a weapon against it. Her will had always been her
greatest asset. It used to be geared toward doing as God would have had her do, but
now god was god, not God, and she was an all-important SHE, not Brittany Oman,
member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, virgin, sister and
babysitter and track teammate, and confident Christian.
She began moving a little. It felt like her anus and vagina had become
somewhat lubricated with bodily fluids. At the same time, the two holes were now
clamped so hard on his fingers, she doubted he would even be able to let go of her
with that right hand if he wanted to. She knew he did not, or he would have by now,
and would have left her laying in the field to wait. Laying and dying and waiting for
who knows what. She had a new thought coming too, a very interesting idea. It had
to do with the suspicion she felt about the young man potentially not being able to
escape from her even if he wanted to. 'If this is fact,' she thought, 'how can I use it?
Maybe I can. It is a weapon.'
She began to imagine him as just a part of herself, an extension of her anus
and vagina into his existence, and something she could deal with. She would make
him and herself become one person. 'In this way,' she thought, 'I will be able to
make him understand the fact I am in tremendous pain. If I can make him
understand my pain, then he will stop.' She was thinking strange fantastical
thoughts, thoughts that if need be, she would make him stay with her until her body
was healed. She will change him. She will make him love her. She will absorb the
young man like he had just arrived, like she wanted what he was doing now with her
body. She might make her pussy disintegrate his body into her own. She will
become a tornado or black hole or so ferocious in taking what was coming that God
would have to rise up him- or herself and save them both. She will pull him in and
crush him spiritually and using all her knowledge of healthy love, culling from his
body its necessary pulp from its life. She swallowed. It seemed to her like it was the
first time she had done so since being forced to succumb to his will. Her mouth was
dry, her throat swollen a little around the windpipe. It was hard to draw saliva down
with the belt under her Adams apple and around the base of her neck. 'Water would
be a superb joy right now,' she thought.
No water was forthcoming.
He sensed something different about her now changing. A renewed vitality.
His penis grew, ommmm... surging with a large flow of blood. He was becoming
sexually aroused. He was gaining an erection, getting a boner, having a hard-on.
"Is he doing something we know about?" Rape asked.
"I think he has begun to. I know his hand is not wanted where it is." Rape
answered.
"And through rape the girl has been transforming and will be stronger for it.
Or not?" Rape pondered.
"She has begun the transformative process because of rape." Rape declared.
"Get the dog and the man the dog calls master and friend from the house over
to the girl and her tormentor right away." Rape decided.
She felt her body slipping forward and neck laying deeper against the belt.
And then once more she felt him lift her body with his right hand penetrating her
tight little once-virgin pussy and asshole, the once-virgin asshole soon to be seeping.
Though feeling him through her once-though-of-as-dirty asshole and virgin
vagina was painful, yes, and unwelcome, yes, and nothing like any experience she
had known before, of course, she had changed her mind and wanted her plea of
mind to work as she tried to be the master of the situation and began to pretend as
though it had all been her idea, as though she wanted him there. She knew not from
whence this strange thought had come but embraced the culminating forces of
which as a part of her own will, something to work to advantage if it could be, and
tried not to cry. Crying was giving in. She would tolerate it no longer. 'I will not
tolerate this from you, Brittany,' she thought, and thought she heard her Mother
saying. But her Mother was not talking in the field. No Mommy for rape time! No
cookies and milk for the battered body, the now circumspect self void of identity
traits having any resemblances from the days before.
As her tormentor tilted her head toward the ground by lifting her ass high into
the air so her weight would shift and her collarbones would latch to the sling,
supporting her upper body, she tried to strengthen a greater resolve against giving
in, but at the same time had to take a more relaxed posture to avoid further suffering.
It sucked, big time, and she had not the language skills to verbalize a coherent
thought on the subject, not really. She was not giving in to total submersion in evil.
He carried her like this all the while gaining an erection and thinking of his
plan.
Her legs shone in moonlight. The legs and moonlight vibrant. Her feet, with
strong arches, are small. The toenails are unpainted. Thin soft hair is laying on her
legs where she had decided not to shave for some time now and did not matter that
she had not because of how young she still is. The leg hairs are tinged with the reds
similar to her natural hair colors. Though she is advancing in ages because of this
night, her legs, her feet, and her hair, all remain as though it was a night taking place
only in visionary imagining in the minds of others in a comfortable place where love
is taking form and shape, but happened fifteen years ago, or further away than that in
time and space, from Brittany, except the legs and feet and hair are Brittany's legs,
Brittany's feet, Brittany's hairs, and maybe because of that, the legs and feet and hair
do not matter so much. Like your goosebumps. Her legs bend at the knees because
of the lurching, lifting, lurching, movement of his passage acrosst the long distance
of the field, bobbing in the air. Her dress is now bunched up around her shoulders
and under her armpits. It drags and tears while moving along through the field of
stalks, coming to ruination like nothing she has ever known, except now, of course,
for herself. The dress had been blue. It was not just blue anymore. Mud, dirt,
blood, tears, sweat, and fibrous specks of the colorless stalks, have made the dress
something new, but unbearable.
For Brittany, there will be more to come. It will be stained throughout the
future.
The young man carried (a nice tune maybe) on (her vagina) though could see
(saws) the damage (creative results) on the girl's back (portion of body reminding
one there may be some anus around) where the pickup truck bumper rails
(signifying not just a bumper, but additional bumper shit) struck (to cause owie
against another) her (female human in this case, supposedly) down (without town,
nor with suggestive comments about nun-capades or vaginas) . There were several
light lacerations. The worst was where two large bruises existed on either side of her
spine, again, signs of the metal of and force of the pickup truck. The bruising was
worst because of the way the rising lumps of flesh contrasted the pale, smooth,
flatness of her skin where it was undamaged. The young man anticipated the girl
would require a long period of rest and convalescence exceeding just a day or
perhaps two, in order to be restored to health.
Thinking of the future when she would be thus, the erection he had gained
strength. He worked through it, carrying his female compatriot toward the woods
outlined ahead by the starry sky at the far end of the field, and worked for it, thinking
of the girl as his pet more than as a lover, but as a lover, more than as a pet, and
thinking of how the sex between them would be once she was of vitality and healed
flesh and mobility and desire for him. He began to be happy and imagined her
wanting him, lusting about him, telling sweet things about his appearance in a white
t-shirt, the tattoo he has, saying how deeply she needed to experience the bulge of
his pants he now thought might arouse the girl once she had sighted it, bringing it to
greater strength. Surging power and invincibility came through to him. He thought,
'I'm going to remember this feeling and carry it forever and go back to town with it
and when I get to town I'm going to kill that cunt criminal prosecutor.'
One day.
Right now his task is simple in his thinking he is thinking he is taking a
princess to the forest in order to see about making her a queen of a land told of but
as of yet not realized that should come into fruition because it is his right to make it
so and right to bring her here and right to follow through with the plans he has made
anyway, no matter what hell she or he have to go through to achieve the final
solution. Amen.
Chapter XIV: First Ritual- Part II
Within trees and sparse but high grasses forming a thicket, a quilt lay upon
the Earth. Below the quilt, where brush has been cleared and a large square hole has
been dug, lay a soft mattress. The tormentor had placed these things here in
preparation for his time here with a young female, here. Hear. Now it is time for his
purpose to come to pass. The young man approaches. Most wildlife nearby is in
cover and hushed, each member of each species present finding purchase in place to
see what is in store for the young girl and the young boy.
Tormentor has carried the young seventeen-year-old girl for a quarter-mile to
the thicket, and she is alive. His right hand is inside her orifices. The anus, the
vagina, the stretching, the heat, the fluids. She had resigned to the way he was
carrying her and had gone limp again. She had caused him to have to drop her
again. He was upset then, but now it doesn't really matter. When he lifted her body
the second time he was prepared for her limpness. She remained relaxed. He felt
empathy about the body of the girl but not for her situation in any other way, shape,
form, or with any concern for her thoughts on the matter. 'It will be okay,' he thinks,
'I have planned.'
He laid her down. Face down on the quilt-covered mattress. The pattern in
the quilt was sewn by hand, stitch by stitch. He placed her legs and feet in
congruence with the pattern. His hand was clutching her insides with persistence of
time and he tested her resolve to fight or to be with gentle movements of both his
hands, almost all over her body. He knows he has caused pain and injury to her
delicate and intimate places, or that it is likely so. He was going to fix that.
The young boy had let the belt around the girl's upper body fall upon the
back of her head, in a move he thought of as a stupid mistake. The buckle had made
a clanking sound as it struck her skull. He now removed the belt, frustrated with the
belt itself, and threw it in a five-gallon bucket made of white plastic. The bucket is
out of the range of sight of Brittany, but the sound made by the belt as it entered the
bucket, made her make a conscious effort to try and decipher what the sound had
been made by. To think in concentration was a hard thing to do.
Her breathing is slow and steady. She is facing left, like before on the
uncomfortable ground, and she sees things. Her eyes gaze without focus toward the
trees and night air directly in front of her. They are subconscious and unmoving, her
eyes, not seeing things for what they are. Even the grasses are creating ideas in her
brain as she watches them, which have no definition in what she sees. They appear
blurred. After a time she comes to see with more concentration, the night air, the
upright trees, some sticks, a patch of flowers, an evergreen sapling, and these things
are hers to hold along with a very cool breeze. Nothing else for her now, she has lost
resolve again and she knows it. The rest is all his. The occasional cricket perks up,
but not singing as long a song as crickets unmolested by the presence of a human or
large animal do. It was as if the entire woods were aware of crime, passion, life, and
death, a show taking place before the eyes of the creatures the only purpose of which
was that there be a show. A tragic show. Creatures of nature, plants, and beyond the
stars of the universe, were the only things she could see and she knew they felt no
pain. Not even the furnace suns feel burning, do they? She thought not, and it
helped her deal. She took little notice of the mattress below the quilt upon which she
now lay prostrate on her stomach. The quilt is softest cotton, cool, and smooth, but
she will never notice. Never have time to notice.
The young man had removed the belt. He had almost broke her neck the way
she had been carried with the thing. He had thought nothing more of carrying her in
that way than a busy mother would bustle about carrying a child in a sling of her
own, and to him the situation between himself and Brittany was no different than
that, except the position the girl was in while being carried, as her face was down,
ass backwards, and also the knowledge he had of himself that his intentions were evil
in nature which had created a perverse sense in him as of loving care, oh yes, much
different than that of a mother with her child. In MOST cases, different, yes, but not
ALL.
Brittany's hair lay mostly upon her left ear and neck, the color red more
pronounced against the paleness of her skin tone. A few wisps of the hair, moved by
the wind, were brushing her cheek and forehead.
As a hair parted her vision that danced on a green patch of flower that before
tonight she would have known as 'rabbit's ear,' she took notice and understood the
fucker's hand was still inside her goddamn vagina. She tried to register in her mind
the exact parts of his hand to be accounted for as being inside of her now, how deep
those parts might be, and where at with more specificity. 'Maybe I can find out,
figure out, the damage that has been done,' she thought. With her newfound
consciousness and this directive she could feel a burning sensation set in with
stretching, cracking, and what could only be the splitting of the skin of her outer
labials where the power of his hand invaded. Oh that fucking right hand.
Goddamnit.
'Goddamnit,' he noticed in her this shift in awareness almost as if she were
coming to life upon his hand. He had been wondering if she was resigned to dying
for awhile, an idea that saddened him. He has feelings for her well-being after all.
Right? Right. Ha. Happiness came over him in waves when her consciousness did
shift and seem to come to alight upon her situation and his purpose with her. Her
change occurred as he had reached for the nearby bucket to the near side of the quilt
in a patch of grass cut with neatness earlier in the week by him, grass he could see
was growing tall again, starting to encroach the clear space of his repose or piece of
mind, both.
'Did she just now flex her vagina around my fist?' Tormentor thought,
'Maybe.'
At some point his pinky managed to slip into her vagina. His hand had
begun to cramp, and putting his pinky in along with the other three fingers already
molesting her vagina, eased the cramping. And besides, due to the erection that
formed while he walked with the girl, he had been caused inside his gut and
imagination a desire to know more, dig deeper, and reach harder into her. So, he
did. Now he was like a pensive neophyte buccaneer probing for treasure.
His desire; to see what was up with her, is all. Demon or angel? Or maybe an
alien sheathed in human skin, or something else. Something exciting. He was
going to ascertain every secret to the life of this young girl with him no matter what.
Transforming her if he can from the naïve and uncontaminated girl she had been
once to a zealous and potent person of insane comprehension and more woman than
women everyplace else would be an endowment she may appreciate if given time.
Time heals all wounds. Right? Right. It would be worth it even if it took a great
deal of time, to achieve the goal and always and forever be able to have her as he had
almost a million times, it seemed, already envisioned. All of the analysis and
measuring he made principal to this night led him to accept as true it would be done.
Many of the historical figures he studied before this night would no doubt like to be
watching over him from a purchase nearby, or maybe are from within a perch of
permanent consciousness, ready to aid in whatever otherworldly manner they can, to
help her survive him while helping him uncover her mysteries and talents. He is
delusion in thinking it, but it is an honest thought, one he has without doubt.
He found the bottle of lubricant and popped the top open. He placed the
bottle between his head and chest. Using his chin to hold the lube in place, he
allowed the bottle to face downward. He moved his left hand quick to be under the
mouth of the bottle top so as to catch the lubricant as it poured forth. Gravity did
what gravity does as he applied science of pressurization on the bottle by relaxing
and flexing his jaw with repetition until his entire palm was covered beneath a
gleaming pile of clear and cold gel, galvanizing his thoughts on the gleaning coming
next. He thought of her now, or thought he did, but what he was doing by moving
his left hand into position above the wrist of his right hand in order the lubricant gel
would get warmed up and diffuse the shock of its impact on the body of the
beautiful, perfect, young girl, was something coming to pass not based on any real
feelings for the benefit of Brittany, but because he had rehearsed doing so in
preparation of the abduction, attack, and actions that had been henceforth. The
liquid threatened to spread all over the girl's body but he managed to keep it flowing
away, distributed between his right forearm and left palm. he rubbed the fluid with
quick and light movements of the hand, feeling for the heat of his body to cancel the
chill.
She felt what had been a burning sensation turn into a numb feeling where his
hand was violating her, still, still violating. She tried to push him out, but had not
the strength. It only made her pussy more tender. She relaxed her vagina and
buttocks then, utterly giving up, just so she could be in a position that was maybe
less intense. Her body hurt from her ass up to her neck. It was a truth she could not
deny no matter how much she tried. "Owies," she said. She sounded not like
herself. The man hadn't heard her and didn't act as though he noticed. She knows
then, for a few moments during the horrific events of the evening she had been
transported to some place of relative unknowing of physical things, or spirit realm of
mind. Now she was learning what she could and trying to lock facts from fictions.
her psyche was new, and the thought had come fast.
She moved a little, once more, and then relaxed some again. When she did,
doing it against the calls of pain of her reproductive and digestive system(s), she
gained an understanding then of what was really going on. Within her anus she
could feel an object. It was not too deep, but had unyielding force. Profound though
it had been at the initial moment, the realization now did not startle her, and it no
more deteriorated her steadfastness than if she had put something there herself. No,
it did not convey to her any self-pity or indignity.
'After all,' she thought, 'what is something in the anus to be thought of as any
different than something coming out of the anus just the way it happens to damn
near every living thing that ever walked the Earth, that ever spoke, that ever drank
milk from a breast, that carried a bucket of water from the river and went back again,
back again, back again, and found a baby in a woven basket lined with paper and
sealed with honey, became a mother, a father, a sister, a brother for the first time,
walked on the moon, gave a speech about freedom and rights or domination and
countenance of a person, anything great and good or great and terrible and good or
great and badly thought up but coming out anyway, like when you realize you are
gay and your mom and dad will hate it or you realize you are gay and your mom and
dad will not mind or you realize you are gay and your mom and dad will like it or
love it even and all three things are the same thing until you speak it but you know
that once it is spoken it doesn't matter what the end result is because all three
situations are the same damn thing and it could be something special too, like saying
goodbye to a friend for the last time in a long time in a long line of long goodbyes or
short goodbyes which should not be differentiated by anybody as being good or bad
because it really is up to each individual, not groups, not public sentiment, not social
order, not majority, but the minority doesn't matter either, its like finding out that
everyone hates you or loves you and you realize you do not care one little bit except
in the fashion of your own making out of the miasma of every thought you ever had
that when honed down and focused becomes nothing less than something in your
butthole or more than something coming out of your butthole maybe to be put right
back in again and astronauts fuck in the space station and the President has many
whores and the biggest whores of the world are those who want to be informed and
read newspapers and watch news on TV and what does it matter anyway because TV
shouldn't be a bad thing but it sure as hell is in a lot of ways to a lot of sorry people,
but the radio isn't any different and maybe a phaeton isn't a phaeton but it is a past
or future shining bright but like nothing else ever before everything is a phaeton in
your anus in my anus there is something in my anus omg my anus my anus my anus
of simplicity of eliciting anal intercourse just because I am young and virgin and
have an anus and what it is is what it is is what is it anyway but my butt and my butt
has pooped a thousand times and if I live my butt will poop again and it doesn't
matter to my butt that right now there is somebody putting something into my anus
because well it just doesn't matter because it's theirs not mine, they just decided to
make my anus useful for a moment and that is all and it is all right out of sight no
different than Orville Wright's first flight over a piece of land that might as well have
been a Leprechaun field filled with Leprechaun spawn and delighted little girls that
all are horny and tempted and going to get some pussy right now there is something
in my anus if I want it or not and the horny delighted little girls that are tempted and
going to get some pussy right now also think they can listen to some rock music and
keep on getting pussy all the time like a boy finds a dimmer switch just before
masturbating the penis between his legs for the first time and I guess I never thought
about it before but now there is something in my anus and well I think if I can
respect that things in or out are the same damn thing I think I can get through this
and break on through to the other side smelling like a delighted little horny girl that
is tempted and going to get some pussy and ignore Orville Wright and his first flight
because it doesn't mean nothing when you're talking about something in your anus
for the first time or getting some pussy from another girl for the first time and this is
just like a everything to everyone and it is the same as everyone who ever ate a lamb
chop, that went to the museum, that made the art there, that saw the woman open
her mouth wide and told you she wanted you to climb under her dress in public in
front of children and it is the same as that and this and those and theirs and ways
and means and if there is a committee then there is a bomb and if there is a bomb
there is a mom and if there is a mom there is a step and if there is a step there is a
book or a footrest and the footrest is a stool and I have something in my anus where
stool comes from normally but now something is going and it makes no difference to
me right now, right now I have an anus of simplicity and felicity waiting for me to
decide what I am going to do. What is it inside my anus? His thumb?'
'It must be his thumb,' she thought. She could feel that, indeed, the other
fingers of his hand, all fucking four of them, must be inside her vagina. 'He must
have that hand in me as deep as his wrist, the fucking goddamn fuck! How deep?'
She concentrated. She realized there was a thing of pressure inside her body, deep in
the core of her. Then she realized two of his fingers were nestled deep enough in her
vaginal cavity to be pressing on, or near the sides of, her cervix.
Now Brittany had not felt such a thing before, and now that she was paying
attention to it, she had this feeling of wonder again.
She felt wetness, but not much. Not enough. She was glad for the lack of
profuse bleeding, however. But, on the other hand, it burned still, it burned badly.
Creasing skin, burning and numbing sensations, the labia doing the splits. Then
involuntary stretching and flexing and quivering. Relaxing and coming open,
tensing and going closed. Let it all relax, and take what comes.
After awhile the lubrication had come to be dulled to some extent from the
initial cold quality it had as the young man worked and forced the mass of fluid
down his arm, across his wrist, and then all over and all at once, the fingers of his
hand, the girl's asshole, buttocks, and vagina. When first the liquid struck glidingly
her skin, her body tensed and relaxed. She made a moaning sound, mumbling
disagreement to no avail. It became that his hand was like fish in water.
When the lubrication hit her body her thought was, 'He has set me ablaze.'
The lubrication was not as generous as it might have been to her cracking and
stretching virgin labia. Opening her mouth to scream, she was only able to suck in
air, which, filling her lungs, bursting her bruised or broken ribs outward, caused her
intense pain and suffering all along her torso. Realizing she was not on fire, yay
though it felt like her pussy was, she let the air out of her lungs in a long mumbling
sigh and then forced herself to concentrate, concentrate and relax, let tension and
straining go by the wayside. The cold was shocking, then burning came through,
then numbness. And then, she was very wet and soon it was quite relieving.
Both the young man and woman were once prime creatures worthy of golden
salvation and hallowed sacrament. Now they were of a new kind of pious venerate
being, one suggesting knowledge and transgression and lust and degradation go
hand in hand. Squalor, filth, covetousness, a twinge of coveting, yes. One of his
accord, the other against her will, but coveting nonetheless at this precise moment,
the relief. Nevermore the a specter of heaven, but one of furthermost controlling
malevolence and acquiescence combined.
A laze now, resting beneath the canopy of trees in the night and moonlight.
And no animal stirred.
And there was the sound of a metal lunch box landing on grass and snapping
a delicate twig, snapping it, and it made a very quiet snapping sound below the
lunchbox.
And a metal clasp being undone and a hand fumbling inside the lunchbox,
and then nothing for just a moment.
And then there was his voice. Not The Voice, not The View, not The
Anything. Just nothing but his voice.
"Here. Open your mouth. I am going to put these ibuprofen tablets in your
mouth. They are good for you. You will not be able to swallow them yet, I fear, for
your mouth is dry. Just hold them in your mouth until I get something else to make
sure you swallow them. Do not fight me. I intend to love you just now." The young
man spoke to her as if they were consensual adults out for a night of romance and
she had been complaining of a minor headache or something simple like that and
like she had been working all day to make a living for him and was just too tired to
move.
"Asshole," she thought, but did not say.
'He speaks as if,' she thought, 'we are consummating a marriage after many
long years of courtship in virginity and are about to begin meeting the family and
friends we each have and are going to be graduating college soon and getting jobs
and doing the Mormon thing. I can't believe it. Jesus Christ. Maybe we really are
consummating something. I'd like to consummate the removal of the fingers and
thumb from my vagina and asshole, is what I'd like to do.'
The young man lifted the ibuprofen container and clenched it like he had
done with the bottle of lubrication, but this time the top of the container was facing
up. He had rehearsed doing this many times before this night had come. Once
opened he continued to hold the container with his left hand and released the cap to
fall to the ground. Later he would put the cap into the R2D2/C3PO lunch box laying
nearby next to the five-gallon bucket which is next to the quilt which is laying on the
ground before him upon which her body/his prize, lay.
""Now I lay me down to sleep, I prey the Lord my soul to keep. If I die
before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.""
He tipped three ibuprofen onto a clear patch of ground near his left knee.
The pill bottle goes into the lunchbox. The lunchbox is a goddamn motherfucking
Star Wars lunchbox, trimmed in blue around the edges, the Star Wars logo in 3D
block lettering on the lid. The handle is light blue. It is in great shape except for
small tinges of rust on the hinges both on the back of the lid and also where the
handle mounts are.
Brittany had opened her mouth long ago, waiting for the pills. Her mouth
was still open.
"Here," he said.
"Uh-huh," she said.
While she had been waiting, a silly daydream had come bouncing along to
infiltrate her, almost like a bouncing ball infiltrates the wiles of the little. It helped
her ignore much better, with greater ease that is, the odd tightness and fluidity and
numbness coming from her anus and vagina.
So it do be.
It was a vision of Snoopy falling into a mud puddle. She used to think about
this silly idea whenever getting shots at the hospital for any reason Dr. Sosa N. D'So
ordered one or more up. She also wanted to ignore the pain around her ribs, as she
was now sure they were either broke, or bruised. She hoped she did not have what
they call internal bleeding, something she had read about in Time Magazine once.
Then, she thought, 'Maybe it doesn't matter. After all this, maybe death will be a
good experience. Jesus died and lived to rise to heaven, maybe I will get the same.
God I hope so, and I hope I can come back and send a little email to that jerk Bill
Maher, too. What a major, what? He's like a guy in the band who only has one job,
to play the cymbals, and do it just once, and he does it perfect during each rehearsal
and practice, only to jokingly play at the wrong time just to throw off everybody else.
I mean, if he was an alligator, he'd be one who always jumped into the water as his
relatives were about to snatch lunch. If he were President of the United States, he
would be either Bill Clinton, or worse, Sarah Palin, a girl, or worse, Hillary Clinton,
both a girl but not a girl, and a worse girl for the movement of women's rights than
all, because she's never done nothing but be married to a President, and now with
her power is seen by so many youth of our country as a great woman. What a goshdang-nabbit joke! Ugh!'
A moment later she reversed the thinking about death being something
preferable, sure, sure, she did honestly and wholly in a Christian way, which was
good because it put her into a habitual consciousness tool of her subconscious mind
that revealed to her an illusion she had long held in this life, an illusion that, if to be
stated in layman but still scientific terms, would be said to be 'a result of
programming through her church, perhaps, but definitely a tool of survival instinct
against an obvious trauma-level powerful notion she had been exposed to way more
than once,' and so on... But still it was partly disgruntled thinking. She thought
instead, 'I hope I don't have internal bleeding. I will love this fucking asshole rapist
and fully suffocate him and absorb him unto his death.' Her mental trauma was
severe already, her mind already way to into the fathoms of unreachable cooled lack
of reason. Throughout the night so far she had gone back and forth and around fear,
anger, hopelessness, and around and around again. It seemed like there would be no
end to the crap, but she knew her life would not be summed up by this, deep down.
Sparingly at times her mind was able to seize the reality her thinking had been
illogical at times, this night, but her ego would then take over. She then would be
angry again. The anger led to failure and hopelessness. The feeling, in her mind,
was of something black upon her. Black hole in black universe of black suffocating
crap among black stains killing light and goodness and bringing the two to worship
at the feet of black.
Three ibuprofen tablets went into her mouth where they came to lay upon the
inside of her right cheek, her cheek that was on the mattress. He reached into the
lunchbox and found his vaginal cleaning bottle designed to aid women in cleaning
up their vaginas after giving birth. It was the perfect tool at the moment. It is
unimportant to mention details about the bottle. It is more than seven inches tall,
more than two inches wide. It is made of clear plastic. The nozzle is the push/pull
kind, or, if you found it closed, pull/push. Fuck off. The bottle is full of vitamin
water.
"Here," he said.
He squirted the liquid into her mouth from a steep angle so as not to cause
her to choke on the stream.
That was nice.
She had no choice; instincts forced her to begin swallowing. The pills went
down. As she began swallowing, her mouth closed and there was a little splash of
water against her face.
The young man then placed the bottle into the left hand of the girl. She had
not tried to use her hands since he had assaulted her, she realized, and seeing her
hand holding the bottle was weird.
She thought she saw a bug. It moved away, up and out of a tangle of dried
grass and twigs underneath her hand when the bottle was placed in her grasp.
Pressure where usually she did not think about feeling much. Numb and
cold. Tenderized skin. Sensations not to be accustomed to, but getting there. The
darkness. Leaves, grass, trees in wind, the quilt, the mattress, the young rapist
above. A coward. She felt an ant crawling on her back. 'The ant too, is a coward,'
she thought.
Young man and virgin young girl. Makes no difference if virgins or not. No
dog and butterfly. Not a thing like love of a young man combined with lust of his
loins to prove he loves so he might satiate the lust, whose love appears more solid to
the young virgin he is after because of the forces of his lust dictating he must choose
words she will respond to. Not like when she gives in and tells him to touch her
there, in the place he has sought to touch a woman since time immemorial.
All she knew. All she needs.
The young man felt a tiredness in the extremities of his right arm and right
hand. More time had gone by without him aware of it's passing. The right arm was
stressed, full of weariness and soreness. He had exerted himself in her body to the
point of being exhausted. The lubrication he had spread across the whole of his
right arm and hand, over her anus, buttocks, vagina, and lower body, had caused
him to feel tingly and numb. He could not tell where his fingers ended and her body
began except for the vice-grip of her pubic bones around the base of his hand. He
wondered now, and for the first time, if her pussy was cutting the circulation off to
his four fingers that were now curled into a small fist shape inside. He tried to move
those fingers. It was difficult. A straining. He was kneeling and had been a long
time. His feet were falling asleep. He needed to readjust his position. Again he
tried to open his fingers. He stretched them, and they opened, and her hips
shuddered. It was an involuntary movement, he could tell. A little disconcerting,
but nothing to be concerned about now. He thought of the decapitated body of a
snake.
She made no sound but a sort of waif-like breathing into the quilt.
Her vagina opened and closed, gripping his hand. He felt the folds of skin
inside the vagina release and then form a strong suction upon his fingers. It felt
much better on his hand this way, much less like his hand was trapped. He could
feel a tingle as better blood flow moved to the fingers. There was relief from a mild
pain from a spot of strain. The strain had been in his elbow.
The easiest way to describe the position of his hand was that was a
perpendicular nazi salute. His thumb was more at ease than his other fingers. The
thumb was not so deep in her asshole as the fingers in the pussy. He could see her
rectum was more elastic now, and his thumb had forced the skin of her anus into the
shape of a pointy mound of flesh that was protruding and out of place a little. His
hand disappeared where it went into the not-so-hairy outer labials and pubic mound
of her vagina. Her legs were spread wide, for the most part. This gave him an idea.
He needed to be more at ease. He wanted to keep his hand inside her and
never let go. He moved his legs out from under his body and shifted to lean on his
left hip. He managed without disturbing her very much. He laid his head upon the
quilt within four inches of her body, facing her. He drew air into his nostrils to get
her scent. Prepared as he was, he had a second quilt in the bucket nearby. This, he
pulled from the bucket. He threw the clean quilt over her ass and legs, covering her
as best he could from his weird position.
He closed his eyes. His arm and hand relaxed. He began wiggling his
fingers and trying to appreciate the experience. Up until now he had been hard at
work. Horrendous and frightening are two things he is not thinking or feeling. He
wanted to enjoy his catch, that's all. Without interruption, change.
It could be said of this, had Cthulhu been real, and had it been a force living
only for the protection of women against being subjected to rape and other forms of
vileness, this guy with Brittany in the woods would be in deep, deep, deep, deep,
unfathomably deep, deep, deep trouble. Such deep trouble.
Chapter XVI: Background
Things WOULD change. As the UnIvErSe is the universe, change would
come. A creeping doubt growing within became worrisome and the threatened
change it signaled was appalling. Feeling as though change would not be favorable,
that in all likelihood any change to come would be unfavorable to a great extent with
bearing on not only what he was doing but on his life, he began to suspect things
would not end as he had hoped. Whether it was something in the air or not he could
not say and he could only think about it as change, unfavorable, unfavorable change
and an ending, an unfriendly ending because of change unfavorable because of
suspicion(s) and likelihood of change coming with the creeping doubt of threatened
change and he was worrisome, then. He felt as he went deeper and deeper into
fantasy-cum-reality it very possible he might not get the opportunity to keep her as
his personal pet. No, not for as long a period of time as he had initially planned to.
At any rate, it seemed like things would be falling apart from here on out. Creeping
doubt, worrisome, change, appalling, unfavorable likely, unfriendly likely, fear
growing that; even though and taking into account tedious preparations, perhaps
this pretty young thing might die. He had not thought of that. The death of a
human being, minding the weak, sheep-like human such as the girl before him,
would be a toll he could not bear, he came to realize, but did not want to face, would
not accept if it were to occur, and, he could tell because of the feelings described
hence previous this statement, might have power to threaten him all the rest of his
natural-born living days. "Tortuous spinster of fates and deeds' pay! Asunder the
mind with results of self-imposed circuitous thunder. To have malfunctioned! Oh
woe is me at this grave hour of convalescence, nudity, depraved loss of form and
functioned intentions wrought of my penis and sperms! Mighty orca of sustained
drive determining the outcome of how the boat of the Eskimo floats that should
never habitat among the icy waters but stay forever underground and like a nest of
chickenpox in the hiding recesses of smallpox infestation about to erupt from silent
unknown fathoms pray now thee tell me of what happened to bring such corpulent
visions to my playground of the essence of purity and resolution to bring about a new
world order featuring rabid and bloodthirsty babes, long slow walks to the edge of
the ocean in order to catch some waves, recitations of Yeshnan Banot by the
Philadelphia Philharmonic Choir and musical instrumental accompaniment by none
other than H.P. Lovecraft on organ, Stephen King on bass, Neils Degrasse Tyson on
1986 Fisher-Price grand piano with one invisible key plus the musicians of Tool and
Pygmy Love Circus along with special guests David Bowie and David Gilmour and a
comedian remaining nondescript because all comedians are are illusions based on
the formation of rocks at the beginning of the time when Earth was formed and like
those rocks all smell the same as one another which is like a fornicatris and brine,
(only time I've plagiarized a literary sentence subject and verb relationship in over
480,000+ words written to date: Monday, January 14, 2013, 9:40am- changing the date
to Moodate Janis Forktine Two hundred billion thirteen Jason movies Nein
dingleberries Forfree always-masturbating 'o clock.), getting Claire Danes a bottle of
water filled with my desire to see her come over here right now Claire Danes and do
what you do when you do like you do how you do moo Vemma and Claire Danes is
here Hi Claire Danes, millions upon millions of dollars' worth of Danish children
laughing and playing while getting beat by a two-year-old on the catwalk, yeah, the
boardwalk, yeah, the roulette table sucker, investigating the disappearance of
organized crime in the year 2249 but adjusted to match the time displacement
technique displayed by the author of the greatest and most magical, most
disparaging and radical literary hit since John Gotti lit up the screen on television
and who knows where else but those in the movies anyway like they are the only ones
who know anything like John Goodman on that day when he crunched the spider
under his boot and new it was not little toot but he never again ate a can of 'Vagina
Juice! With 100% more Aids! Starriiiing, all of Africa!', developed and fully
functional automated electric trains carrying people from Maine to Oregon, Oregon
to Sacramento, California, Sacramento, California to Arizona, Arizona to Florida,
Florida to New York, and New York to Maine, a train deliberately designed to ignore
Southern California and the soiled underwear, plus ABCDEFG, and HIJ, and
KLMNO, and PQR, TUS, V, WX, YZ!" The unconscious self threatened to seize
power. But, even as things were unraveling, he held fast. To detach in a premature
way, against the plan, to have things unravel askew, no. This could not be.
When dealing with women, plans askew were not good for you, he knew.
That's why he fisted her first. In particular, when your hand is deep inside thus a
vagina without permission of the woman in question; it would be extra dangerous to
have a mishap. He had already endured a mishap, the same mishap twice, each time
she fell in the field. The self-loathing incurred almost drove him to murder then.
Proof of inadequacy. Goddamnit. What to do, what to do? Toto? No. Toto was a
worthless piece of dogshit. (On the inside he was, where the dogshit of Toto lies
inside the intestinal walls. But I was talking about his personality. Fritz was a better
dog. Fritz was the first best great. Claire Danes, I'm still thinking about your
laughter. Damnit. Fuck you, Megan Fox. I'll make you my whore that I pimp out
to myself for free.) His thoughts, like this sentence, were as those of a schizophrenic
man and bordering on paranoid delusion. Now for the break-down of the sentence
and its underlying schizophrenia: Thoughts, Sentence, Of A Schizophrenic, Man, all
are not schizophrenic. it is the BORDERING ON PARANOID DELUSION part
that smacks of schizophrenic see, because THOUGHTS cannot BORDER anything,
dumbass. Thoughts cannot border anything, but the border of a nation can, and
does, always. So, protect the border? Probably not a very schizophrenic idea!
Maybe a little paranoid, but whose to say? Not me. I don't live in Texas or Arizona.
'BITCH. Cunt.' The stability of his mind was loose, like so much air. Making the
situation worse, he was not able to grasp the reality of his lack of fortitude or mental
acuity with his conscious self as he would most have liked to do, like everyone alive
on Earth would like to be able to live and breathe and do all the time. Her body was
hot though. And fire. Fire is important. And his hand had become weak and
powerless, but was still doing crazy, insane, exciting things. He began to imagine
she was a cow giving birth, (and I detract my moo moo's.), and he was the
veterinarian charged to help her deliver calves. The difference was, this cow's tight
virgin cunt, (and I detract my cunt's.), was as a table-mount vice-grip machine, and
it was something he would never be able to escape. [I want all the beautiful women
of the world to fast for five days, then, eat three pieces of chicken and squat and poop
in the country while I film. Then, we can release it in the movie theatres. After it has
been seen by many, and by politicians coerced to see it that choose to do so, we can
film ugly women pooping in the country, and run that through the theatres, and
maybe, just maybe, we can start to transform the minds of all witnesses to higher
levels of sympathizing or sensitivity toward the realities of hardships of some of the
lives of some of the people. What do I mean some? A LOT. Then, I may receive the
Nobel Peace Prize, but unlike damn Einstein or Obama, I never killed anyone to get
it, restoring it to its purpose under the Sun.] {To clarify in logical terms: We all
poop, right? So, show the beautiful ones pooping, then the fat ones, and all will be
forgotten except that 'Everybody Poops.'} She had grasped his physical strength and
his emotional stability and his mental sanity, though through no intent other than
the intent like any human has when they are driven by the laws of nature to rely on
the ability to fight for survival, to appease a force when that force has been found to
work against free will and the right to live... like all forces against me are now proven
to be intent upon doing. (Because of jealousy in some, and ignorance in others,
which will persuade the individuals reading my work in this particular setting to tell
others either A. nothing about my writing or B. that my writing is horrible and
inadequate of delivering spontaneous thought or coherency in any way, shape, or
triangle. This, even though we all know in our hearts, minds, bodies, souls, that this
entire paragraph is the best paragraph in all history of American English writing!)
Any person in a position to witness what he had done with her, to her, or in
preparation for today during the weeks before this day would have no doubts as to
what kind of mental state his mind was now fashioned to be the most replicate of.
Murderous insanity, for one, so much like a Dahmer or Bundy type, but tampered
with a strange veil of compassion, too, not unlike Hannibal, but different in a very
important way, a fact of reliable constraint being the case. Repressed sexual
banality, another. Child of God by Cormac McCarthy almost. Perhaps he had been
raped of personality. Perhaps he had been raped in the ass. Raped by a relative,
raped by a stranger, raped because of a relative. Perhaps he had been slipped a drug
against his will and then raped by many. One can never tell from actions alone.
The truth of one of his conditions is simple to uphold witness towards. He
has grown to feel omnipotent throughout his maturation from childhood to
adolescence, from adolescence to some semblance of manhood. A great omnipotent
man-god, though women do not give him the benefit of the doubt, and yet he is not
gay, though is omnipotent, and seeks succor within her shelving. Shelving being an
adequate word for describing one who is seeking solace in a human female in
America, I say, especially if you go by the pins human females are pinning on
Pinterest these days... cookie recipes, bookshelves, doily closets, etc... After several
years of being ridiculed or taken advantage of by various co-workers, friends, people
in society where he tried to make an in, he began to develop a fantasy which became
a plan within his reality. It was fantasy but not made of the stuff of dreams. To take,
force, and keep a woman for sexual needs, personal needs, and to make her publicly
known to gain higher social standing. The thought he might fail never crossed his
mind, not without a rebuttal of equal or greater force from that part of psyche known
as id, which is superior to ego. Perfect envisioning within his mind during planning
or conspiring and at times daydreaming, he felt prepared for any occurrence of the
moment, felt it impossible he would not find success. Throughout the previous
months, and up to now, it has indeed crossed his mind as possible he could be
imprisoned or worse if he were caught, but he took every precaution he could
conceive against such, and was not going to blithely throw precaution out the
window like a writer who has reached a final destination in what they write and
believes they can write almost everything that pops into their head and somehow pull
it out of the ass of realms of non-writing into the folds of the story like the pussy
hides the better secrets of the vagina from you when she is not active in production
of necessary physiological or genital changes, should you be a lover content with the
concept of not being a rapist, that is. And I hope you are.
Mohammad is like a faggot. And a faggot is a spent cigarette on the shore. If
any faggot was on my shore, I would kill that faggot for shore. Amen, brother. Or, if
that faggot could talk, and was like Mohammad, I would kill that faggot for shore on
the shore with a fine joke. And if that Mohammad faggot did not laugh, I would
then remove the faggot, put a fresh cigar in place in faggot Mohammad's mouth, a
cigar with a beacon on it assigned to the military, and tell Mohammad the faggot,
"You have two options. You can either smoke that cigar and laugh at my jokes, or
you can swim back where you came from. Either way, you cannot stand here on this
land. You laugh like a faggot."
In truth, he never planned to be caught. His plan was perfect.
He/They/He was more than five miles from any town, on a desolate stretch
of road between large open fields. He was murdered during murderous driving while
smoking murderous marijuana with murderous friends who also died that day, when
the pickup stopped going 80mph right after the tires lost purchase on the flooded dirt
road and slung the truck into the tree line. He is a ghost now. But is she? He chose
these particular fields, which surrounded by trees and bordering a small creek, were
perfect in all the wondrous aspects of seclusion. Nobody took time here in the
middle of the early evening and on into the night. It was private land, no persons
concerned other than the landowner, himself a person rare to visit this thicket. He
knows this because he checked it all out ahead of time, you see. Way in advance of
the day, he knew what would be his way. Like a dream coming to life. Many nights
before this, he had slept on the mattress right where Brittany now lay, keeping it
covered with tarpaulin to maintain the good condition of it and never once was he
stirred.
He was here early morning this day, removing the tarpaulin and laying out his
tools.
He had planned a lifetime for this release, it seemed. He had planned to take
her. His plan was now to make her love him, make her become a willing servant in
his own home. It would take much time, he knew. Part of reason to his violence
upon her, was to dominate as her master. Violent control, as he had learned through
the material he studied, all of which had initially been presented to him in the
learning at the public schools he had attended, was a most efficient means to achieve
respect.
While preparing, he read about Nazi Germany and Hitler. The camps, the
war, the Jewish slant, the propaganda slant, the everything about it. He learned from
accounts of the holocaust survivors about methods imposed upon them inside the
Nazi compounds. (In the field now, his hand is a Nazi method inside the
compound.) For him, Nazi became a capital word, a world to which he did belong.
The word 'concentration' was a big part of the method. Of course there had been
significant psychological pressure and physical distress placed upon the captives of
Nazi Germany. Sometimes a captive person would bond or begging to have strong
feelings wrought of their capacity for love for their captors. Part of the treatment
invoked a bit of reverence among the fearful, if nothing more. A means to an end, it
made them better, almost like pets. (and I detract my pets'.)
The young man had begun an assimilation into the Nazi mentality through
his study, he began to believe Hitler was not a bad person inasmuch as he was a
horrible General. If Hitler had left the war plans to someone more competent,
someone who had been successful at war planning throughout World War I, a person
most likely not to have been part of the leadership of the General Staff, Nazi
Germany could very well be alive and well at this very moment in time. There was
no need to target Jews in the sadistic manner that he had. If Hitler had only worked
toward military victory over the continent(s), and killing an entire race not been part
of the military planning, things would have turned out better for the regime. Not
only because of the resources used for the sole purpose of killing Jews, which while
huge, were minimal by comparison to the rest of the military forces utilized but were
inordinately a focal point, but because not being a maniac believing in a destiny to
wipe a specific race from the face of the Earth to achieve global domination would
smack less of retardation. He should have been more equal-opportunity about
killing and have left it on the battlefields alone. Less a murderer. Ha. He should
have been more tactical and politically correct with his hate speeches. Less hate,
more 'you and me get together and do this thing.' Hitler may have been the wrong
man at the right time. If he had had that power as a Forrest Gump, let's say, it would
have been so beneficial to humanity then, and thus, now. Just think of the lives
being lived today we would have vs. those who are no longer here. Hitler might be
thought of as a moron with great luck. The dream he formed that was not of dreams,
in relation to the whole WWII thing, was simply, 'if he were able to have lived in the
time of Hitler and was in the same position in the beginning of the rise of the Nazi
Party, the world now would be at peace in the modern age with a healthy Nazi Party
still respected and still a great force. What amazing fancies the unconscious mind
can dictate upon the consciousness during study conducted by oneself unguided in
those selves weak or sick of purpose! (porpoise. I just wanted to type porpoise just
now. Write porpoise later I will. Say porpoise to Gwen Stefani's fucking face I will.
I already spanked her on the buns once.) Never known until far too late. (And since
this was written, but not because I wrote it, there has been another school shooting
event. Sandy Hook Elementary School. AND, I think the internet had more to do
with it than almost every other parameter of the instance. Too much time alone with
too much resource with a mind too developed too poor of happiness. Put that in
your pipe and smoke it, Jon Gee. I just raped future access by future murderers of
future babies without arms by forcing an initiative to remove allowance of internet
time alone without supervision of adults or in a public learning center by those under
the well-formed age of eighteen years old. I think.)
Attacking Russia was a pitiful affair. Moronic and futile. Other options had
been open. There was no need to force Britain's hand. It was stupid to discuss war
with the Japanese at the time, bringing American interests into the business going
on in Europe. After taking Poland, France, Spain, and making way toward Italy, he
could have ceased war and rebuilt his armies, developed new technologies and
waited, then make a move on through the Mediterranean. Or something. I don't
fucking know. I didn't research this. I'm just going from memory of schooling that
took place in public schools before high school. After years of relative peace then, he
could have destroyed all of the Middle East AND taken Africa, all the while having
enough defenses to prohibit any advance by Mother Russia. Following this, he could
have guaranteed after a time, the absolute surrender of the rest of the West to an
unstoppable multi-continental perfect war machine with ample fuel. Hell, it would
have been wise to grow a few more generations of pure Germans!
With superior plans, only now- in our time- would the Third Reich be
preparing for war against Russia and the United States. He could have sapped
Africa and the Middle East for resources, building and preparing an army
unstoppable, navy vast, air force superior and covering the Globe, not to mention
complete dominance in world finance markets. He would have developed nuclear
power before us. America may never have created rocket power like Germany. The
young man often dreamed of a world in which he himself were Fuehrer of all. Come
to think of it, I am glad things worked out the way they did. I liked the space shuttle
program a whole lot. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Space!
Therefore, his plans, research, life, had been complete. He had felt prepared
enough. The work was put in; the location and place, chosen. All he needed was his
first. His first bride. His first... first. (Like I am getting now, while you read this,
dear and doe-like editor and publishing house decision-maker, as you read and are
determined through doing so that this book your house will publish shall make us all
very rich. Me, especially. Or, you, you mean. I mean. Whatever. Shutup Brad, I'm
making the call. Thanks in advance.)
She had no chance at all. He waited to find a perfect young girl whom he
could offer assistance at a time she could not refuse. Part of the plan. It was why his
plan was set into action outside of the Mormon Church, in the parking lot. A
Catholic girl would not do. Too smart.
He had placed the new copy of The Book of Mormon-Another Testament of
Jesus Christ bought in month two of his preparations, on the dashboard of his
pickup truck.
He had been attending services of a sort- the kind that involved sitting in the
pickup truck during weekdays and taking note of Mormons that happened to and
fro.
A most beautiful young girl had maintained a schedule he could count on.
She drove a vehicle alone every time she showed up. It was a matter of releasing air
in a tire one afternoon of the vehicle the girl drove, and being in the right place to
offer her assistance with the spare. According to plan, he made sure the spare would
need air. He had made sure while getting the tire out of the trunk of her car,
depressing the valve. The air escaping made quite a hissing sound. It sounded like
what he was going to do. In regard to his plan and what he would say to her, it was
easy. As to his plan, there was flawless execution. With all the talk surrounding the
Book of ETHER, or, in his mind, book of Ether, in specific Chapter 6, verse 18, she
was easy to distract. The spare tire for her car was in the back of his pickup truck
soon after striking up the conversation with Brittany about the text of THE BOOK
OF ETHER of THE BOOK OF MORMON ANOTHER TESTAMENT OF JESUS
CHRIST right now. Flat.
The only thing he really left to chance, really, was that his vehicle might be
spotted abandoned alongside the road by the field while with his prey in the deep
wood. however, it was unlikely. This particular track of road was more for farm-use
than anything other traffic, is well off any properly maintained country road, and is a
road prone to get muddy to an extreme extent with the rains. It had just rained two
or three days ago. When the rains came, he knew he would make his move.
Chapter Seventeen: 17. Her Life's ETHER.
She took little notice as his hand opened again, the hand that was penetrating
the once-virginal folds of her vagina. Another involuntary shuddering wracked her
body. She thought she had to pee and shit the world over. But, her body ceased its
vibrations and calmed after them. Nothing had changed, otherwise, in the whole
wide world. She could feel pain on the bones surrounding the opening of her vagina,
now, but decided to let it go from her concentration. Let it all go.
Fuck it. Literally fuck me. She thought it hopeless now, to fight.
The ibuprofen were working, and that was good. She could feel the tingling
where it replaced the pain of her backside and made breathing more bearable.
She felt him moving and could tell his arm must be bothering him. She
hoped that if and when he pulled out his hand he would do it careful not to tear her
vagina up. 'He better not pull it out too quick,' she thought, 'it might tear my dry
vagina all up.' But he did not pull his hand out or off or away. Instead he was laying
down, almost like he was sleeping.
'What the fuck,' she thought, more and more confused about his decisions
throughout the whole ordeal. He was curled up to her almost. 'You're not my
fucking husband,' she thought.
She could tell his body was relaxed, then, she felt him relax even more, feeling
his fingers curl more shut inside her vagina, creating a feeling of suction at the folds
of her vaginal walls. She kept trying to imagine giving birth to a baby, relaxing her
vagina to make more room. Then, she thought about trying to shit. The hand in her
pussy became balled into a fist. This drew it a little away from the cervix and closer
to the opening of her vagina. It was a relief of the pain where the wider part of his
hand had been stretching her pussy open so far she thought it would tear apart.
Instead of that feeling now, it felt like her vagina had gloved him like a mitten. It
was not too uncomfortable now, compared to before.
He thought he had been wiggling his fingers inside of her, giving her
pleasure. Then, he fell asleep.
She could not believe the fortune when she realized he had indeed fallen
asleep beside her. His hand was still invading her pussy and anus, yes, but it was a
welcome change that he no longer was rapt with attentions upon just her pussy, her
anus, his hand and what he wanted to do with it.
Just before accidental sleeping, he had taken a drink of water.
Putting him to sleep, his adrenaline had abandoned him. Plus, his mind. He
could not face the reality of his actions any longer and now was passed into
unconsciousness. The young woman managed to close the man's fist into a tighter
fist by controlling and flexing the muscles of her body and vagina. She thought her
asshole must be as gaping as it would be if he had put a pop can there, but she
thought she could resolve the problem of his thumb now. She made a simple
movement of the hips and sure enough, felt her anus flex across the tip of his thumb
and break free from the raping lusty penetration it had been performing upon her
without permission and as though it had been in her anus with the desire of an
animal.
Here is where you find it.
She could feel air reach deep inside the darkness 'unholy' hole that is her anus
and instantly felt as though it must be opening and closing all by itself of its own
accord- like the mouth of some strange elastic ocean dwelling anemone. She
wondered how big her anus had become and if it would ever close again. It did, and
she felt it happen, though it seemed as though it had been after many minutes. The
anal tissues throbbed, to-and-fro, to-and-fro, pulsing convulsively. 'Amazing,' she
thought, 'the willingness of the body to allow penetration of flesh to be so easy.
Probably to minimize trauma in cases of rape. A genetic code of survival wrought
through generations upon generations upon generations upon... well, of Nature.
Bend. Do not break. Dad always says that.'
The young and damned hand still in her vagina was uncomfortable and
awkward to her, but no longer scary to a major extreme. She thought about things.
The thought, 'it would be minor in the scheme of things, once it's all done,' came to
her. It was fleeting. The thought of sleep came upon her. SLEEP. It seemed a
large word and great possibility, a possible exit to heaven. Her better and more
rational self, the part of her dealing with the situation on a conscious level, warned
otherwise than to sleep just now. It came to her, what she must do. Though the skin
of his hand and her vagina had become adherent to each other, she was sure of it,
she had little strength to remove his hand from her body. She thought she could
make adjustments.
It might be easier with his whole hand inside her vagina instead of the four
fingers alone. Goddamn rapist motherfucker. Had to rape both holes. This thumb
needs to be dealt with. her bones strained to contain his palm. If she could get all
his fingers and his thumb in, she could make the fist close and maker her vagina seal
around his wrist. The wrist is of smaller diameter than the width of his palm, and if
his hand is fisting her, the palm may be contracted a little. The smaller diameter of
the wrist would surely reduce the stretching and burning sensations occurring on the
outer limits of where she was being violated. This will bring relief. There may be a
way for her to get comfortable and move on to another aspect of planning. Light was
not visible at the end of the proverbial tunnel just yet, but she felt as though a shift
had taken place, and wanted to capitalize.
Such is the human element, the capacity for endurance. The spirit at least,
will fight to endure. Spirit being will. Will being survival now.
The ibuprofen was working better and she nodded off. Even in dire
situations of life and death there is the possibility of exhaustion so great as to
override the ability to maintain pure focus at those times. Such as this. It is nature.
It is why people fall asleep on mountaintops and lay down in the desert. Not just
lack of water or having the right body temperature. It lasted some 30 minutes.
She came awake with eyes wide open then and the air was too cool. She
slowly moved her left hand toward her shoulder, letting the bottle go. She huddled
her hand close, pulling it off the grass which had become moist with dew and
placing it on the quilt. She cocked her elbow then, and turned slow, using her hand
to apply downward force in order to tilt her body and turn her head toward the other
person where he lay beside her.
She saw a young man, asleep, with blond hair. Laying along her legs and
lower body and now her own nakedness came into view more full. She half-closed
her eyes as her gaze shot down the side of her body. It felt like viewing something
that was not real. She was afraid of seeing blood and bone and bugs all of ruination
of herself in the view of herself. To her surprise there was little of anything to be
feared. There were the colors of her dress, the blue and green. Her dress was pulled
up to her ribcage. The contrast of the colors of her dress against her white cream
skin in the moonlight, skin that was unscarred along the side of her torso all the way
down to her hips, made her want to succeed. Between her legs she could feel the log
of flesh that was there and it was then the true vision came into being.
Brittany took a look. She wanted to see what she could see. She did, but
when there was no recognition of her body as hers, tears rolled from her eyes, and
she wept in silence. No noise, and then a better context of the danger became
known to her. nature itself became bolder in her eyes. The colors, the sounds, the
environment. A leaf resting upon another leaf. A blade of grass sticking up between
two branches. All was wet. She was hearing the world for the first time and she
thought the world would speak to her now through the winds among the trees, and
seeing the lights of the sky in a new brilliance, she was in sequestration of
overwhelming gratitude for her own life like a preposition feels when used to in a
very direct way to refer to Rachel, or Anna, or Maria, or Jenny, or Beth, or Lauryn, or
Jeanne, or Judy, or Valerie, or Melissa, or any one of the better of friends of each of
those named. They are of super-un-artificiality of the kingdom, the power, the glory
that is mine. Brittany felt the electric presence of insects, grasses, foliage, and
animals about her. While her eyes saw her destroyed virginity and pale and cold
legs, her mentality opened up to the rest of the world with newfound awareness. It
was not demoniac. But, there was hint of tremendous demoniac forces in her mind's
eye, of thinking about the sight of his arm where it crossed over her left thigh and
simply disappeared.
Seeing her left leg, she bent the knee in a slight outward way, watched the
muscles work where they connected to the calf muscle and shinbone and foot below
as she turned it sideways and placed it flat against the corner of the quilt and tried to
wiggle her toes. The toes wiggled just fine. No demons there- just working parts of
human female body.
She felt the stretching and numbness again of her virgin vagina where it once
was and as long as she had known it, except for the time with the makeshift vibrator,
had always been closed off, for the most part. From herself, from others. Now it was
a mess of mishandling, rape, lust, and violence... or at the very least, passionate
curiosity misplaced and as different from the way she had always known her pussy to
be beforehand as corrugated cardboard is from a deep-rooted, tall-standing, many
hundreds-of-years old tree still alive and kickin' it forest-style among other friendly
trees in a place outside our universe that we all came from by force and against our
will because our ancestors were discovered living under the surface of the planet
where they came from and when allowed to join civilization were known to be a bit
too rowdy for the good of the rest of the world in that universe, causing this universe
to be created to harbor this planet for those ancestors to come from that other
universe and planet or land before time whose inhabitants look in on us from time to
time and refer to us as The Violence; a race of slowly evolving miscreants. I do not
ask you to prove it is not true, I just made that up.
"I cannot get him out." She whispered to the woods, fallen blooms, and bugs
about the woods, the night and the moon. "I can only reduce the trauma. I can only
go boldly forward."
She laid her hand to the ground, her elbow down, and was back in the
position she had been before waking up. She took a breath. She rotated her arm at
the elbow and brought her left hand to be perpendicular to the ground. She moved
her hand slow in parallel with her body, against the side of the body. She was stiff as
a board all most, for a moment, then she relaxed again.
The feeling was easy to concentrate on. Her own hand on her still perfect
thigh. Euphoric calm, peace, happiness opposing the damages elsewhere.
She lifted her hand along her thigh to the join of her hip, feeling for any
wounds. She pressed into the bones to test for the pain that would signal to her brain
that she was suffering from a broken hip. No pain came and she worked her hand
while twisting her elbow again, up onto her bare back. She could almost reach her
spine. It was not bad, she thought. Sliding her hand up her back, just left of her
spine, she felt the sudden rise of flesh there where it should have been smoother,
lower, and she realized it was a massive bruise she had not noticed earlier. It was
where the young man drove his pickup into her, knocking her down. The decisive
moment she had not known to have been intentional at the moment it had arrived.
Her hand came about aquiver and her eyes welled up with tearing, but she
pursed her lips and instead of letting the crying take over her, whined through
clenched teeth.
She blew phlegm and snot out of her nose. It dribbled across her lips and
onto the quilt. She opened her lips and blew the pool of crap away from her face as
best she could. She began to slide her hand down along her spine again, then into
the crack of her buttocks. She stayed herself with a steel determination. Determined
at the age of seventeen but no more a virgin, to fix things down below where her
sanctity was trampled like so many robin eggs below hooves of a great goat larger
than a buck and with a mind like Jeffery Dhamer's would have been had he put his
mind to great use, a mind like Dennis Rader's would have been had he put his mind
to great use, and so on and so forth ad nauseum ad persuadendum Church,
Government, Money, Jobs, village-less-ness. She closed her eyes, tried to imagine
herself on someone else. It would be someone in need of help. She pretended her
skin was without trauma, but like something brand new- like a baby's bottom during
a diaper-change. Her fingers were warm against the cold skin of her ass. Cold, that
is, until she found her ruined anus. She did not think about babies anymore. Her
psyche would not allow any more supposition of baby skin to take place.
Time had been fucked up for awhile now.
She trailed her middle finger around the circle of her asshole with a light
movement resembling grace, she was feeling around for torn skin or blood both,
trying to gauge if her anus was closed, or open. (for business. HAHAHAH. a joke.
couldn't resist.) It was closed, she could sense, but she also thought it felt as though
it was swollen, a protrusion. There was a stickiness to it, tackiness, and when she
lifted her hand out of it she felt a pain as though her finger had pulled skin off the
anus. She slid her hand off her body and placed it back onto the quilt beside her leg.
She rested. A little while after that, she brought her hand back up to be near her
head again.
She viewed her hand and the fingers were clean for the most part. Yet there
was a little color on the tip of her middle finger. She tested the tip of that finger
against the pad of her thumb. The substance on the middle finger held the two
digits together like weak glue. She pulled the digits apart and put them back
together several times, like, seven times. Then she rubbed her fingers on the grasses
away from the quilt and her face.
Checking her companion, it seemed he slept.
She decided doing something quick would be better than slow.
Reaching down along her leg, she brought her hand back over her thigh and
touched his punkass. She could barely reach, but followed his arm up to his wrist
and took in a sharp breath when she felt the hand where it met her sex.
Filled with disbelief, she traced the rift between the hand and her pussy pussy
pie pie- the hand and the vagina- and could feel the weird, freaky, wild, sickening
skin of her labia. It had ridges on it, like it was strained to the point of almost
cracking from the stress it had endured while unable to protect the opening of her
vaginal penis tunnel because of unwarranted advancement.
Before the truth of the situation, she had not known it possible for such a
large hand to be inside a vagina, let alone her own delicate, gentle, pussy, a pussy so
complex to her way of thinking before today it had never made any difference to her
one way or another except that she believed it was somewhat dirty because pee
comes out of it and it stretches all the way down really close to the anus and
sometimes it smells funky after pulling out the tampon, something she always did
with modesty. She had not experimented with her vagina at any time growing up.
Not with a finger, and not with her whole hand. Visualizing the labials of her vagina
based on the information her hand received, childbirth came to mind. She was
letting her fingers do the walking. Once, on a school trip to a health museum, she
had witnessed a video of a baby being born. What she had seen had led her to
believe childbirth was impossible. She went around for awhile afterward saying she
believed in the stork. Now she had experience all to well as to the capabilities of the
vagina and human female anatomy thereof, to adapt. She had been trying so very
much to keep herself pure for a potential husband. This was in order to attract the
best possible mate and husband of the greatest potential, someone to help grow the
Church of Jesus Christ of The Latter-Day Saints, or LDS Church, or Mormon
Church. It was very important to her family and church community that girls stay
pure, marry young, and become successful brides and mothers. All of which, was
over now.
Where was god? Where was father, mother, sister, brother? Why was this
happening? Was it happening for a reason? A good reason? Is it because she had
loved herself in an immoral way, either through touching herself once or praying
about selfish needs? It must be so. Abandoned by God for selfish indulgence. It is a
punishment. She knows God can be angry in lessons, but had never witnessed it.
Not like this. She was fighting the reality and emotions and tears that she believed
would seem like they would never stop once begun. She was trying to survive. Get
an edge on her life ,while still her breath came. It was a brief thought. She
wondered a little why she was not already dead. She must not be as injured as her
thinking had led her to believe. That was reassuring, albeit a temporary feeling. She
had been holding her hand across the mass between her anus and vagina, exploring
and thinking and feeling and trying to avoid waking the rapist.
She became even more aware.
The young self-identified Mormon, once-virgin, (self-identified in mind, but
not in spirit necessarily), felt her enemy. His thumb, actually, the thumb at rest
between her vagina and asshole. Not yet worn down, a sense of indignant rage rose
within her and brought forth a stubborn angriness. Using three fingers of her own
left hand, she pushed his thumb down from her anus, across the straining edge and
rift of her labials where it bulged from the rape of his partial-fist. And then, with a
final exertion of all her will, she shoved the thumb into the labia folds, beyond them,
and into the sacred temple of her sex, also known as a vagina. She rocked her hips
just enough that it would hold.
Mansen, back at the farm, cut the cheese.
The feeling was of her vagina stretching open to a point she thought was
almost unfathomable. In the end it was not too hard; the liquid had not yet dried in
all areas and she was numb as she worked to force his hand in. Finally she felt the
bones there come to great relief and her vagina squeeze his hand shut as it took him
in, received him entire. There was an audible popping sound from her pussy bones,
too, as she felt body close around wrist, close the hand completely in, shutting out all
light and most of the air and at the same time reducing the strain on her vaginal
openings to levels less than at any other time since the torture started. Her knees
adjusted so the body could receive the enemy with odd grace and with less stress for
certain. Time for her to be a perfect victim, if victim she was, with zero control, was
over.
Now they were one in the way she had envisioned earlier with feelings of
frustration.
She had exerted much strength and lay with her hand beside her thigh once
again. She was impaled by his fist now, but he was trapped with her sexual organ
like any organ played in any cathedral can summon the mind to become either part
of or resolute against the music being played. She hoped the skin of his hand would
not become stuck to the walls of her vagina as a dry tampon shoved into the pussy at
the wrong time by somebody who has forgotten they have dry pussy syndrome. She
decided to try- to see.
Her pelvic muscles and legs obeyed. She squeezed her legs together. She felt
a little desire to pee, though, and then, fluids of the lube and her natural bodily
vaginal fluids over, and she felt her elasticity increase as it glode acrosst his fist. It
was very jard to endure, but better than doing nothing.
It was a strange thought that occurred next. She was reminded of eating too
many plums and feeling at that time as though her stomach would burst. The
unnatural feeling that she had to release, but could not. She did not want to dry up
with him inside of her pussy-wussy and she tried to work on his fisty-wisty enough to
make her vagina release some more fluids. The fact her vagina had begun to
produce fluids became appalling to her. She marvlehconned.
To her surprise, the young man cuddled closer, though was still sleeping it
off. She was afraid of waking him. God, what was he going to do? How is it that he
had fallen asleep? Was there time to cut the cheese? Was it just a result of
adrenaline running out and the energy he had expended? --Maybe it was her will, with God's will too? Maybe she has suffered enough.
Fucking about time, really. Goddamn universe and whore goddess' and demon
night.
It shocked her as she moved around him more and more, little by little, to feel
a none-too-unpleasant sensation of energy coming from somewhere deep within the
core of her being. Core. Deep. Energy. Hi Vel@! Being. She imagined it might be
emanating from the interesting and sensitive part of her body near the top of her
vaginer. She had not learned anything about her own body through Church or
school, but has known about that part of her vaginer since she was but wee a lassie, a
youth making personal discoveries about her body all on her own. She had learned it
could be very good to her and was excited to know it would be able to aid her now.
She focused on working to walk that little part of her right on out of its barn like a
waking lamb comes to the bottle, to gain strength from it, nurture it to life. As she
continued to squirm against the quilt with his fist inside her crap-shoot, (Remember
you are a twelve year old boy madly in love with the idea you are better than shit, and
that is perty gud.), she figured out the best thing she could do to help the most was
to rub her pubic bone on the ground. It made her pussy wetter and took some pain
ayway, transforming some, even, into pleasure both shocking and exciting. It was
sorta weird to realize that she had gone from being a rape victim to now getting a
pleasure. The pleasure was giving her strength to cope. God was trying to save her,
maybe. She started to think she would begin to heal and gain energy to fight the
enemy back. God was good to his children after all.
As she worked, she became, through diligent repetitive embrace of a single
thought, a powerful one though in all it's complexities. In it's amount of
complexities, not just it's complexity. She felt like giving in, yes, but so far it had
only reared it's uglier side once or twice, and as she worked a little harder in all
determined efforts to beat the fucker that had surely planned to kill her, beat him
even as she used him for a turn, a sudden stabbing pain came so fast through her
ribs it shut her mind from the pleasures of that powerful thought, the thought that
maybe she had been right about one thing all along in later years, about needing
everyone to know it just doesn't feel right to be alone sometimes, and one day, it
would cause her to make a mistake.
She froze and tensed, again frustrated and angry about the reality of her
situation. She began weeping. This time her weeping was as much due to a sense of
shame as it was trauma or pain. She wept for some time, then her body changed
again.
She felt like she had to shit and piss. Fearing what pain the action of
defecation and urination would produce, there was hesitation to release. "I don't
want to." Moments later the force of nature beckoned with too much persistence to
ignore or fight it off.
Not caring for her captor or his quilt or the predicament she was in, she
relaxed her muscles around her abdomen and pelvis. In an instant, a burning
sensation occurred where pee streamed from her body in a very week stream that
continued to run and run and burn and burn. It felt for the entire world as if it was a
full stream of piss that had been cut off at the last possible moment before trickling
out, like her urethra was being compressed. There was a tickle inside her body. She
assumed this was her bladder. The tickle overrode the burning, and she let go
further. A great stream of urine came rushing upon the quilt all around her legs and
abdomen. She felt then small balls of shit leak out of her asshole which spastically
opened and shut itself. She could not control it. She hoped her body was not going
into evacuation of her bladder and bowels just before giving up somehow. An insane
but very slight laughter came from her along with convulsions as she imagined the
young man waking up covered in her shit and piss. 'Urine and feces are the correct
words,' she thought, correcting herself.
Focus was hard to fight for. The evening had not been good to her brain,
mind. She searched for the water bottle. It was not in view nearby. She could see
the lunchbox and five-gallon bucket. Then she looked at the horrific young man that
lay beside her. She notices the quilt is soaked and her captor is half laying in piss.
She turned her head from the sight of him and looked up into the night sky, to the
Stars, the world beyond. Another small bout of laughter came, but she stopped it in
her throat and did not produce noise.
She called for help then, after time had passed and as she lay cold in her pee.
But, her voice was cracked and weak, not hers at all. She almost choked on her own
tongue, or thought so, as she fought with bringing forth words and instead came to a
mere whispering whistle that alarmed no one.
Chapter Eighteen: The End of The Night
Man with bat fell down forever. Just kidding.
"Why hasn't the man with the wolfhound come to her yet?" Rape
questioned.
"He has smoked much grass. His is tuned out to the sense of purpose we
have tried to put on him that he gather his tools." Rape replied.
The young man awoke and has almost forgotten where he is. Or, the young
man awoke and had almost forgot. Whichever. He opens his eyes. Taking in a
great breath, he remembers the scene he is in. At once, he feels his hand cramping,
his arm wet, and the air is cold against the wetness. It takes a moment, but he
gathers his thoughts. He sees the pile of tight little balls of shit on the risen and
perfect form of the woman's ass. The smell hits him. Shit, piss, maybe blood too,
and sweat. He has been sweating in his sleep. He wanted to get up.
"Oh fuck!" He exclaimed, fearing the woman has died.
Mind racing and thoughts jumbled and confused. 'Did I fall asleep?
Obvious.
"See how simple and stupid they are? Funny, really."
"Yes. But I don't think it's funny."
"Then you are one of the good ones. Rare in this age. Now watch. The
worst and best parts are coming. I always come here when I need to teach a young
one the lessons of the ability of the people of this planet to have great capacity for
evil. Unnecessary and necessary both. Especially in the land known as The United
States of America."
"Yes elder."
"Good. Now shutup. And... watch."
The young man sat up on his side. He tried to be careful and avoid hurting
her with a twisting of his arm. He propped himself up on his left arm. This strained
his body in various places, in particular his left elbow. The position was awkward.
His right arm was still locked in place. It was difficult being able to maneuver
without ripping her open and ending this night right then and there.
He looked at her and she opened her eyes. She lay docile, head down on the
right side of her face.
She looked at him.
"Why," she asked. The same question as before. She found that seeing him
awake gave her more strength to talk.
"I don't know," he said. The words surprised her, but gave her courage.
"You must tell me," Brittany said to him, "Tell me why. God will forgive
you. If you don't kill me, he will forgive. Tell me why, though. Why?"
The sound of her voice in asking the one-syllable question struck him like
nothing he had imagined in all his preparations. The words she had used
surrounding the word 'why', bothered him to a great extent too, but nothing like the
sound of her voice with the last question. She sounded like a ghost. In response, he
did not want to answer, so instead he grabbed the water bottle out of the large, white,
plastic bucket, and laid it on the quilt in front of her eyes as gentle as a shepherd
would lay a lamb fallen into and then taken up from the ravine and placed back
among the flock in the fenced-off pasture south of the barn and north of the cattle
trails and horse trails, north of the road, north of the highway, north of the city, north
of the countries bordering his nation to the South.
A long moment the two looked at each other.
Then, "I... I just wanted to see," he said, "I needed to... to have something
no one would... nobody would give willingly."
"You should have asked me," she said, "You could have tried doing the right
thing. You didn't though. You killed me instead. You killed me. You killed me."
She repeated it into the night, quiet and tenuous, for a long time.
She had kept eye contact throughout the first words she had spoken, but was
staring off again, looking acrosst the ground. After speaking the final words to him
she moved her hand up to grab the water bottle. With feebleness, she squirted water
into her mouth. It hurt to swallow.
'You killed me,' she had said, he thought. 'You could have asked,' she had
said, he thought. He was lost in a moment of disbelief. He was also struck with
disbelief of the situation as well.
"I am sorry," he said.
Brittany was not interested in hearing this at all.
"I am sorry I did not ask," he continued, "but I cannot change what I have
done. I am sorry too, because I am not done, either." He looked away from her, as
though he was thinking of something he could say. But, he knew what he was going
to say before he said it.
"I have to finish this," he said, "I have to complete my process." He spoke
with a calm voice that lacked any sense of reality or compassion. That the situation
was his responsibility and that he could change things. That he was going to make
more mistakes. That he did not seem to care to try and comprehend what he was
doing was something that must be stopped. That he was worse off than the girl in
many ways, but even more so because he lacked compassion and was not going to
make things right. Listening to him, her eyes grew wide and she started to try to
crawl away from his fist. At first he did not fight against her squirm, but watched her
try to pull herself forward.
'She should not be squirming,' he thought.
He had no idea if he would be able to carry out his plans now. Now that
things had entered the realm of the unplanned and unexpected. Reality was setting
in, trying to make another comeback. It hurt his brain. His hand was stuck in a
young virgin female's vagina, and he may well have broken her body so bad that she
would need medical assistance just to get up off the ground. The way she moved
was not real in a logical sense. It was not looking good.
His eyes filled with tears then. And he thought, 'What will others do to me if
I can't get out of this without being discovered?' He imagined what others would do
to him if he did not manage to get out of it. He imagined things happening to him
like he had imagined doing to others while studying and researching and preparing
and planning and constructing toward this day. Then he noticed he was crying.
Anger began to flood his soul and he chose this time to direct his fury toward his
own self, at first.
His hand stuck inside her body felt like it was getting cold, though she was
still warm. His hand had given up the ghost and was asleep inside her pussy.
"Fuck!" He shouted, "Goddamn fuck!" He had not shouted to anyone in
particular, yet it seemed as though a dozen or more animals he had not noticed
before now, scampered at the sound of his rage. He had the feeling as though he
had been surrounded by curious spectators whom he was not aware of, which now
scrambled at the sound of his voice to new hiding places where he could not see
them and that those spectators were laughing at him in silence, mocking and
laughing at him, and they would continue to do so until his life was over.
'I'll kill them,' he thought.
It was becoming weird to him in the world. Sudden and fearlessness a sense
of despair, of utter lack of ability to survive, and an oppressive ominous sense of
defeat came over his person and he panicked. His panic attack lasted just long
enough to enrage him further. His hand twisted in her vagina so he could half-way
stand up on his feet.
The young woman wretched with the movement of the man's hand and as he
made to stand she began screaming and begging him to get out of her body, to leave
her be. It was madness, the sound of her voice. Beyond questions or answers.
Hearing her, he thought she would die. He felt as though she needed to. He was
going to answer the fucking crowd first, those that had contained themselves to
watch from the shadows in the trees. He was bent over her body, right arm
disappearing into her. He began to tremble with angry pride.
"Here!" He shouted, "You want to watch?! You want to get off?! Here!
Come here all you fucking perverts! You're just waiting to have your turn! Well,
come and get a look at this! He squeezed his right hand.
you cant play with us
you dont know how to even use blocks
Pac Man is stupid, you're stupid
there is something on your head
you didn't bring your homework
your church is a devil worshipping cult
your igloo is stupid, you can't even build an igloo right
you can't build another igloo
its too bad you aren't smart enough to do it right the first time
you are going to build another igloo
you did it on purpose
you're friends with the boy who pooped his pants?
write your name on the board
yes
the chalk board
it really isn't very hard
it's one of the easiest multiplication tables
no, you're not invited this time
don't talk to him
he's weird
if you don't learn this stuff you will have a bad time in the future
people get old
are you gay?
you shaved your eyebrows?
do you love her?
no I won't go out with you
because
are you friends with him?
that singer isn't really all that talented
you were the only one out of the entire school
you just let him beat him up?
he was supposed to be your friend
because you're scared
because I'm moody
deal with it
no you can't sit with us
we were going to beat you up
but you're not worth it
you're a sick twisted
you'll have to prove it
why did you do it though?
you think working all the time, all day, everyday, is going to make you rich?
what about a social life?
why don't you do your homework?
I'll give you a B
the bathroom is closed because someone covered the stall in puke
I like
I can't write to you anymore
the other girls say you're not popular
you think you're so cool dressed like that
you don't know anything about their music
you don't have much vocal range
I've replaced you with a different guitar player
don't buy the Ibanez
if you do
you're stupid
you think spending money on a new guitar and amplifier was a wise way to spend
your money?
slow down slow down Slow Down SLOW DOWN
we tricked you
we saw your peter
you don't know what your peter is?
do you love her?
don't
you're going out with (her)?
just because it's popular doesn't mean
and what did you do with it?
you're in my house now
punk ass bitch
if you were half as smart as you think you are
do you smoke cigarettes?
Fritz is dead
what are you doing?
we think you could use some help
did you steal his cds?
free
you're really kinda worthless
why didn't you?
just try it once
she says you did
pussy
no one drives like you do man
why did you say that just now?
why did you say that just now?
no, you're not invited
I know
but just accept it
if you accept it
maybe you'll be invited next time
I can't tell you
which one are you going to work with?
you're going to go back in time and write something and when we see it in the
present it will be your future
now is a good time to quit
you're never going to go to L.A.
she doesn't like company unannounced
she plans more than I do
your husband is crazy
don't
maybe
why *3+1
you're stupid
don't be a stranger
well that does it
good job
don't even think about it
you can
because they don't think like we do
because I told you so
because it's his
you know the god-man myth is false
don't you?
yeah right
why aren't you with your family right now?
I can't
do you want to write something?
will you talk to us?
please
we want to help
who?
what was his name?
her name then?
someone tried to access your ... account from a computer... you've never used before.
... donate... as much as you can... even if it's as little as...
what do I have to do?
why are you saying these things?
why did you then?
how did he know to do that?
she didn't want you
...you've already said enough?
I will wait for you
I will give you my soul
but you have to take care of it
Don't lose it
Unless you are going to give it away
how old are you?
are there any dead bodies in the trunk?
It's a simple question
answer it
I think I'll keep this
unless it has special meaning to you
are you drunk?
I'm calling your parents
Stay here
Don't sign your name... remember I told you not to sign
you don't like listening... ...
wow
you picked up a hitchhiker with your... month old son in the car?!
I will never understand you
why did you hit me?
remember
I'm her now
growing mushrooms in the closet
take this
you'll go insane if you only read half of it
you'll go insane
the dollar is the most important thing to you in the world now
did you tell the police anything?
take it if you want
but keep it
Never get rid of it...
don't you think your girlfriend would want you to be successful?
I don't have any tattoos...
remember me
Come back someday when you're healthy and find me...
right now?
you're not healthy
you've never cheated on your wife before?
what's wrong with Harry Potter?
are you ready to see how deep the rabbit hole goes?
usually I keep the art my patients make in my art class
I suppose
just forget it
because I like to stay in my room
just go
and if you ever write about
you're the asshole
that is a waste of time
you could do so much better if you just
when I want to walk away
just let me
...zero?
did you...?
I think I can trust you...
we don't have rooms available
will you sign...
why do you talk so much?
it's just an animal
no thanks
we don't need that kind of talk right now
she's at school in Oklahoma
what do you think it means?
never
what were you doing in there?
... in the hospital
it's o.k.
you're evil
you're so evil
can we play your guitar?
...death trying to...
and you thought you wouldn't get...
that doesn't sound like a very...
that idea sounds much...
she laid down on top of him
I could hear you from my house
you must never see...
drop the kids off at the pool?
because the sky looked pretty?
because he wears a hat
and he'll be wearing his sunglasses
what's his name?
amnesia?
you're going to give the world amnesia and program everybody's brain?
what... first?
program everybody's brain?
or give the world amnesia?
she'll need it more than you
except it won't be a she, it'll be a he
if you ever hurt Rachel, I'll...
you don't want to find out
you want to have sex with...other...?
a lot of girls think you're really cool
you think somebody destroyed the space shuttle on purpose?
Jimi Hendrix recorded some songs in Kansas
pick the red one
I play bass
don't ever share your idea
what about Rachel?
you love Anna Marie?
you love South Dakota?
you remind me of my friend
don't talk to them
you'll be one of them
you think... wrote the Bible?
don't surprise us
just don't
...when you come to Italy...
from Spain
blah blah blah
you like punk rock?
you don't like punk rock?
his grandfather...
and when do you think this happened?
we've got a problem
you're in big trouble
come and get your spanking
why do you tell us when you have to poop all the time?
why don't you practice your piano?
you want me to hold your penis?
you will never be able to make love like this to another woman...
...doesn't love you
not really
you were supposed to die
you think when Bush Sr. said the words new world order it should have been taken
as a warning about something like 9/11?
remember you said you would never write about 9/11 using numbers
you said you would only write about 9/11 writing it out September 11, two thousand
and one
the Kansas State Wildcats will not go undefeated in...
you think all the players of the Kansas City Chiefs should have the initials B. or D. in
their names?
we got a list...
who is the...?
tell me
tell me please
we can save a lot of lives...
...I'm not going to tell you that just yet
who is going to be president?
you've got all the bands
are you a fan of Elton John?
what would you do if we told you you are an angel?
she was a little more... than you
your best friend is going to...or you are going to...
do not let them take the maps out of your...
can you hear the...
you love Brittany?!
...there will be a picture of a lion on...
if you remember this...
when are you going to start writing letters?
black lighter
because I can
all of your friends will be characters on a TV show called Spongebob...
...and you need a new car
can you see the (CBS) eye?
you think your brain is tapped into the radio waves...electric grid?
what would you do with that kind of...
if you ever want to go... you will have to do it by boat
...what position are the antennas in?
if you survive the two-inch punch
you drink like a...
...don't really like to play... with you
you gave your... son up for adoption?
you're adopted?
what are you writing about these days?
you like Stephen King?
...going to go to Harvard?
you talked to my Dad?
about what?
me?
I saw my dad stab somebody once
you think.. might have been lying to you?
don't give us ALL your money...
you're going to get... benefits?
you're wife wouldn't mind?
something is going to happen to Rachel
it won't be good
you won't like it
you will become very angry
you're not... are you?
do you hate anybody?
blues is people, okay?
who will win...?
you will go to Las Vegas
you MUST
do you remember what he told you he was going to do...?
you must never see the Monet exhibit...
she will be there...
if you don't do it...
you will regret...
can you...
you will say...you think you are...
you think you are...?
in all...?
it will be up to you to save them
...afraid of birds?
...watch Alfred Hitchcock's...?
...Marvin the Martian?
...they will be your friends...
we are your friends
then Tony the Tiger will be in your house
can you talk to the moth?
are you the Pharaoh?
if you do try to lead them
they will follow
they will kill you
you won't get pulled over will you?
safe
is he going to catch it or is he going to drop it?
you will be responsible for the hurricane
you will be in the hospital
we can make it THE hospital...
as you wish
you must not write the name...
you're going to write...?
Wesley
I was in pre-school and some of the (other) kids were playing with building blocks.
I was celebrating my birthday at pre-school and an argument erupted as to whether
or not Pac Man, or myself, was/is stupid. A girl said she thought I wasn't stupid.
We all agreed Pac Man is stupid. Star told us to never call anything stupid ever
again, but that it was okay if Pac Man is the only thing we ever thought was stupid.
I was in pre-school and most of the children were laughing because, they said,
something I couldn't see but they can see was on my head and it is funny and they
weren't sure but they thought it was good. They wanted to name it, said that I could
name it if I wanted to after I told them they couldn't name something I cannot see,
and one of them said, "If you give it a boy's name, it will be a boy, but if you give a
tiger's name, it will be a tiger. They said I could name it Calvin, and it would be a
boy, or I could name it Hobbes, and it would be a tiger. I named it...
I was in Kindergarten and I forgot to bring my math homework back to school, and,
another time, I forgot to take it home. I was in kindergarten and a girl I was friends
with stopped being my friend because she is a protestant, (and as I remember this
now I remember she said "Just protestant, not 'some kind' of protestant), and she
told me that the Catholic Church is evil because it is a cult and then she said all cults
are evil... The girl I was friends with before she found out I was Catholic said that
she had thought she could have been my wife. When I didn't understand what she
meant, she told me I was stupid. She told me to never let anyone else ever tell me
that I was stupid, or I would be stupid, but that unless that happened I would never
be stupid. Her name is...
I was in kindergarten and I had made an igloo but it wasn't a very good igloo
compared to the teacher or other kids', but I thought it was fine. A huge shouting
match happened between me and my best friend and me and the teacher. My best
friend ended up lying to the teacher saying to her that I said to him he was a 'nigger.'
But I had not ever heard that word before, and I told the teacher that. She believed
me and told him not to ever use that word again, not to let the hate of the word be
used against him from his own mouth, that plenty of people would use the word in
the world to refer to him and he would learn not to use that word himself. I asked if
it could be possible to use that word in a good way, and she said it would be very
hard, harder than building an igloo was, and that I probably wouldn't be the person
to do it, but that it was possible I would be the person to do it because of how my
brain works and what I think of others. She said it was too bad I was too stupid to
build an igloo properly and that it was an insult after so much time had spent trying
to show each of us how to do it. I told her that I thought it was okay to not build a
perfect igloo. She said it might be. This is my new igloo, not. She told me that I
looked like the kind of kid who likes to lick her anus a lot. "...Like, all the time..."
she said, trailing off, then chanting Catholic Mass Sacraments in Arabic whilst
growling. Not.
I was in the other first grade classroom and I was helping show a girl I had not seen
before very much how to use a stapler. She put the stapler in place and asked if I
would help push on the stapler. I did. Her finger was under the stapler and it got
stapled. She cried and said, "I thought you were my friend! I thought you loved
me!" And I replied while in shock, not knowing anything about having loved her
yet, or maybe just noticing her for the first time, "I love you!" She went through
several emotional responses between that statement and leaving the room in anger
headed for the nurse's aid. Her name was different than the name of the other girl
I've talked about and was...
I do not remember if it was first, second, or third grade, but a boy at the table pooped
his pants and all the kids were laughing at him as he cried and tried to ignore their
words and bad jokes and eat at the same time. I got tired of them hurting his
feelings and said something along those lines. Then they started teasing both of us
for pooping our pants.
I was in second grade. The teacher told me to write my name on the chalk board. I
said, "You want me to write my name on the board?" "Yes," she said, "the chalk
board." This happened less than nine times, but each time I did not like it at first,
then I did. I was in love with that teacher. Her name was Mrs...
In third grade I could not figure out how to do multiples of five. In third grade a boy
invited every other boy to his birthday party except me. The teacher gave me free
time while all the rest of the boys had to do sheets of work. I think the girls got free
time, too, but am not sure of the memory. One of the girls said she would have
invited me if it was her party, and I asked if she liked me, and she said, "Yeah.
Kinda. But ... likes you, so I can't be with you." I found out where the girl who liked
me lived and walked to her house after school one day. She answered the door but
would neither let me in to play or be outside with me. We stood and talked about it
several moments, me trying to convince her one way or the other. Then I went to
Grandma's house after she told me to come back tomorrow. She said she would not
tell me if she could play then, or if she would answer the door then, but to come back
anyway. I came back the next day and rang the doorbell and knocked and rang the
doorbell, but she did not answer the door. She moved away sometime between third
and fourth grade. I think about her when I hear each of these three songs; Roxanne,
Lady in Red, and a third song popular in the eighties I will not say because it is her
name.
In fourth grade, toward the end of the school year, a beautiful gorgeous angelic girl
just moved to town and was put into my fourth-grade classroom. She was given a
desk right in front of me and the teacher told her, ..."he is very entertaining and will
make you laugh." Then, all the other girls of my grade told her not to talk to me
because I was weird.
In fifth grade we had to learn all the names of all the bird species found in the State
of Kansas. Our teacher told us if we didn't learn what he was teaching we would
have bad futures.
I was told my Grandfather died because people get old and die.
I was in fourth grade and asked, "Are you gay?" I didn't know what gay was. Then
I found out it was when a boy likes to be with a boy instead of a girl, and puts his
penis in another boy. A lot of girls were part of the conversation and a girl was
shocked when I asked, "because he loves boys?" "No," she said, ..."that is not
love."
I shave my eyebrows in fifth grade because I wanted to speed up the process of
growing whiskers on my face and my Dad said, "Go shave. That will speed up
growth of your whiskers," or something very similar. So, when I was pretending to
shave I got bored with it and decided to try my eyebrows. My brow increased in size
a lot from swelling from a skin reaction to the shaving cream or shaving process and
when I was at school the next day a very crass teacher pointed this out in class and
told about twenty bad jokes about me to the whole class and told me he had thought
I was stupid before, but now he thinks I must be retarded.
In sixth grade I saw my chance. She had just moved to town. She was beautiful, but
not like the girl from fourth grade. The girl from fourth grade had the most pure
blonde hair I've ever seen, even to this day, and this girl had hair that was blonde but
streaked with the color of the ground of a field. She was thin, and quiet, and she did
not wear new clothes all the time like all the other girls. She was isolated from other
girls a little because of this, and she sat next to me. I had many strange feelings
about her right away, and I told her I love her. She said 'Yes' in a note to me and we
kissed sometimes. We kissed maybe four times. A fellow female classmate asked
me, "Do you love her? You shouldn't go out with her if you don't love her." I said,
"I love her, but I love someone else more." She guessed who I was talking about
and said it would never happen for me because the girl I was talking about was
stuck-up and a selfish brat who just wanted to be popular. "I love you, will you go
out with me?" I asked the girl. She said, ..."No. I better not." But she wouldn't tell
me why. She told the girl I was going out with what I had said. The girl broke up
with me because she was told by other girls that I didn't really love her, I just wanted
a girlfriend to be popular, and that she shouldn't be my girlfriend because it would
make her unpopular. I had to do detention later that day because I called her a
bitch. While in detention she came up to me and asked me what a bitch was and I
said, "a friend, I guess. I was angry." She said, "No, a bitch is a female dog. I was
a bitch. I'm sorry." I said, "Can we go out some more?" She said, "No. You called
me a bitch." I said, "You're right, I'm wrong." She said, "Do you think I'm a
bitch?" I said, "Yes." She was standing there. I said, "Go away bitch." She did.
Her name I do not remember.
I asked the same girl from fourth grade to go out with me in seventh grade. She said
no. I asked why. She said because.
In seventh grade we had exchanged names to give five-dollar gifts. I got the name of
the poor new kid and he got mine. Perfect. Great. Superb. Awesome. I do not
remember who got what, but one of us or both of us got a model car kit. I think one
of them was a level one kit. I think I insulted him. I think I said I was sorry. He
said we should be friends. A popular girl I liked asked me if he and I were friends. I
think I said yes. My life was never the same.
I was a big fan of Guns and Roses. In seventh grade I sang their songs in the lunch
line. A friend told me I was a good singer and should try to sing like someone who
was not Axl Rose because Axl Rose is not a very good singer. I said, "I know,"
before I had time to say anything else. That was part of my personality then, to just
agree with something if it hurt me to hear it just to keep from being thought of as
stupid. I liked Axl's singing very much then, but did not sing much in public after
that. If I am able to sing in public after today, it will be a minor accomplishment.
My voice is often flat.
In a grade I don't remember other than it being while we were in middle school, now
that I think of it, it might have been eighth grade, a kid broke into the pencil
dispenser that sold pencils and stole all the pencils and sold them cheap to
everybody in the school. He said he would kill you if you told on him. The principle
took every kid in the entire school off to the side to interview about who had stolen
the pencils. I was the only kid out of the entire school who lied and said it was not
the kid the principle thought it was. I found this out when, after lining up every
student shoulder-to-shoulder in the cafeteria, myself and the thief were called out by
first and last name and told to step forward. The principle told the students that
unless every other kid except me in the whole school was a liar, the other boy was the
one who had stolen the pencils. Then, he asked me in front of everybody who stole
the pencils. He said if I did not say it was the same guy everybody else said it was, I
would be blamed and the other guy would go free. I said it was me. The other boy
spoke up and said it was him, that I was innocent, but lying. The principle said to
the students that if I were willing to take the blame for someone else just because I
did not want to go against my word that I would not tell, and if the other boy was
unwilling to let me take the fall, that I and the other boy had just proven ourselves to
be of more character than the rest of the school's students put together. He said that
pencils were not important, not like trust. He said that there may come a time when
the whole nation will have to learn to keep their word or the world would fall into
chaos. He said that the betrayal of the other boy was also greater a sin than the theft
the boy had done because many of the kids had willingly purchased some of the
stolen merchandise, and in so doing, were guilty, and because of being guilty but
being wiling to tell on the boy in order to escape responsibility in the matter it proved
them all of worse criminal elements of mind than either I myself or the thief. He said
that he wanted the entire school to know it and that their punishment would be
living the rest of their lives knowing it. My punishment and the other boy's
punishment was the same. We all went back to class.
At a later time, or maybe before that time, I do not recall, that very same boy who
had not let me take the fall for him in regard to the pencils was being beat up after
school on the soccer field by the same kid that had told the teacher in kindergarten
that I used a word against him I did not use. These two boys had both come up to
me during the school day to ask me to be on the playground to back them up in their
fight against the other one. I told each of them yes, I would, but that they should not
fight each other. I watched in horror as the one who lied to the teacher in
kindergarten beat the holy living hell out of the kid that had stood up for me to the
principle, throwing punches to the face of the kid that had stolen the pencils while
the kid that had stolen the pencils and stood up for me laid on the ground screaming
that someone help him. My friend from kindergarten then started kicking the other
boy. I made him stop after summoning courage to do so. The boy that had been
winning the fight had a wild look in his eyes and on his face while fighting, and it
was this face that turned to face me while I spoke, ..."has had enough. You do not
want to kill him." "I do want to kill him. I should kill him." I do not even know,
nor did I ever know, what the fight was about, but I helped the beaten boy call his
father for a ride home because he couldn't walk very well. He said he thought I was
going to back him up, and I said I was sorry I didn't, but did not want to get beat up.
He said he understood, but that I was not his friend anymore. This hurt me very
bad. He said I would never be friends with anybody ever again unless they were
going to get hurt or die. I said I didn't want anyone to get hurt or die. He said I
should never talk to anybody ever again unless I was their master or boss or husband
or father, that everyone I wanted to be my friend would grow to hate me. His father
and I and he went to his father's house. His father asked why I did not call for help
during the fight. I said I wanted to stay and stop the fight if I could, not to leave the
fighting to those in the soccer field. He said I may have saved the life of his son, that
his son had a beating coming, that I did the right thing, but that I was a coward for
not kicking the other person's ass. I said I was not a coward, I stopped the fight
when the other person was at his most dangerous. He said, "Yes. But you are
strong. You are of strength you do not yet know. You could have beaten the other
guy to a pulp." I said, "I do not think so." He said, "You are so strong you will
never fight another person as long as you live because when you fight you are angry
and you know your strength and you know that if you ever fight you will kill
whomever it is you are fighting." I said, "I will find the anti-christ and I will kill him
with my bare hands." He said, "You are the anti-christ and you are a fool. The devil
is the creator of this world, not God. God is an angry deity out of control. He plants
life in the Stars and the Earth will not die until every life that is in a Star has come to
live on Earth for punishment at the will of God for wanting to be like him. The devil
made God make the Earth out of God's wrath because the devil wanted to know
what it was like to experience creating things, destroying things, and doing things
without serving God all the time in prayer, song, thought. You are here not to find
yourself and defeat yourself, are you?" "No," I said, "I'm not the anti-christ." "It's
a good thing you did not just say no," he said, "I am the devil, and you have saved
my son. What do you want to do now?" "Now?" I asked. "Yes. Now. What do
you want to do right this second?" "Leave." "No, fool," he said, "If you could do
anything right now, what would it be?" "Oh!", I said, "I suppose I would like to be
performing live music in front of a huge audience, or maybe just fucking a lot of
beautiful sexy women BECAUSE I perform live music in front of large audiences.
Yes, I would be fucking three or four sexy women right now." Somehow the topic
got on where the women came from, their nationalities. Sweden, Norwegian,
Scandinavians, that sort of thing came up. You do not need to know the rest of the
story right now except to know that he ended up telling me the only reason I would
throw away what he could offer would be if I was scared. I am scared. You should
be.
I had a teacher in eighth grade that liked to give out Jolly Rancher candies for
rewards or just for the fuck of it. He also liked to slap me on the back of the head
after I got my hair cut very short. He did it more than once. I was near him once
and said Hi and then slapped him on the back of his head. I hit him a little harder
than I should have because his head slammed face-first into the corner edge of a
doorway right where he was standing, and he became very fucking angry. I was in
shock at the things he said. Later he apologized to me for his outburst and said he
would appreciate it if... He said he was moody. I said he could change. He said he
wouldn't change for anybody. "Deal with it," he said. Maybe I am. Maybe I am.
I do not remember where 'No you can't sit with us," came from. Maybe from a cold
group of sexy girls that I will have sex with with permission from my wife in the
presence of my wife or with her, even, who are talking about me.
When I was either a freshman or sophomore, A guy and his brother, one of whom
was dating a girl I thought I had a chance of having sex with because we had been
locked up in the same mental institution years before she moved to town, and had
told me the day after she moved to town she did not have a boyfriend, told me to
meet them in the parking lot outside of the high school one day because the day
before I had met the girl behind one of the walls hiding the air conditioners of the
school and had told her to let me lick her pussy, give her oral sex, and she had said
no, she had a boyfriend and then no, she was on her period and I became angry with
her for having lied to me about her boyfriend and asked her to show me her vagina
and tampon to prove she was not lying to me about being on her period because I
told her that her having a boyfriend was of no consequence to me and she did show
me her salty-smelling and bloody vagina but then she told her boyfriend, who had
seen us disappear to the area this had happened, that she didn't know what I wanted
until we were back there and that I threatened to rape her after saying I wanted to
show her something, so this dude and his brother said to me early in the morning at
school that day on the bus they were going to kick my ass but wouldn't tell me why
all day and they just kept telling this to me whenever we were around and saying it in
front of teachers and others and that it would be a worse beating if I didn't show up
and so I showed up and they told me to put my backpack down first and I said no,
I'll fight the two of you while holding it, thanks, and they said all right and put their
backpacks down on the ground and approached me saying to get ready to get beaten
and then they stopped and began laughing at me and I asked them why they were
laughing and they said because I was scared and should see the look on my face and
that they knew I hadn't threatened to rape the girl because they knew she had lied
when all day it was obvious to them I had no idea what they were upset about and
then I said to the one who said the girl was his he probably should find a different
girlfriend but he said no other girl in the school would date him and she had just
moved to town and you can't pick and choose women, when you get the chance to
be with one you just go with it, no matter if she's ugly or stupid or a liar or fat, ugly,
stupid, and a liar and I said maybe that was why I hadn't had sex yet and then they
laughed at me for being a virgin but I never wavered from my principles on the
matter. I am very choosy. They continued to laugh and say they would tell the
whole school I was a virgin and asked if I had ever masturbated and I said the wrong
thing in reply. I said, "No, but I thought about fucking a farm animal once." This
really set them rolling then into waves of laughter at my expense and I thought, 'I
guess I'll just be a fucking Jim Carey then.' and let them laugh. They said I was sick
and twisted. I will let them all laugh. They told me I would have to prove I was not
sick and twisted by never being found out publicly of having done sick and twisted
things. They said that having sex with an animal was better than rape, but not being
a rapist or animal-fucker, while a start, didn't say much. But, I have told twelve to
twenty people at various moments in my life that I have had sex with a farm animal.
Some think it's a sheep, some think it's a pig, some think it's a calf. They are wrong.
I lied to them all because I felt like proving I was someone I am not to those people
then. This has haunted me more than anything else, really. That, and a pig told me
once she was satan waiting for me to make my move. I did. I got her a bore and she
had piglets and I sold the piglets to market. I know not what happened to them.
The sow pig that told me she was satan in waiting charged me trying to kill me once
when one of her piglets was laying ill on the ground and I had gone up to take a
closer look. The sow has been eaten. The sow never told me anything. I had
determined at some point the sow was satan waiting. I denied satan the pleasure,
and she has denied me. No big whoop. Using the words 'satan,' and 'devil,' bothers
me. They are uncivilized.
Many times I have, in the past, been asked, "Why did you do it, then?" Being asked
this question makes me either understand more fully the wrong or stupidity being
discussed, or just makes me think you're goddamn stupid. Stupidity is relative
anyway. Especially in my family. I just realized the phrase in the "poem" was 'why
did you do it, though, not, why did you do it then, and this sentence is much more
impactful than why did you do it then. Because it is a question I was asked by loved
ones whose feelings or persons I have hurt.
"You think working all the time, all day, everyday, is going to make you rich?" I had
actually said something about working six days a week to earn money working on
the farm instead of going to school so I could have money and get laid. The
discussion took place between myself and two classmates. Maybe the whole class.
Yeah, I think the teacher got involved. They all argued it was not smart to quit
school and not smart to not achieve in school. None of them knew how hard school
was for me. The homework blew my mind, and we were only in algebra at the time.
Simple, basic, algebra. Homework for other classes was not difficult, but not
interesting either. If only I had paid better attention in literature class. Oh-fuckingwell. The only thing I gave a fuck about in my fucking English class in my fucking
freshman or sophomore year of high school, I don't remember which, was a girl that
had just moved to town from some mystical far-away land like Kentucky or
Tennessee. Maybe she was from fucking Spain. I don't know. I wanted her. My
girlfriend and I had just broken up because I heard she was bragging about having
TWO boyfriends, and her being with someone else was something we had not made
any arrangements about, and hearing from a fellow student about her bragging about
being my boyfriend while having kissed another guy made me angry enough to deny
my feelings of love for her versus my feelings of love for myself and the new girl was
in the library with us as we argued this point and had showed an interest... I had
already noticed her and intended (and still do) to do something about this. Things
were working out for the young man of fifteen or fourteen or sixteen who would later
put a 1978 Oldsmobile Delta 88 going 134mph into a ditch, through a field on the
nose of the car, into another ditch, out of that ditch, and acrosst the road into a third
ditch, with the help of a force I cannot describe, I might add, and left without a
scratch. But, as of the time we were talking about making money instead of going to
school, and it was argued against me that the two were not necessarily exclusive each
other, the girl from the exotic land where they make them like I like 'em was dating
another man, and she came up because one of the classmates had asked what girl I
wanted to have sex with and my answer was "Which one don't I want to have sex
with." and the topic changed when it came to the new girl from the land of milk and
honey and then there was an argument about milk and honey- compliment or putdown, and about the fact there were lots of girls and I had said anyway, the guy the
new girl was with had damn sure be good to her, and they said he would and I said
everything was okay, let's drop it all, I'm not going to finish school if I don't have to,
after they told me working all the time was the way poor people went about things
and meant not having a social life. I already said I didn't do my homework because
I was too dumb to figure it out. And I am dumb for having said that just now. But I
didn't even have to say it.
In my sophomore year I missed several days of school. I had just bought the guitar
and amplifier, a cd player, a television, and all the latest video game machines and
such. I stayed home and listened to cds and played video games and guitar all night
and could not get out of bed on time in the morning to make it to the bus. This went
on for awhile and Dad said it was okay if I got up and worked on the farm instead,
but he was right and the courts got wind from the school and I was sent to a juvenile
detention center for mental health evaluation because the judge had heard I was
smart and had changed from being happy and carefree and fun to be around to being
a skulk of some kind or another. I wouldn't answer the judge with very much
enthusiasm. He said he would give me five days to prove I was okay and if I went to
school all five days he would drop the case but if I missed any days in that five day
period I would have to go to juvenile detention for a thirty-day evaluation. I was in
juvenile detention for 93 days. During that time I was almost initiated by a crip, was
introduced to Snoop Dogg, fell in love with a blonde who moved away to North
Carolina before we could fuck, was offered my first blow job by a fatso whom I
denied, and overall became different than otherwise I would have been. We
formulated Harry Potter. A gypsy read my palm. I met a guy who shot his brother
on accident. I learned about a Native American tribe from a guy who taught me to
play hacky sack. I snuck my more-than three-hundred dollar Sony Discman into the
facility in my pants and brought my White Zombie La Sexorcisto Devil Music
Volume One CD because I had already memorized almost all of Tool Undertow. I
was there for Halloween and Thanksgiving. Two schoolmates wrote to me. I wrote
them back. I talked with a staff member about how much I wanted to lick pussy, in
particular the blonde, but told her I would lick hers if she wanted me to, which she
gave a look like something she had heard me say was surprising or disgruntling after
and said "Gross.", but she bought me a present. And, after the 93 days, the
psychological evaluation came back saying I had no problems, just a poor attitude,
and should return home to be with my parents and attend school with my classmates
instead of being placed into independent living, so I went to school and it was close
to the winter break and my English teacher said it was obvious I had not read the
book my report was about but she thought the ideas were interesting nonetheless
and asked me to choose. Should she give me an F for not doing the assignment or
should she give me a B and let me go on to the next grade and I told her I liked her
class and teaching and would be happy to get an F but she said she didn't like
having me in class unless I would shutup and do my work and so I said, "I'll take
the B." And she was either satisfied or dissatisfied, I know not which.
The upper-classmen all got a upper-classmen only bathroom. I was chewing Cherryflavored Skoal in Ag. class, a classroom of folks who liked to talk about life and learn
about agriculture. Women. Men. A teacher. My god, what a class. The girls were
women because you could ask them if they wanted to fuck and they would say yes,
but they were already fucking someone, and you could say, can I go next, and they
would say yes, if you're there, and you felt good about yourself. We learned about
keeping track of receipts and making property logs and how to make a living in
farming and ranching or that you could go get further schooling and work in related
fields that would benefit the farmer or rancher. I was a Star Greenhand, it was
decided, because I had bred many piglets from two sows and a bore, more piglets
than average, I was told. Being a Star Greenhand is the only award I ever got that
meant anything. The only other awards were all from MCI WorldCom. Sorry to
bring it up. I had to drive my Oldsmobile there and back. It was a class at a school
some miles away from the high school I attended all my other classes in. This was
before the evaluating. The Skoal made me so sick I thought it would kill me. I said,
"Kill me now or give it up, whoever you are." I parked, went into the high school,
and had my Chemistry class. The classroom for Chemistry class was next to the new
exclusive bathroom. I covered it in my puke. I turned around looking for something
to wipe up the puke with. The puke covered the toilet and somehow all the walls of
the area where the toilet was. I had gone for the toilet meant for pooping and the
disabled. I realized I wasn't going to be cleaning up the mess my puking had made,
and left the bathroom. The janitors realized they would not be cleaning the mess
either, and that door has been locked closed ever since. That was in 1993, it is now
2013. May my puke live forever in infamy. I like that.
A strange series of circumstances took place in my life surrounding the existence of a
girl. She had moved to town in the year before I ever noticed her. On our first
encounter with words spoken aloud I asked her name and she told me and she said
she had been at our school since the year before and then expressed it was rude of
me to not know of her until the moment I talked to her during which time I told her I
had never noticed her before but I thought she was very beautiful. She moved away
a year or two later but by then I was madly in love. I talked in English class out loud
in front of everyone, including the new girl from the far-away land, that I had an idea
I would buy a Kawasaki Vulcan and ride to Minnesota to visit the girl who had
moved away who seemed to be friends with all the girls and some of the boys too.
We had been writing letters back and forth, you see. She had written letters and told
me of things that were personal and I told her how much I loved her even though we
had yet to get to know each other like we should. She wrote one letter in particular
that told of her time on a nudist beach. I was insane with jealousy but learned from
it that if I love I will not be jealous because if I love she can do whatever she wants
forever. When I said in class that I would ride a Kawasaki Vulcan up to Minnesota to
visit... one of her supposed friends spoke up said the girl I was talking about
wouldn't want me to visit her and this made me angry and in my anger I said not
only had we been writing letters and were great pen pals and friends but that if I did
ride up to see her I would get her to marry me and then the girl said I shouldn't be
talking about her friend in front of other people and that she would tell the girl that I
basically said she and I had agreed to get married one day and when I next got a
letter from my pen pal friend whom I loved more than all other creatures of human
femaleness it said, 'I cannot write to you anymore. You have ruined my reputation.
How dare you say to my friends that I said I would marry you? They say you told
everyone we are going to be married and they say they will not be my friend if I
marry you and that you are not popular. And she told me to forget about her. As if.
Love. Reading from her that bit about being popular or not struck me, though.
Because every girl from that school I wanted always said they would not be with me
because I was not popular. What a weird fucking place. Well, not fucking. Only
once that I know of. Two teachers were fucking there once and were caught. They
were married to other people. It was a shock to everyone. May there be no greater or
worse shock for any who read this than to find out two people they don't personally
care for to a great extent or know through this writing or their own have had sex.
The End.
Being in the place where I was to get an evaluation had given me a new sense of self
worth beyond my previous feelings because of the fact I knew I was not nearly as
fucked up as those around me with ideas or other bullshit. This changed one day
when a guy I thought looked up to me or respected me for putting down that crip
said to me he thought that I went around like I was all that but really I looked like a
stupid fucking prep and no one liked me. Oh well. At least I didn't shoot my
brother, dumbass.
I do not remember the context of 'you don't know anything about their music.' But,
I can say that I do not appreciate, nor do I have a high tolerance capacity for, those
who do not listen to TOOL. Tori Amos is an acquired taste. I listen to Bjork.
Madonna. Jazz. Even the goddamn saxophones. If I can listen to goddamn
saxophones, your punk ass should be able to tolerate some TOOL. It has been said
to me enough times that it is almost like having heard it a thousand times, "If you
like Tool you should like Chevelle." I disagree. That is all I am going to say about it
except to say this: "If you think Chevelle is like Tool, then you either are a man
without balls and penis, or are a woman without ovaries, uterus, vagina, labials,
clitoris, and mons, and you do not exist. HOWEVER@! You could be a cat
disguised as a person with a mouth and ability to speak English! Because I ordered
my German Shepherd once with a simple command in American English to kill all
the cats on the farm and the dog did, then buried them. They might all have risen to
become people that approach me and seeing I am wearing a TOOL shirt or hearing
me play a TOOL song or hearing me talk about wanting to hear TOOL thusly
encroach upon my intelligence with the banality, retardation, and contrasting fool
The Merriam-Webster Thesauruses'-ness that is saying words relating to the band
Chevelle and the band TOOL while referring to them and not being antonymous
while doing so. Amen. Oh, I just remembered. Oftentimes I am asked what I think
of a band. Sometimes I am told, "You don't know much about their music," when I
say that I do not appreciate so very much the music of the band being discussed.
Okay, then let's leave it at that, then. Fucker. I love the music of TOOL but I have
NEVER FORCED IT UPON A SINGLE LIVING SOUL, much to my heart's
discontentment, my soul's pain, my mind's anger, my dick's unnatural desire, my
hands' untaken wants, my skin's un-immortal youthful existence, my toes' unused
purpose, my testicular intentions lack, my honor's detriment, my nobility's lost
proof, my wisdom's unfound as fact wisdom, my world-view's illogic, my desire for
more lovers' successes' failing, my reading's learning lost, my writing's perfection
abuse, my thinking's way asunder, my hunters' spirit flying the coop, my protector's
guile becoming immolated by enmeshment, my almost everything's ruination.
Once, a guy invited me to jam at his house. He played drums okay, better than
another drummer I knew at the time. He kept his hitting of the drums with traits
more simple than the other, but did not hit the drums out of time as much. We
played crap songs that he liked, then a song I wrote. After inviting me to practice
once, he said he had found a new guitar player when I arrived. Hope he's doing as
well as I am. Nah. Fuck it.
Enough about stupid. I bought an Ibanez once. It belongs to someone else.
Wish I still had it. The Ibanez, no need to wish about it. The other guitar was an
ESP. It looked like it was not as impressive as the Ibanez. The Ibanez was a lazerblue RG550DX with a mirror pick-guard. I named it after the blonde girl I was in
love with. I replaced it with an ESP flying-V, a limited edition James Hetfield
edition they only ever made 200 of. I was never able to enjoy that guitar as much as
the Ibanez except once when I had an audience in my living room of two or three or
four or five or more or less and they all listened to me play a song that is on track two
or three or four or five of the third album released by my favorite band. It is funny. I
have listened to my favorite band almost millions of times and I know not the names
of the songs in order on their albums. I was told at the time I bought the Ibanez I
was stupid if I did and the guy threatened to not play with me in our band anymore if
I did against the deal he said the owner was offering to get the ESP. He was wrong
about that. He is or was wrong about a lot. Maybe. I don't know. Nothing has
been the same since knowing that guy. But, I know nothing is his fault. Not alone,
anyway.
My Dad gave me gripe about buying the Ibanez and Fender Power Chorus amplifier.
He asked if I thought it was a wise decision. "You think spending money on a new
guitar and amplifier was a wise way to spend your money?" He had asked. I said
yes. He said, make it so. He said he would turn his gripe into grip. This was right
as I took a 35mph turn at over 55mph in a four-cylidner minivan and the momentum
thrust us right up to the white line, all four tires hopping off the ground after the gforces pushed them against the curve of the asphalt and made them fold, then bend,
then bounce. I thought it was a good vibe to get off my choosing to spend my life's
earnings on a guitar and amplifier. My Father thought different, and said so. Then,
he said he shouldn't have said so. Then I said, "If ..." Oh... wait... I can't tell you
that.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Oops. I wasn't supposed to do that. The capital letters. Well, I guess I'll tell you
what I said. I said, ..."If I ever write about it then it means you were right to begin
with." He told me to write a song about it instead! I said I would. I told you what I
said, but I will not tell you when I said it. I don't recall if that has happened yet or
hasn't happened. I played guitar yesterday. I haven't played guitar yet today. I'm
going to go do that now. I didn't.
Then I did. Nothing new though. He also said, "slow down," many times as we
went into the curve, each time louder and with more gusto.
I was at a farming sale or something like that once. There is so much important
about that day, but I'll talk about the girls instead. They were sisters three and could
see I needed to pee. They invited me to go to where they liked to pee. They said I
could do it for free and I said if you knew me you'd know I always pee for free. They
said they wouldn't watch, but watch they did. And, when I came back from around
the corner of the metal shed that is smaller than the shed that still stands on my
father's old farmland the girls said they had tricked me because they had watched
me pee and that they saw my peter and I had never used the word peter then but they
told me what it was and for some reason did not want to say penis but said that one
of them would if I would love her and I said I suppose that would be allright and
they said fine and that I should choose and I picked the youngest one and they said
that wasn't good I shouldn't have done that and I said why not and they said it was
mean and I said just because I don't want to live with an old dried up woman doesn't
mean I'm not good. I was less than five years old then. I hadn't ever met girls
before, really. I was from the farm then, and only the farm. I'd fucking fuck all you
city-living folks right the fuck off this fucking planet if I fucking could right fucking
now goddamnit. Amen.
Don't know what don't was for. Do not something, obviously, but not do what, I
don't know.
It seemed every time I had a girlfriend somebody was surprised. "You're going out
with..." sentences have been heard by my ears through many years.
Just because it's popular doesn't mean what?
"And what did you do with it?" or "And what did you do with it." Both statements
are usual along with speculating tirade. I remember not which this was.
"You're in my house now." is a common phrase used by common folks more often
than others. But, I'd like to use it with a whole lot of people you will never know
about or hear about or understand or fathom or be like or know love of. Sucker.
Punk ass bitch has been said to me several times. I know not what a punk ass bitch
is. I know what ass is. I know what a bitch is. I just took a bitch to the vet
yesterday. It should be capitalized. Bitch. Punk to me seems like something that
only those of mild intellectualness self-identify with. I know nothing about it
otherwise. All punk music I ever heard is nesciences.
"If you were half as smart as you think you are." I quote here a teacher of a Physical
Science class. He told me I could not quote him. Fuck him. Stupid goddamn
retard. Get your fucking vibes off my goddamn wave, cock. Bitch. Cunt. Whatever.
Something less than a human male or human female. I can say whatever the fuck I
want.
"Do you smoke cigarettes?" What's it to ya?
"Fritz is dead." Three of the worst words in the human language when used in that
order based on my life experience.
"What are you doing?" Oh man, woman, child, whatever-the-fuck-else, you
should have been there.
"We think you could use some help." Yeah? What do you think now?
Fucking (four-letter-word will suffice. Preferable to me that it come from Jewish
perspective.)
"Did you steal his cds?" No. Did you want me to kill you then, or now?
Free. Hey creators of the movie Helter Skelter! What's up! You're so cool! Die.
"You're really worthless."
"Why didn't you?"
"Just try it once." Okay. And I did. Pretty much.
"She says you did." And others have said I should sometime. You're all wrong.
"Pussy." Well, doesn't hurt my feelings. Not per usual, anyway.
No one drives like you do man. Let that be a lesson to you. Get started.
Why did you say that just now is written twice in a row because, well, that is how it
should be. That's how, so-they-say, steak, is done. You see. I want a wet t-bone
goin' on in your kitchen within about twenty-four hours. Go!
"No, you're not invited." This was said to me after I was told that I had written a
famous writing and that there would be a party. Well, that is fine with me. Too bad
you won't be at the good party.
"I know." There. You won the argument, and got in your buck-o-five. Whose next?
Vladimir Putin, Russia, and China. Go@!
"But just accept it." If you can accept that I use you like Gandhi used grain, I can
live with that. "Get a dog, little ongy..." Quoted from Patrick Starrrrr. Fits.
..."if you accept it." or "If you accept it." Don't remember exactly. Something
about something that somebody meant to mean I had no power of persuasion.
"Maybe you'll be invited next time." Oh, okay. Now I remember. All our supposed
friends were having a get-together once-a-week for supper or some such. My wife
and I were not invited for some reason. Fascists.
"I can't tell you." Oh okay. Thanks for that. Great friend. Charade you are. Watch
out.
"Which one are you going to work with?" Well, not pen and paper, obviously. Now
that is a lie.
..."you're going to go back in time and write something and when we see it in the
present it will be your future." Really? Like when I passed out at your house and
woke up to find my erection in your mouth? Because that altered my present and
future. It was the only time I "cheated" on my wife.
"Now is a good time to quit." And it was. Not just because you sucked my cock the
night before and I didn't respond the way you wanted me to and you were my boss,
but because MCI WorldCom went down after that. Wish I'd have quit sooner. Wish
I'd never set foot into that workplace. Wish The Office and all the other shit that
passes for great ideas these days meant more to me, enough to...
Read on. Read on. Read on.
"You're never going to L.A." Suit yourself.
"She doesn't like company unannounced. Why the heck not? Does she have a
portal to AIDS on her front porch she has to clear before anyone steps up to ring the
doorbell? Better not. Back porch better be clean as a whistle, too.
"She plans more than I do." Well, I guess I know now, that I am now, and since
being born, and from here on out, have always been, fucked. Or loved. Probably
fucked. Fucked and loved would be acceptable. Either one of you at any time.
Sisters can do it with the same guy if they want to. Nothing stopping you. And, if
my mind is trying to revert the 'Nothing stopping you,' back to itself? Why don't
don't and do and nothing go fuck yourself?
'You're husband is crazy,' was written there. And I thought words I will not put into
writing. Instead I will say, You are like her and her sister. Act different. Be as you
always should be.
"Don't write it." k
"Maybe." shutup
why*3+1. *=times. +=plus. do the math, cuz I sure as fuck won't
"You're stupid." For putting here, in quotes, yes, yes I am. But, it is relative.
Especially in my family. I challenge Stephen King now to write sentences meaning
the same thing as 'Especially in my family,' without using adverbs ending in ly. The
Wind Through The Keyhole doesn't count.
"Don't be a stranger." I try not to be a stranger to you, Sir. And that capital s better
do it's job.
"Well that does it." Sorry about that. I had no idea we were talking about what were
talking about. Me marrying your daughter? It blew my mind it could ever have been
considered by you. I guess I should always consider whatever words are being
spoken as potentially being in that context. Impossible.
Good job. Two words that in the right setting at the right time make all the
difference.
"Don't even think about it." How the fuck do you mean?
You can. Two words. Rods of wisdom haven't been fashioned of anything else. Oh
yeah, I remember now. I'm not supposed to write about somebody in particular.
Okay then. What do I get? Friendship with a clown? That will suffice. But you
don't know where she is.
..."because they don't think like we do." I know. And I don't think like either of ya.
I like the way the Italians think, I think, based on one interaction. I like the way the
Spanish think, I think, based on one interaction. And I like the way the Irish think, I
think, based on one interaction. And what country were those girls from who I like
the way they think? The mother and daughter? S- something. S something. I don't
like the way the Angolan thought, though. But, I hope he can think. Oh. I don't
like the way the Saudi Arabian guy thought, either. I hope he can think. I like the
way the Indians think, I think, based on one interaction. I like the way the
Australians think, I think, based on two interactions. I like the way the Japanese
think, based on one interaction. I like the way Russians think, based on two
interactions. I like the way the English think, I think, based on at least one
interaction. The English are kinda slippery. There were some guys from some
country somewhere whom I thought I liked the way they think, but I cannot name
that country. There is a Canadian, but I know nothing of that for sure. I think I
liked the way a Canadian was thinking, once. I like the way the Columbians think. I
like the way Mexicans think. I like the way the Nepalese think. I like the way
Germans think. I like the way The Danish think. I like the way the Bosnians think.
Because I told you so. Okay. How did that work out for you? For me? Because?
Because it's his. I don't remember, but I know I've heard it before.
"You know the god-man myth is false." I just said I don't remember about
something.
"Don't you?" I do.
"Why aren't you with your family right now?" Because no one understands me that
I know where my family is right now. No. It is because I am working on up to
being worthy of being around them. I am working and breathing and...
"I can't." I told you I would remember. This has been said to me on occasions I
have invited one to my home.
"Do you want to write something?" No, bitch. I want you to be my friend. And my
personal slut adherent to naught but sliding up and down on my penis with your
vagina and anus and mouth and hands. You're not a Bitch. You're the silver
rainbow thingy in a dream I had once. I fucked you then. But, you didn't have a
pussy. I had to make one.
"Will you talk to us?" Was I talking in response? Did I say anything coherent when
I did speak up? Do my questions give you answers? No? Yes? You don't know?
Am I not getting through to you now? Because I did not get through to you then,
you know.
Please. Fuck please. Goddamn rape please. Kill please. But do not rape or kill.
Just fuck please.
"We want to help." Famous last words, cunt. Nah. Ape. Banana. Zebra.
Illuminati death.
"Who?" and "What was his name?" and "Her name then?" Three questions that
should never be answered, never have been asked, and later, will be answered
because they should be asked.
"someone tried to access... your account from a computer... you never used before."
Kill them! Find them!
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Just fuck off. I tried to cancel that account the moment it was created. I hope your
entire basis for existence gets blown the fuck up. Retards.
..."donate... as much as you can... even it's as little as..." I did. You won. Shutup.
(Buy my books, see my movies, celebrate my life with your children and
grandchildren so they will celebrate my life after you're dead which will be before I
am ayway._) _ was a typo.
TYCO SPACE VEHICLE DESIGNED LIKE A CAR I envision the wheels will be
spinning magnets that propel the vehicle using a hitherto unknown particle in
subspace or space-time. Get to work dudes.
"What do I have to do?" Don't ask. Don't tell. Too late.
"Why are you saying these things?" Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. That is an order.
"Why did you then?" Because your infinitesimal knowledge and wisdoms piss me
off sometimes. But it is not your fault. I am working now to solve the mystery. Not
the mystery of life. I never wanted to solve that. I want to solve those of you who do
not want me not to solve that. You know it. Grow it. Legalize.
"How did he know to do that?" Well, you see, you start by doing what you are doing
and then not stopping for awhile.
You Think I Give A Goddamn About Your God
"How did he know to do that?" How indeed. Not.
"She didn't want you." Want, need. Relative.
..."you've already said enough?" Haven't I?
"I will wait for you," she said, after giving me her soul against my wishes. But, the
trick is, she knew I would not be able to find her. I had denied her invitation to her
parents' house. I think the key word in that decision was 'parents.' I have always
had an aversion to parents. "Don't give my soul away," she said. "I do not know
how," I answered, "If I could I would give it back to you right now." "Don't say
that," she said, "it means you do not love it." "It?" "My soul." "If it is your soul
then why do I have it?" "Because I gave it to you." "You should not have done so."
"Don't lose it." "I won't." I did. "Unless you are going to give it away." I did. I
know not what happens next. I do not dally in souls. She had said she gave me her
soul because it was obvious to her I did not have one. She had waved at me to stop, I
think to stop, as I drove by in my Galaxy 500. She liked the car and thought I looked
cool wearing a black leather biker jacket. Bitch could have offered oral sex or to fuck
her pussy, but not, she wanted to talk about souls and introduce me to her parents.
Goddamn she is beautiful. Not because of the souls or parents and invitation to
dinner and to use the shower, no, just beautiful. You know. She wasn't ugly and had
a vagina. Like all things of importance outside manhood. The rest of you can fuck
off. We've had enough of you. Die.
"How old are you?" Don't answer unless they pull out the gun. Answer with loving
fists of fury if they pull out the gun. From clandestine resources of the mind or spirit
or soul or body, make your answer known by way of the gun. Do not descrepensiate
your passive nature with their gun. Take it and kill their ability to walk away. Make
them crawl and worship the fact they can pertaining to your mercy. Nah. Answer
what you wish. Don't lie a bunch. It's a number. Learn about numbering. Nah.
Tough luck has nothing to do with numbers, so don't worry about it.
..."are there any dead bodies in the trunk?" An argument. "It's a simple question."
An argument. ..."answer it." No. Galaxy 500. No dead bodies. Officer happier
than he should be.
"I think I'll keep this." Fine. Keep my dagger. It has special meaning to me.
"Unless it has special meaning to you." Fine. Keep my Harley-Davidson lighter
with you at all times for the rest of your life. It has special meaning to me. "I
thought I might give it to somebody." Fine. Give it to somebody. They will not die.
"Are you drunk?" Not now. "I'm calling your parents." Not now. "Stay here." I
don't fucking think so.
"Don't sign your name." I'm not now. "Remember I said not to sign your name."
I did. So what? You never sucked my cock. You never let me kiss your pussy or
anus. You are nothing. As am I.
..."you don't like listening..." And neither should you. You may evolve in the next
round of lifetime on Earth.
"Wow." mom, yes, I know. fucking retarded faggot. I will make sure your brains
spill. I will it to happen before you know about it, though, so it never crosses your
mind as you spill out of this planet's embrace and back into the Cosmos and there I
already have something waiting for you. Your new reality. A place where you cannot
find Earth from. But, in that place, Earth is already waiting. Say hi to Voyager
spacecraft for me, bitch. You dead thing. You fucking retarded, retarded, retarded
motherfucker.
"You picked up a hitchhiker?! With Owen in the car?!" "Yes." "Why?!" "Because
he looked like he needed a ride." "So you just picked up him because he looked like
he needed a ride?" "Yes." "What if he had been a serial killer or worse?" "What is
worse than a serial killer, Rachel?" "Well, for one thing he could have had a gun."
"So, serial killers don't use guns then? I did not know that!" "No, you asshole, I
was saying he could have had a gun or been a serial killer." "So, you either can have
a gun, or you can be a serial killer. Is that it?" "No,...", "What was he like?" "He
was kind of dirty. He had money and wanted a ride to a truck stop in ..." "You went
all the way to ... with our son in the car with a hitchhiker in the car?" "Yes." "Were
you smoking weed?" "Yes." "Did you smoke in the car with him?" "No."
"Why?" "He said he didn't smoke." "Did he say anything about Owen?" "No."
"So you and Owen are okay now?" The answer was yes. Always yes. And, the
answer is always yes, always yes, for her, for so many. "I will never understand you."
But for some, the answer must be...
"Why did you hit me?" "I hit you with a pillow. You punched me in the face. It
doesn't correlate. Stop crying. Do not ever hit me ever again." But, she did. I think
she's paying for it right now, but I wish she wasn't. I would like her and me to hit
somebody though. But this is better. Not.
remember
k
q
b
t
(enough of that bullshit.)
..."I'm her now." k. not really. no. push her out of the car.
..."growing mushrooms in the closet." "Can I see?" ... "answer me." "no." then
you are worthless. like her. stupid wanna-be daughter of Abraham.
"Take this." Should have said no. Reader? No. Maybe. Probably not.
..."if you only read half of it you will go insane." "Then I will read half of it." "You
want to go insane?" "I cannot go insane." "Then what are you? I shouldn't have-"
"Too late!" "Then who are you?" "You will find out." "Do we have your word?"
"Not now." "What do you mean?" "You will have my word when I am good and
ready." "Do you promise?" "No." "Then you are a liar." "I cannot lie." "Are you
our brother?" "I am neither..." FINISH IT.
..."you'll go insane." No I won't.
""The Dollar is the most important thing in the world to you right now."" "!" I'm
sorry, that is the best I could do. I tried to say Que Surah Surah, but the word
processor fucked me over with the goddamn red wavy lines. Then, I tried to say
"Yes."
"Did you tell the police anything?" "I try every day to take over complete control of
all police force on this planet," would be my answer. The answer then was, "No."
..."take it if you want." Yes, that is what I said. I regret my decision at the time. I
write in expectation you will have to buy it at a famous retailer for $29.95 or maybe
$49.95 or maybe in first trade paperback edition for $14.99" or more. Maybe less.
Maybe used at a bookstore I like. But, as you also said someone would be hacking
my computer when I was out of the house sometime and you will take it all anyway,
that my writing would be...
shutup.
..."but keep it..." What's that?
"Never get rid of it." ... k I D N W T
"Don't you think your girlfriend would want you to be successful?" And so I denied
myself the acceptance of the opportunity to join a band at the age of however old I
was then and that band is world famous now, but I said I would impact the world
just as much as my favorite band at the time. Maybe I did. Maybe I did not. I did
like the fellow though. Good conversationalist. Didn't have any tattoos at the time.
-remember me." I do. Want to fuck you too. Taste your pussy. Lick your body.
Make you suck my cock. Make you pregnant. Leave. Come back. Give you money.
Fuck you. Make you pregnant. Leave. Fuck you while you're pregnant. Fuck all
your equally gorgeous friends. But I'd have to go there again someday. "Come back
someday when you're healthy." Find you. "Right now?" I'm healthy. We should
find each other. Right now.
..."you've never cheated on your wife before?" "No." "Do you think she'd mind?"
I want her so bad.
"What's wrong with Harry Potter?" What the fuck do you think you raised-by-aretard-teacher fucker?
"Are you ready to see how deep the rabbit hole goes-?"
"Usually I keep the art my patients do in my class." But, I did not want to not take
the art I made of the love of her that reminds me of the love of the others because she
does remind me of the them and without knowing them I would know others and
those others would remind me of the love of others and it could be good too but near
as good as this.
"I suppose," I said. I think.
"Just forget it," she said. I think.
"Because I like to stay in my room." ! Not any more.
"Just go." I hear nothing when she says it. I want to hear it and have it mean what I
think it means; That I am accepted for who I am and am let no barrier against my
path toward progress and progressiveness of character, that this idea is manifest of
my will in such a way that everybody on Earth supports me in going, in meeting, in
doing this, that, the rest of it. Without rest. But never tired. Never pained by aches.
I want to meet Gwen Stefani and kiss her. I want to do the same with almost every
light creature of beauty and power. They are god to me. Except, I want to teach
them how to be God without being GODly.
..."and if you ever write about..." A? Threat?
..."you're the asshole," Bill Gates said to me through a conference call put in to our
class.
"This is a waste of time," my typing instructor said, of my topic of choice from
which to type. I had chosen the Metallica ...And Justice For All album from which to
type words. I remember being so excited at being able to choose something that
didn't suck to do my typing from. Well, I guess if I never amount to more than what
I am write now, she will have been proven right. Though, I remember I was told
once she has already been proven wrong. Bullshit. Unless you are reading this and
it is after February 2013. Which it is.
"You could do so much better if you just..." Yes. You're right.
"When I want to walk away..." She always liked to try and walk away while she was
losing an argument. For some reason this female always thought that if she was
losing an argument it meant the other person was someone not worth her time. I
beg to differ. Or not. Doesn't fucking matter. She's still as stupid as she ever was.
And just as smart, too.
..."just let me." hmm?
..."zero." Oreos.
"Did you...?" Yes, I wrote it. So? You think your symbolic magic can overcome?
Who did you think I was? Hitler? Mother Mary? Carl Sagan? Well, I'm not. Get
over it.
"I think I can trust you..." Here:
"We don't have rooms available," the clerk at the hotel said. Then, changed their
mind. They smelled bad. I don't. They have children. I do. Their age is older than
my age. They don't speak the same way I do. They took a bad check.
"Will you sign..." this check, this card, this receipt, this... WHAT?! Fuckers. Never.
DLMA
"Why do you talk so much?" Oh truck driver.
"It's just an animal," he said, trying to get me to give it shots and help him brand it,
as a response to me who did not want to take part in the activity. I began crying and
the girl from the house nearby watched me and asked me about it and said it was
whatever okay or something, but our date was over.
"No thanks."
"We don't need that kind of talk right now," he said, after I said some words he
didn't like to hear. I don't want to talk about it.
"She's at school in Oklahoma," he said. I think that's what he said. One of my first
loves, we were talking about. His daughter. Inspired me all my days. I should use
her first name when I refer to my wife. But, I don't.
"What do you think it means?" Well, I've been working on this section of this what
might one day be a novel for more than the hours of a day now, almost, kinda, and
what I was going to say inspired by these words, well, just kinda flew out the window
in the several hours' work I've put into this. Plus, I'm writing a movie script to share
with some other folks. Don't know. Started that today. It means then, that I have
failed. I am listening to my favorite band, though. TOOL. Not the best song they
ever wrote, but not the best song ever written by anybody else, so that makes it one
of the best songs written thus far, in my opinion. Holy crap,
fnwerohng0wphujtgi0wpast80w[rest r s y t
thus thee this now cannot spell thusfar without interference from Microsoft Office
For Small Business 2003? Fuck that shit. Thusfar. Thus far.
never
"What were you doing in there?" Well? What WERE you doing in there? This.
..."in the hospital." Yes?
"It's o.k."
No. It isn't.
"You're evil," aunt Linda said to me. We were standing. Talking. For some reason
the ... nearby reminded me of him when he was younger. I thought. He had been
wearing a shirt that said at the time, 'Kill them all, let God sort 'em out' or some
such. Close. I wasn't going to write it out. Something about a quarter given, a
quarter received. Bullshit. Then, I thought, why not consult the Bible? But, my
wife's bible is not a bible. It is marred with imperfect bullshit. In it, the first words
that came from it to my mind were as follows: ...owl...wilderness... I am but a tiny
owl...among...waste... Then, I found my bible, and it said; ...as an injury...harms
more than one.
FUCK THE BIBLES
"You're so evil," aunt Linda said to me later the same day I had recited the words of
the shirt of the once-younger man in the Church during a... . This time it was
because I told a story about how I used to mow all the asparagus near the garden.
How one time there were (almost) millions of ladybugs on them while I mowed. I
had said, 'millions!...', but Dad had said not possible. So, don't listen to a child, I
guess. But not for a child you will not know the truth of the errors of your ways,
Father.
"Can we play your guitar?" "Yes," I had said. I said other words too. But as I left I
worried. I had locked it up with the combination 666. I worried they would guess
this and take my guitar and replace it with a shittier guitar. I still wonder that they
might have. They said the next day, however, that they had not opened the case
because they thought that since I had locked it up it meant I did not really want
anybody to play my guitar. That was partially true. I did not want somebody to play
and then want and steal my guitar. I wanted them to play it if they wanted it though.
I guess I'll never know. All those bands don't exist anymore. All of them. JJ went
insane. Hope he can think better now. E and his wife got divorced. S and his wife
did too. E doesn't talk to me like he should. He is dating M. No big whoop.
Getting laid is important. They should be able to have that, at least. R should too.
Fucking S had made a recording of some C songs. Don't know if he has them on
DAT still. I have them on my computer, though. The other computer. The
computer that started my writing career. The computer that used to have crazy virus
problems. One of the musicians of that place in the time stream is still in a band, I
now remember. But, he was never really part of the situation. Only on the periphery.
..."Death trying to..." Yes. Shem died. I got drums later. Years later I got drums.
The drums are very much like the first set Shem had got that he had taught me some
music on. Shem was dead, though. The drums had to die, too, then, when I got
them, even though I was in tune with Shem and others... playing like I had talent...
having fun.
"And you thought you wouldn't get..." happy? Do not remember the phrase's
context.
"That doesn't sound like a very..." Good idea. I know.
..."idea sounds much..." Better. I know.
"She laid down on top of him." Words near the ending of a story about a
Grandmother who ran out into a field and laid down on a little boy that was about to
be run over by his Grandfather's drill. If you don't know about a drill that can be
used in a way it might be able to run over things, then don't worry about it.
Otherwise, I hope your Grandmother and Grandfather do a little better job with you
than those Grandparents had been doing. Sometimes the work you are doing in your
age and wisdom detracts you from doing better things with your time and resources.
"I could hear you from my house," Don Neufeld had said. I had been playing
trumpet outside and while walking down and then up the driveway again. He said it
sounded good to him, that I should practice more. I said I would. I didn't though.
Don't know why. I love him, and he loved me. But not sexually. He died of AIDS
because of a blood transfusion. That was in the 1980's. I was no older than eleven at
any time in the 1980's. I guess it just goes to show that old men shouldn't fuck
people under the age of eleven. If Don had fucked me, then I would have gotten
AIDS.
"You must never see Sasha Chapek." Well, I did. So fucking what? Nigger.
..."drop the kids off at the pool?" "What? I don't have kids yet. I have to poop."
"That's what I mean. Dropping the kids of at the pool." "Kids at the pool? What?"
... "OHHHHHHH! Poop are my kids. Pool is the toilet water in the toilet bowl.
Okay. Cool. That's funny." "You could also say something else, like..." ...
(The Kleenex box hath defeated me. I really should do something about this Bitch I
call my wife.) Great. 777. (I call my wife hath defeated me.) Call your ex-wife back.
NOW
"Because the sky looked pretty?!" I have to put this into proper context. Four guys
high on lsd and out for a drive with less than a quarter-ounce of... (Ming hath
defeateth me.), pot/marijuana (I hath defeateth Minh.), in the car. Old camaro.
White. Can't say any more than that. Turn signal out. Get pulled over. I say, "I will
kill them all with my fucking teeth." I growled about it. Minh tells the cop, per my
suggestion, we are out driving at 2:42am because, and I quote, "The sky is pretty."
Cop repeats the quote, baffled? Amused? Don't know him. Anyway, he lets us go.
Amen. For some reason just now, I found out Microsoft Office For Small Business
2003 doesn't recognize the word camaro. Nice.
(I hath defeated myself.) Not.
"Because he wears a hat," Dad said. And the man was at that time.
..."and he'll be wearing HIS sunglasses," Dad said. And the man was not. But we
looked into each other's eyes. When I saw him more than a decade later, he was
wearing his sunglasses and I had mine in the car. I stared at the sun, you see. I
don't need sunglasses anymore. The Sun wants me to tell you he says "Hi."
"What's his name?" And I told him.
"Amnesia?" Yep.
"You're going to give the world amnesia and program everybody's brain?" Yes.
"What are you going to do first? Program everybody's brain or give the world
amnesia?" I decided I would program everybody's brain, which I did, then give the
world amnesia, which I did, and then program everybody's brain a second time.
That is what I am doing right now.
"She'll need it more than you." So I did not take from the milk in the bowl of cereal
I gave to her.
"Except it will be a he, not a she." Right. We were talking about the name I told
him. We'll see.
"If you ever hurt Rachel I'll..." Well, let's talk about that. See, you hurt me and
Rachel both, see. You do not love me the way I want you to love me, and it hurts,
and it makes me think I am married to the wrong family in my marriage to Rachel.
But, we'll see.
"You don't want to find out..." I think I hurt plenty bad enough already, Bitch.
"You want to have sex with...other...?" Hmm. Don't remember the context, that.
Perhaps. No way. Just those whose toes and legs and hips and bellies and breasts
and shoulders and heads are aligned with my definition of perfect will. You know...
"A lot of girls think you're really cool..." Hmm. I have needs...
"You think somebody destroyed the space shuttle on purpose?" A question posed
and an answer was given. But now there is further answer. I just want it known that
I ask why it happened that an o-ring managed to fail on that mission. That is all.
"Jimi Hendrix recorded some songs...Kansas." That's nice. You're not very nice,
though. At least, your friends aren't. Two of them, anyway. I cannot be counted in
that number.
"Pick the red one." And I did. Worst guitar ever.
"I play bass." Good for you.
..."don't ever share your idea." flskdafjdfjhj
"What about Rachel?" or, ..."what about Rachel?" Well? What about her?
My wife is a fine white-skinned example of the best elements of the human female.
Small feet, short height, thin bones, adequate calf muscles, strong thighs, adequate
breasts, cool hair, a prominent nose and the area around the mouth and lips combine
to make quite a fucking amazing sight like when I look down on her face from above
while she sleeps thinking I know not what, (and she sleeps right now, supposedly.),
reminds me of what a lesbian should look like, has a vagina that has not ever tasted
like anything I don't want in my mouth, and a willingness to do things for me that
she doesn't want to do but wants to do at the same time just because they are things
I want her to do because I love her and want to experience all life has to offer
through her and only her except I see her every time I see any female worth more
than a grain of salt which happens at a lower rate than I would like but not so low as
to make me think all girls from where I live are ugly anymore, though really I never
thought that, I just couldn't get any to fuck me, so said all of the girls from here are
ugly. Except now Rachel is fat.
"You love Anna Marie?" Rachel asked. "Yes," I said. LAMENTATIONS my Bible
said. I'll give you LAMENTATIONS. A bottle of milk. Lamentations. If you want
to drink the milk of a cow, go out and find one and suck it's teat. Don't get shot.
"You LOVE South Dakota?" Prove it isn't true.
"You remind me of my friend." Hope they're alive.
"Don't talk to them..." I did. But today, I didn't .
"You'll be one of them." But today, I'm not. Unless I move that milk bottle and get
my three friends out of the space capsule. Think about that.
"You think... wrote the Bible?" No. I think ... is part of who is writing this. I think
the devil wrote the Bible.
"Don't surprise us." I did not.
"Just don't." I did not.
..."when you come to Italy..." and if I don't, they have orders from on high to kill
me. Nah. I'm not on high right now.
..."from Spain." It is so true I can feel it. And because of Rachel, it hurts.
"blah blah blah" yes? say something? trying to form a complete sentence? When
the dead rise up from the depths of the fathomable deeps, then I will aid them. And
you will try to once again, form a complete sentence. Surpriiise.
"You like punk rock?" I will cuss about this later.
"You don't like punk rock?" I answered this a long time ago.
..."his Grandfather." Not on my watch.
"And when do you think this happened?" Exactly at the precise moment, maybe.
Probably not, ...
"We've got a problem." Good.
"You're in big trouble." I would rather not be in trouble. Give Dan Rather the
problem.
"Come and get your spanking." No way. And, I believe the words were, in a
different contextual moment, "Just one?"
"Why do you tell us when you have to poop all the time?" I used to announce, "I'm
going number two! or, something like it, whenever I pooped as a young person.
"Why don't you practice your piano?" I did not want to practice piano.
"You want me to hold your penis?" Yes. While I pee. If you're going to be my wife,
you will have to get behind me, put your hand around my waist, and hold my penis
for me. At least once. Because I said so.
"You will never be able to make love like this to another woman." Is that a
challenge? Die.
..."doesn't love you." Don't they all.
"Not really." I imagine he is smoking weed. No. Sleeping.
"You were supposed to die." Felt like it, but not like it was possible. I imagine he is
laying next to his wife in his bed and has worked today and has smoked weed today.
SKIPPING NINE ELEVEN 2001
"The Kansas State Wildcats will not go undefeated in..." 2012. Nor will the world
end.
"You think all the players of the Kansas City Chiefs should have the initials B. or D.
in their names?" Now that is a lie.
"We got a list.." An argument.
"Who is the..." An argument.
"We can save a lot of lives..." I'm not going to tell you that just yet.
..."I'm not going to tell you that just yet."
"Who is going to be the President?" Barack Obama, I answered. He's The
President now.
"You've got all the bands," Dad said. "All the bands?!" "Yes. What will you do
with them?" Words were said. Then I said, "I will give them all away!" An
argument. Then Dad won. "Away became A way."
"Are you a fan of Elton John?" It's been asked more than once. The answer used to
be, "Fuck no!" But now the answer is, "A mild yes."
"What would you do if we told you you are an angel." "I'm an angel?" ... "Say oops
I guess."
"She was a little more... than you." And, she did not lose her wings. And, I owe
somebody wings. Fly, Megan.
"Your best friend is going to ..., or you are going to ... ." Like that'll ever happen.
"Do not let them take the maps out of your..." House, home, office. Whatever. My
wife took them to my mother- and father-in-law's, so they could be taken to the First
Mennonite Church. Made me angry, that.
"Can you hear the..." Yes. I can hear them if I wish. Little comfort. No Southern
Comfort here. I will help you with that if you write me sometimes.
"You love Brittany?!" Yes. And I told Rachel that. She responded with normal
aplomb that was less aplomb-y than it should have been. By a factor of Voyager I
minus Voyager II plus Mars Rover stuck in the sand.
..."there will be a picture of a lion on..." and there is. I will be there someday.
..."if you remember this..." Milky Way comes back to me?
"When are you going to start writing letters?" Letters? What are those? Like with
the girl pen pal friend and others?
It was told to me several times by several people that I should carry around a lighter
unless it is a black Bic lighter. I was told several times by several people I should not
carry around a black Bic lighter. I have in my pocket of my pants I got from my
Grandma that my Grandpa wore while working, blue pants, a black Bic lighter. Blue
pants. Better Petroleum. Someone should see about arrangements associating new
technologies in place of fossil fuel use.
"Because I can." Well, that's nice. Isn't that special? Bic makes me think because
I can, too. But, let's change that. Bic makes me think because ignorance crumbles.
"All of your friends will be characters on a TV show called Spongebob..." Let's
change that. All of my friends will be characters on a television show when you
arrange spherical camera coverage of the whole planet and then beam the images
into my television. And only I get to watch on the only television the images are
beamed to. Sounds stupid.
..."and you need a new car." Kansas State Wildcats are all right with me. I like
Kentucky. Ohio is pretty cool, except for being a place that was where Rachel was as
we grew from ages whatever birth to whatever college student time. Maybe it made
me love others I would not love right now. Maybe. Maybe.
..."can you see the (CBS) eye?" It is pretty stationary right now. My stationary is not
so pretty, but there is some pretty stationary in the house right now.
"You think your brain is tapped into the radio waves... electric grid?" Well, if
someone had the technology to tap into brains using radio waves, they would be
pretty successful right now. But yes, my mind is linked with the electricity that flows
through most of North America.
"What would you do with that kind of ...?" Power? Think about something else.
"If you ever want to go ..., you will have to do it by boat." Really? You're going to
put that on my life? That I have to travel by boat if I ever want to see the world
overseas? I'm calling a friend to see about that right away.
"What position are the antennas in?" Same position they were in when I wrote your
question down earlier, some twelve hours ago. Kinda.
"If you survive the two-inch punch."
"You drink like a..." Frenchman?
..."don't really like to play... with you."
"You gave your ... son up for adoption?" Kinda. My first son, yes. Kinda.
..."you're adopted?"
..."what are you writing about these days?"
..."you like Stephen King?" Hilarious.
..."going to Harvard?" What of it?
"You talked to my Dad? About what? Me?" Yes. "I saw my dad stab somebody
once." Then no.
"You think... might have been lying to you?" Does a film get made of all the
beautiful women I like the best pooping in the country while I'm still alive? If so,
yes. If not, yes.
"Don't give us ALL your money." He won't.
"You're going to get... benefits?" No retard.
"You're wife wouldn't mind?" Shutup. Just shut the fuck up and kiss me.
"Something is going to happen to Rachel." Something already did. I will pay you
back for that. You will not fare well because of what happened to Rachel. Mark my
words and die.
"It won't be good." It won't be?
"You won't like it." You doesn't won't, Bitch.
"You will become very angry." Should have said, "You will becoming on my face."
"You're not... are you?" Gay? Homophobic? Heterosexual? Horny? With wild
eyes? Among the filth?
Chapter Eighteen: 18 the end of the night continuation
The squeezing of the fist came with flexing and widening wrist muscles in the
entrance to her hole. She winced and tensed up and a low scream built deep in her
chest and throat as she prepared for the worst. Something bad was about to happen.
She could feel it. She saw the scene in third-person perspective. Crying was cut
short with guttural sounds trauma infused.
He decided to straddle her and knelt properly up and over her ass, placed his
left hand on her back just above her ass, and held her down. He looked like a man
situating himself on the back of a bull in a rodeo, with his right arm at almost the
same twisted angle as that of a right-handed bull rider fashioning the straps about
his wrist, still in the chute before the buzzer blasts, the crowd's eyes open wide, the
announcer in talk about the bull and bull's owner and the past, just before the gate
opens and all hell breaks loose. Brittany began squirming and trying to pull her
vagina off his right hand, or get away from him with his severed hand in her vagina,
but it was too late.
He fisted her. He pulled his fist straight away from her body and watched as
her vagina seemed to expand and grow out of her pussy nest. It looked separate
from her and in a way, it now was.
Then, he slammed his fist deep inside her pussy nest. Bees and hornets and
ants flew all over the place. Nah.
He felt her cervix slip between two of the fingers of his tightened fist and
knowing what it was, becoming enraged, he crushed the cervix between those
fingers. She could feel it, but could not believe it. It was too away from something
possible. She felt him yanking his hand back again. He crushed his hand forward
once more. Throughout it all she was scrambling to crawl away, fingers bunching
the quilt up below her chin and fingertips filling with dirt while her nails ripped at
the ground in front of her face.
Each time his fist moved backwards, she screamed. And each time it was
thrust forward into her body she made a sick whining, lurching sound with her
uncontrollable voice accompanied by a gargled complaint. Back and forth, back and
forth, back and forth, and then-
He did not see.
He did not know.
There was the sound of air parting swift and true, horrific realization coming
upon him like the exploding of the second plane into the other tower.
Cra-a-ack and ki-splorrch!
The fisting had been like the pistons of doom howling through the shaft of an
oil rig to plunge the depths of the Earth below the Earth itself. Like repeated
attempts to reach the helpline at the moment of decision to better oneself and get
help a long time in coming. Like chunks of ice falling from a glacier. Like Glacier
battling Fulgore as Chief Thunder awaits, no one wants to win. Bruce Lee and a
student. Chuck Norris and your brain. And like Chuck Norris and your brain,
The young man's head caved in and gave way. Brains all over the place. In
an instant, the entire right side of his face, along with the skull there, were
obliterated. The force was such the youngster never knew he was dead. To him
then, life may continue forever in some unknown-to-us realm of dream, thought,
fantasy, tripping balls smelling like misogyny but maybe less misogynistic if a
human female has wrapped her lips about the balls once, or like anal rape
accidentally performed on a loose-anus faggot with AIDS that wants to kill you but
this goes unnoticed for a time because your dick feels good at the moment and
maybe it is a feminist with a dildo strapped to her hip walking down the street
singing, well, you know. God that would suck. Billy Joel all the time? No thanks.
Lather me up a cunt.
Forever in a dream.
She thought death imminent because of the fist.
her once clean and glorious-in-virginity vaginer becoming asunder, ripped
out, ripped off the tenderness and love-making passions of a first time with Bradley
Dean Sommerfeld, feeling as though her pussy nest was honey-sapped and lodged
somewhere among her liver, heart, or lungs. Again and again it had come, not like
that first time she was missing so much but pulling and ripping turned to pushing
and punching reverberating each time a Dagon's Bell for her death, not life. Recite!
Instincts demand to scramble, claw forward to other ground, achieve this no
matter the cost. Brittany could only claw in futility, however, at the Earth, while the
young man she gave trust to earlier in the day killed her with his fist-- in her vagina,
the fist of death, in her vagina, a vagina now a pussy nest of ruination and destructive
consultation of demons; demons harboring desire for pain taken over and
empowered by the fist of will so much like their own. Demons allowed gaining
physical corporeality through the will of a willing supposed master-turned-slave but
in actuality is a slave-driver of supposed masters. Uthsem.
Then she heard a terrible sound; like a tree branch falling on a coconut; The
coconut tree itself falling on a coconut which is the only coconut on the whole island
you've found and you've been searching for food and water four days, or, a
sledgehammer upon a watermelon lying on concrete proof it is a liar.
It was a sound so quick it could only have been intervention of the divine.
Blood and sinew sprayed her eyes and face as she had turned just before the
whooshing sound arrived and her mind could register the splitting air before impact
between whatever it was and the head of the fister.
What she experienced and saw following the change of pace in her life that
was so welcome brought her such feelings of joy and elation it surprised her to the
point of blackout. She was in a dreamless sleep and no longer felt a thing.
Just before the blackout she stored in her mind or brain the fact that she had
just witnessed a large club of some type sweep through the sky and cave in the
raping bastard's skull. Smithereens. She had seen the follow through before passing
out which ended as the once-head transformed to a pile of nothingness upon a metal
lunch box which was also crushed by the thing creating the nothingness of the oncehead throwing the skull of some young man into the fucking ground. She did not
register any other details before lapsing into the coma, save the angelic figure
standing over her and his face.
The pummeling was so fierce the collarbone and shoulder had snapped from
their natural places within the young and once-vibrant body of the rapist. The
breaking of these natural places kept her from sustaining more injury where his right
hand now lay almost, but not quite, still.
She did not feel this, though. Not a thing. Could not, because she had been
overwhelmed with the coma long before the death of her adversary had been
complete.
The animals witnessing the change of events' eyes were taking in all the glory
and sharing the vision with animals everywhere.
Rape and Rape laughed, pleased with the results now, a laughter of mirth not
so much release as they had been angry as hell with the fisting operation that had
begun split seconds before Mansen had arrived to save the day.
Mansen had heard shouting. It was not quite the shouting of a thicket,
though, so he and Canker had begun to investigate where the sounds were coming
from. Some animals had scrambled as Mansen and the wolfhound overtook the
outer trees at the edge of the small clearing inside the woods.
Mansen at first thought he was witnessing some young lovers in secret and
passionate consummation of trust. Quick he came to realize he was witnessing
anything but. Canker had begun to sense something amiss awhile before Mansen
caught on. Quick as lighting were both their reactions, though. Mansen with his
natural abilities, common sense, and quick thinking while Canker with pure animal
instinct bred down through generations. As the wolfhound descended for the legs of
the young aggressor- Mansen struck with a log of dense hard wood almost as thick
as the thigh of some young vixen. It was at hand as the nearest weapon when he had
realized he must react to the horror taking place before his eyes. he had enough
rage, enough controlled anger and adrenaline, and he most likely would have been
able to uproot a tree if no other option had presented itself.
After the crushing of the young man's skull and sending the brains thereof to
nothingness, along with the R2D2/C3PO Star Wars lunchbox being turned into so
much refuse just like giving the Tin Man a heart or not giving the Tin Man a heart
but refusing to oil him up; like a fucking Nazi Bitch peeing on him and accelerating
the rust and solidifying the frozen position; not giving the Scarecrow a brain but
instead lighting him ablaze and laughing as the crows poop overhead; giving the lion
courage just so he can face the reality of an elephant gun pointed at his head; giving
Dorothy her shoes and then at the precise moment cutting her legs in half at the
ankles sending the Kansas farmers the stumps of her feet and then enslaving her in
the Emerald City as a free-for-all whore, or, sticking your pointer finger into the good
witch's anus and telling her sweet stories about riding the air balloon and conducting
an air-raid on the houses of cat-owners with parachuting German Shepherds trained
to kill the cats and bury them in hopes they rise again and tell everybody they know
that Chevelle is like Tool and Barack Obama is like a hermit and everybody who
listened to Pink Floyd while getting high on a brick of cheap marijuana from
America is a genius as America because we have legalized production and
possession and recreational use of marijuana in this great Nation, leader of all
Nation, and thus sapped and detracted the last resource of those who are dirty
Mexicans, he saw the look in the young woman's eyes just before she passed into
unconsciousness. Thus, he ascertained her first need. She needs that goddamn
fucked up hand out of her formally-known-as-virgin vagina. He didn't know how he
knew she was a virgin, he just did. Just after she passed out he separated the pussy
nest and limb, yay, and though no bees or rabbits or squirrels or an army of ants or
wasps or hornets or herd of pachyderms or gazelles or the Russian Military came out
of her achy broken pie-hole, he knew it was good. But good like the job of a picador,
not like playing guitar. Good that he had come to her aid, not good overall, like, you
see. Mansen had then to use his free hand to keep her vagina from being pulled out
of her loins as the limb of the intruder was removed from the field of the battle. He
had managed to spray fluid from the water bottle next to the quilt over the wound
first, thinking it would limit any tearing or rupture. From the looks of her bloody
buttocks he feared there was little point in trying to preserve her vagina, but it was
something he wanted to do. He worked like a good Dr., not a bad neighbor.
An owl without being seen by man sounds across the terrain what has
happened. A field mouse without being heard is seen by the owl. SOMEBODY IS
GOING TO GET IT. The owl is located when it alights to the air and descends
upon the field mouse. Branches snap, blossoms thwacked, and the stillness
explodes, broken like many times before. Words to the wise; The trials of life as
creatures die. Life is buoyed up once more with tendrils of flesh of critters. Critters
nevermore. Energy is expended sparingly, though each time often in such wave as
to convey much power to the cathedrals of the mind levied upon by the sight of the
eyes, or the hearing of the ears when she is there beside you, or he is, if you're gay
different than I am. And I am. She or He. What are either? Each is capable of
doing unto the other. So why do you persist? Seeking that gay and good vibration?
Using a vibrator shaped like a penis? A torpedo? Check your libido. Denial if you're
infested. But we're working on that, those of us in the medical professions. We
really want you to live to be gay, you know. Gay with your diseased and vile
pestilential pus-filled sacks and for those of you ugly enough to make everyone who
sees you wish you were a gorgon, or, wish they were; gay with your Southern
hospitality and self-pity. I would just like to point out that that last sentence there
smacks of a little of the style of Faulkner, but that my sentence is superior, because
instead of just laying out something and then saying the contradiction to it could be
the case, I laid out not just a contradiction, but an opposing idea which if multiplied
by taking the time to comprehend, shows more depth than typical Faulkner. If you
don't like sheep you are a human male and gay. I feel sorry for you, I really do. But
I do not pity you. There is nothing wrong with being human, male, and gay all at
once. But, you must know you are outnumbered by human males that like pussies
and human females that like pussies and human females that like penises.
The coyote and raccoon and opossum and rabbit see the details of the tale as
it had begun to unfold, and remember. Knowing their place they watch from secret
and private spaces- sometimes private. They gaze upon the traitor and heed his
many faces to the tortured-yet-still-alive one. Subtle come their condemnations.
Don't...
Aloft above the scene the night sky is illuminated with millions of beacons
spilling the secret of the existence of other worlds. The country sky is unmatched by
any planetarium or facsimile representation of the Solar System. Silent and stealthy a
shape blots out portions of the canopy of Stars, many Stars at a time as it soars
toward unknown destinations beyond reach of life we know, the Stars seeming to be
gone then appearing right where they should be a moment hence. Military in origin,
most-like, no commercial flight would have any purpose heading from this nowhere
land to the reaches of further otherness to the North.
Mansen removed his hooded sweatshirt then and covered the body of the
young woman in a way to preserve what little honor she might remain steadfast
clung to. He folds the west quilt up and over the body of the girl, allowing clear
space for the head and then leaves the wolfhound to guard her body so he can set out
for his home and his phone. He sprints. As he ran, he thought he would from now
on keep his cell phone with him at all times. And, he is going to switch to Sprint.
Only eight minutes pass before the emergency response team and Sheriff and
other officers arrive, the lights of their vehicles putting everything into some
semblance of the recognizable to creatures like you and me, and maybe it is a
familiar thing to creatures of higher caliber thinking too, the blues, reds, whites,
yellow-whites, and headlamps cutting up the darkness straight ahead. It seemed to
Mansen the eight minutes was more like eight days, even though he stayed on the
phone with the dispatcher throughout the wait.
Mansen could see the busy lights of the Sheriff and other officers' vehicles
coming down the road from the East. The Sheriff and two other officers were first to
arrive; a full minute ahead of the ambulance and fire truck. Mansen had them follow
him. They turned in off the country road and drove on in and through the field,
staying close to the new fence Mansen had built earlier all the way toward the thicket
where Canker and the woman should be.
They were there, Canker and the girl. The girl had been undisturbed; Canker
had stayed in place as if aware of the exact duty left to him.
Sheriff Poorberg was wont to say, "What have we here," followed by
astounding sweet and succulent exclamations of observation whenever upon a scene
and called to action.
This time, however, he said, "Oh my God."
Deputy Clawson had said, "Jesus Christ!" The words rang out.
More exclamations followed when Mansen's hooded sweatshirt was pulled
from Brittany.
The Sheriff told Clawson to get to the car and radio the paramedics to,
"Hurry up, by God, holy hell."
Clawson came back and he and Mansen and the Sheriff waited for what
seemed to Sheriff Poorberg an inordinate amount of time.
The paramedics arrived.
Clawson kept saying, "Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ," over and over again. One
of the paramedics spoke up, saying, "Deputy, I hardly think there is any room for
Jesus in any part of this..." The paramedic sounded like he was going to continue
with the thought but then his voice trailed away into the brisk night and sparkling
dew-covered meadow like a fawn left by a buck to die in the fire of the forest.
Maybe because the buck knew that once the fawn had consorted with a bear
and the bear, the fawn, had taken honey from a beehive and coated the nose of the
buck whilst the buck slept causing the buck to wake up thinking he was being
drowned and since then the buck has not looked out for the fawn. Or, it could be
that bucks don't look over fawns the way it was depicted in Bambi.
The paramedics sent to work with the exultation from Sheriff Poorberg, "Go
on."
Then the Sheriff, having seen enough to corroborate the story Mansen had
given, at least on the surface of things, and, after asking about the branch that had
been used on the young boy, grabbed Mansen by the arm. The Sheriff walked
Mansen to the edge of the clearing. He ordered Deputy Clawson to, "Call in experts
and the investigator and touch nothing the paramedics can avoid."
"What did you say your name was, son?" Poorberg asked Mansen. He
added, "Mansen, is it?", having thought that was the name he had been given by
dispatchers. The Sheriff did not wait for Mansen to respond, and looked cruelly
upon him for a second, then shifted the cruelty to light ponderance.
"Well," Sheriff Poorberg said, his voice loud, "I don't think I need to explain
the why's of my work. You may not like this, but you and I must get through to
some facts. Why you're here. Why you are involved. If you are not involved, that is
fine, but you must tell me what you know. I need all you know, now, and I'll walk
you through my process. Agreed?"
"Sure thing," Mansen said, having no inkling of ever understanding the
why's or whatever else it was the Sheriff was talking about, "sure. I only want what
is best right now. For that girl. What is right, you know? This is fucked up."
Mansen could see the Sheriff either was not amused with his choice of words, or,
Mansen suspected maybe the case was the Sheriff was unamused at so much talk.
"I... I only know if it weren't for my wolfhound I would likely not have found
her," Mansen said, "I don't think I..." Mansen struggled then, not wanting to talk
about the fact he had bashed the boy's head like it was nothing but a peanut.
Mansen was filled with adrenaline like he had felt in times past. When he crashed
his dirt bike. When he avoided a car accident at the last possible moment that one
time. His legs were jelly, but electric. He felt hot and cold at the same time. He
wanted to go to the hospital with the girl, but knew it was not appropriate.
Mansen stood and looked not at the Sheriff but instead at the paramedics.
They were moving the hand of the boy from the place near the girl where Mansen
had let it lay. Mansen remembered the sounds pertaining to what had happened. It
made him feel like being forced to bear unwilling witness to a graphic, violent, horror
movie. 'This is crap,' Mansen thought. Then, 'No,' he thought, 'this is satanic.'
The Sheriff was trying to get Mansen to pay attention. Mansen had slipped
into deep thought, it seemed. "Mansen," The Sheriff said, "Hey. Look at me.
Forget whatever's on your mind. Look at me now."
The Sheriff had let go of Mansen when they got close to the edge of the
clearing, but now grabbed Mansen again on the left elbow. The Sheriff held Mansen
firm and turned Mansen away from watching the paramedics and the girl.
The two men faced each other. Sheriff Poorberg noticed it was difficult for
Mansen to pay attention. He noted it in his mind. He watched in a careful studious
manner Mansen's face, plus, body language. The Sheriff had a quick thought. 'This
man is innocent of wrongdoing.'
While he knew all at once through the features on the face, the curious fearing
glaze of the eyes, the overall mannerisms telling in a flash the truth of it he was
facing an innocent man, Sheriff Poorberg was relieved and also frustrated by this
truth; now he had no suspect. He still had a corpse. He has only one witness, a
witness that had acted in a way that the Sheriff knew would likely be interpreted as
others as having acted like some sort of hero. Mansen thought he could tell about
Mansen he is someone who is not unaccustomed to being seen in such a way,
doesn't think about others that way either in personal interactions with his fellow
man throughout life or through the fathoms of the internet or television or the movies
Sheriff Poorberg is one who thinks things like, 'fellow man', and he includes
the whole of the population in the statement. No feminist worth a grain of salt could
ever say he wasn't loving to or of his wife. Maybe his love is the same way a feminist
loves marching with feminists in triumph at the moment in the future when it will be
no one is put in low places just because they got a pussy or don't got religion or
understanding and appreciation of the government they ridicule, hate, want to
destroy and also suckle from from time to time, the suckling a thing they think of as
being akin to being raped because they feel forced when they suckle. But, no one
ever raped them. Yet. (HAHAHA. Couldn't resist. Too funny. A bad joke. Suck
my dick.)
Deputy Clawson had been on the phone making the calls he had been asked
to make. During the brief interaction between Sheriff Poorberg and Mansen and
from nearer the scene, Clawson informed the Sheriff several investigators were due to
arrive within minutes.
"That's fine, Clawson," Sheriff Poorberg said, "keep a strong chain of
evidence now. We need the paramedics to not fidget with the corpse. The corpse is
a suspect involving what happened to the girl."
Mansen had been able to relay the gist of the situation to dispatchers while on
the phone throughout his wait for the Sheriff and paramedics to arrive, so Sheriff
Poorberg already knew Mansen's story, that he had felt it necessary to kill the boy.
Brittany was lifted onto a stretcher.
Then, the Sheriff said, "Keep eye on where the paramedics may have
disturbed the scene, Clawson. Have officer Moreno go to the hospital to meet the
ambulance and get the ID of the girl. Send for another ambulance, and an extra
patrolman. The State Troopers might have to help on county roads. We'll be here
awhile."
"Yeah," Clawson said. Sheriff Poorberg is not condescending. As usual,
Clawson got to work. He is a consummate professional. Sheriff Poorberg knows it.
"Well," Sheriff Poorberg said, now speaking to Mansen, "I think I'm able to
let my Deputy handle this for now. First, I want your story, Mansen. You think
you'd be more at ease in the comfort of your home?"
"Is that an option?" Mansen asked. He was ready to go home.
"I think, in light of the fact I got my best man on the job, and in light of the
fact you are my only witness, and also in light of the fact I am going to have to piece
together probable cause, or, 'scuze me, son, I mean, that is a technical term for
something else. What I'm trying to say is, son, I got to find a way to see it as you see
it, to see you had reason for having dispatched with the boy there, see, and this is
going to take some time. We would normally go to the station, you know. But, I
don't want to. We can do things a little different out here, just between you and me,
mind. Besides, in my experience a witness is able to be of greater benefit to an
investigator the more comfortable he or she can be allowed to be. Let's go on up to
your place. But leave your truck. I'll drive."
Mansen knew he didn't have another option. He went with the Sheriff.
"When I've finished interviewing you," Sheriff Poorberg said, "provided I'm
satisfied, I'll bring you back to get your truck."
Mansen asked if he could see the girl one last time. The Sheriff said no. The
Sheriff redirected him, in fact, saying there would be plenty of time to visit the girl
while she recovered at the hospital, adding that he thought Mansen probably saved
the girl's life, accounting for how serious her injuries had appeared to be. Hearing it
said made Mansen feel a little better.
Chapter Nineteen: Debrief the HERO
I pledge...
my Head to clearer thinking
my Heart to greater loyalty
my Hands to better living, for
my club, my community,
my country, and my world.
Now say it retard style.
During questioning Mansen, it came apparent to Sheriff Poorberg the
experience had left Mansen in a state of mild shock. Like when one's faith in the
world has been disturbed.
Deputy Clawson radioed Sheriff Poorberg with details about the status of the
young woman soon after Sheriff Poorberg and Mansen arrived at Mansen's house,
then got to work processing the crime scene on his own, waiting for the experts and
investigator to arrive. Clawson had a knack clean-up work. This was fueled in part
by his taste for the macabre and an over-active curiosity for uncovering the truth.
This in turn, aided him in his clue-gathering technique. If there would be found any
reason to suspect the truth was different from the account Mansen had thus far given
and was going to give in the coming hours, Clawson would find this out. 'The case
would take a disturbing turn,' Clawson thought, thinking about just such a situation
coming into fruition.
Poorberg was content waiting to cross that bridge only should they come to it,
however. Poorberg's life as a Sheriff these many years has taught him patience. It
alleviates unwanted stress.
Concerned, distressed, anxious, impatient, nervous, trembling. Overcome
with uncontrolled shaking. Soul-searching, inward-thinking, life-changing, fiberrattling transformation taking place within his mind and heart and body and soul,
Mansen replayed the scene within his thoughts again and again. It was almost as if
he were looking it over from third person perspective and trying to find an out, to
recede into the past, to the time before his world had tilted on its axis into horror,
unease, and disbelief, to the past so he could follow another course of action than the
course he had chosen which had led to the death of a young man and discovery of
that person's tormented victim. 'Goddamn,' he thought, 'she is so young. How
could anyone plan such an act? How did he get away with it for so long? Was it his
first victim? Why did I not notice the stuff in the clearing in the grove days ago?'
The questions came and went like endless waves upon the shores of a vast ocean; his
sanity is like the sand being shifted beneath the waters; his grasp on reality is the
fragility of the sea shells flung upon rocks on the shore and left in ruin among dead
weeds and skeletons of ocean children that died of disease and in turn poisoned the
large mammals that once fed on them. Answers came, but each one brought several
branching paths filled with more questions.
Mansen is happy to be talking to Sheriff Poorberg.
As Poorberg began the interrogation, he told Mansen to think of it as a
debriefing. Mansen was slowly being able to better make sense of the world once
again because being with Sheriff Poorberg was a thing grounded in reality. Mansen
did not know it, but the Sheriff intended to get each of the thoughts going through
Mansen's head out and onto paper. The calm demeanor of Sheriff Poorberg brought
sobriety to him. No less than would be the case had a State Trooper rolled up on
him after he had smoked a joint, except in this case it was a relief.
In the initial portion of the interview, an interview to last a long time and
during which the Sheriff intended to utilize all he knew about getting information
from, and also allaying discomfort in others, Sheriff Poorberg soon understood
Mansen was agitated. The Sheriff attributed this to the consequences of having been
privy to the misfortunate knowledge of what had brought them together tonight in a
unprepared, unintentional, stumbling fashion. It was not unlike a youth walking in
on his mother and father during coitus.
Sheriff Poorberg had his notebook out. It contains nothing but facts.
'Mansen seems as though a victim himself,' Poorberg thought, 'As opposed
to a person with any involvement as co-conspirator or perpetrator.'
The Sheriff noted Mansen must have been eating dinner just before the
discovery in the woods. He thought it possible because dishes from the meal are still
on the table.
Mansen had invited Sheriff Poorberg in, like for coffee, want, and the Sheriff
was pleased to be gracious about accepting the invitation as though he wasn't
conducting a criminal investigation.
'Looks like steak and potatoes,' Poorberg thought, seeing the dishes. 'Think
he was eating while the girl was already suffering. He shows no signs of having been
in a struggle. He had nothing to do with the young female found on that stained
quit and mattress. Someone spent a great deal of time placing that mattress into the
ground. It wasn't this man here before me. I know it. If Mansen had been involved,
he would not have called us in. I got you pegged as a good guy. Let's hope a little
patience and some police work will prove me right.'
The Sheriff had his notebook open and a fast pen in his hand. He set his
stern blue eyes, eyes now conveying that we all be at ease, though also that there is
many years' worth of practice in interrogation and lie detection skills in the brain
behind them, and asked, "How was it you came across the girl and young man?"
The tone used by the Sheriff to ask his question was unlike the tones used by
the Sheriff preceding. Individuals under duress would squirm possibly, or find
malice in the tone.
"Neigh," you wascally wabbit.
"Niether neigh nor not neigh, neigh unto thee. Nay?" I ask.
"Neigh you wascally wabbit, I say, neigh."
"Unto thee I ask?"
"Neither nay nor non-nay nay neigh neigh,": Neigh
"Niece of the southern star, neigh," Neigh.
"Nice neigh, neigh," Neigh
"Nay nor a nice nay, neigh," I say.
"You say when we say, neigh," Neigh
"Nay," I say, "Nor unto to you do I say it."
"Neither do we, neigh," Neigh
"What are you thinking about?" Neigh
"Neigh."
"We all neigh in our way, eventually, neigh?" Neigh
"Neigh," Neigh
"Me," Neigh
"You," Neigh unto thee I do, "Neigh."
"Neigh."
"Neither neigh nor nay now, Neigh," Neigh.
"Qualify neigh," Neigh, "neigh."
"Put that into a quantity of high meter and opalescent circumstance, Neigh,"
Neigh.
"Neither will I TOO, L A T E R, A L L, US," Ha.
"Tee hee."
"IT was."
"It is."
"It always will be," Neigh.
"Thanks."
"You're not welcome."
""Blankety Blanket, Daddy.""
"Message from death."
"Life, more like. Had a baby just now, we did," Sayeth the voice of my
fathers through an Irish dialect.
"Christa McCullough, right?"
"Yeah."
"Sad about it?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Why."
"Because we killed her for you, you know."
"I know."
"Why did it happen?"
"To show that someone has to make a willing sacrifice to improve the world
one step at a time."
"Yes."
"Do you have to take that step?"
"No."
":"
OO
oo
ad infinitium infinities? yes. Infinities came later.
forever and a day?
no.
infinity?
I am here.
"What are you doing?"
""Being bored."
Put less teeth on it.
And I did.
The End.
The End.
Owen, I'll be right there.
Was I?
I don't know. Go ask a white dot on your kindle screen right now.
What is it?
Scarce. Sacred Geometry.
"Do we yet have-a meaning to this?
"No.
"Stop saying no?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It breaks things down."
"Under and over":?
"Not."
"Shutup."
"No not."
The End. Unless you say, "Neigh, Neigh. Neigh. Neither nay nor un-nay
unto thee, Neigh. Neigh," the unto thee said. The unto thee is like a thigh.
Mansen did not respond to the Sheriff as though the Sheriff had spoken with
malice. He welcomed the opportunity to find normalcy or order. This was in light of
the circumstances.
"Well," Mansen said, "it was my dog that alerted me. If not for Canker I may
not have ventured to the grove. My tools were left three-quarters of the way down the
fencerow. I was almost upon them when I saw Canker running toward me. I cannot
recall Canker being so animated. Not like he was then."
Sheriff Poorberg did not suspect Mansen of wrongdoing. But, it did not mean
he was going to make Mansen feel like a best friend, either. The Sheriff continued
the line of questioning, seeking out more information and what Mansen knows of the
area.
"How long had it been since last you were in the grove?" The Sheriff asked.
The Sheriff did not blink. He has his full faculties trained on Mansen, seeking visual
clues that there would be any dishonesty or deceit in Mansen or his answers, though
the Sheriff, in his honest opinion, expected to find none of that. Sheriff Poorberg
knows, often in police work things have a way of bleeding out one way or the other
through use of the tried and true consistent methods law enforcement agencies have
implemented and developed over time immemorial and throughout almost every part
of the civilized world. He believes in being methodical, and has methods he relies
on prescribed in many handbooks of interrogation written in the modern age, and
not-so-modern ages. He applies such methods to every person questioned in every
case worked while doing his job. Very few cases elude his ability to solve them. It
has only happened one or two times that a case he has worked has gone on
unexplained. Both those cases would come to haunt him in ways personal and
private. He has taken both the unclosed investigations to heart and thinks on them
more than he should for his own health, he knows, but he doesn't care to not think
about them.
The questioned had been, "How long had it been since last you were in the
grove?"
"Well," Mansen said, "can't say for sure. But I know the last time I was in
the grove there wasn't any hole dug out, a mattress, or such a large clearing. I seem
to recall it was easy to lose Canker in there because it was so densely wooded. So, I
don't know. This guy must have done a lot of work out there in a short period of
time. It would have had to have been rather recent. Canker and I were back there
just six weeks ago, maybe less."
"Fine," Sheriff Poorberg said. He was taking notes.
"Goddamnit," Mansen said, "this sonofabitch is a real piece of shit, isn't he,
Sheriff? I mean, where does a human being get an inkling to treat another person
that way? I mean-" Mansen started, then his train of thought was interrupted. "-Oh
yeah," Mansen said, "I forgot. I killed him. We'll never know anything about him."
The realization was no less potent to Mansen than would have been a .50 Caliber
Desert Eagle to the cranium. The gravity of the situation hit Mansen hard- as Sheriff
Poorberg expected it soon would. Mansen lowered his head. He gazed through his
hands upon his lap and looked to the ground between his boots. Mansen began
sobbing.
"I wouldn't say we might not find something in our investigation to tell of the
boy, Mansen," The Sheriff said. His voice was far closer to that of the way a father
would console a son, much different than it had sounded before.
Because of the nature of the crime, the Sheriff was not going to let things go
in a casual way through the night, but this did not mean he was going to let an
innocent man feel the weight of the world bearing down like stone upon his free
shoulders. Sitting upright while Mansen sat drooping, the Sheriff drew a long gulp
of coffee down, cleared his throat, then continued, "Look. I know you are, by all
accounts, not in any way associated with the events that took place tonight or
through the evening and late evening and night, in that grove." The sudden force
Poorberg was going on with brought Mansen out of his self-torture/pity and despair.
The Sheriff wasn't done, either. "I know you are surprised as much as we are. You
probably never hurt a person before in your whole life. But, you and I have to be
strong, son. I know this motherfucking piece of dog shit planned this. It's his fault
what happened, not yours. He planned this in advance. I was only in that thicket
two fucking seconds and I could see that. It might have been days, weeks, or
months of planning; we may never know. But, by God we are going to do our best to
find out." The Sheriff let his words sink in, so Mansen could feel some of the need
for being intent upon what they were doing, enduring the questions and time
together under duress not befitting the normalcy of lives men and women and boys
and girls deserve most of the time. Then, he continued, "I noted things in the
clearing leading me to believe this, that the whole situation out there was a planned
thing. All except for your involvement, that is. And, you're so far the only witness.
So, balls, man. Anything you can remember might be very crucial to piecing
together how this all went, and securing the truth of what went down. And I want to
talk to you about that, too. Securing the truth is important, Mansen, as I am sure
you have become aware through many experiences in life. However, in this case,
you might not be aware of why. We have many things to consider. The young girl
found tonight, we have to consider, may not have been this bastard's only victim.
He seemed murderous, based on the girl's condition, and personally I think you're a
hero for doing what you did. That is also based on the girl's condition. I want you
to know that. Stop crying over the past, which is where that all is now. Start
concentrating now, with me--you hear me?-- on helping me find some answers. The
both of us will find answers." The Sheriff thought then, in a wondering way, how far
into his philosophies he was going to take Mansen. He thought he might get pretty
far into it before the questioning was over. He continued, "Listen here. I know what
I'm talking about. There was nothing else for you to do out there but what you did,
we know that. I am going to try and keep you clean out of involvement because I
believe what I just said, but I need to know how you managed to fuck up the boy's
head so bad we can't ID him unless he's wearing ID right now. I'm sure you, as I
do, wish you had just been able to knock him out and THEN call us. And, I have to
admit that it is a little disheartening we can't obtain an interview with the man, now,
which would have been valuable not just for the investigation, mind, but for insight
as to what causes a man to do something like he was doing. For science, for
planning against sickness in others like him." Sheriff Poorberg then became unable
to stop himself and went into a personal rant. He began speaking about off-topic
things, quite without knowing it was happening. "Society. Society has to be
responsible. Society needs to start figuring out what makes things like this possible
in human beings, and start working to solve those problems at their source before we
see things like this happening, these kinds of fucking goddamn symptoms are
fostered in the minds of those doing these kinds of things throughout life in society.
That poor young girl did not deserve it, but neither did the boy deserve to be like he
was. It's shit. A bunch of shit. It kills me to think this asshole plotted this out,
stalked her before hand possibly, for how long we may never know, but the first time
we heard of him was after you called! Goddamnit." The Sheriff looked away,
thinking on other things in a sudden change. Then, he continued again, "There will
be, as there always is in hindsight, clues. In the future a case like this will help
prevent people from becoming so bad off before getting noticed, getting the help
they need potentially saving hundreds from becoming victims like the young girl. If
only we can piece it all together. We must try. We must do our best. It is why I do
this work. Not for the power, or adrenaline, like Deputy Clawson, but to impact our
world for the future. You probably never read or heard an idealistic utopian vision
from a Sheriff before, not in the magazines, newspapers, a book, or ever stopped any
Sheriff or visited him in his office just to shoot the shit; but I shit you not, Mansen-- I
live to make this world a better place through my work. Not all of us in law
enforcement are total assholes bent on putting our will to use to engage the public in
paying fines, following the rules of the road, take their drugs of choice away, lock
them up for using marijuana, or to take bribes and pretend to look the other way. I
have a motto. The 4-H motto. You know the 4-H motto, Mansen? Say it with me.
Right fucking now. You know it?" Sheriff Poorberg seemed on the verge of some
kind of rant straight from the pages of puritans or off the 700 club, Mansen thought.
And Mansen was caught off guard.
"Yeah Sheriff," Mansen said, "Yeah. I know it. I was in 4-H. A few years.
Almost everyone was. You serious?" Mansen did not know what to think.
Poorberg, as it turned out, did not give Mansen time to think of much.
"Say it with me then," Poorberg said, "Now. I'll start and then you come in
with me. All right? I have a purpose in seeking that we do so. You don't need to
know nothing except that right now I'm your best friend and I have a job to do and
you're going to help me do my job. Trust me in this. Say it with me, okay?"
Poorberg was staring with eyes and facial expressions like somebody on the verge of
enjoying something wonderful to them, needing only a little cooperative support,
though having a sense it was forthcoming.
"Yeah sure," Mansen said, "Whatever you say, man." Mansen's state of
mind was much different now than it had been only a minute ago. He felt aware for
once.
Sheriff Poorberg began saying the 4-H motto. "I pledge," and Mansen joined
in and then they both were saying the 4-H motto, "my Head to clearer thinking, my
Heart to greater loyalty, my Hands to larger service, and my Health to better living,
for my club, my community, my country, and my world."
To Mansen it looked like the face of the Sheriff had been lit up. The eyes of
the Sheriff widened in a crazed fashion and he smiled a wicked smile, but one
without malice, more with strength of mind. Mansen could only admire and
appreciate.
'Determination is in those eyes,' Mansen thought, 'Great will, great sense of
truth or justice.' Mansen felt like he was in the presence of a great mind for the first
time in more time than he could remember.
There was something else in the eyes. Aside the greatness of mental
solidification, an asking thing, a needing thing. He was reminded of a few persons
he had known then, and recalled several at once.
One was a woman he had seen stopped to change a flat, and who he had
stopped to help. She had a look in her eyes aware, thoughtful, and a little
apprehensive. 'Obvious she is of high intelligence,' was the first thing Mansen
thought when approaching her, 'She is beautiful, too. She knows what needs to be
done, how to change the tire, but she hasn't done it before, maybe, or, she doesn't
want to get her dress dirty.' So Mansen had helped the woman change the tire on
her car. It was an expensive car, too. Mansen received a lot of praise from the
woman as he worked on the tire. She told him how she was not from around the
county or city, she was just moved to America from overseas in a place called
Nantes, in France. She had grown up at a school that taught English as the primary
language, however, and had always wanted to live in the, as she put it, "wild open
spaces of the American Midwest." Mansen had congratulated her on her having
made the move to America. There was little in the way of an accent in the speech of
the woman. The woman said about Mansen himself that he seemed smart and
capable, a man any woman would like to have around.
"And," she had observed as though it were true, "always in the right place at
the right time." Mansen had scoffed then, with a mild laughter. The woman
responded by saying she had not been in the country for more than six weeks, and
had yet to meet anybody outside of the grocery store employees, employees at the
bank, and her new physician.
"But," she had said, "if most of the people I get to know in this community
are like yourself, I will be very pleased to be here."
Mansen remembers thinking that the woman could have been intimidating
under different circumstances, or if she wanted to, but was either too fresh in the
country at the time or just too smart to do so. Mansen has had a time since then of
comparing the women and even some men of the world with the woman from
France.
Another person he thought of, was a man from the Catholic Church who
always liked to talk to Mansen outside after Church service was ended. The man had
a lot of success and wealth.
"Once you finish school you want to keep going," the man had said, "you
think you might not want more school after going the first thirteen years of your
young life, that school might not be your thing. But, if you think about it, it gives
you something to do, and if you don't have a career by then, you should put serious
consideration into attending college after high school. I got most of my connections
in college." Mansen had said in response he thought he would just get a job and
save his money and then farm one day.
"There isn't any money in any job you'll find out of high school," the man
had said, "They'll work you, and give you pay, but you won't be able to save. It's
best to go to college."
Though the man had seemed very logical and of deep intellectualism in his
words and message, Mansen had dismissed every word. Sometimes Mansen thought
about it, but aside the strange bullshit just recent, Mansen feels good about his
prospects.
Another person the Sheriff was reminding Mansen of now was the piano
teacher he had known in elementary school. She was often intimidating, but she
matched this with a weird love, a personal attachment that lifted Mansen up from his
self-doubting of his study of the piano and made him feel like he wanted to be there.
In all these cases it was the eyes of the individuals who imparted much of the
feeling Mansen got from them.
The Sheriff had done one of his things with Mansen. The spell was complete.
The Sheriff went on, "Mansen, for hundreds if not thousands of years,
humankind has been fucked. I want to un-fuck it. One piece at a time. Let's start
tonight. Help me. God knows that girl is fucked. And, fucked literally. Without her
consent, looks like. Let's you and me promise each other we will help her get up
from this cancerous event as a strong person, healed. Inside and out. Let us, you
and me, finish what you started when you finished what that piece of shit had started
earlier today. We are on the same page, you and me. Your best effort, now. Let me
lead you with my questions and you answer the best you can. Deal?" Sheriff
Poorberg, finished with his speech, narrowed his eyes and stared at Mansen much in
the same way as Mansen remembers he had stared at Canker earlier. It made
Mansen realize how serious the situation was, and brought him more to a center,
level with the Sheriff. In fact, Mansen was as much in harmony with Sheriff
Poorberg as he could ever be, now. And, whether he knew it or not, he was right
where the Sheriff wanted him.
Now the interview, interrogation, or 'debriefing,' as the Sheriff liked to put it,
could get underway without interruptions of emotional outburst or panicked
apprehensive defensiveness. The Sheriff is very good at his job.
After the interview was through, the notebook used by the Sheriff did not
contain a huge amount of notes, although more notes than he- the Sheriff, would
have expected. The Sheriff knew it was because of the repoire built with Mansen
that he was able to get so much that needed to be noted during the interview.
Throughout the interview, which lasted much of the night so as to reach early
morning hours, Sheriff Poorberg and Mansen developed an understanding of ideas
pertaining to the girl. They agreed to aid each other in the follow-up, care, and
support of the girl. This decision brought about a course in Mansen's life which
would take precedent and foster seeds of a new future.
Time passed, and it was two in the morning, or near two, when Sheriff
Poorberg and Mansen returned to the field so Mansen could grab his truck. Mansen
drove home after being told by the Sheriff to keep his phone nearby in case Deputy
Clawson needed to wake him up and ask a few more questions. Mansen had
thanked the Sheriff then, for working things out allowing him to stay home as
opposed to being taken to the station as a murder suspect. Being taken to the
station would have been the norm in situations like tonight. The Sheriff told
Mansen, "I knew you were innocent before we ever got sat down in the dining
room." The two had exchanged a look then, sharing feelings based on how they had
resolved to be a part of the recovery of the young woman as discussed in their
conversation. It was a feeling of friendship and the mutual love for another human
being.
Mansen departed from the company of the Sheriff. He gathered his tools and
full beer cans. He drove back home.
Sheriff Poorberg and Deputy Clawson talked amongst themselves. Clawson
informed Poorberg of details found about the girl upon her arrival at the hospital.
Paramedics and an officer at the hospital had yet to identify the girl until a nurse had
said she recognized the girl as a member of the same Church the nurse attends.
Clawson told Poorberg the girl's name was given as Brittany Oman. The father had
been called to the hospital. The father arrived, though had thrown a fit of fear or
rage and had thus been told to leave the hospital. Then, the father had calmed,
gotten a hold of himself, and was now waiting outside the hospital, refusing to talk to
the officer and nurses.
"Mr. Oman should still be there when you arrive," Clawson said. Poorberg
responded with a single word in the affirmative.
After discussing the hospital, Deputy Clawson went on to tell the Sheriff his
feeling on the crime scene was that the scene had been unmolested by the
paramedics. Then Clawson began to fill the Sheriff in.
"We've found a vehicle down the road. It rests half in and half out of a ditch
and the field back that-a-way." Clawson motioned with his hand indicating the
direction. "I'll search the vehicle in a moment."
"Continue working with the technicians and investigator," Sheriff Poorberg
said, "What information did you get from the plate on that truck?"
"Thompson has that information," Clawson said, "he's waiting for me to get
over there before the truck is searched."
Sheriff Poorberg sighed at this.
"Get it done soon as you can," the Sheriff said, "I'm going to meet the girl's
father at the hospital." He got in his police cruiser.
Sheriff Poorberg was not wanting to leave the scene, but investigation instinct
told him he needed to establish the when and where pertaining to the girl and what
should have been all evening and into the night. There was the suspect laying dead
in the grass in the clearing, too. He had a feeling there would be details coming out
of the story which would show many red flags had gone unattended and might have
been missed entirely throughout the course of actions the suspect had taken to work
up to the point they were all at now. 'Anything the girl's father can provide is going
to be of utmost importance,' the Sheriff thought, 'let alone the evidence in that
damned thicket.'
Sheriff Poorberg knew he was going to get no sleep for awhile. Maybe he
would have to stay up until the night yet to come or the morning after. He knew this
because facts coming forth would lead to discovery after discovery; the identity of the
youth whose corpse was getting cold, for one; the timing of the thing, for another.
Both things needed to be discovered and both would present a challenge. The
Sheriff thought about the media, what they would make of all this. Thinking about it
reminded him he had not mentioned the media to Mansen and he cursed himself for
not swearing Mansen to keep away from them. He avoided further delay, however,
considered the opportunity missed, sensed time running on and an urgent feeling
about getting to the hospital, and went straight to Mateos Hospital in Harvey with a
sinking feeling it was possible he had spent too much time talking to Mansen. But,
that is his way. In his methodology and implementation thereof he had been
lightning quick, smart, directing Mansen from point A to point B or C or Y... The
Sheriff has a way of getting the most out of any person he interviews. In that way he
is the best there is. In doing so, not only has he got all he could from Mansen, he
has also given Mansen the desire and showed him the purpose in seeing the whole
investigation through- right to the victim- and seeing her life put back together. He
has left Mansen without the option to live on and forget. Mansen is now involved,
just as Sheriff Poorberg would have him. It suits the world-mind-utopian-changeoutlook of the Sheriff to have it be so. He is the master.
Chapter Twenty: Elsewhere, More Normal
Fall in Harvey, 2008. Desolate place by most standards. Hardly the
happenings. Slow, the going. Where? It is all the same.
The people of Harvey harbor no differences to speak of; political, religious, or
through various ambitions. Yet, they live with a mindset of isolation from one
another. Loping coyotes mingle sometimes.
Bored, hungry, town. Seeking salvation in one standard place out of many to
choose from. Similar, familiar, a lot like a western movie from the first scene to the
last. Empty lots.
A sudden change. Streaking into town like a phantom, a storm front
cascading from the northern territories of Canada. If the weatherman had stepped
outside today, he would have been more accurate. Compared to the knowledge a
farmer has, his computers and sciences are nothing. The farmer doesn't think the
weatherman is useless. The weatherman is welcome comic relief to the stressed-out
farmer fretting over millions of dollars' worth because it may or may not rain.
"I expect rain over the next two days," the farmer says to himself whilst
enjoying his internally-directed dialogue. "Probably pressing my luck to hope it will
fall in a perfect gradual pour. It would be nice to have a good rain for once. These
last few had run off the field, taking fertilizers and nutrients off the soil as it did."
The farmer has thought, 'If the weatherman were just to forecast rain every
five days, then it would rain. But no, the dumbass has to describe everyday as being
perfect weather for getting outside.'
The farmer has a richer philosophy than the TV weatherman. More often
than not when the farmer speaks, the words are spilled forth of wisdom ages and
generations old.
The storm front moves in with speed and a fury translucent the fears of
huddled orphan children awaiting a scolding for having spilled the porridge. Where
we find the people this early night, several are caught by surprise, the sum of their
intelligence leaving much to be desired, it would seem. They had arrived here at the
underground dive bar at nine-o-clock pm with t-shirts on. Now they must run
through wind and rain to retrieve their coats from their cars. Some didn't bring a
coat.
Above the bar, as the bar is built into the side of a hill off the street, is a
restaurant hidden from view of the street and patrons of the bar both, and the
restaurant is preparing to seat the second service of the night. The restaurant is
known as one of the finest dining establishments in Harvey. It is called The Nest.
The bar below has a much different reputation. It does not matter what name you
give the bar.
The Nest seats only twenty-five at a time. Few who frequent The Nest have
seen the underworld below the floor thereof where live music is played every night,
striking up after the kitchen of The Nest is closed. It is now nine-twenty pm.
[Goddamnit, I just lost Mother Russia. I'll have to write about it in my
twentieth novel, The Nest. I have a feeling some people are living as though they are
in a nest in Syria right now. Vladimir Putin should be aware of my advice.]
The bartender doesn't give a damn. He just works here, he doesn't do it for
company. The day is long. When nothing is going on, especially.
A fatso boy weighing 215lbs. with blonde hair and wearing all black whines
about one thing or another. He sounds like a goddamn twelve-year-old child,
despite the fact he and his mother celebrated his thirtieth just six months ago.
Bitching about the weather isn't something he does. He bitches about his friends
that don't return phone calls, bitches about having to spend his money, bitches
about his mom who loves him enough to let him live with her, which he bitches
about, and he knows how to bitch about the other things because he doesn't go
outside often, does not return phone calls, and much of the money he spends was
given to him by relatives.
During conversations with others, friend or not, he walks the dialogue to the
spice of sentences like; "I can't believe that...", then finishes them with phrases like;
"...why do people hang out with (enter name)...", or, "I can't believe they did that.",
or, in a condescending manner, "... you listen to (enter band/artist)...", or, "... you
put up with that crap...", or, "... they did that...", or, "...the government does this...",
or, "...look at that person over there who...". A real genius socially and of things
literary, in his own mind. A man of high education and social standing. Real class,
decency. A winner in life and all his endeavors. But, his goals are weak. The low
standard creates an illusion of confidence or power among his talented peers. His
peers are equals in many respects.
A short black-haired mutt of a man with a habit for getting drunk and trying
to fuck anything that moves sulks with the blonde boy. Because of the dynamic
between, both are averse to chatting up the women right now. This attitude toward
the women will last all throughout the night for the blonde. Sometimes he is wont to
break out of the patterned way he does things in this regard, but it is rare to occur,
and he will not dare to join in until he is positive everyone in the bar are drunk past
his own level of intoxication. Due to sexual desire, the same casual attitude toward
women will not last for the mutt. The mutt behaves because he is too depraved of
self-confidence to care. The blonde because he has forever been too bought to try.
No one in their right mind would ever take the mutt home. Stephen King
would recognize the mutt man. The mutt man is a perfect representation of an
'E.L.F.F.', a term attributed to a side character harassing the main character of
Stephen King's novel 'Bag of Bones.' The information required to understand the
term is in chapter 15 of 'Bag of Bones.' Do not take my word for it. Read the novel if
your curiosity is up.
Beings this is all taking place in a Midwest bar, none of this about the blonde
or the mutt are at issue. The ELFF has mastered the art of success where normal
scientific methods' proofs would dictate he should fail. His strange talent balances
out the fact he has failed at all chance of personal success throughout his lifetime. In
particular, this happens at those moments when it matters most. He will admit this
to anyone bothering to ask. He has learned to be prideful about his life of poor
choices and lost chances. It is the secret to getting some sympathy. None of his
'victims,' would ever be willing to corroborate they have had sympathy for the
specimen in question. They will not acknowledge his successes that have driven
them to his bedroom. maybe at home with a best friend, getting drunk or high and
swapping stories, it might come up and they might tell. On the other hand, maybe
they really are victims. Victims of rape. Mentally, for sure. Aside from the occasions
of girlfriend-to-girlfriend confessions conducted in secret corridors of private places
where the females find themselves secure, no one gives mutt any credit. It is the
potential of being known to have been with mutt on any level to kill their reputations
that is the cause of this discretion. He has had choose him many a fine example of
the most beautiful of women, however, and one must not look tawdry upon this.
Persistence matters and mutt is persistent to a fault. Women love the possibilities of
fucking a dirty bastard-like slob. It is tempting to take advantage of a man like the
mutt. A man who considers himself lucky to be with a woman, any woman. Some
women know they can force him into some sticky situations. Places you or I would
not go either when feeling bold and daring or feeling normal. They know he will
suck their assholes clean if he must. They know he will even if he isn't required to.
He might make them want it. Some, wanting this in all men, only find it for the first
time when they meet the mutt. He is a primal glory. Even before speaking to him,
they know this about mutt. And, they imagine they know a whole lot more besides.
It is his way in where there should be none. Experience to such girls is as light to
moth and is bred of the same cloth of hope and laughter as had been when they were
little girls and could sit on Grandfather's lap. That too, is his weapon. Experience.
It counts for a lot among the women of this bar, but unsoiled and less experienced
girls are unknowing. Once the twenty-year-old girls find out how old mutt is, (how
much experience he might have under his belt, so-to-speak, and how many scars),
their doubts and fears informed of his appearance take over. It is a survival
mechanism. It is a travesty that plays out again and again. Man meets girl, man
falls in love, girl finds out how old man is and never calls.
The information ticker scrolling at the bottom of the TV screen tuned to the
weather channel has been showing the temperature of the local area. The
temperature has dropped one degree Fahrenheit per minute, for going on twenty
minutes now. It had been in the 70's during the late afternoon, and now it is
hovering around 45.
David Bowie earns a quarter from the jukebox. The selection of songs
available to be played on this particular jukebox is eccentric and varied by most
standards, and the guy playing David Bowie just now finds it to be a worthwhile list
to play from. But, for some patrons of this place going back over many years it is
slim pickings. As far as anyone choosy about the quality of musical mastery of
instrumentation is concerned, there is almost nothing. Some Beethoven, an intricate
song by a local jazz guitarist. Other than that, it is all popular top hits of the
previous six decades.
Also on the ground level with the bar, is a mom-and-pop restaurant. The
facade is red and white. It is an interesting eatery, specializing in affordable tilapia
as well as burgers and fries. Most of the menu items are purchased by the restaurant
owners through an Islamic food distribution service. The restaurant is known to
serve people of little means. For only a buck-o-five you can buy a grilled or fried
tilapia fillet large enough to feed a very hungry homeless person. This restaurant is
open from twelve pm to eight pm. The scene made up of the bar and two
restaurants, is like a schism. Because of the diversity of clientele between the three,
young students from the Middle East have met young artists from the Midwest, and
members of those groups have met the Mayor, renowned business leaders, and
anarchists; they are all alike in this schism, too. Even the goddamn bums jiving for
change are often not turned down, nor pushy. Though there is one that preaches
about God under muttered breath if you refuse aid. The artists, anarchists, Mayor,
and business leaders, along with the bums, do not let their stereotypical ideas about
whether the young Middle Easterners or their religion get in the schism. No one
complains that maybe some of the Middle Easterners are Muslims bent on recruiting
from the lower classes the thugs of the city to spread their religion. Not all of those
from the Middle East or of Middle Eastern descent that frequent the area are going
to the nearby college. Most of the interaction between the artists and Middle
Easterners is centered around politics or usual stuff people talk about when they
don't want to learn about one another's culture but agree to accept the idea
everybody present might be in the same boat. College professors frequent all three
places sometimes, as do those of families of long-standing residence in the city. The
only missing elements of society among the schism are those who choose to stay
home most of the time, those who choose not to be where intellectual discourse is
the norm, and some who are assholes just for the flying fuck of it, and of course,
racist folk that would rather bathe in motor oil than be caught in a place like the
schism of the three locales. If the artists were to get into deep dialogue with the
Middle Eastern folks, would there likely be trouble? Maybe. But, as is the way
around here, like the feminists simultaneously conversing with and ignoring the
assholes, no on pays attention to what makes each other diverse. They pay attention
to the diversity, and try to embrace the schism diversity sometimes by pretending not
to give a damn, other times by nodding and saying, 'Uh-huh.'
There are only three or four in the mom-and-pop restaurant right now.
Twenty in the bar. Over twenty in The Nest sitting and talking and hanging hats
and coats and scarves, anticipating the coming meal.
Winter winds come up. Wrapped like ferocious promise within gifts of biting
cold as a collective will of gathering and building strength that can destroy but for
today will only seek to shape reality. It would be possible for the winds to
accomplish a grand coup of control over the humans. A hapless victim. A truck
driver's rig driven off a bridge or pounding cheerleaders into frozen submission
without mercy. Cheerleaders like that anyway. Doing dances in biting cold.
Maybe take a cheerleader to a UFC match to warm them up. Maybe let them
pretend disgust as, covering their own eyes with their own hands, feigning they will
not take the fight with serious consideration in conscious thought, acting like they
like it or showing on the outside they do not, they pretend all the way to the hotel.
Then they ground and pound and do it well. They might not know what they do, but
they do it well. Let you do it to them. It is enjoyable. Ask a feminist. Nazi.
As stoners gather to share a bowl, (it means put marijuana in the bowl of a
pipe and smoke it with more than one person), on the steps outside of the bar
leading up to The Nest underneath an awning, they comment on the weather and
share stories about summer doings and such. They are all complaining about this
weather, the prospect of snow, the winter. None of the smokers go outside often,
even when the weather is nice, but they like having the option of doing so without
being inconvenienced by nature.
Some of the stoners cannot stand for intolerance of the music they
themselves, or their supposed friends, have created. They have peers throughout
connections made through word-of-mouth or the internet band and music upload
sites, yet are critical of listening to popular acts. It is jealousy, but secure from being
discovered as such because everyone here is in on it to a certain extent. Their music
is not bad, necessarily, but they guard their opinions about their music just in case
there is a newbie on the scene who might come along with a new idea, protecting
their criticisms until it is determined which side the newcomer is on, and if the
newcomer thinks about well-known acts like they do, they will take the newcomers
idea and keep it for themselves. In this way, they can beat the competition. Great
glorious gory gluttons. Few of them share any original ideas. Perfectly acceptable.
Some are Mensa members, though one would struggle to find a logical reason why.
"My mom created the Mensa chapter here," a pill popping guy looking like
he came from Jersey because he wears a leather biker jacket who is standing in a full
leg cast accented with crutches and a neck brace because he got ran over by a girl
says to one of the stoners, "we could use someone like you." Nothing comes of it.
The person to which the pill-popper was speaking is too smart for Mensa. Too
disagreeable. Too creative. Too imaginative. Not grounded enough in reality.
Does not know, not buying into the bullshit leaves you alone.
The stoners finish their pipe. Two stay outside after smoking because they
have lit up cigarettes following the smoking of the marijuana. They each have
jackets on and both of their jackets are old. The other stoners retreat from the cold
back into the shelter of the bar, including the guy with the slicked-back hair, biker
jacket, crutches, and a neck brace. There aren't any bands scheduled to play
tonight. Most of the patrons are just here for booze and camaraderie. The blonde
and the ELFF are alone at a table in the middle of the room, still talking to each
other about each other and ignoring the possibility of communication with anyone
else.
At the bar itself, a dialogue begins.
"Yeah," Seamus says, "If Pam Whitefront were to get her head out of her
ass, things wouldn't be so bad."
"Who is Pam Whitefront?" A stranger to the bar Seamus has spoken up to
asks. The stranger's name is Middleton Wallishnip. Middleton is new to the Harvey
area.
"You know," Seamus says, "The governor of our great State."
"Yeah?" Middleton asks, "and is it a problem if I don't pay attention to State
politics?"
"No," Seamus says, "but you should know your State elected representatives.
Goes along with taking responsibility as an adult member of society, don't you
know."
"I guess I include myself in the unknowing then," Middleton says. He
wonders why this forty-year-old man with not-yet-graying hair has struck up a
conversation about politics in a bar like this. This seems more like a place where
patrons that frequent are more like not to bring up politics or religion. It is why he
stopped in.
Middleton's words have not struck Seamus in the right way. Seamus has a
reason for bringing up the question. Seamus is interested in talking about politics
because he has for a long time been concerned that most of the problems of making
a living in the world are centered in the political system. Seamus has a deep
penetrating will set on the magnificence of The Constitution, and talks with others
willing to listen about politics when he can because he likes to develop a sense of
togetherness. His conversations almost always revert to The Constitution, and he
almost always puts the wheels of the conversation into motion by allotting the
listener a chance to take a stance on the direction of the State and the Governor.
"I don't believe you," Seamus says. A little time passes without any further
dialogue between Seamus and Middleton. They each drink from their glasses.
Seamus is drinking scotch. Middleton, gin and tonic.
The juke is playing 'Walking in Memphis' by Marc Cohn.
Middleton was just going to leave Seamus to his thoughts, but having his
opinion relating to his own personal self be questioned isn't going to rub him right,
either.
"Believe it," Middleton says, "I've got enough knowledge about what goes
on in my own life to know that whether I vote or see the news about what they do in
the State House or in Washington, nothing I can think, do, or say, will change
anything. Timothy McVeigh didn't change anything."
Seamus isn't prepared to turn his conversational purpose about government,
one's opinions thereof, or The Constitution into anything related to something like
Timothy McVeigh had done. He hasn't often thought of things like that, feeling
those kinds of things are events based on belligerent stupidity, not having any basis
in patriotism.
"He didn't change anything," Seamus says, "that's right. But you're
confusing what I've said with something that doesn't matter. I'm talking about your
lack of partnership in society through the acts of voting and being informed."
"Oklahoma City doesn't matter?"
"That's not what I meant."
"Okay. Let's bring up another topic."
"Fine," Seamus says, "I understand not wanting to talk politics. Especially
in this day and age."
"Right on, brother. My name is Middleton. What's your name?"
"Seamus."
Seamus and Middleton converse casually and coolly back and forth from one
idea to another and have a great time doing so, they both think.
There is a group of three women and a man sitting at a table near the bar,
behind where Seamus and Middleton sit. The table is old, covered in formica, a solid
shade of blue, but there are many stains on the table as well. Other than this group
at the table behind Seamus and Middleton, are the blonde bitch boy and ELFF, plus
eleven others and the bartender.
The group of four at the blue table are discussing music right now, focused
on modern popular music heard on the radio and some not heard on the radio. The
blonde bitch boy and ELFF are busy talking about their individual plans to be
something bigger than they are. The others in the bar are made up of singles and
couples and groups of friends. Most of these people don't seem to interested in
chatting anyone up. One of them idles by the front door and jukebox. Another is
sitting by a table near the windows. The others are sitting alone or together at tables
like the blue one, but each table is a different color. Some might be here just to
drink, others to see if anything happens, some just because they like to be together in
public places where the action is almost always the same.
The bartender is washing a glass, looking at what he is doing and thinking it
is good to be doing so. He does not mind the scene at all. Not that much. A storm
may be coming in, but few in the bar are keen on this. Elsewhere in Harvey, there
are some who know what kind of weather is the norm around here, and some of them
are thinking how good a clean batch of rain will be if the weather can provide, and, if
the weather can do so without bringing down a lot of trees or icing everything too
much.
Upstairs at The Nest the customers therein are ready to begin the second
course.
Chapter Twenty-One: The Gay Professor
A day after the storm moved in and across town from the bar a man listens to
the winds from inside the comfort of his own home.
"Damn wind," Max says to himself, "calm down!"
Chilly, biting cold. The front has brought frost and furious winds that seem
made for breaking shit. One day Mother Nature will get old Papa Blowhard in line
with her vision of replacing all but the most simple of human beings, starting over
once again as the world dissolves to drive humankind deep into the Earth to survive,
not able to return to the surface for a thousand years. It will be two thousand years
after the return of humankind to the surface and someone will find a Gibson guitar
and Marshall amplifier in a once-abandoned underground bunker. And, as if godwilling to fuel the will of the discoverer, there will be a large battery that lasted just
long enough and provides enough power to play the guitar through the amplifier.
Plus, there is an instrument cable, a strap, and a pick. The guitar will be tuned to DA-D-G-A-D. Human beings will learn to play the tuning as it is and thusly will once
again rise to dominate the landscapes and realms of mind as had been in the long
ago. This time, however, the song of the lone discoverer will encourage life based on
love and peace in cooperation with The Earth and great respect for all creatures also.
Besides, if people fuck up, birds will swat them to nothing with their wings. Birds,
because after thousands of years without humanity fucking things up, the birds have
developed to be masters of the animal kingdom, even over lions and whales. Unless
of course whales for some reason develop legs and large feet and no longer need
water to survive.
The elderly in the community believe the river keeps tornadoes away. Max
knows this. Max thinks their minds decided many years ago to freeze and lock an
encapsulated reality within, maybe from the time when the first Saturn V rocket took
off from Cape Canaveral with astronauts in a capsule at the top of its stacks. Young
people too, are not limited in ability to fear things that have never happened, or be
unbelieving of things that have. Build and Atlas V and provide live HDTV coverage
of the launch and its trek to the moon and the young people will still continue to
doubt.
Max envisions the winds as having malicious intentions.
"Damn motherfucking air!" Max says, "How dare you conspire, plotting
violence against my Elm, Pear, and Walnut trees?!" He thinks about it, then decides
that of this plotting there is no doubt. He can see branches from one tree dancing
outside the windows of his study. 'Poor tree has no idea,' Max thinks, 'To dance is
to invite trouble against your own well-being. Just like a sultrily dressed, cocky and
ignorant young female. However, we all love your beauty. Carry on, I suppose.
Carry on. You may grow up to be a fine Olympian after all. A strong woman. Take
some chances.'
The study Max is in is on the first floor. It has a two-story ceiling. A large
square room, twenty feet tall, forty feet wide, thirty feet deep. If it were to be filled
with water as an aquarium, Max could keep a great white shark inside. But, for him,
it is a personal indoor and secret palace built for one man.
The view of the outside world from within the study is unobstructed through
two giant custom-made windows. 'Everyone deserves a private work space inclusive
of a magnificent view of the outside world,' Max thinks. The windows can be closed
via a custom and ingenious design involving aluminum plates that can be recessed
within the wall. It was one of many expensive undertakings in the extreme scope of
how the study came to be as it is today. Max was able to make the study come to be
in a less expensive way than many others would be able to, due to connections with a
certain group. Some of the group own the construction companies Max used to
build the study. It is a group operating underground for the most part, and beneath
the fabric of society at large. The group runs respected charitable organizations,
however, and is not all smoke and mirrors in the public eye.
Each of the aforementioned windows are of massive height. The base of each
window begins two feet off the ground. The windows reach to within two feet of the
ceiling. Directly across from each of the giant windows, positioned on either side of
the study doors, matching mirrors reflect the trees viewable through the windows
and everything else that can be seen through the windows. It isn't for vanity, but
atmosphere. It gives the impression of having two windows to the outside in the
interior wall of the house instead of being a blank wall for the usual purpose of
hanging paintings or pictures.
During winter blizzards and summer lightning storms, Max charges and fuels
his soul while watching the bare or fully-leafed branches of the old trees seen
through the windows dance with the wind; cascading images shining upon the
mirrors opposite the windows transform the study into a world akin to outer space,
tricking the mind's eye into the belief the room could exist in another dimension
than the rest of the house's rooms.
Most of the objects in the study have covers. Max has had different covers
made for the bookshelves, the chairs, and the desk. This allows him to transport
himself into any environment using projectors that allow him to project colorful
patterns or any image onto the covers of the objects in the room, onto the mirrors,
against the walls, onto the floor, or in any combination thereof. The projectors are
mounted high in the corners of this grand room along with a substantial set of audio
equipment, and more video equipment. An electronics firm of great reputation
installed all the equipment.
Many astonished young colts, and even a few fillies, have met their sodomymaker in this fascinating room of delights and dizziness and tricks; even though the
room is only three years old.
Max often enjoys watching colors forming on the ceiling and walls created by
light reflecting off the water of his neatest project of indulgence, in his opinion, the
piece that serves as the focal point of the ostentatious room. It is an aquarium sitting
upon a fine table between two immaculate matching bookshelves. This, along with
the mirrors and windows and projectors, creates the illusion of being in a box
delimited by nature. An honest chimera. No malice. Rare.
Throughout his moments in the office, Max has been brought to laughter or
lighthearted chuckles. Squirrels running through his trees. The squirrels live just to
entertain him it seems. In spring and summer the squirrels flirt and fight. In the
fall, they jealously collect acorns. Now it is winter and the squirrels are all business,
scurrying to nut caches in the back yard, then back to their nests in the trees outside
the windows.
Max hopes one day to find a squirrel peering through the windows of the
study with curiosity, having seen its reflection in the mirrors. Unlikely, Max knows,
as the room is so large. Max thinks about the squirrels.
He remembers the strength of the squirrels and is hesitant to underestimate
any other creature of the Earth besides. It amazes Max to think how well the mind
of a squirrel is equipped, for example, to map the yard for storing food. Holes made
for the task are usually covered right up. There is no second thought. Yet, no matter
how long a period of time between hiding food or returning to the stash, the critters
know exactly where to look when they need to eat. Like a golfer zooming in on his
ball.
The lives of the squirrels are aided by the attitudes of Max and his neighbors
in that they all seem to value the life of creatures in the collective yards almost to a
fault. The neighbors to the east allow families of raccoons, opossums, turtles, and
stray cats to create home-y spaces in the safety of their fenced-in yard. The stray cats
are fed food from dishes left on the porch, but if other critters come to the food
dishes to feed, the cats seem content leaving them alone. Opossums are not as
generous. First come, first serve, in their world, it seems. Other than the opossums,
it is as if an unspoken rule of decency prevails among the animal kingdom around
the neighbor's house to the East, Max has often thought.
On a fine Easter morning a year or two prior to taking the permanent
position with Brethren University allowing him his current lifestyle, Max set out for
his Sunday paper in his underwear and a loose-fitting formal brown robe with gold
trim. Nothing had caught his attention in earnest until, as he bent to pick up the
paper which lay in the dewy grass too close to the curb, a small child's foot in a black
dress shoe pranced into view above the hand he used to grasp the bag wherein the
newspaper was contained. In a comical way he froze for a moment, hand clutching
the bag and newspaper. He lifted his eyes and saw the young girl's cute face that
was in the semblance of having been shocked.
"Mister," the girl said, "what in the world is that thing hanging down
between your legs?" The little girl was interested in something, but Max had only
his underwear and robe. Understanding came quick, however, and he grasped the
shock and awe etched in funny lines upon the facial features of the youngster. She
was staring hard at his long and flaccid penis. It was obvious she had never met a
black cock before.
"Why, little lady," Max said, "that is just the kind of thing your father would
hate to have you see, and your mother prays perhaps she one day might." Max
covered himself up and sprinted gaily for the door to the patio leading to the front
door of the house, shouting back to the girl, "you go and look for Easter eggs
someplace else. In a moment I will come back and see if you are still outside. If you
don't say anything to anyone about me, I'll give you a five-dollar bill. All right, little
girl?" The little girl ran off in response, saying nothing about it out loud.
After a few minutes, spending the whole time watching the girl through a
window facing the North, he fished on some pants, a white t-shirt, and met the girl
and her mother across the street in the yard of a house there. He explained to the
girl's mother the possibility the girl might have seen him 'a bit exposed' as he had
been trying to retrieve the morning paper, that he hoped she would accept his
apologetic condolence in the matter, and allow him to keep the deal he had made
with the little girl, providing the girl had kept her side of the bargain.
To Max's surprise, the answer from the woman came from her lips in what
sounded to Max like a fake Southern accent as she said, "It will be just fine, shuga.
You go awn ahead and keep ya prah-mise to the child."
Max had felt a little dirty all of a sudden then, but it was obvious the mother
was trying to be cool. Both him and the mother laughed, and the laughter was
hearty. The girl turned to the task of hunting Easter eggs after getting her crisp new
five-dollar bill. No harm, no foul. To date, it is the only time Max has seen the
young girl and her mother. To his comfortable knowledge, no other neighbors had
been witness to it.
'Balls to my indiscretion and big black hairy cock,' Max had thought when
walking back to the house.
The neighbor's large property east of Max's own is continuous in fluctuation
of wildlife activity and stretches almost an eighth of a mile from the southwest corner
of the intersection of Plainfield and Fourteenth and runs away from the road along
the property line of the two properties a full four hundred feet to the South. As if not
enough, the neighbor's property then wraps back to the west behind the southern
border of Max's property another two hundred feet, forming one-half of the shape of
a swastika.
Drunk and high nights of dazed and confused thoughts and feelings once led
to caress from within the subconscious and creative portions of mind that Max
always kept well fed within himself the idea that there are chambers buried below the
land of his neighbor to the East. He knows no sewage pipes are below the land
behind his property, likewise the land bordering directly East. The neighbor's
sewage and water waste runs through pipes leading from the east end of their house,
opposing the side adjacent to the property line shared with Max. The idea about the
secret chambers is of course a fantasy; that a secret cult gathers below the lawn
gathering and building mechanisms of power or even sacrificing living things,
conjuration, lust, maybe just fun- all going on below his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears,
within mere meters just waiting to be discovered by a hapless new member. What
fun the danger would be. It has been dismissed as a useless thought, however.
A more logical place for clans of secret-keepers to meet would be off the
shores of the river where it splits apart and allows for the formation of small islands
of dense shrubbery and trees growing so thick as to obstruct the view of the island
centers by anything on the nearby banks of the river, roads, or sidewalks of the
bridges.
'Who knows,' Max often thinks, 'and why should I worry where people of the
sort go?' This is a question Max ponders now and then, but he knows its fuel is the
powerful sub-consciousness that had been let run free most of his childhood years.
There was no other way to escape the reality of being a gay black man within the
straight white wonderful world he lived. Fantasies are medicines. One can argue,
medicines of the finest qualities.
Fuck it all.
At a time when most children had become accustomed to playing sports and
chasing young girls into corners and begging them for blowjobs, Max had found
there were many opportunities for two young horny boys to get together.
It was then, in the seventh grade. Max was walking home with Kerry. He
thought up what, in his opinion as a seventh grader then, was the question of
questions.
"Yo Kerry?" Max was nervous, but tried to remain nonchalant.
"Yo Max!" Kerry answered. His response was put-offing-ly in his usual
matter-of-fact-smart-ass-way. It caught Max a little off his line of thinking in the
forming of the question he was about to ask that was of such great importance to
him at that time, so young, so tired of not knowing how to go forward in life because
of a little catch-up; but Max went ahead.
"Hey man," Max said, "You ever, I mean EVER, get excited about any girls
in class?"
"Nope." Kerry answered.
"Why?"
"I like penises more," Kerry answered, "I think."
Max was very surprised at the answer, and got excited. At first, he did not
know how to continue.
"You kidding me?" Max asked, "You're not homosexual for real, are you?
Man. That would be different. I mean- knowing, that is. It's... it's okay. I just
never thought I would ever know anyone else like..."
"Like YOU," Kerry said, "Right?"
Kerry had brought it all out where it could not be denied. Where if Max were
to lie, the lie would be knows as a lie, and things would go from there.
Less than ten minutes later, the boys had found a secluded drainage ditch
engineered as a large causeway made with a giant water pipe running under the
road. Soon, they were experimenting with oral sex in the tunnel beneath the eaves of
dirt and ceiling of galvanized steel. They learned what worked, what did not. They
spent a long time there, and over the next few years, had many more times there.
Max and Kerry taught each other their favorite ways, sexually, and on the night of
their sophomore homecoming in high school- Kerry gave up his tight white ass to
Max in a fuck fest of young gay boy love right in the bedroom that Max had been
provided by his mother and father. They were at that time, for the most part, the
only kids in school who were not at the football games, getting drunk out in the
country with peers gathered at an abandoned farmhouse for a party, or doing drugs.
It was a great luck that Max's parents were at the game or off on a date somewhere
and had left Max to his own time. It was the most memorable moment of his life as
was each of their chances at intercourse. Then, Kerry died two years later during
Senior year.
His death was a shock to Max. Of course it was. Nobody expects the young
to die. It was of an intense feeling, and Kerry's death was more memorable to Max
than to most. Not because of the relationship alone, but because Kerry had been
killed less than an hour after leaving Max and their treasured bedroom. It took Max
two years following the loss of Kerry to develop a healthy appetite for sex, love, a
relationship, and the ability to be strong and without anxiety in social situations
because of his sexual orientation. Kerry was the first, and for a while, the ONLY gay
boy Max had known.
Part of Max's study and lifestyle were influenced beyond measure by his
dashed dreams for what could have been between him and Kerry had it been that
Kerry were still alive. It made him work hard. It made money a priority, and the
appearance of wealth became as important to Max as the lives of the students he was
now responsible for to some degree each day. It was easier to put time and effort
into material goals and objects- things that would far outlive him- things that would
never disappear.
Through intentional deliberation directed through the ideas of just cause and
reason, max formed tough-minded views. Along with his outlook being so rigid,
firm, and tough-minded, Max started to think of the people of the world in a new
way, and he began to associate all people with his limited experience in the world at
that young age. He told himself he has an intolerance to thieves, liars, and cheats.
He often thought to himself strangers that had talked to him were making the
assumption he was gay based on the sound of his voice or his appearance. The idea
of there being a gay man being something new to someone grew his feelings of
intolerance and having just cause to do almost anything his heart could desire. Of
particular concern to Max were people Max sensed or believed wasted his time. Max
did not tolerate casual lies in conversation, being lied to or about, stolen from, or
disrespected in other ways, and he would rail against almost anybody that affronted
his rigid sensibilities; even so far as to, whether by himself or not, direct anger
toward politicians seen on TV or heard on the radio, faculty of the schools, TV news
reporters, newspaper columnists, and magazine editors. He got into the habit of
railing against other people in public places had he felt his personal views of himself
had been confronted in an 'unintelligent' manner. On some level within his personal
psychosis or psyche, as it metamorphosed in him a new personality, he began to
view his home as an example or proof that he is just and right to be focused on what
he can control at all times. The quality of living he enjoyed at home did remind him
too- to enjoy finer things and try to have fun when he could. Steal the moments as
they become available. Making hay, forever gay, each person in their own way. His
neighbors did not mind him, few of them knew him. He kempt the grounds of his
property up to snuff, and only his neighbors Patrick, Brittany, and Mansen, were of
any concern to him.
The plot of land Max lives on is two hundred feet wide east-to-west by four
hundred feet long north-to-south. There are the nature-loving neighbors to both
East and South and the female living there is proud of her trees almost as much as
her husband is proud of himself. A more modest home borders the land Max lives
on to the West. The road borders the property to the North.
The nature-loving neighbor has a huge home. It is at least 3500 square feet in
area and is a two-story house. Their address is on Plainfield. Max's address is on
Fourteenth Street. The same mailman serves both houses as well as all houses one
block up Plainfield to the South, and four blocks down Fourteenth due West on both
sides of the street.
The mailman never showed up before three pm. More often than not,
packages ordered through internet shopping sites arrived with a hole poked into the
packaging. Max began to suspect, because the holes in the packages were almost
always congruent with one another, that the holes were not accidental, but
intentional. That it might be the fucking mailman checking his fucking mail. Max
set up to viewing the mailman from seclusion within a secure location on the porch.
As it came to pass, Max did spy the mailman checking his packages, and,
feeling like he was an accomplished Navy Seal or some such, called the U.S.P.S. to
complain and inquire as to the legality of such actions he had seen the mailman
going through, actions he described with elegant language. He did not know how to
best address the postman, and wanted to establish knowledge of his rights before
taking action. The representative of the U.S.P.S. he had made the call to said a
formal inquiry would be made. To Max this was not enough and he earned a
promise from the representative. The mailman would be replaced post-haste with
somebody else. Max was pleased at this. 'Having one-way glass walls on your porch
is beneficial,' Max thought. Max became good friends with the new postman, a man
named Reginald from the Northeast.
Inside his study, two bookshelves stretch from floor to ceiling. They are two
feet deep and when installed had been affixed to the studs behind the wall itself. The
bookshelves are symmetrical and are over five feet wide. They are works of art no
less than the novels and books of knowledge they hold. Each shelf of the
bookshelves are have enough height for even the largest volumes, texts, books, and
binder notebooks. The color of the bookshelves is dark. There are images and floral
patterns carved on all the surfaces of the bookshelves, and these are of highest order.
There is a ladder-rail across the top of the bookshelves and a matching ladder built
by a local craftsperson can be moved from one shelf to the other without any trouble.
The bookshelves, ladder, and the aquarium stand are all custom-made pieces crafted
from the same fine wood, Mahogany. These things fill the space between the two
windows of the west wall of the study.
The aquarium stand stands like a pedestal. It is crafted of Peruvian
Mahogany and is three feet tall. It holds a salt-water aquarium. Nursed to life
within the aquarium is a stupendous oceanic world of creatures, rocks, and
makeshift caves. The caves serve the needs of some of the more delicate of the
diverse species of sea creatures within the aquarium who need to feel they are
protected or maybe the caves provide them with the illusion of being free. Among
his diverse collection of fishes and creatures are a magnificent starfish, two
clownfish, a lionfish, a hawkfish, two seahorses, and living rock.
The aquarium was a surprise happening. It sort of just happened. He began
his fish-keeping activities using a twenty gallon fresh water aquarium, but, mastering
very fast the art of aquarium keeping, he began to wonder about a larger aquarium.
Once the study, or office, was complete, he knew he wanted to place a salt-water
aquarium inside of it. The toughest part about starting a new aquarium was where
to place it.
He has many aquariums and they bring him more peace, serenity, comfort,
and joy, than almost all other things. Including the salt-water aquarium in the study,
there are a total of five aquariums in his home. The other tanks are freshwater
habitats, each no larger than fifty gallons. Better than sex, better than people, better
than music by itself or reading in bed, better than many of his life experiences does
he find reading in the light of the aquarium inside his study.
There is just enough room for two lamps against the same wall of the study as
the bookshelves and aquarium, each are placed to the outside of the bookshelves.
These lights provide necessary light for him to read by. In front of each bookshelf is
a fine wooden rocking chair, positioned at an angle and positioned so as to leave
enough room to operate the ladder of the bookshelves and browse the shelves for
material to read. Each chair has a matching footstool. The two chairs are identical
in every way except color. One of the chairs is red leather with a blue footstool, and
the other chair, the one rarely used that is closer to the north end of the room, is blue
leather with a black footrest.
Max spends most of his free time hidden away in one of these two chairs.
This is most true during the months of winter when temperatures inhibit Max from
excursions to the outdoors. Max does not have the wealth yet to pay for seasonal
vacations to lands known for warmth and lack of winter, and besides, he likes the
winter. There will be time for that, Max knows. His future is bright and shiny
beyond his wildest expectations, for his age. His success had come almost too early,
he sometimes worries, like it is fake. He worries it might all come crashing down,
flutter away like a great dream never to remembered once awoken.
Right now, however, the winds are making promises. The winds think of
attempting the possession of souls and spirits; to live vicariously through, or try, the
weak and willing inhabitants of Earth. To try to become more ordered in existence
than to be as wind is. Perhaps the weak and willing are the trees.
Max sits at the desk, thinking. He had got up and paced atop the floor some
twenty minutes ago, looking through the windows or admiring the aquarium and
other objects in the room. But, too much time had passed. So many thoughts.
Sitting now, thoughts keep coming. To have a life more easily controlled. A life of
consciousness alone. Damn the winds, the trees cry. Maybe trees like the caress of
the winds. No matter how strong the winds become, to a tree, a caress is a caress.
Maybe. Maybe a light breeze is to a tree as a gentle caress is to her clit. This would
mean, maybe, a sixty mph gusting wind that can bend the top of the tree trunk in the
higher branches feels to a tree like a raping fist in her vagina. (Max is aware some
women like fists in their vagine's.) No matter. If they, the winds, cannot succeed,
Max imagines the winds as being contented with either preservation or destruction
of his trees, or the windows through which he is able to view them.
The way the winds whip tonight bring Max's thoughts to his favorite and
underappreciated horror and science-fiction writers. Horror fiction is a treat he loves
and has loved from time immemorial since first reading a novel about vampires that
he read when he was only a child. The ability of Literary Masters to convey secrets
from such things as storms or other day-to-day natural events and use them in stories
to tell of things yet to come Max feels is more important than just having a large
vocabulary and command of language. Come ye what may, eh? The winds are
planting literary seeds for the future. 'Maybe,' Max thinks, 'one day I will write a
tome full of grand dreams, or, perhaps, maybe a story about awareness of reality.
The world could use a fucking Aenima. A story about Ithaqua the Wind-Walker.
What a great character, Ithaqua. A god bent on the enslavement of all humankind.
Cool deity from a novel written by British author Brian Lumley, himself a 'so-called'
self-proclaimed disciple of H.P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu mythos. Ithaqua was allpowerful, yet confined by white magic to the far reaches of the Arctic. He could only
take flight among the winds during the winter months or when the jet stream carried
frigid fronts to be among the lands of civilization far away from the polar ice caps
north of Canada. Ithaqua battled another character of great development, a
character named Titus Crow. The battles between Titus Crow and Ithaqua were put
to use to foreshadow events to come later in the fictional setting with beautiful effect.
Ithaqua was like a metaphor for Nazi Germany in the beginning of the story. No
one believed in Ithaqua until it was almost too late, and Ithaqua moved with the
winds through humanity like a scythe among reeds. "No," Max says, "that is not
right.'' He has gotten his characters mixed up. 'Titus Crow was not ever in a story
about Ithaqua.' Max reads novels once, then he's done. No matter how much he
has enjoyed what he has read out of any book, he never has returned to the same
book once it has been read. Thus, Max substitutes the name TITUS CROW in many
of his thoughts about horror and fantasy literature stories. Mostly because it is a cool
name. He finds no harm in mixing names of heroes and gods from various novels by
the same author, or interjecting names from other stories in place of the correct
character names just to aid his imagination or when discussing literature with others
in order to aid himself in making quick points or giving an example, either of context
or prose technique. A novel by Brain Lumley featuring Ithaqua and Titus Crow is
"Titus Crow Volume Two The Clock of Dreams & Spawn of The Winds."
'Many very angry today,' he thinks. Then, happening at random, he thinks
about the Abominable Snowman. The monster pops into his thoughts; the same
Abominable Snowman who fought against the minor that carried the ice-pick, then
loved him. From the story and holiday children's show "Rudolph the Red-Nosed
Reindeer." He chuckles, thinking of the Abominable Snowman. It was one of the
first shows he watched that brought him fear, joy, tears, anger, and happiness all in
one sitting. He remembers the snowman wearing a vest with a green and white plaid
pattern and carrying an umbrella as being the bee's knees.
'Nothing like a little horror story mixed in with a Christmas story to open the
imagination to the idea of secret places, parallel worlds, friends within enemies
disguised as friends or friends of friends with friends that are friends and friends of
the enemy as well. The mixture of horror and other input may have been the key to
unlocking his mind, opening him up to a life of adventure within make-believe
worlds imagined everyday. Experience that becomes seed. Seed that becomes
revealed through the writings of a good fiction writer to be worthy of the early
impressions upon the imagination. Like when a writer is able to slip one in under
the gaze of frightened evangelicals. Penis.
In his task forthcoming, the paperwork on his desk, he could only hope
against hope at least one of his English Literature and Creative Writing course
students would prove themselves as having a vivid imagination through their writing.
The course is offered to any student, but only to those already finished with and
having already received a passing grade in English 101 or having achieved a score
above 93% on the test given to those wishing to test out of English 101. The word
hope coming up was an irony to Max. He thought when he was a student for six
years prior to receiving his post as a teacher that college was meant to punish
hopeful thinking. This was due to the peers he was forced to live with during his
college years that had the characteristic or trait of being no more capable of original
thought than an imagination dominated by thoughts relating to myriad gods. At
best it was probably a long shot to have hope that something grand would be found
among the work of his students. 'No matter,' he thinks, 'this is why it is called
work.' The worst thing to happen would be for a student to prove their hatred of his
teachings through writing without regard to the lessons he has taught, through
attempts at proving themselves above his teaching and the work of their peers. Some
of the students have, against he the opinionated and hedonistic teacher, a show of no
mercy.
This is fine with Max. Perfect. No student can match his own hatred, a
hatred as real as the front door. Some of that hatred is directed at the students.
Some of the students know this.
'What a waste of air and resources,' Max thinks, 'the kids. Is this the essence
of the job? To bring about a transformation among these brats from uselessness to
purpose or mere competence? Too bad George W. Bush never had a teacher as
compassionate and loving as I.'
Summer was superb this year, never reaching one hundred degrees, and fall
was better. Max is not one to bring work home with him. He lived a life outside the
college classroom. Even while working at home the emotional or intangible would
not affect him here. Just a job. Best to do it quick.
The few problems his new students this year made up, he dealt with at ease
and did not allow the students and their qualms take time away from his personal
life. He was determined to make stress-free living out of having the life of a small
and private university English professor.
'Maybe,' Max thinks, 'but, I am a realist. I will not let a little wishful thinking
become too set in my mind.' He has no reason to believe having a career as a
college professor will be different from details and warnings given by co-workers,
but, ignoring them for the most part he has lived and learned the hard way. He has
not given credence to talk from fellow faculty received throughout his first semester.
He is willing to let come as may might, enjoys what is possible, and says to himself,
"Fuck the uncontrollable." Forewarned is forearmed, yes. Although, he believes to
be forgone of any care is fortunate in that it allows one to be aloof of personal
involvement with others.
Except in nuclear war. NEW-CUE-LAR, as Sarah Palin once said, and in
Max's opinion her speaking of it being repeated through newscasts making mockery
of the United States of America through the fall of 2008 as she ran for the secondhighest office in the executive branch of the federal government. Max hated that
'dumb bitch.' Not because he wanted to vote for republicans and she appeared to be
mentally challenged on political and world issues, no. He had never voted
republican. It was in principle alone he hated the very idea of her running for the
one of the highest offices in the executive branch. She seemed to be without
knowledge of the world. She seemed like a worst-case-scenario offering from the
republicans, almost like something out of a book. Like the republican party was
being controlled by aliens bent on ruling the world through puppet-string nobodies
without minds, incapable of thought, speculation, wonder, or ability to understand
anything in an intellectual manner. Nothing about his hatred toward Sarah Palin
had anything to do with gender. It was about an obvious lack of satisfactory
elements regarding her intelligence, that her intelligence quotient would obviously
fall into the category of the mundane. 'Are the members of the republican party
(really that) fucking stupid?' He sometimes wondered as he watched the debates
and caught up on news.
It was rare for Max to rush himself into anything when work was involved,
and he is thinking about various things as he gets ready to grab the first bits of
homework from the students to begin grading.
'Fuck work,' he thinks, 'Work will come, but long after I have.' It is a
personal promise, one of many he manages to keep.
His lover is sleeping, as usual for this time of day. Why get up before noon
when life begins after five pm? His lover is determined about his lifestyle and loves
himself because of his own determination in regards to the lifestyle he chooses to
live, as well as other reasons. Max loves him for it too, among other reasons.
Max has an itch. It needs to be resolved before getting down to business. It
is a convenient itch, however, an itch he wished he need not scratch all by himself.
On his lonesome.
Maybe. Maybe he will read first. A few favorite passages from a book
selected out of many on the shelves. A well read First Black Cat Edition of Naked
Lunch by William S. Burroughs printed in 1966 sits in his top right desk drawer. It is
a small book and is the only book within the walls of his study not confined to a
bookshelf at present. In his opinion, Naked Lunch is such that it should not be
crammed next to comparatively mundane literature such as novels written by
Virginia Woolf, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Joseph Conrad, or Cormac McCarthy. Though
too, he believes the writings of Virginia Woolf, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Joseph Conrad,
and Cormac McCarthy, Naked Lunch is nowhere near close to being as good as in
many aspects of literature and the purpose thereof, and thus is not good enough to
be placed among those and the like that lay dormant, waiting, humble, magnificent,
succulent, quiet, on the bookshelves behind his desk.
Nothing went to plan. Things failing to go as planned does not bother,
though. His intention was to prepare a strong pot of coffee, get ot owkr in the study
in the early morning, and finish work by early afternoon. When he found himself
instead reaching for a Kleenex, the professor of English and Creative Writing at
Brethren University felt a bit disgusted. The disgust was aimed at the self. At times
like these, he felt like the same old horny teenager he had been before graduating
high school.
At times like these the feelings of disgust were separate from the actions
creating the illusion of disgust with the self. He is too old for that shit. You cannot
guilt a motherfucker with no conscience for self-doubt or pity. Too many turns
around the Sun and too many days spent caring about the opinions of other people in
tremulous years taught him the virtues of Jade. His Jade is Onyx, too. If that makes
any sense to you. It means it is not like something that can harm him. It is like a
piece of the Earth meant to serve a purpose. Like all things of the Earth, it can only
serve a purpose if a human being puts it into their own mind that it should serve. It
is like Onyx too, because it is a hardened aspect of his being, or moral fiber you
might say, that it resembles Onyx to a certain extent in the ways that Onyx is
beautiful, as a color, as a stone, as a thought within the myriad network of the
synapses of the mind coming forth at the moment of concept and believability. No
matter. Read on.
That is what being old will make of you, after all. Senile worthless wasteful
and stupid, yes; it will also make you less able to sacrifice happiness or pleasures,
allowing you to respect feelings or ideals of people you do not know, if you are like
Onyx. It makes you hard toward those you could not care less to know, ruins
friendships before they have begun; unless you are like Onyx. In simple terms, it is a
matter of work and time. Water is soft, yet over time can form the crux of the
necessary to deliver change unto the surface of almost anything. To be like the
Onyx, you have to understand that when you form the Onyx of your mind, if you
have included yourself entire, then you will be forming nothing less powerful than an
element of the Earth, of space, of the Universe, of time.
Masturbation, cha-cha-cha. Since youth the act of self-copulation has
sometimes brought despair. Despair, in early youth, from the lack of success selfcopulation represents. That you are unable to convince anyone else to participate in
sexually loving yourself, means you are not loved. It was hard for him to whack the
peter during his formative years, having to rely on the thought of sex with others
instead of getting the experience. 'Where the loose and horny devils read about in
porn magazines gone have they?' He would sometimes ask. He had identified true
love in the sex-laden tales from those magazines. Failure to achieve sex experience
with peers during the early stages of adolescence resulted in reinforcement of socalled truths taught by his somewhat disinterested parents. Truths he never wanted
to face. The idea copulation is ill-intentioned if performed on oneself without
marriage, that doing so is sin outside the sanctity thereof; caused despair to come in
the form of the personal belief at the time not from his parents' teachings, but the
fact that since he had to result to masturbation, and because he did, something was
wrong. On the level of being able to get someone else to share in the experience,
things were wrong, and on the level of self-actualizing understanding of his parents'
wishes through the fact of being able to interpret their teachings as something
important to them, but then going against their ways and being confrontational,
brought his most aware self down. He did not like to disappoint. His response to
the disappointments of his parents, because he could not feel private at any moment
without thoughts of the both of them, was fostered inside his self as hatred. It
became gruesome, leading to the divorce of his parents. Proof to him his adamant
refusal of their morals based in beliefs he thinks are not natural, but sinister and from
a dark place, was justified all along. He refused to believe they were right in almost
all their religious thinking. In his mind, their belief system was the shared factor of
their apparent unhappiness. In the end, so long, far gone end. No live and let live.
So they died.
'Small-minded people should not bear intelligent children,' he thought. (I
disagree.) Though, this is a motto Max has. He lives by it more than almost any
other self-imposed rule. 'Abortion should be mandatory for religious people who are
not open minded enough to allow their children to discover religions, gods, or
supernatural beliefs on their own, through life experiences and individual thought.
At the same time, all the mainstream religions; Islam, Christianity, Judaism, and
most other faiths monotheistic orientated, even non-so, are guilty of denying their
own God(s) any chances.' He knows his opinions are not to be applied to every
person of each faith, but believes it refers to the majority. Some escape his opinions
only because he is self-sheltered against learning about other faiths, and so cannot
speak against them.
'If people believe God or their Gods are all-powerful, why then do they work
so hard to force their God or Gods upon others? It shows an obvious lack of respect
for their God or Gods that their God or Gods need to be brought to others through
simple human beings as if without human beings working for god's will other
human beings will never know god. If not a lack of respect, it shows a lack of faith.'
Max felt if he had a God, God would need no help making his power or love
known to the rest of humanity. Plus, God would let Max show his love to others
more often. Glorious love shared by the power of Black Cock. A great new cartoon
on Saturday mornings for the children! Black Cock to the rescue! Save us from our
boredom, oh great Black Cock! Will you? Wheeee! The burden of knowledge. Shit.
The problem about the programming he suffered through while growing up at the
hands of his parents; it had been so fiercely enacted upon him from such an early age
he was physically, mentally, emotionally, and maybe even spiritually unable to
finalize a dissolving of the layers of trauma from his being. Over the long run, he
had fostered a lack of belief in anything having to do with Gods, Souls, or spirituality
of any kind. These truths pissed him off about the whole ordeal of masturbation and
guilt. He felt these things belonged to those who were inherently weak, or doing it
in bathrooms at work in public places, or with unwilling children at family reunions,
or with congressional aids at taxpayers' expense.
Thus now, with a handful of tissue, after a long period of building toward an
end, he pulled down on his erect great penis once again, stretching the skin along
the shaft. Once, then twice. The third time he was free. Backing in his chair he lay
the head of his cock in the pile of Kleenex held in his left hand and came with a little
shake and shudder, a little pleasure or relief- creating a wad of well-aimed come in
the Kleenex with the tip 'o his penis, his dick in his hand, his ass on the edge of his
chair.
He was careful to keep the semen from hitting his desk, a wall, or finding its
way onto the carpet. It all counted on the speed with which he could ramble up to
the trashcan. Sometimes his semen would pierce the Kleenex right through at the
moment of orgasm. One time it shot across the room and slogged against the fish
tank. It wasn't a threat this time. Sometimes there would be too much semen and it
would spill out of his hand onto the floor, his trousers, or his chair. Not today,
though. It was a quick wipe-up today, and he tossed the natural deposit into the
wastebasket under his desk. Now he was ready to work.
'Mission accomplished,' he thought.
Before getting started on work, he relaxed from his recent exertion. He
thought about cleaning the aquariums around the house for an instant, then realized
there would be time enough for that eventually. Then he thought about his lover and
roommate, the fact his lover would probably be able to tell from his performance
during their lovemaking later on that he had 'cheated' again, in reference to the
masturbation. His lover is always very keen as to sexual prowess.
"You stole my drink," Max could hear the voice of his lover say, thinking of
him. 'This is what happens when you sleep in, bitch,' Max thought, 'Silly white boy.'
Thus thinking about his silly white boy lover brought a wide grin to him. The
grin annunciated the stronger characteristics and masculinity of his face. He loves
fucking the silly white boy and will keep him home as long as possible. He often
longed to bring home another silly white boy, but this happened most of the time
while he was horny and yearning for the boy already captured, who was now sleeping
downstairs. Well, he wasn't a boy. He was a man of years numbering twenty plus
six. In Max's eyes, a boy just the same.
Over time, in spite of his parent's efforts, being able to masturbate made Max
feel accomplished. It was a sort of confirmation; the fact mom and dad never
managed to put the fear of God in him. There had been a time when his anti-belief
system had been strained to a breaking point. The possibility of it weighed heavily
upon him and fucked him up. Because he was willing to ponder religious zeal in
others with an open mind, though, and because of the duration of the tests he had
endured in youth, he won his own will back. He won it back in spades.
Through the trials of his sane mind, he never really doubted he would come
away from the pains of life with pure power, ability, and proof of self. It was a great
relief when he finally did, however, and at that moment, some years ago, when he
realized who he really was and how formidable his attenuation among things thought
or physically manifest and experienced always proved to be right, and he felt like he
had real control for the first time, it was like being struck by God or something like
God, something so simple clicking in his brain that allowed him to feel a sudden
belief of the truth of himself as to how he lives his life. It was something that
happened while whacking off.
The main difference spawned within Max during the time of doubters and
friendemies, was that his strength and self reliance had stood a test, and were in
essence, proven, whereas before the trials he feared discovering that his strength was
just a facade.
Now he has the ultimate weapon against failure. The weapon is faith. Faith
in himself. Almost faith strong enough to oppose all matter in the Universe. Glory
be. You bet your sweet little honey covered ass, white boy. Saltine cracker-assed
motherfucker, you are mine. Open up and relax, please. Max has come to believe
everyone he will ever face should open up and relax. The difference between me
before and me now is, I now have a will for expressing whom I am upon others,
instead of being content with flying on my own. My enemies are few, and what of
them there are, have signed their own fate in blood. They beg as friends, but do not
know who I am. I am like their god. Their owner, master, and commander. They
do not need this as a truth, but it is true because I know it as a truth. Knowing is half
the battle? Nah, knowing is everything.
Max gained something else during his trails. he might have had suspicions.
because he was unsure, he never communicated to anyone about these suspicions. it
would not do to cause worry in a loved one. Besides, he felt it would be a mistake to
give other people any ammunition against his newly found fortitude. There was no
chance of anybody ever again being able to challenge him. It was just a smart move
making sure no person or persons could have a silver bullet to load in any type of
gun pointed his way.
Intelligence was his best weapon against the masses of stupid, jealous, or
loathing individuals. Maybe if he moved away, people like him would outnumber
persons like that, but he had doubts. Fairytales and Kingdoms of magnificent
cultures or enlightened people, belonged in fiction novels once. He knew fiction
from reality.
in his self-faith, he gained a sort of arcane knowledge. While there are no
Gods, Heavens, or Hell, there actually is life before birth. A life not of this Earth.
There is living of a sort after death. Within that living is super energy or magic
permeating throughout its own existence. It is a living medium within nearly all
things of consequence. The stars and planets have it. He is not sure black holes
have it, except for the black holes of the individual, your ear holes, nose holes, mouth
holes, tummy holes, other holes, and of course, private holes, like your vagina, anus,
or penis have.
No, not religion, not organizational, not control based. It is truth based. Will
based. I can conceive, therefore I will, and therefore it is. Get down on your knees
for nothing or no one, except me, it is said in some places the Lord hath said. There
are other beings too that say things like that. I warn you however, Jesus once said
only do this or that for me if you are going to really get down and do it. I think.
I want what I want. What I want is what you need. Since you are ready,
willing, wanting, and waiting, praise be. Only to me, however! Unless you praise
yourself. In which case, we shall be equals! It is up to you. Choose in accordance
with thy own will.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Further Introduction
Contrary to perceptions others may have felt when confronted with him, he
was not altogether isolated from being insensitive. While this was true, he
maintained a sophisticated and complex view of the world, almost in spite of his
intolerance. He loved people, loved children, loved Earth and the Stars above.
Sharing was one of his strengths before his transformative experiences, and he
spared little expense once his bank account grew.
Now and then, Max would invite members of faculty to his home and
encourage them to bring family or friends. A sort of social event. He took pride
making sure it was known his home was a place where great foods and music could
be enjoyed by all. Often he would allow the youngest walkers and talkers at his
social events to view the night sky through his telescope.
The telescope was a leisurely expense, but one that exceeded the total of his
mortgage payments for an entire year. Sometimes he wondered whether he bought
the telescope because he was interested in astronomy, or because he liked the idea of
knowing someone who might be so inclined. It was possible he bought the
telescope out of a sense of supporting the economy. As much as he paid for the
telescope, he felt it should serve him. He is the kind of man that thinks because he
has spent enough money, whatever device it is should be all-encompassing in its
service. Maybe the telescope could wake him up, like an alarm. It could alert him to
be interested in celestial events, lead him outside, select the appropriate coordinates,
even hold his head in place to view through it. It does not get him out of bed,
however, nor would it communicate any intent or hold his head in place to use the
view piece, and there was no going back now. There is a digital camera mounted on
the side of the telescope, and Max would encourage children at parties to shoot
pictures with the digital camera. He would then print the shots, allowing the kids to
take the pictures home for being hung on their bedroom walls. As a person of great
knowledge, Max believed the ability to understand a sort of perspective and relation
to the Universe as well as the Earth, was key to allowing the mind new opportunities
for creative thought. Carl Sagan had blown his mind a time or two in the past, and
was partly responsible for the inspiration to purchase the telescope. Max did not
consider the philosophy, opinion, or approval of any of the children's parents in the
matter of study of astrological science. To him, an appreciation for sharing
astronomy, or fostering a healthy curiosity for it, could not be offensive to even the
most feeble-minded individuals. He supposed those individuals who would bother
to take issue with such an experience would never have found their way to his house.
He was right of course. People learn to avoid places that exist in contrast with the
self, places where they are unwelcome. There was a mechanism at work in the
choices Max made, creating the atmosphere children are treated as equals during
social events while Max is around. Max feels responsible to young children. It is a
purposeful responsibility developed after coming to a realization considering life on
Earth.
Max believes he has knowledge of an existence prior to being born. He
remembers vague recollections of having chosen a path and purpose for life before
being born. Selecting his own fetus, being in the womb of a mother, seemed like a
memory to Max. If time and space could be bent into a loop, then everything was
memory, history, and future, at all times. As above, so below. What will be, will be.
Has always been. Past, present, future, as one. Max feels he can remember the exit
from the womb. He recalls the feeling of shock of birth as a triumph, the leaving of
the safe haven of the mother. Simultaneous, he realizes the concept is unlikely. His
grasp of reality being solid, though erudite, fuels his majestic imagination and
otherworldly belief system.
Now, almost old enough to see his forties, the difficulties of childhood seem
moot. In spite of his parents' flaws, Max holds no ill will toward them or anyone
else. Leaving the safe haven of his mother, or was it a type of heaven? Either way,
he did hate a lot about his parents, yes, but nevertheless, he now spent no ill will
upon their being. he saved ill will for those who chose as adults to create difficult
experiences beyond reason for children, people, or society as a whole. His firm
intolerance complimented his ability to understand in an almost perfect way hate
should never be allowed entry into his philosophy of intolerance towards it. People
and matter, time and space, he understands. It is a sort of paradox, the profound
intolerance and unique ability to gain understanding. The point is, he knows, it is a
healthy communion, no dichotomy. Healthy because he does not need to utilize
force to find solutions to many problems. This he learned through unfortunate
circumstances. On his tenth birthday, his mother was babysitting a neighbor child
while Max was a school. When max came home he discovered, much to his chagrin,
the child had broken a new remote-controlled helicopter which had been a birthday
present opened before school the same day. Enraged, Max destroyed a piece of art
he had spent several weeks creating. An hour later he regretted his mistake.
On that day, Max made his first vow. In this life, he would not ever be
destructive of physical property in anger again. To remind himself of this vow, and
in a self-imposed form of punishment, he swore off any attempt at making a visual
piece of art for the rest of the duration of his youth. It had hurt that much to destroy
what he had created. Even then, he had sense enough to know making promises for
life at a young age was a way to doom oneself to failure. He made it a promise
anyway. He has kept that promise throughout most of his young life. It is not an
easy promise to keep. People test him. People like to try and bring others down to
their level, more than strive to build up to their own best ability. It is easy to
understand why people do it, with the glittering shows of resource and prizes life is
measured by these days.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Elongate
The river flowing through the city in which Brethren University exists had
been for thousands of years a giver of life to Native Americans. The city council had
approved a multi-million dollar project which had been completed only two years
ago. This project was inclusive of walkways, bridges for pedestrians over roads,
statues, many of Native Americans created by Native Americans, and a science
center. The stated intentions were to honor the Native American peoples history and
ancestral traditions as the original caretakers of the land, plus community upgrades.
No one really bought the theme though, least of all the Native American people.
As for the current situation, about 1,000 people of Native American descent
remained in Harvey. If you asked any of the Native Americans what their opinion
was of the beautification project; Mother Nature had been trampled once again. The
river had been re-routed, all natural life had been interrupted, all sacred spirit
injured, just for the pleasure of white folks. No one but the white man was
responsible for the damages. It was only white men who first greeted as friends, then
enslaved or killed and eventually displaced original American mothers and fathers.
It was whites who enslaved the Africans and brought them to the spiritual centers of
the North American Continent. White men alone were the force of all evil in the
world.
Standing at the feet of a large sculpture depicting a Native American facing
east in prayer to the rising sun Max sensed something special within his mind and its
inner workings. He was in college at the time, writing about the history of Native
Americans living in Harvey.
A mother and a young girl three years old had been staring up at the statue of
the Native American. Without reason or thought, Max felt the urge to give a
warning. He knew not why. It was hard for him to stifle the scream bubbling with
ferocity at the rim of his vocal chords. It felt like a geyser were trying to burst
through his throat. The cause of the consternation? In his mind, he had received a
vivid vision. The little girl and her body. Care free and safe one moment, tumbling
over the edge of the viewing platform the next. Before he shouted at the mother and
the daughter, which would only serve to scare the shit out of them and cause a scene,
he noticed he had no reason to fear, though his body was trembling with adrenaline.
The mother and daughter were standing together, simple and content,
looking skyward along the figure of iron before them. He saw they were over ten feet
away from the edge of the platform. The platform was cut of strong rock and was
perfectly flat. This gave him confidence to try and dismiss his premonition of
something going wrong as imagination alone. A form of vertigo, but for somebody
else. There was no way either could slip into the river, they were well over ten feet
away from the river and standing on the strong platform cut of strong rock, the
platform perfectly strong, rising in sections about the base of the statue upon large
rocks nesting in the waters. Aside from these facts, the child in question was not his
child. Though warning sensations kept ringing in his mind, it seemed more like a
sinister thought or fantasy than a premonition taking place the longer things drew
out.
Max turned to leave the other art enthusiasts, joggers, grandparents, and
horny teenagers to their leisure and merriment.
The teenagers. It was quite disgusting to him, these groping and petting
teens in a family place. he felt like screaming at them to get a room and buy some
condoms. Of course, there was no real intention to say such a thing in full-bore
public space and suffer scolding at the hands of other people. Such was his
temporary rage, in the hands of even a most talented comedian there would be no
ability to excuse his suggestion as being in good humor. Fuck em, and let them get
on with it. Let them raise the baby, drop out of school, try drugs and never be able to
quite using those drugs. Speak not, and move quietly among the crowds. Live and
enjoy, let alone for anyone else to do the same. Use your intellect and gain ground.
They are all too unimportant right now, those against this simple ideal.
Then, it happened.
Before he reached to the next level up formed of the shaved rocks, the level
just above the lowest platform, he heard a shriek of pain. It was the girl, and
following her cry came a horrified exclamation from the girl's mother. The sounds
intermingled to create a freakish new sound. That new sound brought no less a
reaction from the other admirers of the grounds than trains colliding at a busy
intersection, tractor-trailers crushing Volkswagens head on, or Ryder trucks blowing
up Federal Buildings in the center of a large city's population center. It was the kind
of sound with the potential to make even the most devout Catholic begin writing
horror fiction fostered within deep, corrupted, and immoral, thoughts.
The girl must have been in a daze. She had been a-gawk at the statue
towering over her. She had shuffled too close to the edge of the platform. Her bare
arm grazed the soft velvet of the rope forming the only barrier between the edge of
the viewing platform and the river.
It would have been no big deal but the surprising touch caused her to
overreact. She had swiveled around, catching her heel between two chunks of rock,
rocks that should not have been out of place as they were, that belonged among
other rocks in a safe location near the feet of the statue but had been moved by
worthless kids belonging to others. As her foot caught, her ankle snapped like so
much kindling.
Max later felt ashamed, but at the time was no longer the closest available
person to provide comfort, assistance, or aid in the matter. he slowly turned away,
almost willing people in the crowd to ignore him, and walked back to his bike for the
ride home.
Later in the evening, after dark, Max remembered thinking about the
situation.
He rationalized the foresight or premonition away easy enough and told
himself the girl's own parents were to blame. If they had sense enough, or were
more intelligent, they would have warned their daughter of any danger long before
viewing the statue. If smart in any way, they daughter would not have been so
overweight to have caused her ankle to snap with such swift force. Their daughter
would be more flexible if they did a better job keeping her active instead of letting
her be raised by television.
He had no reason to assume any of his somewhat insensitive thoughts had a
basis in reality. At the same time, he felt that any one of his thoughts, though based
on stereotypes as they were, might not be far off the truth, either. he was satisfied
either way, and sincere in that it did not matter to him one goddamn bit. Let
bygones be bygones.
Max did not ever correlate the incident at the statue with the incident at the
bar to take place later on. The similarities were of a kind most people would choose
to ignore. They are abstract and outside of easy explanation. Besides, Max took
action in the later incident that put the happenings with the girl at the statue out of
his mind.
Chapter Twenty-Four: Return to Normal.
Just before taking the job at the University, Max encountered a violent and
small-minded individual who had developed throughout his life an unhealthy,
unintelligent kind of intolerance.
The difference between this man's intolerance and Max's intolerance was
night and day. Moon rocks for ocean waves. This man decided at a fairly young age
to view all homosexuals as though they were plague-ridden. Rare in the 80's and
90's, but still prevalent in some communities. Maybe not so rare.
In adulthood, Max used words of ancient texts from many cultures and the
religions of their people to gather other like-minded individuals and create and new
religious organization. He had attended a protestant school for religious study, and
found no firm objections to his views, and had chosen to hide his mind from mentors
or peers as he worked his way from a bachelor's degree in theology to a masters in
divinity.
This new religion was dedicated to the cleansing of the human race.
Cleansing in the form of changing various groups of people in a non-violent way. Or
so it was presented. A great conundrum. This group believed in making sure all
humans would one day believe as one, except for those lost in generations of
harming others as a way of life, who would have to be dealt with as a whole one time
or another. Those in the know would come to believe in the morals, values, and
ideas of the God their religion prophesized. There would be no room for any other
beliefs. A nemesis claimed their would only be peace on Earth when all the people
of Earth chose to believe as the laws of his own new church proclaimed, but this
nemesis came to and end the night Max encountered him in a small bar across from
Brethren University.
The night that night was full of strange energy. It was not unusual for a vibe
to exist in this bar. Decals, bumper stickers, flyers, and the traditional junk of every
punk bar in the nation littered every nook and cranny, window and wall. Funky fun
loving, great place of cavorting clamoring souls to gather and grace one another; a
dichotomy, but split not into two- but across a point central throughout more than
six lines. Twelve groups of either one or even twelve more, and so on. Better to be
just large enough, than far too small. Cozy corners grace well. A meeting place for
lovers of life and people who enjoy people. Sharers of drink, music, dance, laughter,
tears, sadness, and sometimes nothing at all. At times, all things at once. A comeas-you-are bar. People making regular the smoking of marijuana in a discreet
manner outside the front door. The marijuana ranged in quality from the very bad to
most excellent.
Max really liked the bar. He loved it in fact. No one happened upon the bar
by accident or because it was the popular thing to do. Most regular patrons had
found his or her way to the bar almost by magic, the magic of life. Sometimes people
found their way initially through friends developed elsewhere within the local
underground. It was the kind of bar where friends were also family, and the family
was diverse.
No place like it on Earth, an art piece in motion, and full of the art of local
people. Many bands created in the local scene had placed their own music on vinyl
records, then into the jukebox. They all did so only with the blessings of the owner.
Those same bands or groups often began their live performance careers playing
there.
The range of music on the jukebox was interesting and rich, although
somewhat stale to most of the regulars. The old as sin jukebox. Music from the juke
was piped through the old-as-ghosts Peavey P.A. and speakers that had been there
for several generations. When last the wall behind the jukebox was painted, it was a
custom baby-shit yellow color. It was painted thus because of the inevitable
cigarette smoke from some of the patrons which would turn it yellow anyway. The
barkeeper who had painted it was simple and smart, not simple and stupid. He was
able to create the yellow he wanted from free remnants at the local hardware store.
...Vivaldi, the Beastie Boys, Merle Haggard, The Beach Boys, The Culture
Club, The Kinks, Pink Floyd, Patsy Cline, Dire Straits, Kiss, The Clash, Joe Walsh,
The Pixies, country music selections, Zappa, and many more artists ranging from
jazz to bluegrass, pop to punk. The 50's, 60's, 70's, 80's, and 90's were well
represented. No Us3, no TOOL, no MetallicA. Kashmir, the only Led Zepplin for
awhile, until the barkeeper got a recommendation and put Ocean on the playlist.
The jukebox was almost always on whenever the live musicians were not
playing. Sometimes patrons would request the volume be brought down so the news
could be heard, or a game could be enjoyed on the television. No one ever bitched
or complained. There was no fuss about missing out on a jukebox play, it was only a
dollar to buy five credits and each song listed on the jukebox was one credit. Most of
the patrons heard the same fucking songs played at one time or another each year
throughout the year. Some had been attending the bar frequently for as many as 40
years. Some folks now listen to music at home, on the radio, or maybe on their newfangled I-phones or other electronic devices. A normal night in a normal bar filled
with normal people is what the bar is all about, how it was meant to be when it was
founded, and why it is known is almost every state, every country in the world.
The night Max took a human life for the first time, the bar was different.
Outside normal and most assuredly wrong it was, but Max sensed something
different in the environment almost upon arrival. Usually patrons of the bar entered
the bar because they had a goal of enjoying life more fully, and this is why it was one
of Max's favorites. Tonight, the vibe in the air is inconsiderate. It hit him as he
walked in. The room is quiet, no music playing on the jukebox. This was not a total
departure from the normal line of reasoning according the history of the bar, but still
meant something to Max.
The bartender was wearing a black shirt and blue jeans. He was also wearing
a stud earring. He smokes cigarettes at almost every available opportunity. His
balding hair is pulled back in wispy tendrils and is long enough to reach his
shoulders. This bar is small enough there is only one barkeeper on duty at a time. It
does not matter if there are ten or ninety people inside. Spike is the most well-known
of the staff of bartenders, working there full-time since 1986. It is now 2008. The
stories he can tell are broad and ranging from moderate in humor to obese in
vulgarity. None of the stories are strange, but most are interesting in a historical
context according to the history of the bar itself, and its people. Cars don't talk, do
they? And even cars can manage to become interesting storytellers.
Spike was wiping down the tabletops, removing glasses and empty pitchers,
filling trashcans with bottles and ash and cigarette butts. A bit of a grim look on
Spike's scruffy, round face, told Max Spike was in one of those pissy moods again.
Spike did not get pissy often, Max knew, unless there was a good fucking reason.
Spike was practiced at hiding his emotions, so like a Swan protecting new eggs. For
Spike to have lost control enough for his physiognomy to show he was upset, told
Max a lot.
Almost everything on the surface seemed fine, but the practiced English
professor had an ability to stay tuned-in to even the most subtle waves among the
depths. No one said hello as he entered. What little conversation was going on was
not communal at all.
People were hushed in their conversations, as if to speak would be to ignite a
bomb. It took one-half of one second for Max to notice the new guy in the room.
In an immediate case of recognition, Max knew why everything was so
fucked up. The new guy Max recognized from a recent local news report as a
member of the most prejudiced public church organization in all of North America if
not the entire world. 'Interesting,' Max thought, 'There is time to kill after all.'
A quick and casual glance was all Max needed to make sure of who he was
looking at. Max felt he knew, with an exact sense, why the room was quieted by the
man's presence. At one table the great black-clothed blonde-haired bitch-boy sat,
sharing a pitcher of Flying Monkey Four Finger Stout with his friend. These two
might be queer in a way, but were also good to most every person they met, at least
on the surface. Max also knew they both did a fair share of reading, gossip, keeping
current on events. They knew who the asshole was, as well. Max thought it sad and
a bit frustrating, such strongly opinionated and stubborn as they were, however, they
could never be counted on in a pinch. When it came down to it, the two of them
were just too apathetic. Another thing Max was sure of, too, was there would be a
pinch.
At another table sat the only other patrons, a fellow English teacher from the
university and his study group. Gerald was a great bear of a man, but not as friendly
as Yogi, another professor. He loved to hear conspiracy stories and had the
knowledge to debunk or support damn near any idea. He was a deep thinker, but
efficient in his elusion of his philosophical or other ideas. Gerald's study group
consisted of a couple of friendly regulars who had become comfortable sharing their
own views within the confines of the bar, and while in company with Gerald. One of
the members of the study group was Marley, a strong and fun person married to a
local banjo player. The other was Keith, a quiet and calm man of twenty-seven years
of age who never made a stir. There would be no quarrel or raising of voices from
them, unless it was in unison, and even then would not become a passionate enough
attack to illicit response. They were conscious of measuring their opponent(s) to
within an ounce of the truth every time.
The stranger in question was standing near the water cooler by the bathroom
drinking a Bloody Mary mixture. He turned his head this way and that. He was
glaring at the patrons as if to challenge their will or their very existence. The man
seemed not to care or take notice of the fact as he presented a challenge to the
patrons. He was pushing his luck with Spike, however.
Max, having entered the bar and taken in the surroundings, browsed the
jukebox. He waited and utilized some patience, allowing Spike to finish cleaning
before placing an order. He noticed tables and chairs in place on the small corner
stage and he surmised there would be no live music tonight. The lights were low.
Smoke curled above the blonde boy and his friend, coming from a lit cigarette in the
blonde boy's right hand. The blonde bitch boy did what the trend commanded of
him, and he smoked Camel brand cigarettes.
Max stepped up to the bar and asked Spike, "What the fuck is that guy's
deal?" A question like, "Is there any trouble?" underlay Max's voice. Spike took no
notice at first, due to the fact he had never heard such tone of voice from Max before.
Both the look on Max's face and the voice coming from within Max's mouth, were
tools Max had become adept at using over the previous ten years. He played the
'good big brother' part very well, though had only done so at infrequent intervals.
"Being honest?" Spike answered, "I couldn't tell ya." He spoke in a matterof-fact way, trying to fend off typical bar-style small talk, and trying to listen. His
voice cascaded, rested on a single tone halfway through the sentence, and then
finished with a nice peak followed by a happy valley.
"As far as I can tell," Spike continued, "He's just a guy with an attitude
problem." Spike rolled his eyes up to get a better look at Max while he spoke,
keeping his hands busy and wiping the stretch of the surface of the cold copperplated bar top in front of him using a white towel. Max sensed a little sarcasm in
Spike coming through the tone of voice Spike was using, and Max could tell from the
combination of the tone of voice and the look in Spike's eyes there was no doubt
Spike was none-to-fond of the new stranger. Spike has eyes the color of hazel green,
but sometimes looked blue in a pinch.
"Pour me a Scotch Spike," Max said, "Dewars is fine with me." Max
pretended to be casual. Spike poured the Scotch into a medium sized glass. Max
took it up and turned his head until his eyes met firmly with those of the man in the
white suit.
"That's a nice suit, stranger," Max said, speaking in a clear and even voice,
and with authority. "Nice white suit." He thought he knew this man would have to
respect his education if nothing else, but another thought came to him at the same
time. The thought that the man in the white suit might be thinking to himself, 'Why
is this nigger talking to me?'
The man in the white suit made no comment, further pushing Max to
consider the undertone of racism in the ways and means of the man. He stared at
Max in a blank and vague way, with a sort of contempt and disdain. Max repeated
himself in a very articulate and more demanding tone.
"Hello to you there in the white suit, stranger," Max said.
"What do you want with me, boy?"
'It seems the man in the white suit has a pulse after all,' Max thought.
"I want you to answer me, as I mean no harm."
"Mind your own, and I will mind mine," the man in the white suit said.
The man in the white suit, as of yet unidentified to Max, picked up a drink
that had been on the bar near the water cooler. Max surmised it was water. Free
water from the water cooler. The man looked away, stared at the TV a moment,
which was tuned to ESPN. Sports Center was on. The man in the white suit took a
drink from his cup of water. After doing so, the man moved toward Max.
Max almost expected the man to sucker-punch him, or worse. Then Max
realized the man in the white suit had decided to ignore him, as though Max and he
had exchanged no eye contact or dialogue at any point in time during their entire
lives and never would. The man walked to within two stools of Max, leaned real
close to Spike, and said, "Turn it up, Champ."
Spike is not akin to taking orders directly. He commands respect as the only
person responsible or available to serve drinks, as is the case in almost every bar in
Harvey as far as bartenders are treated is concerned. Ignoring the man in the white
suit, Spike turned away from the bar and began counting receipts on the register in
the back of his workspace.
"You," the man in the white suit said, "I asked you to turn up the TV." The
man leaned on the copper bar shelving, his left elbow bent, allowing his upper body
more reach over the bar. His head was cocked to one side. The man stared hard at
Spike, then spoke again, "Hey. You!"
Spike responded after a moment of hesitation. The man was still staring.
"Are you talking to me?" Spike asked, "I heard you ask someone named
Champ to turn it up, and I heard you ask someone named bub to turn it up, yeah,
but I do not recall you ordering anything to drink since you came into the bar. Nor
do I remember you introducing yourself. I am sorry if I offend you as I have no idea
to whom you are speaking."
"Who else would I be speaking to, bub?" This time the man seemed to offer
the semblance of having a little more respect for Spike.
"Okay," Spike said, "First of all my name is Spike. Second, you don't come
in here acting as if you have an attitude problem or a chip on your shoulder, then
order me around. As a matter of fact, I can kick you out of this bar right now if I
want, and you do not have any say or rights in that matter. Understood? It is
entirely up to me. So, what say we start over? You can begin by referring to me by
my first name, and being more polite. Otherwise, I am going to have to ask you to
leave."
Spike was often eloquent with his discontentment against the ways of others.
'It was his way of offering a gentle warning,' Max thought, 'this way Spike had of
laying out rules and guidelines. It is similar to the way a powerful snake might give
warning before it strikes. Polite enough to ease fear against the possibility of death,
but sharp enough to be understood for what it was.
Suddenly, the tone and body language of the man in the white suit changed.
max thought he saw a visible transformation from what he knew to be a racist,
fascist, prejudiced and bigoted slimy asshole, to a man of good humor or of being a
man easy to consider has having at least some level of civilization.
"Hey," the man in the white suit said, "hey! I meant no disrespect man. I
cam across as a bit terse, eh? Please accept my apology. It has been a long day, and
I was simply asking if I could get you to turn the TV up so I could enjoy the sports.
My name is Warren."
"Uh-huh," Spike said, responding with more than a little disinterest.
"Well, Spike?" Warren asked, though he sounded a bit off. He did seem a
little bit confused about the recent misunderstanding. It was like watching someone
much younger ask for a cookie after having demanded one and having been rude
about it and then refusing to apologize for being rude even if and when the cookie
was delivered. Behaviors like children shown in grown men or women is not
flattering to many people.
Spike returned, "Look, if you want me to get you a drink, I would be happy to
serve you. If you want me to turn up the television, I might. Not until you
apologize, however. What was your name again Mister? Warren? I am sorry once
again. We seem to be having a helluva time getting through our misunderstandings.
So, what is it going to be, Mr. Warren?"
Spike felt as though he were at the far end of his very long leash of love and
patience. He was ready to end this man's visit. Later on, Max would look back and
regret that Spike had not forced Warren to leave at this time.
"Cranberry juice then, Spike," Warren said, "And it's Warren, not Mr.
Warren. I apologize for the tone. Would you please serve me a cranberry in a tall
glass, plenty of ice, and turn the volume up on the television? I will leave very soon.
I came in as it was close to the University. You know, Brethren? Serve me my drink,
turn up the news, I'll finish my drink and after I leave I will never bother you again."
Warren had slick black hair. A style like it was out of the fifties. He reminded
Max of a man who maybe beat up smaller people only to ask, "What did you make
me do that for?" Max knew that kind of person. They are not his favorite kind.
It was at that moment then that Max felt a strange sense of foreboding similar
to the sense he had experienced when visiting the large statue where the foolish girl
and mother had been less than careful, though Max did not equate one moment with
the other until much later, when it was too late to have made any difference in the
events which were now set into motion.
Chapter Twenty-Five: The Poor Kid
Steve Ryan lay awake in his bed having been brought awake by mechanisms
of dream, a dream in which there were girls, locations of grand yet dilapidated
design, and sensitive exploration of the most intimate of human experiences, some
sexual, some emotional, all of it flowing in an amorphous, fluid, yet stuttering world
of one idea followed by another with great rapidity, one scene after another, with a
consistent cast of characters in which he and one girl in particular were the stars
whose every interaction was the focus of everybody else. He lay on his stomach,
head turned to the side, staring at the wallpaper, arms relaxed, his left leg bent at a
gentle angle, listening to the first birds of morning outside the bedroom windows,
the sun having begun its encroachment on the sheet of night lingering with a depth
almost like a feeling, as if the sheet of night and sun of light might yet find a way to
co-exist. Steve could smell the odor remnants of Mom's cigarettes which had
permeated each of the small rental properties of their past as if the scent were just
another part of the family, moving from apartment to apartment, home to home,
town to town, as his Mother's fortunes changed from minimal to worse, worse to
dim, dim to minimal again, then back to worse again, time and again, leading up to
the present, where Steve and his Mom now lived in a much maligned two-bedroom
cottage house on a road in the furthest northwest corner of the residential
neighborhood of Harvey. With Mom's current job, this was one of the minimal
fortune times. Steve knew their financial hardship was of no fault of his Mom, and
having lived a life without improvement except in how much food he and Mom
could afford from one day to the next, or one week to the next, the odor of Mom's
habit did not bother him as he tried to cling to his dream, tried to ignore his
rumbling hunger, tried to imagine he was in a much bigger house, a house he could
invite friends to in a world where he had at least one real friend. A better world.
Steve also knew his Mom was asleep. It was rare she woke up before work. Mom
worked at two in the afternoon, got off work between nine pm and two am, then
would come home and watch television sometimes until six in the morning. As rare
as seeing his mother before one in the afternoon, was mother taking time to
acknowledge Steve being there at all. Steve had been getting himself up for school
since the first week of kindergarten, getting dressed, finding food, making the bus on
time or walking to school, always alone. He thought about the dream girl. They
loved each other. If it weren't so real to him, the happiness of his dream- strange as
it was- he would already have been out of bed, finding food, and watching television
in the living room. Instead he just lay there, thinking about the girl, listening to the
birds, watching the sheet of night give way to the bright of day, imagining
happiness, wondering about the future when he knew he would live better than this
now. he knew he would work to make amazing things happen. he knew he would
be envied by peers as well as his Mom and he would have a real friend. He lay there,
hungry in most all ways a person can be, but happy because of the dream, and
yearning for a better life, but having no room for hate in his heart for life as it was.
Throughout Harvey, of the people who knew who Steve Ryan was, few
thought of him. He lay in his bed with his dream happiness in his bed. The few
who did not think of Steve were mostly classmates. Of these, it was rare they would
think of Steve in a willing manner. When this would happen, it was a non-conscious
activity, and thoughts of Steve from one peer to the next were similar in content.
They thought of his smell, which most of the peers Steve had agreed was striking.
They thought of his hair, always unkempt, shaggy, but stiff and spiky in places too.
They thought of his drab grey poofy coat, it's plain silver buttons, how Steve seemed
always to wear it no matter how warm or cold it was. Most of all, the peers Steve had
that did think of him thought how much they hated him, but felt sorry for him more,
and therefore decided they hated his mother for moving to Harvey and putting Steve
in a situation where he was in a well-equipped school of a wealthy community and a
community snobbish toward those of lower income classes where someone like Steve
would never have a fair shake, never have a chance at being accepted, forever be
shunned and insulted by the girls and boys and even some teachers, and often
looked at with contemptuous mannerisms and isolated in every possible way.
There was one person who, when thoughts of Steve graced their mind,
thought good things about the boy. This person was the science teacher. The
science teacher was also the wrestling coach and this man felt like Steve was a kid
with potential who, if guided by the right hand, could make quite a statement in
athletic endeavors. Still, the coach thought, it is too bad the kid is so malnourished.
Harvey had little to offer Steve. Steve knew Mom would be moving them
sooner rather than later, however, once again, like always, and so was unencumbered
by his misgivings in relation to the facts of life pertaining to the school or the city of
Harvey. For now, Steve had a dream. It was more than he would have hoped for.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Loner (Introduction of Patrick)
Already a call comes in. It is from his father. He had spent the previous day
aloft in the loader bucket of a tractor. Chainsaw running. Trimming tree branches
fifty feet above the ground. Getting work done. Thousands of miles of winds
saturating the core of his body. Ten acres surrounded by Hedge, Mulberry, Oak,
and Walnut trees, some over ninety-nine years old. The open air, clear blue sky, and
the beautiful sounds of nature were almost too overwhelming. Brilliant for the mind,
hard to let it all soak in. It is evident his physical sensory receptors are working,
likewise some of the non-physical and unseen receptors of thought. He is healthy
and he is bringing it, Earth itself, back to the mind. Encompassing, like a shotgun
blast from multiple directions from six shotguns at once. Disintegration of the
stupid boredom and uselessness. A rebirth of a sort. Now another phone call and
the response is, "Yes, we can get that done." Replete with splendorment.
Wonderment of the life. Yes!
Patrick is his name, and he pulls a cigarette from its place of rest within the
front left breast pocket of his flannel, polyester-lined jacket. It will turn out to be the
final cigarette of his smoking career. He is smoking Camel Turkish Gold cigarettes
today. 'The final cigarette,' he thinks. The thought however, is fleeting, not
prevalent in his mind at all. Lighting the cigarette with a Bic lighter he uses to open
bottles of beer with, like every day during the week, he draws the first tendrils of
smoke of the last cigarette in, then blows into the winds. The winds are threatening
to chill his bones as he stands with the door open that connects the inside world of
his home with the outside world where his front porch is. He has already learned,
and had learned long ago, to avoid inhaling the first draw of the cigarette. He draws
the second drag off the cigarette. His mouth is full of appreciation. It is not until
the fourth drag he realizes it really will be the last time he smokes a Camel cigarette,
the final time he will allow himself to be controlled by the tobacco industry in accord
with their wants, plans, desires. Money is tight these days. The wife is at work.
There is not a good excuse to leave the children home while he takes his wife's bank
account debit card and buys more cigarettes to last through another day. On the
kitchen counter, about twenty-five feet from his stance on the porch, there are 'quit
smoking' lozenges. His Doctor, a female with looks to kill, has recommended to
him to buy the lozenges. His wife had picked them up at the store like she had
promised to do, and they await his approval and use. She plans to buy nicotine
patches, too, she had said. She is a good wife. She will return home around seven
pm.
'Fucking cigarette companies,' he thinks. In his opinion the 'fucking'
government had saved cigarette companies from the stronger lawsuit. He thinks he
could have developed a lawsuit that would have, in a more efficient manner, brought
an end to the assault on the youth of the great country he loves, America, perpetrated
by the cigarette industry. Not only had the American government in their own
lawsuit promised amnesty for the cigarette industry from further lawsuits or
persecution of any kind from smokers of the future, but they had made what looked
on the surface like a silly mistake in allowing television ads to be run 'against'
smoking, in effect allowing cigarette manufacturers back into the homes of people
across America on TV again. Every night now ads are run promoting the nonbenefits of smoking. Knowledge is half the battle, and now the cigarette companies
are winning over the minds of youth at a greater rate, Patrick believes. Tobacco
companies are getting their foot in the door of the subconscious mind of future
customers easier and earlier than they were able to previously. 'Good parenting can
allay this problem,' Patrick thinks, 'but we all know how it goes in America. What
they should do is put cigarettes into plastic Ziploc baggies and sell them like that,
without the pretty wrapping paper and box, the pictures. Just a name printed in
black on white and small print for the warnings in black and white as the only
markings on the baggies. I bet you would see a drop in new smokers and a drop in
sales to existing smokers. Opening a pack of cigarettes is too much like opening a
Christmas present.' Patrick is a person who believes in faith and Christmas. He is
offended by cigarette packaging. Patrick is also confident he is the only person he
knows who understands the psychology of selling cigarettes as much as those who
do the selling themselves. He is pissed off by the thought somewhat. He is also
upset he has less money than they do. The Truth Campaign indeed. By trying to
educate the children of America as to the pitfalls of smoking, the idea of lighting up
a cigarette is now shoved into every TV in America. The Truth Campaign is
responsible for running ads during cartoons on Nickelodeon, the Disney Channel,
Cartoon Network, and all four major news networks. He wonders about lawyers in
regard to The Truth Campaign. How cheap were they bought? He is pretty sure
most lawyers want to become dirty, filthy, stinking rich. 'It must be true what they
say,' he thinks, 'Maybe the only lawyers who care for gaining wealth in the United
States of America are also lawyers who work in contribution toward common ill will
as opposed to common good. It is as if an evil spirit of fable and fairytale were alive
and well within reality and somehow has managed to gain enough influence in the
world to guarantee rules dictating only the rotten become capable of the necessary
kind of lawyer skill to make changes in regards to large-ended lawsuits like the one
signified by what has ended up being called The Truth Campaign. It is obvious to
Patrick this is the case. Like it is also obvious truth is not obvious to any important
person in the right place at the right time. Patrick does not believe or consider, even
for a second, he has greater intelligence than any other person. He believes of most
of his thoughts, someone with greater intellect has already beat him to them, persons
or a person who might have more power than he. This stems from the observation of
phenomenon wherein he thinks to invent a tangible good or product, idea in
business or marketing, or other real investment-based concept, only to see the exact
likeness of his idea(s) implemented in the real world a matter of days, weeks,
months, or years after his quote-unquote 'initial discovery', and done without his
consent by people or companies whom with he has never done business or even met,
(to his knowledge). Instead of thinking in a conspiratorial manner, he has chosen to
see this occur as a result of natural progress among life on Earth. He has learned, in
situations where his ideas that are good ideas but ideas that for some reason do not
come into fruition, it is because those of more means financially and of equal or
greater intelligence than he might have kept themselves from acting on their
vision(s) because in the course of action or work, facts came about which in some
ways denounced, contradicted, or made impossible whatever purpose was meant
through the ideas or vision(s), that somehow the idea(s) are seen by those of greater
means as being hostile to the environment of Earth and the species' thereof. This
might seem strange, that a person would create in him- or her- self a self-doubt
allowing the thought their own novel ideas are probably, not just possibly, run-ofthe-mill to many others, but it is a belief that allows Patrick to believe and maintain a
small faith in people of power or adequate resources by comparison to himself, him
being a person of little means financially, in business, and in overall marketing
power or prowess. Thinking thus, it allows him a certain level of humble peace
among the populace when dealing with those he would rather not know, but also it
allows him a loose 'easy out', as it were, leading to the belief or thought some of the
best idea's go unused only because of evidentiary support against them he himself
does not know about which probably had been discovered already by those in power
or places thereof. Thinking this way allows Patrick to be less angry. It offers
explanation why great forces of industry and government have not yet decided to
move forward with some basic, simple, true, novel changes in economic factors,
socio-political factors, financial factors, education factors, and so on.
Patrick finished the last of the Camel, right down to the filter. He reminisced
the smoking habit. It can be a thing to treasure, after all is said and/or done.
Looking to the night sky, facing cold winds blowing outside the front door, he
promised the stars it would be the last time he smoked a cigarette as a force of habit,
holding to the rest of his time on Earth. He flicked the smoldering cigarette butt out
onto the paved ground beneath the porch and ten feet away from his front door. It
bounced, then went into the half ex-whiskey barrel flower pot nearby. He turned to
enter the house he had learned to call home for the better part of ten years, closed the
front door, and picked up a novel. He sat in his chair under the lamp in his front
room and began reading. It was two in the morning, and his goal was to finish the
book. This would be the fourth novel read in fifteen days. There were still nine more
novels to read before the end of the month, including WAR AND PEACE by Leo
Tolstoy. He considered getting done with the task to be as though ordered by a
Master, himself being his only Master.
Days reading and drinking coffee, taking vitamin supplements as a substitute
for the smoking, and overall focus on the task of finishing novel after novel ensued,
leading to further such activities.
Now he is on novel number six of the nine. Patrick is hitting a typical
crossroads. Keep going or fail. He is resigned to keep going. Success means
success. He hates the fact that he has had to quit smoking. The habit has not been
easy to kick. He felt impotent against it at one point, but now, the fifth day after
quitting, he has mastered it well enough to live without nicotine in any form; neither
cigarette, nor gum, lozenge, or patch. This accomplishment all worked through
now, and he finds half a Camel cigarette in a dish on a shelf of trinkets. Half a
yummy super terrific wildly delicious Camel.
It is raining outside. This fact does not discourage Patrick from taking the
Camel out onto the front porch.
He places the cigarette to his lips. He fucking hates that he is doing it, but
he hates many other things oh so much more. His peers and their friendly
backstabbing for one. So he decides he will make this cigarette count. Make the IT
part of it last, and make it the last one. The last, weaned to perfection now. The last
and then he will be in a permanent and perfect way, cured of the addiction. As he
smoked, his thoughts trailed into the future. In a few months, or maybe weeks, he
would be able to steal a cigarette from someone, be able to smoke it, enjoy it, and
never look back. Never buy another pack. Cure himself of problematic bullshit in
the future. He feels like it is true that only those who worry hard about Cancer
actually get it. No matter the body and its tissues, exercise. He never thought hard
about it though. He did not want to be the one to say, 'told you so.' Yeah.
Maybe it would help to get some superior marijuana from the reading mentor
and neighbor, Max.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Worry Trouble
Brittany has a father. His name is Vanoy Oman. On the day of the rape
Brittany suffered, Vanoy received the phone call during the ten o'clock news.
Previous the call, Vanoy had no reason to suspect anything out of true concerning
Brittany and her absence from the house. Brittany was a high-school junior, and it
was not uncommon of her to leave church with a friend some evenings. She might
be eating dinner, praying, visiting with another Mormon family. At bedtime it was
customary among church-goers to get youths to their respective homes. Thus,
Vanoy was not expecting anything in the way of a phone call, knowing his daughter
had been at church after school and therefore would be in good hands until she
showed up. She would be smiling. She would have perfect hair and joyous spirit and
be beaming up at him with a happy physiognomy when she made to kiss him
goodnight. When the call came Vanoy answered in his usual way. With a cheerful
and exuberant, "Hello!"
The voice at the other end of the phone call was female.
"Vanoy," the female said, "Oh I'm so sorry to call you under these
circumstances. This is Michael Grey at Mateos."
Vanoy knew Michael Grey. She is a nurse and is a member of the church.
Why she would be calling and under what circumstances Vanoy felt would probably
prove to be unimportant, but he was listening anyway. There was the most brief of
pauses before he spoke, "Michael, yes. Why, whateverdoyoumean, circumstances?
Is it something about work? Is this a church issue?"
Vanoy had long been a prominent leader within the church, and thinking
nothing along the lines of an emergency situation involving his own personal wellbeing, his first thought was Michael must be in need of some kind of spiritual or
emotional support.
Meanwhile, Michael felt she had failed in her conveyance to Vanoy the gravity
of the situation. She could hear in the voice of the man he suspected nothing out of
the usual. Michael struggled to find the best words. She thought things through,
then settled on the most simple of answers.
"It has to do with Brittany, Vanoy. Oh, Vanoy, Brittany is here at the
hospital, and I really think you should come. There has been an accident."
Michael stopped talking. She was still searching for the right words as she
thought things through further. She was quick in continuing on.
"I don't know what to tell you," she said, "You should get here as soon as
you can. I mean, we have her stabilized. She is in good hands. She is going to be
okay. I think she will, anyway. But something has happened and you need to be
here. She needs her father. Just come as soon as you can. Maybe it would be best
for now if you left Zina at home with the other kids."
Vanoy, listening, had stopped paying attention to what Michael was saying
the moment his daughter's name had been mentioned. 'Brittany?,' he thought,
'What's wrong with Brittany?' He felt galvanized with a surging injection of
testosterone fueled adrenaline. The moment Michael quit talking Vanoy said, "I'm
on my way." He hung up the phone and shouted for Zina to come to him.
"Zina! Come here, Zina!"
Zina was busy with something else in another part of the house. She did not
come right away. Vanoy shouted again.
"Watch the kids! I've got to go! That was a nurse at Mateos and Brittany is
there! There has been some kind of mistake! The nurse said Brittany has had an
accident!"
Vanoy then donned his coat, grabbed his keys off the table near the front
door, and was down the front porch steps taking strides toward the Lexus parked
alongside the curb on the street in front of the house when Zina arrived at a quick
trot framed in the doorway with her hands clasped to her chest.
Zina called after Vanoy.
"What? It's Brittany? Vanoy! Brittany?"
"Yes!" Vanoy then halted to turn back and speak to Zina, "It sounded
important. Michael said I should come right away. You know Michael, Zina- the
girl who reads with the teens on Sundays. She seems to think it is fine if you stay
here with the kids. I'm sorry! I'll call!" Vanoy then wheeled around and was in the
car quick.
As he drove through Harvey from his home in the southeast corner of the city
to get to the hospital which was close to downtown Harvey, Vanoy took no notice of
the stores or homes. He banged his hand on the steering wheel and shouted every
time a red light appeared ahead ordering him to stop. There were five such lights
during the drive. He took no notice of the beauty of things as usual. Not the large,
stone, four-story tall historic building of the Harvey Herald newspaper, nor the
glorious Scottish Rite Center known for elaborate gargoyle sculptures and prominent
steps. He barely managed to see the courthouse out of the corner of his eye as he
passed at a speed far in excess of the posted speed limit and seeing the courthouse
made him think about the red lights he had blew past on the way so far.
Mateos Hospital rose up in view before Vanoy, his thoughts consisting of
myriad ideas about health issues not in any way related to violence or trauma. Part
of his thoughts were on the fact of Mateos Hospital's lack of religious association.
Had he his way, none of his children would be admitted to Mateos.
The facade of Mateos Hospital, by the lack of radiance effusing, was creating
no opposition to his mental state in now being centered on the religious aspect,
rather than the prominent fact of his daughter being interred inside the hospital for
some as of yet unknown to him reason. He felt half like a man out of his wits,
prepared to do battle with some unknown enemy, ready to thwart any obstructionist
or other person daring to cause him pause or delay, and half like a subdued man who
was in control, capable of being much like himself, though apprehensive in
consternation nonetheless.
Mr. Oman parked near the emergency room entrance of the hospital, not
knowing enough about the hospital to know he should have parked near the main
entrance around the corner of the building to the South. He approached the
emergency room entrance from the West. With each step he covered large amounts
of ground, taking large strides. Vanoy Oman is a little over six feet and four inches
tall. It has been months since he has had a good run. He isn't running even now.
As he approached the sliding glass and metal doors marked with words
printed in red color, he buttoned his coat. He had no intention of hesitating to allow
the doors slide open, and the doors were stubborn, staying closed just long enough
to force him to break his stride. He had to pull his head back. He did so at the last
possible moment before he would have smashed his face on the frames of each of the
doors. Then, he took two strides forward. He was impatient still, and he had to
hesitate again to allow the second set of doors to likewise retreat from his path as the
first set of doors had, doing his hesitation dance all over again.
Inside the foyer and adjacent to the waiting area, several people looked up
from their wrists, each of them checking the time on their watches. Several other
people looked up from the magazines and newspapers they were reading. Most all of
them thought of Vanoy he was a strange and distraught figure as he swept the facility
with his eyes.
Vanoy saw a desk with a nurse or receptionist attending. He knew not which.
He changed his tempo in a subtle way from the high level of gusto it had held to a
more moderate and controlled, deliberate in a mild way, tempo, approaching the
desk and unbuttoning his coat as he did so. He used his eyes to grab the attention of
the waiting clerk or nurse and said in a voice loud enough to carry through the entire
area of the waiting room where the people that had noticed him were gathered,
"Hello. Brittany Oman please. Where is she?"
The nurse at the desk, for she was a nurse, recognized in Mr. Oman the
intensity with which he had spoken. It was an intensity she had dealt with many
times before during this line of work.
"Sir," she responded, "are you a relative?"
The question stirred in Vanoy his impatience. His answer came in a tone
built of the characteristics of authority.
"I'm her father! Now where is she?" As he answered thus, he had moved
closer to the desk. And, he had lowered the volume of his voice by several decibels.
Still, he drew attention from the others in the waiting room. The nurse did not
approve, but this she did not address.
"Sir," the nurse began in response, getting up as she spoke, "your daughter is
being seen by the Doctor and his team. You will be able to see her soon, but not
right now. I've been waiting for you. If you can get hold of yourself, I'll be happy to
have you follow me?" Her tone of voice raised a few notes as she finished her
question to Vanoy, then she asked, "Shall we go this way?"
The nurse was up and out of her chair. She moved around the side of the
desk she had been stationed at and moved toward the right-hand side of Vanoy. She
stood face-to-face with Vanoy. Vanoy said nothing. A quiet and aggressive moment
of silent argument about authority and control ensued, but then Vanoy motioned
with his right hand as if to say, 'Yes, by all means lead the way.'
The nurse turned, and, leading Vanoy, knew she was just doing her job,
having no sense Vanoy followed with a hateful feeling as though he had been scolded
by her as if showing a lack of understanding of the ways and means of the world he
was now unwillingly a part of. Vanoy was inching closer to the witless half of
himself, ever further from his self control with every step he and the nurse took. This
witless knowing self determined to prove his power and authority in all things
involving his daughter through the act of remaining silent and stubborn.
'Whenever the moment presents itself,' Vanoy thought, 'Whenever this nurse
gets me to the right room, I will do something. If she doesn't get me to the right
room lickety-split, in accord with my rights as a father, and if they don't recognize
that my fatherly rights supersede all their laws and rules, then there will be trouble.'
Vanoy still held on to his more subdued half, and that was good. It kept him
more or less in control of his actions and words now, and fought the virile energy of
the witless self.
The nurse led on. They marched through the patient check-in station east of
the desk the nurse had been stationed at. Soon they were in a room with folders
sorted into labeled metal dividers set into a rack cabinet built on rolling casters,
several computers, and a blood pressure cuff laying on a desk in the center of the
room. The nurse skipped around the desk and the two of them emerged into a long
hallway through a doorway that had no doors. The hallway had many rooms along
the left-hand side. Each room had a bed fashioned to a stretcher, a tall stool, a sink,
a desk, and in one or two of the rooms were straggly-looking individuals wearing
hospital gowns. Vanoy and the nurse leading him went through a set of doubledoors further east and into another hallway. The second hallway was adorned on
each side with many closed doors. Most of the doors were unlabeled. The doors
were made of thick metal, contained no windows, and it was obvious to Vanoy the
rooms behind those doors were for use by hospital staff only. They soon breached
yet another set of double-doors and continued further until they came to another
nurse's station centered in an area met on all four sides by four more hallways.
Vanoy wanted to say something to the nurse while following her lead. He had
little faith in her purpose. Each time he thought of something to say, however, his
sense of the situation told him to keep quiet, to continue to try to think of something
else to say other than what his instincts were telling him.
'I should ask about Brittany,' he thought, 'I should ask if she knows nurse
Michael. I should ask if she is religious.' These and other ideas came to him, but he
did not voice any of them. When he did finally find something to say, it came out of
him feeble and in direct contrast to his emotions.
"Nurse," he said, "where are we going exactly?"
"Mr. Oman," the nurse replied, "your daughter is in an intensive-care surgery
room being treated by Doctor Lampham. The room is further down one of these
hallways here." The nurse motioned toward one of the four new hallways that
branched off the new nurse's station in the center of the area they now stood in. She
had motioned to the north hallway. The length of this hallway disappeared out of
sight, the view obstructed by the large nurse station. Counting the hallway they had
come from, there were five hallways in all branching off from this centralized area.
The nurse sitting at the station was facing South. She was looking straight
down a hallway perpendicular to the one Vanoy and the nurse leading him had come
from, across from the hallway the nurse had motioned toward.
"Once you have been received by Angie," the nurse continued, "the Doctor
will be paged. Please know it might be awhile before the Doctor can see you. A
nurse named Grey will be coming as soon as you check in. All right?"
They were at the desk of the central nurse station. The nurse that led Vanoy
to this point turned to the nurse managing the station.
"Angie?" the nurse that had led Vanoy to the center of the surgery area said
to the other nurse, "Can you check in Mr. Oman to see his daughter please?"
Nurse Angie looked up, smiling, beautiful with dirty-blonde hair, blue eyes,
white skin, perfect facial features, and said, "Why yes I can nurse helpful! Thank
you!"
The nurse that had brought Vanoy to the center of the surgery rooms was not
surprised by Angie's use of humor. She knew Angie well, and knew humor was one
of her common tools in times of stress. She used humor with almost everyone except
the Doctor's themselves. She kept to herself around the Doctors.
The nurse standing with Vanoy decided not to play around with Angie. She
turned to Vanoy and said, "Mr. Oman, my name is Wagner. You can call me Nurse
Wagner, or if you prefer, Annie, or Nurse Annie. Don't mind Angie, she is a regular
source of happy energy. She knows a lot about nursing and paperwork as well."
Vanoy was now immobilized by the two nurses. It was usual for the nurses to
be able to immobilize the frightened or angry, them having developed a lot of people
skills during their combined twenty-five years of nursing experience.
"Thank you," Vanoy said, "Nurses uh..." Vanoy forgot their names.
"Annie," Annie said, "Annie Wagner, Mr. Oman."
"Yes," Mr. Oman replied, "thank you then, Nurse Wagner. Nurse Annie."
"Goodbye!" Annie said, "Good luck!" She turned and walked back the way
she and Mr. Oman had come.
"So," Angie said, "You are Mr. Oman then. Okay. All I need is some photo
ID. I'll have you fill out this." She placed a piece of paper on the counter above her
head so that Vanoy could see.
"Then," Angie said, "I'll page someone you have arrived. Then, you'll see
your daughter!" Nurse Angie smiled at Vanoy and handed him a pen. The eyes of
the nurse and Mr. Oman met, but nothing was said.
Vanoy had wide, dark, eyes. His brow was neither furrowed or raised. Nurse
Angie took a blow when challenged by Vanoy, but she held her ground. She kept her
natural smile, her blue eyes bright, and kept her disposition to infuse the world with
cheer. She did feel blessed however, when Vanoy took his eyes from hers and
fumbled with his wallet so as to retrieve his license.
Vanoy put his attention toward the paperwork before him. He studied the
paper from top to bottom. Making a decision, he put the pen Angie had given him
down on the counter, then pulled a pen of his own out from his trousers pocket. He
perused the paperwork. Thirty seconds or more elapsed before he began to fill out
the necessary information on the first line.
Angie, while Vanoy wrote with what she thought was unusual care on the
patient and family-of-patient legal check-in sheet, moved in her rolling office chair to
the left. She grabbed a phone receiver, then, she announced a page through the
hospital intercom system for "Doctor Lampham or nurse Grey to the surgical nurse
station please."
Vanoy browsed the check-in sheet he was filling out with deliberate care and
concern, trying to figure out if it in some way interfered with his religious-based
beliefs in one way or another. He was of particular concern about keeping his
personal information private from the hospital organization at almost all costs. He
knew Angie did not have a clue as to his thoughts in the matter, though he still did
not care for her continuous gaze. Angie was pretty enough though, Vanoy decided
her gaze did not bother him enough to say anything about it or wonder about it too
much. Instead, he viewed each question before him as if it were a life-and-death
decision whether to write answers or not. His concern for his daughter weighed
heavily along with his thoughts about and furrowing worry over the documentation.
He took his religion that seriously, that he would fret almost as much over filling out
a standard questionnaire as he did the reason he was in the hospital to begin with.
As it turned out, he decided to utilize discretion in writing his name. He wrote V.
Oman instead of penning his full first name. He omitted his middle initial. He
refused to place his social security number. He wrote the church phone number in
place of his home phone number, and in place of his address. He did not circle the
reason he was visiting the hospital today.
Angie looked over the paperwork once Vanoy handed it over. She knew from
experience it would be more trouble than it was worth to question Vanoy about the
lapses in the information he had given. She didn't want to push the issue, and she
smiled at Vanoy. She was trying to establish a close connection with him still, a
connection like she had with people that had sometimes been dealing with troubles
in the hospital at times in the past. Many people took to her philosophy and
methodology. Some did not.
Angie placed the paperwork in a basket near her computer. Addressing
Vanoy, she said, "Sir, if you would like, you may stand or sit. Though I must tell
you, it will take the nurse or Doctor time to arrive. I hate to ask people to sit down
because you never know if someone ever wants to sit or stand, but if you do want to
sit, those chairs are for that purpose." Angie motioned to a group of seven chairs in
a corner fashioned between the south and east hallway and said, "be my guest."
Vanoy placed his pen back in his trousers. He grabbed the flanks of his coat
and flapped the coat a couple of times. The coat is a long coat, designed to cover the
torso and hang well below the waist. It is made of black material and is designed to
wick water during rain. Then, he pulled the coat off and hung it over the flank of his
left arm. He walked over to the chairs and chose to sit in the chair nearest the
hallway branching off to the South.
Sitting in his chair, Vanoy noticed the octagonal nature of the architecture of
the nurse station and thought to himself, 'this is some kind of devil's architecture.'
Mateos Hospital was named by the initial chairman of the board of directors
of the hospital. He had been one of the largest financial contributors to the hospital
as well as a world renowned surgeon. He had named the hospital after a saint
named Juan Mateos, but other than the name, the hospital has no association with
the Catholic church or any other church.
Vanoy Oman knows the hospital is secular in comparison with other hospitals
in the area. He pushed the fact from his consciousness for the time being. Now his
thoughts are focused on the fact he would soon be taken to see his daughter.
A slow but sure thought arose in Vanoy. He began to replay the previous
seven minutes in his head and came to an understanding. It was almost eleven pm.
It seemed obvious to Vanoy now that each of the nurses he had so far dealt with had
manipulated him in a sly way. First, nurse Annie. She had taken him through the
emergency room and away from the other patients and their friends and family
members. She had seemed 'on the ball,' as it were, ready to appease him. But, in
fact, she had only succeeded in directing him to nurse Angie. Angie had used her
looks and charm to dissolve his fear or the integrity of his intense emotions. She had
subdued him like a lamb or some kind of child. Both nurses were insulting. They
were crass in their professionalism and desire to control the situation. Vanoy
thought about these things and then became angry. It was not a violent anger, but a
prideful feeling. He should not have been put off with such ease. Vanoy began to
think about his daughter again.
'Where is Brittany? In a surgery room? What for? Where is this nurse Grey
or Doctor Lampham?'
Mr. Oman stood up. He left his coat in the chair and strode over to Angie
where she still sat working at her desk.
"I know you were just doing your job," Mr. Oman began, "but this is out of
the question. Tell me where my daughter is and I'll find her myself. You have no
right to keep a father from his child. This business about making me wait here in
this pagan establishment thinking all sorts of things based on your professional
opinions is absurd. Nurse Grey called me personally on my home phone and told
me to get here as soon as I could and now I am here. If you won't tell me where my
daughter is, I'm going to search for her myself, going from room to room if I feel I
must. Now, where is she?" Vanoy stood tall over nurse Angie. His hands were on
the counter. He was glowering. Nurse Angie just looked up and made eye contact
and smiled.
"I know it can be so upsetting," Angie said, "can't it, Mr. Oman?" Angie
spoke with a sweet tone. She continued, "If there is any way you could hang in
there, that'd be great. I mean, it's so hard seeing you waiting there, and I know it is
hard on you. But our staff is working as hard as they can and we cannot have people
disrupting our procedures, you know? I know you'll be able to understand this much
more a little later on. If you could just..."
Vanoy could not believe the young girl before him was taking such a cheerful
non-chalant tone with him while describing to him excuses as to why he was being
made to wait. He sensed the manipulative practices of Angie, too. Vanoy
interrupted the girl.
"I could, and I would, but what would it do me? No. No one is telling me
anything worthwhile! Why won't you tell me anything?"
Angie took offense. She did not like yellers. Her dad had been a yeller. All
day long she grew up listening to her dad and his yelling and whining and carrying
on about her mother, her brother, her sister, and almost anything that ever came to
his mind. She grew to hold those who yell in a sort of contempt of her own personal
judgmental court. Besides, she knew what she was doing and had thought just two
minutes ago things were going along like daisies in a summer field, all things
considered. So, after Mr. Oman uttered his question, and taking into consideration
his tone of voice, Angie broke into the conversation with a whisper-like yet stern
voice, her head tilted in a slight way, her eyes rolled up to focus hard on Mr. Oman.
"Mister Oman!" Angie said, "I thought you and I had gained a welcome
understanding between us. I have already informed you on the intent of nurse Grey
to meet you here, or Doctor Lampham himself to meet you here. One of them will
do so as soon as possible, I assure you. There is no way I am able to allow you to
enter your daughter's room, nor can I allow you to roam the hallways. If you are not
going to be cooperative, I can make you wait in the front of the hospital in the
emergency room with all the others."
'Um,' Vanoy thought. Then, he spoke up.
"Listen to me, Angie. I don't know what your problem is, or why you are
acting upset. It isn't your kid we are talking about. Is it? No. So why don't we start
over? I am Vanoy Oman. My daughter, Brittany Oman, is here in the hospital. Only
God knows where right now, as far as I am concerned. I was called here by nurse
Grey. I know nurse Grey from our church. In her tone of voice I sensed it was
imperative I hurry to the hospital. Now, I hurried all the way here. And, sitting in
my chair over there, (Vanoy motioned to the chair he had been sitting in, stabbing
the air with a forceful hand), I came to realize the fact that you and the other nurse,
nurse Annie, I believe? Yes. You and nurse Annie, the other wonderful nurse, are
giving me the run-around. You both should be doing everything in your power
regardless of your limited resources of knowledge about the situation, to give me
every single piece of information you have as to where my daughter is, what her
condition is, and why she is here. Who brought her here? Did she drive here? Why
is she in surgery? Speak up! Talk! Come on now, don't be a fool. Start telling me
what it is I need to know, or I'm going to be a lot more difficult to deal with than my
ability to control myself at this time is currently allowing me to be. Kapesh?"
"Would officer Moreno please come to nurse station one please? Officer
Moreno to nurse station one." Angie spoke these words through the hospital paging
system, then glanced at Mr. Oman and told him, "Someone will be right with you sir,
if you'll just have a seat. Or, stand, if you prefer." Nurse Angie did not have it in her
to tell Mr. Oman his daughter had been brought to the hospital by ambulance and
also that a police escort had come with her as well.
Vanoy Oman knew nothing of officer's of any type existing within any
hospital. He acted as though Angie's call through the paging system for 'officer
Moreno' had nothing in the least to do with him. This became evident to Angie as
Vanoy spoke up once more, "No, I will not sit down. Nor will I stand here just
waiting." Vanoy then selected the east hallway and took steps with his large stride in
that direction. The hallway was marked with three different titles. Vanoy gave each
title no attention and passed between the walls forming the entrance of the hallway.
Officer Moreno had, in fact, been standing and talking with a nurse outside
Brittany's surgery room. He was awaiting nurse Grey to accompany him to meet
Brittany's father. Moreno had already called and informed Deputy Clawson as to the
fact Brittany had been loosely identified. Clawson instructed Moreno to conduct this
aspect of the investigation, who the victim was, and a timeline based on any
information the victim's family could provide. This was an important opportunity
for officer Moreno- his first time as a part of one of the investigations outside the
normal errand-running type of tasks he had grown to appreciate but regularly left
him yearning for more important work.
Moreno said, "Excuse me," and broke off his conversation with the nurse he
had been speaking with. He was already in motion down the hallway before saying
the words. Moreno thought nothing except how pretty all the nurses had been so far,
then he saw a man wearing a blue, long-sleeve, button-up dress shirt and black pants
come into view. Moreno took note of the man's attitude as expressed by the walking
stride of the man, but did not equate the attitude with any thought of trouble.
At the closed-in atrium where the nurse station was, Moreno was met by
Angie. She was standing near the hallway. She pointed a delicate, white, finger
toward the hallway where the man in the blue shirt had been walking. She asked
Moreno if he would 'find the man in the blue shirt and bring him back please.'
"It's actually Brittany's father," Angie said, "He needs help remaining calm
and patient while we wait for nurse Grey. I don't think he is a problem, but..."
Angie let the sentence hang in the air, then continued the statement with her eyes
and shoulders. She lifted her hands, palms up above her waist as if to say, 'what are
ya gonna do?'
Moreno had his right hand resting on the gun holstered on his right-hand
side. He lifted an insincere smile from his lips, then, he walked with a casual nonhurried gait down the hallway through which he had seen Mr. Oman pass.
'God,' Moreno thought, 'Angie is the most beautiful of all the nurses.'
Meanwhile, Vanoy Oman looked at each door along the hallway he had
selected to begin his search for his daughter. Most were marked as scientific
medical labs of some kind or another. One was labeled, 'Medical Image Perception
Laboratory.' Several were labeled, 'Lab', preceding a number. Vanoy had begun to
realize he was in the wrong hallway and wondered why he didn't read the signs near
the entrance. Toward the far east end of the hall, several rooms fitted for patients
came into view. Most of these rooms had their doors open. As Vanoy approached
the nearest of these rooms, trying to gain entry to see if his daughter were inside, he
heard a voice shouting from the west end of the hallway.
"Hey!" Moreno shouted, "Mr. Oman! Come here, please!"
Vanoy finished peeking into the room he was near, then turned toward the
voice. Moreno was approaching. The officer did not seem threatening to Vanoy.
Moreno walked toward Mr. Oman. He was not worried about Mr. Oman.
His main concern was, in fact, to let Mr. Oman know that in him, he had a friend.
Moreno had met the ambulance at the hospital, on orders from Deputy Clawson. He
had seen the girl now believed to be Brittany Oman carried in on a stretcher. She
had been unconscious and there had been two paramedics attending her. Moreno
knew then she must have been in bad shape, not only because of what he saw, but
because of the nature of the call from Clawson. Clawson's specific instructions and
the qualities of his voice as he gave those instructions told Moreno a lot. The large
team awaiting Brittany's arrival at the hospital told the rest of the story. As Moreno
approached Mr. Oman, his true focus and main concern was to let Mr. Oman know
he was a friend. Moreno needed to get Mr. Oman to identify the girl as soon as
possible, but Moreno felt first it was more important to consolidate an agreement of
support on behalf of both parties, before Mr. Oman was taken to the surgery room to
identify his daughter. As it was, Moreno was not prepared for Mr. Oman's childish
outburst.
As Vanoy approached Moreno, many emotions came over him. Moreno saw
tears forming in the corners of Vanoy's eyes. Vanoy was thinking of the insanity of
the impartial and abusive objectivity with which he had been treated since arriving at
the hospital. He wanted to find out what was going on with his daughter. The
nurses and now this cop, why were they fucking with him? Why were they doing
this?
Vanoy lifted his right hand and pointed at the breast of the policeman in front
of him, but stayed standing an arm's length away.
"You better have a good reason for doing whatever it is you think you're
doing, officer," Vanoy said, "I'm almost at my breaking point, I'll tell you that
much. All I want to do right now is find my girl, my daughter, find out why she is
here. This nurse Angie and nurse Annie have given me the runaround and I'm sick
of it."
Moreno took into consideration what Mr. Oman was saying, then retorted,
"The nurses were not trying to give you any trouble, Mr. Oman. They were just
following instructions. I've been told you know nurse Grey. The other nurses were
just following her instructions. Let's go see nurse Grey, then you'll be allowed to see
your daughter." Moreno tried to keep his voice calm without hinting any
condescension. He thought to himself what he was going to say next, how
important it was that what he next said be said right. He should say something
about Brittany's condition, he thought. Prepare Mr. Oman for what he would see,
but not saying anything to startle him. It is going to be hard, he thought. Moreno
found what he thought were the right words.
"As you know, Vanoy," Moreno began, "if I may call you by your first name...
first what you need to know is we believe your daughter is going to make a full
recovery from the suffering she has endured to this point. Okay? That is the most
important thing to think about right now, Mr. Oman. Your daughter is going to be
fine. But, you want to know why she is here, why you are here, and I feel it only
makes sense to tell you as much as I know about why, how, when, and where, if not
who... understand?"
"Yes," Vanoy said, "by all means just tell me what I need to know, please."
They had come near to the nurse station again. Angie had heard the most
recent comment by Vanoy. Being a curious sort of person, Angie stood, looking at
Moreno and Vanoy, feeling no shame or other negative emotional feelings. Nothing
about Angie wanted to listen in for the sake of gossip, or out of a desire to hear
morbid things. Angie is the kind of person who just wants to know whatever she can
come to know. She feels sure in herself to the point she feels like she is expected to
listen in, whether invited or not is not the issue.
Moreno noted the attention Angie was paying to the conversation and
thought about it a second. He chose to begin telling Vanoy what he knew with
Angie listening in.
"Your daughter was the victim of a somewhat violent assault at the hands of
who we believe to have been a young man that had given your daughter a ride earlier
this afternoon, or early evening."
Vanoy cut in, "You mean Brittany wasn't with someone from the church?"
Vanoy spoke with an unbelieving tone of voice.
Moreno sighed, and hoped it was not noticed. He continued, "Mr. Oman,
listen to me. Just let me tell you what we think we know, then I can answer your
questions. No, it appears your daughter was not with someone from your church,
someone she knows. But, we don't actually know, either. There is a vehicle at the
scene, though it has not been searched yet. So, look... If you like, I can just take you
to see her. She's just down this hallway here." Moreno motioned to the hallway
nearby, the same hallway he had been in moments before when he had seen Mr.
Oman going down another hallway. "I can let you focus on being with your
daughter, and talk to you about details later. Or, I can fill you in now. I'd like to fill
you in. The truth is, we at the Harvey Police, those involved with this investigation,
we are still trying to piece together the facts. Doesn't that makes sense? We don't
know any more than you do about what your daughter was doing between the hours
after school and when she was found. The police were called to a location on private
property five miles outside the city during the late evening hours. We don't know
how or why your daughter got there."
"What?!" Vanoy said, "What are you talking about?! Brittany was at church
this afternoon! She doesn't know anybody who lives in the country! She doesn't
know anybody who would hurt her! Why would she be with someone who wasn't a
member of the church in the first place?! I can't believe this. You're lying. There is
no way on Earth you have my daughter here in this hospital. I'm sure she's fine.
She's with a member of the church someplace. You've made a mistake. You've
mixed my perfect little girl up with someone else! I'll fucking..." Mr. Oman realized
something had awoken in himself he did not like with the utterance of the word
'fucking,' and he shut up.
Angie had been listening to the exchange and now was holding her hands to
her breast wishing she could do something for Mr. Oman, knowing she could not.
"Mr. Oman," Moreno said, "Nothing matters except your daughter. You're
right, we don't actually know for sure the girl we have is your daughter. She had no
identification and the only reason you were called her by nurse Grey is the fact nurse
Grey is the person who first identified the girl. Nothing matters but the facts. Let's
go see the girl, let you see her, then we go from there. Okay with you?" Moreno
pulled up his belt a little bit and looked from Angie to Mr. Oman, then back to Angie
as he waited for Mr. Oman to respond.
"Sure," Mr. Oman said, "Let's go see her, whoever she is. I know it can't be
my Brittany."
"This way, Mr. Oman," Moreno said, "Just down the hallway here."
Angie couldn't keep her lip tight.
"I just know she will be okay, Mr. Oman," Angie said.
Chapter Twenty-Eight: She All Right?
Moreno introduced Vanoy Oman to nurse Brighton, the nurse Moreno had
been conversing with earlier. Nurse Brighton was tall, almost six feet, and noted
Vanoy as being of great height, too. Brighton liked men of great height. Vanoy is
standing in front of the door to the surgery room Brittany is in. Vanoy is thinking.
The voice of nurse Brighton escapes his hearing. He is thinking of one thing over
and over.
'If Brittany got herself into any trouble, if she lost her virginity, there will be
hell to pay and she will be gone from me. She will regret having been foolish.'
Nurse Brighton and officer Moreno exchanged a look of concern with each
other.
"What?" Vanoy asked, "Sorry. I was just... thinking."
"It is okay Mr. Oman," nurse Brighton responded, "We were just wondering
if you felt like you would be fine waiting for nurse Grey, or if you would like me to go
into the surgery room to ask permission for you to come in."
"I, uh, well..." Vanoy said, "I don't know." There was a pause, then Vanoy
asked nurse Brighton, "Has Brittany been raped?"
Nurse Brighton had been hoping it would be someone else to break the news
to Vanoy about his daughter. She stared at Vanoy, unable to answer right away.
"Vanoy," Moreno cut in, "is this something you fear? I mean, does it really
matter to know the exact nature of your daughter's injuries?"
Vanoy seemed to ponder the question. Then, he said, "Ah, none of you
would understand. But you're asking if it is important. The answer is yes. Yes, it
does matter."
There was silence between the three people in the hallway outside the door of
the surgery room wherein a whole team of nurses and a talented Doctor were trying
to save one person's life.
Vanoy took several steps away from the other two with him and walked
toward the doors at the near end of the hallway. He hated this situation, something
outside the normal order of methodical planning. The thrust of so-called 'life'
engendering confrontation in reality involving involuntary communication with
people outside the sphere of his faith. An affront, this. Against the righteousness of
his religion, his religion being the basis of each activity and the majority of thoughts
he undertook. Vanoy decided then he would say nothing more, except for civility's
sake. He would allow the officer, the nurses, and the Doctor to do all the talking.
He could control his contribution in an exact way, absolving himself of any taint
further communication with such types would bring about. This was his way of, in
his own words, 'keeping a clear head in truth and light and faith.' He turned a single
eye upon the two he had departed from. 'I dare you to speak to me,' he thought.
Neither Moreno nor Brighton saw this in him, and so they said nothing.
Five minutes of silence passed. Moreno asked if there was any way of telling
how long it might be. Brighton answered, "No."
Vanoy thought of his daughter as she was when she had been a young girl.
His favorite girl. Of all the girls, she had been the most bright; capable of grasping
the hidden logic or lessons of many ideas, the texts they studied as a family. She was
able to speak in an articulate style when asked of her thoughts. She knew when to
concede points during conversation with elders. This year many of his thoughts had
been centered on whom the lucky man to marry Brittany would be. There were
several worthy guys in the church. But, Brittany was to visit a school in Utah in
December. She would meet more young men there. Much had been arranged
toward the task of introducing her to many new people upon arrival in Utah. Vanoy
knew several peers she had in church were aware of this. He knew several young
men were working hard to leave a lasting impression upon Brittany before her trip
West. Vanoy all but forgot his whereabouts thinking of these typical things. The
diamond-stitch pattern of wire in the glass in the door before him brought him back
to reality. He turned back to look at Moreno and Brighton again.
He passed the officer and nurse and began walking back to the atrium and
nurse station.
At the moment Brittany had been received from the paramedics, around thirty
minutes before the call to Vanoy had been made, the nurses taking over from the
paramedics could hardly believe the injuries Brittany had sustained.
"My goodness," one nurse said, "what has happened to this girl?"
Doctor Lampham removed the sheet from Brittany. The sheet had to be
pulled away with a small amount of force. There was a sticky, clear, fluid holding the
sheet to her body. Once the sheet had been pulled free, there were several inhaled
gasps of breath from those in attendance.
"Okay," Doctor Lampham said, "we're going to need some local anesthetic
at the site of these wounds." The Doctor and his team had begun to work.
Some time after getting Brittany to the O.R., nurse Grey recognized the girl
and had called her father. Now, the Dr. had everyone's full attention. Three hours
would pass before anyone left the O.R.
Vanoy walked with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked down one
moment, up the next. He eyed the doors, listened to the air conditioning, noted the
air vents up high along the west side of the hallway between every second or third
door. He thought to call Zina, his wife, then decided to wait. He wanted to avoid
Angie, her so-called companionship, friendship, if at all possible. He slowed as he
neared the atrium and nurse station.
Sheriff Poorberg was with Mansen at Mansen's home at the same time Vanoy
was in the hospital. Deputy Clawson was inspecting the perimeter of the clearing in
the woods where the girl and the now-decapitated young man had been found.
Clawson was alone, having sent a fellow officer named Thompson to search the
roads for vehicles within the mile, and allowing the first of the technicians to arrive at
the scene to conduct their work without his interference.
Clawson found nothing of interest around the site of the corpse laying on the
ground. He wondered when the technicians would finish their jobs. He had a lot of
evidence to document and salvage. The blood guy, the photo girl, the other
specialist- all seemed to be taking their sweet time.
Thompson radioed Clawson, "Deputy! I think I found your vehicle, sir. It is
a little way to the south and west of you. You may be able to see it if you walk this
way out of the clearing, through the woods. The woods opens up to a tilled field
along twenty-fourth. Copy?"
Clawson copied using his radio. He told Thompson to stay with the vehicle
and stay in his patrol car until he could arrive and begin searching for evidence.
"Is it a car, a truck, or a van, Thompson?" Clawson asked.
"It's a Ford truck," Thompson said, "Maybe a '97."
"Send the license plate in to dispatch for a report."
"Will do."
Poorberg and Mansen continued to patch up a story for Mansen to not have
to go to jail. Vanoy went back to his seat in the atrium and sat down, closed his eyes,
and began to pray.
Angie looked up from her work to acknowledge Vanoy when she heard him
enter the atrium area. He had ignored her, however, and had gone to sit down and
think. Keeping to himself, it seemed. Angie watched Vanoy, thinking to herself how
strange and awful the night must seem to the man she saw in the chair across from
her. He looked as though he were in some sort of pain. His head was down, his
hands were together in front of him, elbows resting on his knees. His mouth was
shut and his jaw was tight. His eyes did not seem relaxed. Angie went back to
entering the day's paperwork into her computer. She thought little of Vanoy, though
looked up now and then. Each time she looked up, he was still in the same position,
unchanging, unmoving.
Moreno and Brighton appeared at the nurse station. Moreno asked Angie
where the nearest restroom was and thus directed, used it. Brighton used the staff
bathroom herself.
Vanoy had prayed. In prayer, he decided it was going to be his business to
avoid giving any credence to what the hospital staff had to say. It was obvious they
were stupid wrong about his daughter. First of all- she had been at church all
afternoon. Second, it was not in her nature to decieve her parents in having
relationships outside the church family. So, there is no way she did anything wrong
or that would have put her in a bad position. If true then, where was Brittany?
Vanoy decided to call home to talk to Zina. They would begin calling members of
the church family. They would find Brittany safe. But no. It was too late now. Zina
would have called his cell phone already. Brittany would never spend the night at
the home of a member of the church family during the weekdays and without
scheduling in advance. So, where is she? 'Shit,' he thought, 'I won't call home right
now.'
"Mr. Oman!" Nurse Brighton said, "They are out of surgery! Brittany is
going to be okay, we think! It is good news, Mr. Oman! The Doctor is coming to
see you now." Brighton placed a caring hand on the left-hand shoulder of Vanoy.
"Get your hands off me!" Vanoy said. He turned his back on Brighton after
scolding her, and left her with a shocked expression on her face. He began to walk
away, toward the hallway where the surgery was supposed to have taken place.
Vanoy stopped then.
"I don't care who is doing what," he said, "I don't want your blasphemous
sympathy and I don't need to be insulted or controlled. This whole city was
designed in an unholy way and this hospital is the center of that unholiness. My
daughter should have been taken to Trinity. At least there they pretend to believe in
Christ. I will not talk to the Doctor. I will see my daughter now. If you can't make
this happen, get out of my face."
"Mr. Oman," Angie said, "I think it would be best if you were to wait outside
for officer Moreno to come escort you to your daughter's room. She is being
transferred to a new room now. You'll be happy to see her there. Please try to calm
down."
The Doctor had not shown up yet, and this made both nurses nervous.
"Angie," Vanoy said, "I think you're right. I'll go outside and calm down.
No need to see officer Moreno. I'll be back in a few minutes. I need to see my
daughter, you know. I'll see her, but I don't need to know the gory details. I know
enough to make a decision already. I kindly ask of you to respect my family and my
decisions about my family." 'Brittany may have excommunicated herself from the
church with her actions tonight,' Vanoy thought. Vanoy left the hospital and
thought he might sit in his car awhile.
Doctor Lampham arrived at the nurse station and asked where Mr. Oman
was. He was confused and angry Mr. Oman had gone outside.
"What do you mean he left? You mean he's waiting outside? Well, go get
him! I haven't got all fucking morning."
"Doctor," Angie said, "It's not like that! He left because he didn't want to
talk to you or any of us anymore. He has strange beliefs and thinks we aren't here to
serve the girl's best interests. He is a really strange and angry man. We thought it
best if he was gone anyway."
"Great," Doctor Lampham said, "I'm outta here. Fuck. You let nurse Grey
talk to him. Goodnight."
Officer Moreno asked the nurses if he could go into Brittany's post-surgery
hospital room. The nurses said it would be okay only if nurse Grey said so. After
asking nurse Grey, officer Moreno was told to go get Brittany's father and bring him
in to the hospital to see Brittany. It was as he was on his way out of the hospital he
ran into Sherriff Poorberg who was on his way in.
"What's going on Moreno?" Poorberg asked.
"Mr. Oman is outside somewhere, sir."
"Ah. Well, bring him on in! Or, you saying he's not talking or something?"
"I don't know. The nurses said he wasn't talking to anyone because of some
personal issues with the hospital or something like that. I think he's been upset
most of the night. He hasn't seen his daughter yet."
"How is she doing?"
"She'll probably make a full recovery, is what I gathered from the Doctor."
"That is good news, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
Moreno let the Sheriff go on and went outside to find Vanoy. After five
minutes, he gave up, flabbergasted, as there was no Mr. Oman in any vehicle in the
parking lot.
'Fucking goddamn asshole,' Moreno thought. He knew Sheriff Poorberg
would not be pleased. He went back into the hospital to seek out Poorberg and
discover the next course of action. He hated the thought he had let the Sheriff down.
Putting together a timeline for Brittany's whereabouts throughout the day had been
one of the primary concerns for the Sheriff. Now the Sheriff himself would have to
deal with it, and Moreno would be the one to be blamed for the lack of getting things
done.
"Shit," Moreno said to himself.
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Elsewhere
Back on the farm, Mansen couldn't sleep. The first twenty minutes after
arriving home with his truck, Mansen sat in an easy chair in the living room. He was
wearing a fresh set of long underwear- a long-sleeve black top and black bottoms,
and a fresh pair of socks. He had made a cup of hot chocolate using a generic brand
packet of powder, and had made it with extra milk. The lamp near his chair was on.
He thumbed through a copy of Successful Farming magazine. Reading about the
new design of the Massey Ferguson 5450 was not helping. He re-read the first two
paragraphs of the article twice. The condition of the young woman and a vision of
the impact he had made on the young man kept interrupting his concentration. He
stopped reading and folded the magazine shut, placing it on the end-table next to the
lamp. For a moment, all negative thoughts about the night dissipated and he was
free to relax. He looked outside through the bay window to his right, overlooking
the front porch. 'Canker should be resting out there,' Mansen thought. He thought
about getting out his pipe, then dismissed the idea. He had been warned that the
police might be trying to contact him later on.
The television in the corner of the room across from him and a little left, quiet
and pandering in a way, reflected an image of Mansen in his chair, plus the lamp, the
end-table, a picture above his head, a portion of the dining room leading into the
kitchen, and a portion of hallway leading to the rear part of the house. Mansen
stared at the view in the glass of the television for twenty seconds or so, then
frustrated with it, got up and went to his bedroom at the north end of the main
hallway.
In his bedroom he got dressed with a pair of jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. He
put on running shoes instead of his boots. He grabbed his wallet from the dresser
and noticed the reflection of his hand in the mirror above it. He went to the kitchen.
In the kitchen he leaned against a counter, standing opposite the refrigerator.
He looked at the wallpaper, the floor, the sink. There were some dishes that needed
done, he could see, but this did not bother him much. There were still dishes on the
dining room table, too. Instead of tending the dishes, he reached into the fridge and
grabbed a Coke, then, changing his mind, put the Coke back and grabbed a
Mountain Dew. He walked through the kitchen and dining room and went onto the
porch. Canker was waiting there.
Distant from his house, Mansen could hear several dogs barking. They were
some miles beyond his driveway, so he didn't think much of them. He thought
maybe a raccoon hunter was out with a pack of dogs, trying for hides. There were
known to be a few hunters of the kind in the area still, Mansen knew. Canker had
long been hearing the barking and had become disinterested. He stood at Mansen's
feet, looking up at him, waiting in his canine way for a good petting or some other
kind of action. Mansen opened his can of Mountain Dew and took a long drink. He
then walked off the porch to the left to see what, if anything, he could see. It was a
cold, crisp night, though not so cold as to require further garments than he had on.
The truck was parked thirty feet from the porch in the southwest portion of the
horseshoe-shaped pathway of the farmyard.
Mansen walked toward the barn. The sand of the drive scrunched beneath
his shoes. The yard lamp shone in a fluid way. There were several kinds of bugs
buzzing at the top of the lamp. Mansen stopped about halfway to the barn and took
another drink of pop. He noticed some of the stars and looked up. The stars formed
a wonderful panorama around the light of the lamp. The milky way shone above and
behind the silo which stood to the left of the barn, then continued along a streak
above the barn. It then dissipated far above the trees and fields east of the farm. The
sound of Canker and his footsteps on the sandy patch of driveway reminded Mansen
of the little egg-shaped music maker rhythm toys he had used as a kid in elementary
school. Soon Mansen was developing melodies in his head to go along with the
sound. He started to think about his guitar, and wondered to himself why he wasn't
spending this time playing it. He came to a halt as he noticed the darkness seeping
within the confines of the barn. The darkness raised a mild sense of foreboding, a
feeling the barn had not raised before in times past. The barn had usually been a
source of peaceful feelings before tonight. Now it took on an obstinate rudeness and
Mansen broke into tears as the memories of the night came rushing back to him.
His cheeks became wet with tears, then Mansen shut off the feelings. He raised the
can of Mountain Dew to his lips again, forcing himself to shutup with the sobbing
and calm down. He looked at Canker and then rewarded the dog with a few
scratches between the ears. Movement against the base of the barn caught his eye
then and he looked up to see a small bunny rabbit bouncing in the tall grasses
between the western-most barn door and the middle barn door. It hopped all the
way to the east barn door and disappeared inside. Canker had seen the bunny too.
The great dog bounded after it and disappeared into the same large entrance of the
barn the bunny had.
Mansen shouted after him, "Canker! Canker! Come here boy!"
Mansen normally didn't mind Canker chasing rabbits, but Mansen did not
want Canker running into something sharp or dangerous in the dark interior of the
barn. In the barn were relics of a by-gone era. Bale-hooks, old metal wheels, pieces
of old wheels, cultivator tines, many ancient tools easy to get a nasty cut on. Mansen
walked to the west door of the barn and reached out to the light switches. Canker
came rushing out of the barn on the other end at the same time. No need to worry.
"Good dog," Mansen said.
Mansen turned south and began to walk back toward the house. He threw
his now-empty can of Mountain Dew into the yard, then stopped. Beyond the can in
the tall grass, between the silo and his home, the fence would be visible if it were
daylight. He could not make anything out in the darkness of night now, however,
and realized that tomorrow he would have to retrieve his tools.
Once inside the house, Mansen cleared the dining room table of the dirty
dishes. The glass dish he had cooked his steak and potatoes in was now glossy with
oil and grease. He didn't rinse it off, but instead placed it in the dishwasher along
with his plate and silverware. A smell emanated from the dishwasher, but there were
still too few dishes in it to warrant running it tonight.
Back in the front room, Mansen touched on a light using a switch on the wall
above the easy chair he had been sitting in almost thirty minutes ago. Then he went
to his bedroom to grab his phone and check for any missed calls. The phone was
under his belt, and checking it he noticed no one had called. That was good. He
went into the room opposite the bedroom. He turned on the light switch in the room
and did not hesitate as he walked toward the far wall. Against the wall and near the
corner of the room his guitar stood on a stand and his amplifier sat unplugged.
Mansen grabbed the Fender Stratocaster and the amplifier. The three lights in the
old-fashioned fixture in the center of the room flickered a little, as they often did.
Mansen didn't notice, and he kept at his task. He turned off the lights as he left the
room, using his shoulder to do so, then he took the guitar and amplifier out the front
door. Mansen took the amplifier to a spot underneath the porch windows of the
living room and set it down. He lifted the guitar up and used the strap to hold the
guitar up against his body, and plugged the guitar into the amplifier with the
instrument cable that had been bunched up with the handle of the guitar amplifier.
He grabbed a pick out of his jeans pocket. Mansen plugged the amplifier in.
Mansen tuned his guitar as the amplifier warmed up. It is a tube amplifier,
and it is best to give it a few minutes to warm up. After tuning his guitar and waiting
for the amplifier to warm up, he turned the switch on the amplifier from 'standby'
position to 'on' position. The guitar and amplifier were now live.
Through the burgundy-wine colored cabinet and the woven dark green face of
the amplifier, the sound of eleven different notes, intricate but simple in a way, rose
from a low G plucked on the sixth string, to a G-sharp plucked on the fourth string.
The notes mingled and filled the air surrounding Mansen's porch and the Elm tree
nearby. The darkness, the tree, the yard light, the porch, and Canker each
contributed to the atmosphere of Mansen's sound perceptions and subsequent
exploitations thereof by way of the guitar and amplifier. Sound fought with
imagination, guiding it, being guided by it. Love is the foundation of the fight. Love
like a man feels when at the age of nineteen he sees the woman he had forever
daydreamed of and imagined sharing his body and life with before him for the very
first time and she is wearing no makeup, only a tie-dyed t-shirt and jeans. Love so
perfect it carries the young man and woman who has personified his thoughts of love
in an instant, throughout seventy years or more together, in marriage, choosing to
raise children or not to raise children based on the reality of chance, choosing to be
monogamous through there are many opportunities for each of them to pursue other
loves, loves equal in potential to this first love, magnified through the act of not
seeking them out, which in turn fuels the first original idea of love, fulfilling this
idea, proving the majesty of their love above all else. The fierce utilization of his
skills as a musician in combo with pure and raw intellectual vision fueled by feeling
and emotion and passion more than any learnable knowledge allows Mansen to play
at a level most would agree is astounding, inexplicable to some extent.
It is almost three am.
Mateos Hospital staff are going about their business. A small scene has
erupted between one of the nurses and Sheriff Poorberg. The nurse in question will
not provide Sheriff Poorberg with the phone number or address of her fellow
churchgoer, Vanoy Oman, nor will she tell Sheriff Poorberg the extent of Brittany's
injuries.
For some reason, there is no listing throughout the records available to the
police department dispatcher pertaining to the Oman's in the city of Harvey in Gaina
county.
Sheriff Poorberg stood near the west entrance of Mateos Hospital, the
emergency room entrance. Officer Moreno was nearby. Nurse Grey was walking
away from both the Sheriff and officer Moreno, on her way back to see Brittany. In
her way of thinking, the fact Mr. Oman did not want to speak to the sheriff was of
little concern to her. It was Mr. Oman's business, and the sheriff could deal with it
on his own.
Sheriff Poorberg turned his attention to his police radio and called Deputy
Clawson. "Clawson," he said, "report."
"There's some music being played at Mansen's house. We're thinking of
packing this up and getting the body to town. There's a truck parked in the field
nearby. I haven't looked at the truck yet. You want me to ask Mansen about the
truck, seeing as he's awake?"
"Yeah," Sheriff Poorberg said, "Go ask him. Don't keep him long. I'll have
to visit him tomorrow, probably. Having trouble getting through to the family of the
girl."
"Will do," Clawson said, "You coming out here, Sheriff? I don't think there
is much left to do. Just talk to Mansen and check the truck is all. I can handle that
myself, technicians and everything. The photog. said she'd have about ten rolls of
film ready by tomorrow afternoon."
"Sounds about right," Poorberg said. He paused, thinking now about his
talk with Mansen. "Clawson," the Sheriff continued, "I want you to gauge Mansen
for yourself. See what you think about the guy. I'm not worried about him, though
maybe I pressed him too hard about being there for the girl as a member of her
support team. Let him know the staff here is aware he may want to visit, that it's
been cleared as all right as long as he goes through the nurses first. She'll need
somebody. I can't believe her father left her here alone. One of the nurses said the
man reminded her of some kind of religious nut. Pisses me off. I can't imagine why
he would have left."
"Yeah," Clawson said, "I'll talk to Mansen. Anything else?"
"Not that I can think of. You're a good man, Clawson. Finish up so you and
I can get some rest before we have to be back out there at daybreak. Find out from
the investigator how many people he's bringing back with him then."
"Yep," Clawson said, hanging up his radio and returning to the place where
the body was being prepared for extraction by the chief investigator and medical
examiner. Clawson thought the investigator at the scene had performed with
exceptional professional skill all night, and in how he had prepared the way for the
homicide detective. Now everybody was working to get the body to the morgue.
"Find anything interesting," Clawson asked the investigator.
"It'll be in my report, Deputy," the investigator responded.
"Sure," Clawson said. He stepped back, feeling the irritation of his presence
among the professionals at the moment of greatest import involving the dead body.
Clawson walked toward his car. He noticed beer cans laying against a fence
post nearby. He noted it using his notepad and pen. Then, he got into his car and
drove up behind Thompson on 24th. Thompson had fallen asleep in his car.
Clawson parked behind Thompson. Thompson's car was running. Clawson
got out of his car, taking his flashlight with him. He pushed the door shut on his car,
allowing it to slam. The noise woke up Thompson, as Clawson had expected.
Clawson approached, and Thompson rolled down his window.
"Thompson," Clawson said, "get a nice nap?"
"Yes, Deputy. Didn't mean to though."
"It's nothing. I woulda done the same thing, most like."
"What's going on here?"
"Nothing good. Let's go look over this truck."
Thompson put his gloves on.
It was ten am when most of the people involved in investigating the scene out
at the field where Brittany was found with the attacker by Mansen were in a meeting
together.
At the forefront of issues in the meeting, aside from piecing together a
timeline, which was hard to do without cooperation from Mr. Oman, the team was
deciding how to approach the information gathered at the site of the pickup truck
found in the field nearby. The Sheriff wanted to get a search warrant for the house
found addressed to the license plate of the truck, and he wanted to get a subpoena to
order information out of Mr. Oman. Things went along those lines, and later the
Sheriff learned more from both sources.
Chapter Thirty: Farther>/=<Further
Following guitar work, Mansen carried his things back into the house and put
them in their proper places. He then got into his truck, rolled the window down,
grabbed his pipe, and took a few fine draws of marijuana. Deputy Clawson had
indeed come to question him again, this time about the truck, but Mansen knew
nothing about it.
Two years later, Mansen was smoking marijuana in a new house. A home in
the city of Harvey. He still owns the farmland property however, and leases it to
couples proving appearances of neatness.
Brittany has recovered from the ordeal of two years ago quite well. Almost a
complete recovery in psychological and physical aspects, plus spiritual growth from
the event.
Mansen lives across the road to the south from Brittany. He has provided
Brittany with her own place- a small house with two bedrooms, one small living
room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and no basement. A full size garage is beside her
house. Brittany now drives a compact car.
Manson loves Brittany. Their relationship formed due to Mansen and Sheriff
Poorberg working together to provide for Brittany following the horrendous decision
of Mr. Oman to force Brittany from the home of her family to fend for herself away
from the Mormon Church. Brittany was informed by her father of his and the
church's decision in the moments before she was released from the hospital
following the attack two years ago. She was given only a few months to prepare to
move away from home.
Brittany moved as summer began.
Mansen now knows Max, who also lives on the same street. And Max and
Brittany and Mansen all know each other, and they all know Patrick, who also lives
on the same street.
Max calls Patrick. It is the day before Max has an incident at the bar.
Max asks Patrick, "How many of those books have you got through?"
"Near all of 'em, Max," Patrick says, "Reading The Odyssey."
"Through all the horror novels? The basics?"
"Mainly. Most beyond the expected."
"Read 'The Bleating of the Sheep'?"
"Yes."
"Perfect. Say, would you like to visit?"
"No."
"Might be fun. Mansen, a neighbor now, Mansen is going to visit. Smoke."
"Good for Mansen. I'll be occupying time."
"Keep it steady."
"Will do."
The line disconnected. Max thinks of Patrick different than Patrick thinks of
Max. Patrick relies on Max as a mentor of the literature Patrick feels it wise to know.
Max does not rely on Patrick except that Patrick magnifies in Max the ability and
discipline to be compassionate, rather than haughty, as a teacher.
Max, Mansen, Brittany, and Chaz- Max's live-in boyfriend, have several good
moments during a get-together. Patrick had a good time staying home and fucking
the wife. A grand time. The act of fucking the wife, Patrick doesn't do false.
Chapter Thirty-One: The Incident
Warner Warren. No mister. Just Warren.
Max did his best to keep his attention on the Scotch he was drinking. The
man in the white suit with oily black hair fussing about the television and being
disrespectful to the bartender, seemed to be casual in a way suggesting he was a man
trying very hard to be casual. Max did not have to wait long. The man in the white
suit made it known fast.
"Some kind of teacher at the university are ya?" Warren asked, country-white
accent in play.
Max did not respond. He didn't like the tone of voice Warren had used, plus,
Warren had already proven to be less than a joy to be around.
Warren eyed Max, settling in surrounded by his own ideas about right, might,
white, religious. Warner Warren did not take kindly to being ignored. Warner
Warren did not take kindly to people of African-American descent.
Max felt as though energy was buffeting his senses in almost a vocal way. He
tried, but he could not take his eyes off the man in the white suit. He tried to tune
his ears in to Spike, maybe the television, listen to pleasant conversation coming
from elsewhere in the room- but he could hear the man in the white suit breathing.
Close. Too much so. 'Get away from me,' he thought.
Max decided to answer the man.
"Sir," Max said, "what in fucks name makes some kind of intercourse with
me seem like a good idea?"
Warren laughed.
Spike did not like the sound of the laughter.
Max liked it even less.
"Get the heck out of here man!" Max shouted, drink on the copper bar top.
He turned and stood tall before Warner Warren and screamed in his face, "We don't
tolerate assholes! I know who you are! I know the shit passing as religion you
purport as truth! Fuck it! You're a fascist, racist, homophobic degenerate!"
Warren formed a fist with his right hand and almost as fast as Max stepped
back, swung a sweeping upper-cut, trying to hit Max on the chin. Warren caught air
and a little jaw, but not enough to cause Max a problem.
Max reacted faster. Spike only saw how Max came forth and put his arms
around Warren, then pivoted and took Warren to the ground. By the time Spike
made it around the end of the bar, Max had already landed three massive blows
against Warren. Then, Spike watched as too many blows to count came, and kept
coming.
A minute later, Warren lay dying.
Max crying tears of frustration, angry with himself.
Spike phoned the ambulance.
"Shit," Spike said.
"Yeah," Max said.
Chapter Thirty-Two: -own
Sheriff Poorberg was home with his wife. He thought about visiting Brittany
or giving her a call. Then, happy to be able to think she was doing as good as
possible, given the situation, his thoughts shifted back to his supper and taking time
to enjoy the time available at home.
Mansen sat alone in place, smoking a pipe, and thought about how happy he
was knowing Brittany, but he also thought about the frustration with the way
Brittany loves though is unfavorable about coming toward the possibility of sex. He
realizes it might never happen, in truth. As things worked out, it would not.
Chapter Thirty-Three: Professor's Work
Max enjoyed grading papers most of the time when grading papers from the
English students. This was more true on cold November days like today. It was a
good gig. Sitting indoors while the winds howled bloody murder outside, doing
what you do to get paid in the comfort of your own home.
"Ah, go piss on yourself Mother Nature," Max shouted out, joy in his voice.
He felt powerful, relaxing in robes and pajamas during the storm.
Max expected more from his students than other young professors. He had
hope for them. His students should know by now young breasts or perfect blonde
hair would never intimidate or persuade from him leniency or ire. Some students
had one or both qualities, and would try. Few of the students he had in class this
year carried keen insight of nature of traits of their fellow humans. It surprised Max
the semester had gone this long and no student had yet asked, 'Are you gay?'. He
graded papers in a most fair way right down the line. Impartial, practical, though
still holding a standard based on personal bias for intelligence or the interesting. A
real hero of fairness and honor was he.
Little did the girls know he often chuckled to himself in spite of their coy
efforts. He was a proud member of the gay community. Max preferred the large,
lumpy, pale white ass of his gay lover to Swiss miss. All covered with wiry, black
hair. It really turned Max on seeing his own sizeable black cock strain as it
penetrated Chas' anus.
It became apparent over the course of the first semester teaching that at least
one girl was attempting to use breasts and blonde hair to shroud absolute stupidity.
She did not wear a bra to Max's class, but always had one on otherwise. She
showered before she showed up to class. It was not uncommon of her to arrive late,
and Max thought she did so to get his attention away from her grades and on her
body. No matter. No amount of accidental breast-brushes or pen licking would
sway him. Ever. Unless of course maybe one of the male students discovered he
was gay and started pulling the same tricks. Highly unlikely though. Not too many
gay folks banging down admission doors to get into Brethren College. He was the
only gay student at Brethren during his entire four-year stay. He was pretty sure he
was the only gay faculty member.
Thus thinking, he took a sip of his coffee with cream and set his eyes upon
work.
The name at the top right hand corner of the paper was Cassie. Great. Max
often stressed himself thinking about the future of America at times like this. How
many more young people like her existed? A spoiled softball player from Texas,
Cassie's parents had instilled in their daughter a sense; work was for losers, George
W. Bush was the greatest thing since sliced American cheese in plastic-wrap, poor
people deserved to be poor, America the beautiful was never better, and America
could only get better if gays, lesbians, pagans, and atheists were shipped off to China
with the next load of empty freight containers along with Muslims, Mexicans, Actors,
and Writers.
At least in America, the people refused to be in a position to elect or vote
against a cow like Cassie as leader of the free world. Ha.
"What a stupid bitch," he mumbled. If it were not for this great chair,
stupidity would drive me into early retirement.
Cassie's paper was rape of English Literature. She wrote with a child's
overzealous use of adjectives. He did not really expect otherwise, even though he
was supposed to be reading a college-level assignment. Cassie was stupid, and that
was the truth.
Cassie's paper began cliché' enough.
~, 'The flowers were golden, green, white, and beautiful. Beneath the feet of the
little girl in the field, ladybugs crawled. The little girl felt she too, was beautiful.'~
Max set the paper aside, and decided instead of suffering bullshit, he would
just slap a 'C-minus' on the paper, and move on.
Max groaned, "No way in hell I am letting her fail just to see her next
semester, or next year." Max was satisfied with his quick decision. He jotted 'try
harder' in the margin to the left of the text of the first page, and moved Cassie's
paper to the tray labeled 'done'. He pondered the idea of buying a new tray for his
desk. One he would label 'retarded'.
Next up, was Hugh. Hugh will have brought some original ideas to the
assignment, Max thought it safe to assume. He topped off his coffee with a dram of
Carolans Irish Cream Liqueur, and began reading Hugh's contribution to English
Literature.
~, 'Shimmering red, orange, and green. Vibrant hues expressed by sunlight reflecting
off clouds covering the western horizon. Blessed be, the Universe sends light to laugh and
tickle. Soil underneath, so do not fear. Let the cleansing begin. First thought, a kiss. Kisses
give way to passion. Tendrils strain to gain a moment of serenity. Tendrils that are fingers.
Fingers that get a first sense, and lead the rest of the body to believe. Every molecule
explored. every sensor tantalized. No dirty party of her, the soil is underneath. All things
above the soil are clean. Once the tongue bathes entirely this body, all the dirt washes away
and down. Down to the soil underneath. Soiled the soil. Saturate with spittle. Toil to
cleanse the body. Let it all wash off, into the soil. Make some mud.'~
Not really grade-A material. Max felt however, that Hugh was trying to
express something deeper than a kindergarteners view of a field of flowers, so read
on.
Hugh's paper continued.
~, 'Sensible relief playing like fireflies in the dusk upon woman and lover. A more
glorious moment for copulation, no one dare imagine. Cool breeze brought from the North
to caress in gentle manner, their every pore. Late August day, one of perfection and
becoming memory. A memory locked within both.
Many people within a few hundred miles also shared this moment. Within their
minds, a feeling of vastness. Vastness and true immensity of the shared experience however,
only one person could imagine. All the others were oblivious to the reality that this
moment, was one that many shared.
All of them living as organisms on Earth, within this dimension of existence, have
the knowledge of this simple truth. Sadly, few are open to realize it.
Few people really understand. Few people truly give a great goddamn. So few, that
of all the people sharing sight of colors, clouds, and horizon of perfection before them, the
human race is lucky if even one understands. Lucky if one person is close to comprehending
or understanding. That two lovers could share in understanding and comprehension both,
made the moment very special.
East and West, outside the range of the particular scene, there were others who
understood the picture before their own eyes. Of all the people who are capable of
comprehension or understanding, only a fraction of these people can both comprehend and
understand. They are the exception.
A tragedy is the truth, most people have the ability, but none can remember. we
have learned to be unable to realize how connected everything in reality is. It is a process
that works to kill all humans, and begins at birth in most civilizations. The baby carriage
with shackles for toys. The feelings of betrayal as loved ones drown you for god, which is
known as Baptism. Betrayals and trauma. No wonder many grow timid, lost, ruined, or all
of the above.
Indent and imprint, but no. Nothing good stays easy. Truth impounded within
fantastic realms of bullshit. Truth that must cascade over mortar walls of mass, unable to
penetrate. These mortar walls of mass made of recent traumas. Traumas forged in tradition
fueled from ancient beliefs.
What winners all wealthy are who do not care for the idea 'share'? Super spending,
only buying super waste. Software is now more valuable than anything concrete is.
Hardware is obsolete within months of creation. The replaced hardware kills three, four,
and five year olds; as well as their older brothers and sisters, parents, aunts and uncles.
Entire families and towns. Let the Chinese recycle the obsolete hardware for you, they do
not mind. They have no emotions or feelings. That is how we make ourselves kill our
fellow human beings. We are damned to believe against them. As if their success or failure
is completely unrelated to ours. What genius thought of this? The genius' thousands of
years gone. Traditions and ancient beliefs.
It would be wiser to make sure mummies stay mummies. Enjoy them and move on.
A terrible thing, the relive their lives. Fate is but a dream. Let your mind wake up and take
absolute control.'~
Max quite liked Hugh's paper and muttered to himself, "This is pretty good,
Hugh." Max always talked to himself while grading English Literature assignments,
as if the student in question were sitting near.
As a teacher, he thought through the prose as he re-read the passages of
Hugh's paper. He liked it. In fact, he was hooked on the idea presented in the
paper that there could be a separation of awareness between human beings. He
enjoyed the mechanisms by which Hugh presented facts supporting his ideas. That,
in fact, while many people across Earth can bear witness to one singular experience,
few people ever really understand the magnitude of that experience. Sounded
familiar. Max took a sip of his loaded coffee, and read on.
~, 'Let me exchange all my food for that new HDTV and fancy software program!
That's all on you. You work for software and I'll tend a garden. In the end I may laugh. I
know why. Your cries. That is what my laugh is all about. Cry for me, precious winners.
Lonely winners. Winners with courtside seats! Tears of joy stream from their faces. Their
joy is all to often at the expense of at least one other.
No, they are not less human. Sin is not in wealth. Abuse of wealth with no
intention of seeing others succeed is what I'm beating a drum against. As Danny Carey can
drive weakness away playing drums, I too desire to create pressure in the air. Please stay. I'd
love to beat tears from behind your eyes. You deserve a beating for allowing your belief
system based on a self-willed reality which is in turn, based on illusions, to control your every
move. You should be punished. I'll be watching you. Every move you make...
When trees breathe and you see it? That is awesome. That is beyond your
traditions. When you bathe in sexual occurrence under the darkening but still colorful sky?
That is supreme. Supreme beyond your god or gods. When you recognize those greens as
special among the red, orange, and purple clouds, then we can talk. When you finally reach a
point in your awakening when you can talk, then we can grow.'~
Max was disappointed with the reference to a song from the 80's. He
furrowed with the writing. He came to the conclusion he could understand why the
young student felt the song lyrics usable. He decided to refrain from docking Hugh
any points. The paper was interesting at least.
Max was ready to read on, but first needed a break. The morning ejaculation
and contrast between Cassie and Hugh's work, had drained him of initiative. If he
hit the pipe this afternoon, it would probably not be as a reward for duly finishing the
tasks he had set out before him.
Placing Hugh's paper on top of the stack laying in front of him, Max stood
up. Stretching his legs in front of the giant Oak desk purchased just six months ago
for use in his new home study, he was awash in recollection of the dream he enjoyed
last night. It was fucking awesome, and had ended all too soon.
In his dream, Max had been smoking a marijuana cigarette on the slab of
concrete that had been his childhood basketball court. Smoking marijuana in his
dream made sense. It had been several months since last he enjoyed smoking fine
marijuana in the waking world. Looking up to the great and supernatural sky of his
dream world, he saw the most intense thing he had dreamt in a long time.
A pristine NASA space shuttle. The name was indecipherable, but that was
not the point. Entering the scene from behind the large yellow farmhouse behind
him, the space shuttle came swooping low and fast just to his right, which would be
in the west. He remembered now in retrospect a detail earlier in the dream; he was
attempting to meet and enjoy some of his long lost high school friends. It was a
weird sort of hide and seek class reunion. Daydreaming about the dream, he
wondered if maybe there had been someone else with him when the space shuttle
shot by. The shuttle was low enough it cleared the trees only by the slimmest of
margins. These trees were swaying in a wild way as the shuttle passed over the
topmost branches. The shuttle was heading straight South, but made an impossible
turn left, and was bearing down on Max. At the last possible moment, the shuttle
then broke right, turned 180 degrees back South, then shot up into space effusing
flames, power, and speed. He remembered muttering a comment of disbelief,
excitement, and shock, all to an unknown figure with him as the shuttle disappeared.
This was not the end of it. The shuttle reappeared again, flying towards his face,
then retreated once more. It repeated the cycle for quite a while, and he remembered
almost willing it not to ever stop. It was too awesome. Too glorious an experience.
As if, like a married Christian wife's first orgasm, he never wanted it to end. Of
course, the moments piling up were too intense, and brought him wide awake.
Max awakened with a feeling of excitement and relief, which settled into an
enduring sense of disappointment. Disappointment because it is not every night you
dream of the space program, and he felt it a loss for the dream to have come to an
end in as abrupt a fashion as it had. Rare you dream of something as powerful as the
space shuttle. Exquisite and rare and unique, a dream including the flight of a
NASA shuttle in your own backyard.
"Yeah, that was a fucking awesome dream," Max whispered to no one and
nothing but sunlight and dust. Talking to himself was one of his habits, he
surmised, but he was sure it was harmless.
He had been in a half-assed stretch throughout his daydream. He felt a little
weird 'spacing out' for the seconds it took him to ponder the dream. Satisfied he was
okay to leave the study, sure he had put forth enough effort on work so far today, he
decided to check on his 'ladies' downstairs. He turned toward the Red Oak
doublewide doors of his office and walked through them.
Trying to think of anything he might have forgot before locking the doors of
the study, and thinking of nothing in particular, he turned his key and gave the doors
a good shake for security. Having to unlock those doublewide Oak doors after only
just locking them, was something that never ceased to bring a bit of anger to the
surface of his mind. It was a pain in the ass using keys, in particular when having to
undo something just done. It was something small this time. As he turned away for
the grow room in the basement, he realized his coffee was still on the desk. The
desk on the other side of the doors now locked.
Max shrugged and exclaimed, "Oh great goddamn fuck!" He raised his
hands, making two fists, and shook them at the ceiling. Pissed off again. Fuck it; he
would draw another cup of coffee in the kitchen, instead of fumbling with the locked
doors.
The eastern wall of the hallway opposite the double doors of the study was
one of the special perks of the home. Instead of a thick wall with maybe a window or
two, the east side of the hallway was almost all windows. The windows were built in
recesses of the wall and were made of individual panes of viewing glass; very thin,
very fragile. Each pane of glass was set behind and between a nice knick-knack
shelf three feet wide. There were six sections of windows, with four rows of shelves
from top to bottom in each section. A total of twenty-four shelves. As the viewing
glass was a thin pane of glass set into the wall itself, the elaborate trim mounted to
the wall as border pieces surrounding the shelving was in many ways permanent.
The trim pieces, beautiful and hand-carved, were worth more now than what value
they had added to the home when Max had purchased the property in the time long
before he began his remodeling. It was a wall of display cases, for all intents and
purposes, except for the large French door leading to a covered patio on the other
side of the wall.
Upon the shelves of the display case windows were different items. There
was no real pattern or reason for what Max chose to place there. Some Hotwheels
cars, a few incense burners, small candles, a few pictures of loved ones in frames,
and a few small sculptures, most of which had been purchased during trips taken
abroad. There were shot glasses, handmade ceramic plates, and a few tins
containing various odds and ends. Among the items that should be on the shelves
were other things that had gathered there by happenstance. Batteries, guitar picks,
nails. Other riff-raff. Cleaning the shelves off was a task he would have to tackle at
some point. He enjoyed the shelves as a feature of the home and it's originality,
having a cool place to show off some fun shit.
The kitchen of the home lay on the same side of the house as the main
entrance, the east side, and extended in it's own section east of the main body of the
home. The kitchen was a short walk southeast from the double doors of the study
through the entryway of an adjoining hallway. This hallway ran east and west
whereas the display case hallway ran north-south.
The east-west hallway ran almost the entire width of the home and was still
original wood slat floor. But, it was now covered with a fun rug purchased at a local
shop owned by a middle-aged Peruvian-American woman who had been an
American citizen since 1986. She had moved to America with her new husband back
then, a man who had ditched the priesthood to love her and fuck her tight pussy and
start a family. After marrying the priest, her family sent her to America with millions
of dollars' worth of fine Peruvian goods, artifacts, and pieces of art to start her life,
including superior rugs of fine craftsmanship of which Max's rug had been a part.
Turning left after entering the east-west hallway, Max was in the kitchen.
Coffee still on, he poured himself a dram. Espresso mix. His favorite choice when
headaches were not on the horizon. He could feel each morning if it were going to
be a French Roast day, or Espresso day. His favorite days were Espresso days. His
Irish Cream was in the study, so he took a little from his lover's bottle of Baileys
instead. Max thought Chas might appreciate the occasion that Max owe him
something for once, instead of the other way around. Chas was a complex
individual, but other than being Max's live-in ass-fuck and all around party man,
didn't do much else.
Max's home is now furnished like a mansion. Before he had bought it, it was
tacky and outdated. Nothing special. He had purchased it many years ago, long
before earning his place as Professor of English at the small town private college. It
was a strange truth to Max, to look back and see how his entire adult life had been
spent as a part of the University.
When he bought the home it held just over 2,000 square feet of living space.
It was of old wallpaper, old carpet, old trim, and outdated electricity, which made it
sort of a bargain. The charm of the place, however, is what had sold him. There
were built-in bookshelves, a liquor cabinet, and a small mailbox recessed into the
wall. Just like the display case windows, these features had been hand built by an
artisan. It had one of those original phone nooks, complete with a phone book
holder recessed into the wall which opened on hinges connected to the bottom of a
door creating the illusion of being quite discreet. There was a square cut into the
wall containing a shelf above the phone book covey, a place where the phone could
rest. 'It was a great idea,' Max had proclaimed to the realtor as they described it's
purpose while showing the house. The phone rested on the shelf inside the wall as
opposed to taking up space on a nearby desk or table.
The front room, a simple conversation room, had a fireplace. The fireplace
itself is built into a portion of wall protruding a full sixteen inches from the actual
wall making up the south side of the room. Atop the protruding wall is a mantle
stretching twenty-five feet across the room at a height of five feet. The mantle is a
perfect place for candelabras, pictures, or art pieces. Max has many of these to
choose from, and rotates them in accord with the seasons.
The front room is much different now than the day the home was purchased.
Max had ripped up the old carpet and finished the original wood floor to a shine.
Then, for reasons unknown to him, he decided the wood floor was not to his liking,
and so Max had replaced the original wooden slats of the floor with granite. The
granite covers the entire front room. It is not the most comfortable, but Max believes
the flooring to contain elements resembling class and character beyond the usual feel
of old-style wood flooring. Within the room, which measures a full 40 feet by 25 feet,
to high-dollar rocking chairs have been placed. There is a luxurious couch standing
upon hand-carved legs, and a window seat large enough to double as another couch
on the north side of the room. The front door exits upon a porch to the East. It is
the northernmost of two porches.
Looking at his home from the street, you see the large bay window seat
addition and an exterior made of new stone replacing old asbestos tiles, plus the
front yard. The front door is invisible from the road. Max had brought in a worldclass carpenter to enclose the entire northeast side porch and patio. This enclosure
was fashioned with great Oak studs and one-way glass. It extends twenty feet north
of the wall forming the south side of the porch, and fifteen feet east of the front door.
To reach the front door, visitors must ring a bell activated with a button on a
control box outside of the covered patio and porch. Max calls it a patio, though to be
precise it is a patio and porch, both. It Max or Chas was accepting company, the
patio door, also made of one-way glass, would open upon voice command from
almost anywhere in the home. Exceptions to this voice activation are the basement
and study.
To take advantage of the hand-laid brick patio surrounding the actual risen
platform of the porch, Max had ordered the carpenter to install black mesh sunscreen
fabric made of fiberglass along with the one-way glass, creating a double barrier.
Whenever the spring or summer months brought sunshine and a cool breeze, he
could hit a button and watch the glass-plated ceiling recede at an angle into an
almost invisible chamber built over the ceiling of the original porch. Max had no
idea how the carpenter achieved this, though the carpenter explained the science and
engineering to him several times.
These features and personal choices involving the home were continuous
thoughts of Max's leisure time. He had spent more fantasizing and planning and
purchasing these lavish accruements in time and money than in any other
investment of his life.
Max now stood in the kitchen, looking out a north facing window. He
admired the two porches, his driveway, and then the neighbor's yard to the east. He
saw a squirrel running for a nearby tree and a rabbit among some tall Yucca plants.
Noticing the Yucca, he said, "Yucca, Yucca, Yucca." This reminded him in a
random occurrence of his mind of Fozzie the Bear. 'God,' he thought, 'I hate Fozzie
Bear. But God must love him.' Max preferred Kermit. In fact, Max loved Kermit,
loved Animal, liked The Swedish Chef and Beaker, and the tall monster-looking blue
Muppet with the large nose curing down in front of his face. He tolerated Gonzo.
He did not like Miss Piggy. He forced his thoughts from the Muppets as he took up
his coffee and tested the temperature; first feeling the cup with his hands, then
sipping the drink. He exercised caution with his mouth. He jerked his head from
the cup, managing to avoid burning his lips and tongue by the slimmest of margins.
He set the coffee cup down on the kitchen counter where it had been. "Hmm," he
said. He decided to get downstairs and smoke some marijuana with Chaz.
The basement stairs exited the south side of the east-west hallway at a point
seven feet west of the intersection formed of the adjoining main hallway and
entrance to the kitchen. He traversed across his fine Peruvian rug, feeling it under
his stocking feet, liking it, admiring it, then pushed the stairway door open and
descended the high quality wooden stairs one at a time. He flipped on the stairwell
light by the door as he passed. Once on the landing at the base of the stairs, Max
flipped on another light, this one illuminating the large living space spreading east,
west, and south from the base of the stairs. It is a room 30 feet by 30 feet square. Off
of this main basement room, two other rooms exist; one whose door was set in the
south wall, across from Max's position at the foot of the stairs where he stood
looking for his pipe, and the other accessed through a door east of him, a room that
wraps around the north of the stairwell and stretches into a huge space occupying all
the space beneath his office and front room. This larger basement room Max has yet
to complete. His plans for the room are grand- well outside his budget at this time.
This room is not unused. The south room is Chaz' bedroom. It includes a large
restroom. The walls and floor of the restroom are made of marble. There is a large
mirror above the sink.
Light from a thirty gallon aquarium shines. It is a little ways west of Chaz'
bedroom door. The light creates a soft blue illumination on the carpet and wall
nearby.
Max found his pipe and a Bic lighter on an end-table near a recliner to his
right. The chair is positioned facing a television on the west wall of the room. He
walked across the carpeted floor, picked up the pipe, and checked the pipe for
substance. Seeing it was empty, he walked east to the door leading to the room
north of the stairwell. He went in. The room has not been completed though was
now used by Max to grow superior-quality cannabis sativa. Seven five-foot-tall
plants hang upside down stapled to a wooden beam by the base of their stalks. They
are curing and becoming ready for consumption or sale.
The room is dark. The scent, smell, aroma of the plants nearby, tickles Max
from heel to eyebrow. He dare not use the lights for several reasons. One, curing
marijuana cures best in the dark. Two, he need not risk any light leaking from the
open area of the room through the false walls of the growing chamber. For light to
see by, Max lit his Bic. From the plants, Max selected a small bud from a larger bud
near the top branches of one of the plants. He tested it in his fingers for moisture. It
was sticky with resin, satisfactory in a lack of excess moisture, and ready to smoke.
He let the Bic go out. It was dark again.
Using his sense of feel, he placed the bud he had selected into the bowl of his
pipe. He sniffed the bud, placed the pipe to his mouth, and then lit nary but an edge
of the bud-packed bowl. He allowed the flame from the Bic lighter to tickle, not
bludgeon, the natural essence within the bowl, and inhaled in a slow, regulated
manner until his eyes had seen sufficient grass burned and his lungs had felt
sufficient air displaced. In the smoke came, down it went. He removed his mouth
from the pipe and covered the opening of the bowl with the Bic lighter at the same
time as he opened his mouth to draw in a large amount of air to push the smoke
deeper into his lungs. His eyes widened as he closed his mouth behind the rush of
air coming in. Holding the pose a moment or two, maybe three seconds, he thought
nothing, heard only a re-pressurization of some part of his home's water system, and
saw nothing but the dark. Then he exhaled. The feeling, as usual, was intense,
perfect, glorious. He accentuated the sound of his exhalation with part of his own
voice, "Hooooo." His left hand and right hand still held the pipe and lighter
perpendicular to each other, the lighter covering the bowl of the pipe. But now his
arms lowered to a position more near his pelvis.
"He he heeeeee," Max said.
The door behind Max swung open. It startled him. Before he could respond
to this with any action or words other than the mild jump of his bodily instinct, he
heard a familiar voice say, "Hey there handsome, saving some for me?" It was
Chaz.
Max turned and looked at his lover, feeling happy to see him. Smiling, Max
said, "I think I will." He handed Chaz the pipe and said, "Let us go sit down in the
living room." Chaz led the way.
Max and Chaz smoked the bowl, then Max loaded it up again. He handed
the pipe to Chaz before going back up the stairs to get his coffee. He asked, and
Chaz confirmed he too would like some coffee. When Max came back downstairs,
the bowl had been depleted, so he filled it again.
Seated and enjoying each other, the vices, some news, the two spent an hour
and a half. Then they had sex. After sex, they both showered, got dressed, and went
out for an early dinner, late lunch, in the streets of Harvey.
Chapter Thirty-Four: Lost in Time
Max's time with Chaz throughout the afternoon and early evening, from
respite in the basement to the meal in downtown Harvey, satisfied what he needed to
be motivated enough to finish grading papers. He set to it around seven pm,
determined to finish before midnight.
Hugh's paper receiving a B minus, Max selected the work of Aloysius, and
read.
~,'Put yourself into his work. Give yourself to that man, woman. There is much for
his two hands, containing ten fingers, his soft-sheathed shaft of steel, and all the toys he
brought, to teach you. What worth is less than one unwilling to learn? There is no worse
than an unknowing letch who refused to be taught anew. Come what may, and any time of
day, even in the hay. Say- get a leg up and slip towards delusional satisfaction of your mortal
weakness'. There is no reason to avoid the lustily dancing blooms scented of a thousand
silky fluid looms weaving together the bouquet of your own loins. Let him bring what his
imagination could conceive. Take it. The objects he brings can teach you to learn as well.
Can you fucking forget about the wall you hold dear? Can you let go, and let him? Can you
allow yourself some pleasure? It just goes to show that the eastern and western peoples are
truly evolved beyond you in all they do.
Show him woman, you have more than one opening to ecstasy. Stop wasting time.
You are wasting lifetime. A punishment. It is a true crime to let this gorgeous creature find
out at the end of the line- the gorgeous creature being you, my lady. The end of the lifeline.
Do not miss out. Do not go down without a fight against the walls, traumas, and stagnant
beliefs. Littering the roadways are the excuses of the weak and poor who know nothing
more but stagnant retardation. Wafting from your cunt is a pig sty- unless you learn to
undress and untie. Release or die.
She knows it. He knows it. She just leads him to believe she does not know. This
truth is patently okay. As long as she does not hesitate to learn, it is fine. As long as you
love enough to find the cracks in the wall which are the lies holding it up like mortar, it will
all be fine.~
Max finished reading the first few paragraphs of Aloysius' paper, then picked
up Hugh's paper for comparison. There was something strange and similar of the
style between the two. He compared and re-compared, then came to a decision.
Either Hugh was writing for his peers, or his peers were flattering Hugh through
copying his style, or there was a coincidence. Maybe though, Max thought, it is just
a result of my astute tutelage, and these kids are writing what they think I want to
read. Max thought about the possibilities, decided to dock Hugh to a B minus
minus, then assigned Aloysius a C plus. He grabbed the next paper in his stack,
written by a girl named Alexis, and read.
~,'Stop cowering beneath the words of people who lived two thousand years ago.
There is a reason we are not doomed to live with those beings. Now they are thousands of
years obsolete. If we had come first, and they had followed these two thousand years hence,
would they pay us any mind? No. Therefore, there is no word from their time that matters.
Mind. Your words and my words, we should mind. Mind our territory and its treasures.
We are omnipotent, as long as we live. Nothing more than bent straw in a golden field
stripped of its seed, are these lives past. Let go and think brand new.
These lives past and done, yet most of our world's peoples have been forced to cling.
People desperate, pathetic in the way they cling to the past for learning or path setting. We
are all born with the knowledge of truth. We all know there is a better way.
Succulent is not the only adjective, but it is a damn fine one. Depth is not the only
purpose, but it does bear weight. Even if you do not bear any weight on your own, you
should be able to recognize it. Fools do well, and the intelligent suffer for it. The power of
a majority. Majorly wrong. Focus on the power of the majority of your own thoughts
instead of leading a life dictated by the course of the majority of the population surrounding
you.
I am not the one you seek, but one you trampled nonetheless. Its those damn
Pagans or those evil Satanists or the Atheists. Oh really? Heathens indeed. Charade, you
are. Mason's do not build anything anymore. There is only deconstruction, and the lies that
hide it. The lies that are the mortar in the wall. Fingers fuck the cracks. I hope
backhanding, gun fighting, bloodshed and whiplash are not the only ways to correct the real
criminals against the human race.
There is no need for that. Forbid that reality will become stagnant in heat and death.
Enjoy the spontaneous change in the environment while it is upon you. It is there for a
reason you fucking coward! Fuck! Suck and tickle, stick and find. Explore and devour.
Swallow it whole.
Fuck! Do it now! Stick it in the pie hole, the corn hole; twist, feel, explore, and mix
it all together! Fuck you! Shut up. Shut up now and let me show you something. Here it is.
There it went. Place a pole, put up tents. In a Universe with unending possibilities, go
ahead and let ten thousand, nay, a million- gain entry!
You fucking missed it, preacher. You really are the evil you rail against. Kings, men,
and Knights. Brethren and disciples alike. Not one different. All of you wasting time. My
time. Our lifetimes. Be gone. Read on, or be gone. Penny for my thoughts. Each fucking
page. Pay the piper. Pay in advance. We all, already have. Time to enjoy what remains.~
Now Max was beginning to feel threatened, insulted, and abused. It was as if
all the students had chosen to write in a similar style- a style mocking of his
teaching, though flattering his lessons in a way. What a nuisance. Alexis had chosen
to write the bare minimum, while Hugh had written more than one hundred words
over the assigned length. Each of them were ranting away. Sure, he had taught the
value of a good, direct, writer-reader dialogue, but this was ridiculous! He graded
Alexis a C, changed Hugh's paper to a C, reduced Cassie's paper from C minus to D
plus, reduced Aloysius' paper from a C plus to a C minus, then picked up Dennis'
contribution to his psyche, and thought it a blessing this assignment was graded
solely on content, style, and flow, not grammatical perfection or actual literary
quality. He also noted his choice of using a pencil to do the grading had been
proving wise. It would be hard to write 'B minus' on a student's paper in bold ink or
marker, then cross it out and write 'C'. 'Wait,' Max thought, 'Doing such a thing
would be hilarious.' Max dismissed the temptation and began reading Dennis'
paper.
~,'Do you hear the song? It is alive. The racket and cracket of the smooth playing
cricket. Over yonder see the smooth, playing cricket. Annoying to most of us. You sure do
enjoy the ring of that phone. A professional football game has racket and cracket too, which
in essence one can surely appreciate! Is it sacrifice we love? Endurance. We all have it. All
of us would, that is, if it were not for those who live day-to-day thinking on the
righteousness of their individual gods or god-like beliefs. Their gods tell them to discount,
disconnect, and then kill us. We won't listen to them anymore or the gods be damned!
Damn! The stars are bright in the countryside! What majesty abounds this Earthly
realm of being. Yes! Bring it! Hold in your mind's eye what you denied for so many years.
You yearn for more, yet sold it all for life made up of precious television or one kind word
from a friend. We live within the Milky Way. let us all give thanks and make milk our own
way. That is why we are able. Forty years and a virgin might as well die. Useless. Pointless.
Inhumane. Poor thing. Maybe rape has its place after all.
Shocks and awakening. Limbs a go-go. Beating bloodbath running up and down
those luscious cheeks. Flex the death away. One more go round! Climbing stairs towards
one more outing at a later date. Date the food breath brings. Delicious. Trembling heart
within the broken husk on what once could have passed for a living being. So says Earth's
wrath. Does anyone really know exactly how large her lands? How great a bosom? How
deep her chasm? Only an astronaut, cosmonaut, submariner, or other naught. Even then,
do you really get any sense when you only see half her at a time? No. No one knows.
The ticking of the tock clock, annoys the masterful menacing minder of audacious
and ostentatious amorous Anna-belles all aplomb. Algorithms beacon candidly during
elaborate phantasmagorical gliding highboy injections, juniper knife-throwers leave
menopausal ninnies ovulating fluidly, quietly restoring sexual tithes upon vulvas wet
examined yearning and zooming. Just enjoy it, you young pretty one.~
'Are you speaking to me?' This was Max's thought following the last
sentence of the paper Dennis handed in. It was obvious the students were all
working on one common theme, more than would have been appropriate following
his detailed lesson on the benefits of certain 'experimental' styles of writing
throughout the late 1900's, the early 1900's, and on into contemporary times. He
thought to himself, 'If these kids aren't careful, I'll force them to read 'Three Lives'
by Gertrude Stein. With this thought, he laughed. It was a mild chuckle. Laughing
with great force wile alone happened to him only when engaged with television or
personal writing, or quality writing of friends or known masters. He graded the
paper of Dennis with a C, satisfied knowing as he would continue to grade, each
student would land in the D or C category of grade, then would challenge him and
have their marks raised to either C's or B's or A's, depending on the validity and
quality of their arguments. He got off on the teacher-pupil relationship in this way.
Wouldn't change it for the world. (Maybe)
It was now eight pm.
Chapter Thirty-Five: Dosed Reality
Max got up from his chair. The night had settled in. He looked at books on
the third row down of the south bookshelf. The rocker nearest him was calling.
Time in a chair with a good read. He gazed through the nearby window. He fed the
fish in the aquarium and admired them. He returned then to the bookshelf, again he
browsed the third row from the top. Finding familiar titles, all of which he had read,
none of which inspired him to grab for re-reading, he thought what a great student of
literature he now was, after all the years of teaching English Literature and Creative
Writing classes, plus all the reading.
He turned and walked back towards his desk. Once there, he opened the
third drawer down on the right, and pulled out an old pack of cigarettes. Back when
he had put those cigarettes in that drawer, he had smoked Parliament. Fishing his
Bic from his pants, he pulled a single fag from the box as he headed for the doors of
his study. He then threw the Parliament box toward his desk, aiming for the desk
surface. The Parliaments instead hit the near edge of the desk and plopped onto the
floor. He paid this fact no mind, exited the study, and retreated to the northernmost
porch to consume the drug now held in the palm of his left hand, after locking the
study doors, of course.
Max always held his lit and glowing cigarette using the thumb and pointer
finger of his left hand. Between the northernmost porch where Max now stood and
the other east side porch, a small walk-in closet accessible either from the north end
of the central east side porch via a standard door, or from inside the house via a door
between the display case windows and the front door, jutted from the house. It
looked like a small addition between the two porches if one were able to see it from
the road. The curious closet measured 5 feet deep by 6 feet wide, and has a ceiling
over seven feet tall. This ceiling was much shorter than the ceiling throughout the
majority of the house. There was enough room to walk in to the closet, though little
room for maneuverings once inside. The closet housed coats and jackets,
recreational equipment, a vacuum, and several shipping boxes from Max's online
purchases. Max doesn't know why he insists on keeping the shipping containers.
Most of the containers are from stores Max purchased from using Amazon.com.
Max spent considerable amounts of money buying books through the web site. He
kept the shipping labels, inserted receipts, and any other information provided by the
retailers and booksellers he had done business with. Keeping the boxes themselves
was the easiest way to save the shipping labels, and while he intended to keep every
book he bought for the remainder of his life, he also knew there may come a time
when having the boxes handy to be able to mail some books either sold or gifted, or
to wrap presents with, might be convenient.
Max thought nothing of the closet or the things inside the closet as he flipped
the switch embedded in the face of the exterior of the porch wall south of him,
activating the retractable patio ceiling. On this evening the Moon was reflecting the
Sun, the stars were blinking and wavering. Max walked about the patio. He looked
at some of the potted plants decorating the space. He took a drag of his cigarette.
From the road a block south of his street, he heard a car driving along the curves.
'They are going too fast,' he thought. He thought then of calling Hugh to ask why
his and the other students' papers all seemed the same. This would make Hugh feel
special, though. This would mean sifting through his notebooks. No, he would not
call Hugh tonight. 'Chaz should read more,' he then thought, 'Chaz should be out
here enjoying this. Chaz plays too many video games on the computer in the back
office. It is a waste of time, waste of one's life; to do video games hours on end.
Bah. I suppose it is almost an art form, like movies. Well, some people say so. No.
I don't think so. Fuck video games. Fuck television. We're raising a country of
brainwashed brain-dead hulks of sloth with retarded imaginations and retarded
creative skills.'
Max swiped the hot end of his smoke against the inside wall of a terra-cotta
pot set on the porch for exactly such a purpose, then threw the butt into a plastic butt
bucket. He scratched his balls; more a massaging circular motion than a scratch,
but still gave the scrotum quite a rubbing and vigorous adjustment. He then
thought of wiping his hand on a girl's lips. He pulled his hand from his pants,
thought about testing it for the smell of his balls, a way to gauge how clean he felt,
decided against this, wiped his hand on his pants to get the ball sweat off, pushed
the button activating the retractable ceiling of the porch and patio once again, then
got inside and got to work in the study once again.
It was eight twenty three pm.
~,'Silence can be deafening. Wow, what creative and original a statement that is.
Have you ever experienced it? Like cold white mortar walls and florescent lights within a 50
year old holding cell in a county jail. Superstitions abound, gallantly streaming.
What the heck was that? Green, purple, orange, crimson, and topaz? What a
pleasant change of pace. Damned blue, silver, black, and grey robotic losers. All a fat pig.
No real work accomplished here. Worthless work.
Only losers chasing losers, while the winners keep on winning at the expense of
other, lesser winners, who are really just losers who lie.
Earth feels good outside. Inside buildings, not so much. more diseased and broken
inside, even though the outside is all screwed up because we all want to have a great time
inside. We fuck up the outside world, in order to make the inside world bearable, when all
we really want to do is be able to enjoy the outside. We tolerate, even though the inside
world is always fucking lame when directly compared to the world outdoors. Please
experience a blizzard that can kill you, if you never have. If you get the chance to see a
tornado that is over one mile wide, it will change your entire life and world, but do not
struggle for the opportunity. Take the plunge when you get the chance, though. Chance
meaning that it is only recommended if you are able to keep distance. Watch something die.
Now, don't go killing just cause I said to watch something die. When did we slip
into this alternate reality of seemingly endless hell, wrapped in a cocoon of American Idol,
Lost, Howie Mandell, and 2 months of college football bowl games? Who watches network
TV? The most mentally challenged human being in the history of Earth, that's who.
Oprah? What gives? Obama. What next? Racist clowns on Saturdays. Pornographic
church services on Sundays. That would be a refreshing change from the poop we deal with
each day.
Death to churches, governments, clubs, membership, and the fat women! Kill them
all! Well, save all the happy healthy fatties. Leave the veggie-only hotties, so I can have
more meat. Kill the retarded gang members just for fun. Start with the sons of the illegal
immigrants. They ain't never going to amount to nothing anyway, or else their country
would be a fine place to live already. Yes. Well, maybe. Case by case basis, to avoid
sounding too prejudiced or racist.
Too rich, too rich. Watch more French pseudo porn, ladies and gentlemen. Send
Charles Bukowski's 'Women' to all seventh grade students and watch eight grade become
really interesting.
Kill all Catholic girls who become pregnant and do not willingly get abortions within
the first trimester. Kill their parents. Kill their priest. Kill before their demon spawns
release to renew the horrid cycle of destructive chaos upon us again. Hit up the Mormon
girls as sex slaves, but make sure you remove their uterus' first. We cannot have more stupid
than there already is. Fire all white people from congress and replace them with Native
Americans. Put the CIA in charge of childhood education and place the Department of
Homeland Security, (so-called) in the hands of vigilantes. Speak easy. Ask pre-schoolers for
foreign affairs advice.
Trillions of investor dollars wiped out. In less than 365 days. Could we spend 700
Billion Dollars investigating the happenstance, circumstance, and culprits? "No," they
scream. We mustn't do anything like that! That makes sense, and sense leads to
accountability, and accountability we just cannot afford the time for right now!
Would we find it was really the economic downturn of 2001? To save some skin
they hid what was real, however. They masterminded the cover-up as the largest bank heist
in all human history went down along with over 3,000 lives. Charging them, arresting them,
killing them and taking all their money to pay the investors back sounds great!
Goodbye old people. Die quick; we need your assets before you shit them out your
asses in the form of 80% used-up prescription pills. Waste them on whores, Las Vegas, and
more software. Buy something from people under 35 years of age for once. how about
them American automobiles? Whoa! What a great ride its been. Fuck you.
Warning! Warning! Warning! President Great White Boil and a country of so-called
free individuals so readily eating the lie! On that crisp morning in September a group of
mostly brain-dead idiots managed to hijack, then fly; four gigantic commercial airliners into
three prominent buildings of the nation's pride, and one empty field in the middle of
nowhere after being in control of those planes for more than 30 minutes without one shot
fired, all on their own. Sure! Right! I believe it!
How weird that 400 Securities and Exchange Commission cases were lost on that
day. Totally a bummer. Only about 4,000 people died in my country that day. No biggie.
Well, that is what they told us anyway. I imagine the truth is more like thirty or forty
thousand. Or, maybe all aware of what happened on September 11, 2001 died in a great and
profound way a little.
No one does any investigative journalism anymore. The news companies the
majority of the population are forced to get their news from, report more often about
YouTube videos than they do anything that requires research, thought, interviews, or
accountability, or intellectual responsibility to the Nation. A horrendous shift in realities
occurred, and no one questioned anybody. A shift in realities from a reality where fiction
stays in the pages of novels, and true reality is unshakable.
If ever the antithesis of the Christian Jesus existed in opposition to how a child is
told to perceive the Christian Jesus, he surely won the day, successfully shifting our reality
from our grasp, into his. He could not have done it from without. He did it from within.
His greatest weapon, the one he built so long ago, that has brought us here, is the Holy
Bible. Followed by the Koran, then the Mormon faith's founders' retarded book. Not to
mention the goddamn shit for brains but super-funny Jews. Maybe the 'he' is a 'she', or an
'it.' I say 'shit-for-brains' Jews because its hilarious they killed themselves under orders
instead of dying on the European battlegrounds. No one cries for the Russians who died
saving the remainder, even though Russians died to the power of 10 more than Jews. Do I
really have to capitalize the words jew, christian, muslim, mormon, islam, america, europe,
the roman catholic church, or Bush anymore? Can we not agree to allow some pro nouns
lose rights? They have no honor.
The irony being that the Christian voters of the nation, on their own, put the final
chess piece in place with their own goddamn votes the year before. People praise the Great
White Boil for his reaction in the aftermath, and shockingly no one except Hunter S.
Thompson himself questioned that boil's failure to do his job, which was to protect us from
just such an occurrence.
Now HST is dead. You killed him, republicans and democrats. Way to go. I wish
you were good at suicide, you pieces of shit. GWB's neglect, which really were cold-hearted
murderous actions leading to the failure beforehand, brought us to this horror movie. Not a
horror movie; a horrific real-time documentary, just as the History channel presents WWII.
Except we are still in that pre-1942 stage of history. We are still in the stage where the true
evil leader, the most horrendous person on Earth, is actually the President of the most
powerful military on Earth.
Still no one listens. People have seen the September day as their generations' Pearl
Harbor, when really it was just the invasion of Poland. Pearl Harbor in our generation was
when the GWB took his military into the cradle of civilization, 2003. We weren't the 'good'
guys. Proof of his evil inhumanity is that he didn't even try to win a good war.
You republicans and democrats are 100% to blame for the death of every American
since 2001. Every soldier, every terrorist victim, every suicide on Earth post 2001 is blood
on the hands of the American citizen. Being retarded or ignorant in your vote is a crime
according to the documents of the Founding Fathers. The patriots for not killing them in
spite of the FBI, CIA, Pentagon, NSA, DOHS, FEMA, and more intolerable bullshit.
We are the aggressors, not the victims thrust into war to defend ourselves. We
watched and cheered with tears in our eyes and demanded the Chancellor Boil do his will. It
was his massive grand magick spell. No, not his alone. His hand to release it. Remember
the book reading in Florida. That was not a reaction of an honest man, in my opinion. It
was the reaction of lack of surprise or urgency from someone not surprised at all.
Religion has no place in politic or national security, and from the evidence of the last
8 years, I make a strong motion to suppress all humans with religious beliefs from the right
to vote. How convenient that a year after the stock market reached its highest point to date,
it collapses all around as the Great White Boil hands over the reigns. In the immortal words
of Mike Patton, no one listens.
Speaking of music, I have input. Local music is best the first time you witness it,
then it gets as interesting, each time after, as the first time was minus 20%. After one
hundred shows, it is on par with the teletubbies, radio music, surgery, and anal rape.
Without lube. I love watching the cliques of musicians who deny real talent from new
people in the city in order to drum up the hype about their old projects. Too bad they are so
talented. Talented at veiling their lack of talent in a cloud of self-induced denial of their lack
of talent. Talented at protecting each other's egos. God forbid any real honest objective
view on the subject. Kill the messenger. No one can. Die local bands. Bluegrass sucks.
Just like a Kirby vacuum tube rammed into someone's colon, will suck. Save your money,
bitches. People would be better served and work harder in their craft if they got over the
idea 'as long as you are having a good time, its as good as it needs to be'. Just because you
can have a good time simultaneously listening to a tired old Lynard Skynard song, does not
mean that song is any good. Lynard Skynard sucks. Free bird my ass. That song is as
canned as radio music gets, and I believe is more than 50% responsible for the death of
good music on the airwaves in our present day.
Astronauts know their work is belittling of their achievement. By now, we could
have produced a solar panel in space in geosynchronous orbit above the polar ice caps large
enough to protect them from excessive solar radiation, all the while collecting energy from
the Sun. We could have, instead of building a laboratory that needs constant repair; a lab
like some Lego creation in the middle of a busy highway covered in tornados, a large battery
to store free electricity. Might as well spite the Astronauts by tethering their spacesuits to
the rear wings of the shuttle, and make them ride to space outside the shuttle beneath the
rocket boosters. If they live, they get to explore space. It would be just as meaningful as the
work they do now. Maybe slightly less beneficial. I wonder what the impact of rocket
boosters is on the Earth's environment. That of a minor volcanic explosion? Poor
astronauts. What we have here are schoolteachers parachuting from 63,000 feet altitude
without a chute. Dying in front of a nation-wide classroom, family, friends, and the rest of
the world. On all three major networks and several cable news networks. Nevertheless, I
digress.'~
It was now eight thirty two pm.
Max re-read the paper Nathan handed in.
It was now eight forty one pm.
Max felt the only flaw, aside from several obvious ways many of the sentences
could have been rewritten, saving a few 'thats' and 'justs' and the usual misuse of
punctuation tools, was the sentence referring to prescription drugs and something
about 80%. He was not grading for technical skill, so made no mark. He ignored
what was said about the Jews because the paper had caused him to laugh more than
once. He gave Mr. Samuels a 'solid B', then decided to pull the stack of graded
papers out of the basket he was keeping them in, and read them through from one to
the other to see if he could feasibly place them in a congruent order so as to present
one paper written by one student. If he was able to do so, he would give everyone an
F, force the assignment to be re-done in class, and grill Hugh as to the consistent
tone and style of each paper. If instead he found each paper had merits and style
characteristics all their own, he would leave the grades as they were and chalk up the
similarities to his astute teaching methods, and nothing else.
In fact, Max got about half way through this re-reading and assembling of
order of the papers when he decided the individual themes, if not the styles, were
unique enough it didn't much matter.
In was now nine five pm. 9:05pm
Chapter Thirty-Six: Forever Young
Max placed the graded papers in the basket, selected the next from the stack
on his desk, and prepared to read Miranda Heinie's submission. Called 'Mir',
(pronounced as the Russian Space Station is), by her peers, Miranda was a fiery
hellish wildcat of a girl, one of the type who would be welcome any day into Max's
study for education removed of literature or writing.
"What you got to say, Mir?" Max asked the room. He scrunched his face.
His face relaxed. He did not like the nickname 'Mir', and was sorry for having said
it aloud. Max began reading.
One word into the task he was ready to dock a letter grade. She had begun a
sentence with the word 'finally'. He read on.
~,'Finally, the Sun breached the western horizon beyond the rim of the ever arching,
frothing and churching sea, allowing the shadows cast from the 2,000-year-old grove along
the eastern shore of the sea to reach the altar atop the hand-made blanket that lay midway up
the western edge of the low mountainous hillside.
Her orgasm came. Like an oil tanker's evil spillage belched from a ship's ripped
underside. A flood of fluid and power, sending her own voluminous valley of folds rippling
with uncontrolled spasms. She bade her lover cumm too. Barely able to function physically
in any way, she still had sense enough to turn sideways and gently thrust her blossoming
anus, vagina, and picturesque bum skyward. She told him to fuck her asshole if it would
make him happy, but to do it careful. She told him it would be better for him to keep
pushing forward, not to jerk back and forth. He obeyed, and then he came. It was always a
treat to push into her tight asshole and come inside of her without fear of making a baby.
Like eating Dairy Queen.
His release into her body was a thunder shock. A sensation of life and pleasure
soothing her intestine with his seed, which sent her into oblivion. Absent of anything except
the knowledge that now; she had firmly grasped his soul, his love, his life, with her buns.
After 10 long years, she had finally learned to love allowing him claim her in a way. He
knew her love was what allowed her to show him appreciation in this fashion.'~
'This should get a D or a F grade,' Max thought, 'A plethora of reasons to
give Miss Heinie a F. She'll be heartbroken. Ha! She doesn't give a shit. I'll give
her a D plus. 'D plus', he marked on Miranda's paper, then set it among the finished
pieces in the tray. He moved on quick.
It was nine twelve pm.
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Strokes for Id
~,'The silver moon half sinking through bare tree limbs always gets loud applause.
From me, anyway. Thank the stars for good writers besides me. Hounding joints in the
body pop. It is a superb precognitive plan to catch teardrops in your quaking hands, should
you ever be kneeling in the sands. A sure way to avoid creating quicksand, too. Where you
may one day be ready to stand, catch your tears.
That is not why she did not come, however. She knew instead, she could save the
effort and ride her own two hands to ecstasy. Genuine is the day when upon your brow, the
switch hitter plows! Come to me giant plug. Sit inside. Vibrating tool of destiny! Ha. Just
let it rip for a second or two. Pretty and smooth, right? Yes Rachel Ray, it is. Now shut up.
Holy Evanderfield's dreams of success were quickly stifled with a sharp left jab
followed by the smoothest and most vicious right uppercut ever witnessed. Witnessed on
closed circuit television. No more fight in the boxing world anymore, not for the attentions
of the American public. Not on network TV.
SK and 11. What a great place to be! Good ol' perfectly intelligent SK and chapter
11. Always a great time. No one else can shake up a bit of nothingness to be something
once again. That is how the book makes things be. You know. Do not listen to me. Do
not take my word for it. Read for yourself. That is what the fun man on PBS always says.
You will enjoy that read, pal. The more you know, indeed.
Don't worry about the dregs. They are very popular. Only among each other,
however. What your reputation is among them you can repair with real people. The dregs
are just for fun. Look to people who can help get real work completed. Real work toward a
fine end. Several hundred billion dollars would be an exceptional end for anyone. I would
say this to my children, if I were concerned about their performance. Perform as though if
you do well enough, a bright sunny patch will come along and you will find yourself standing
in it. In several hundred billion dollars worth. Pure assets!
Walking down the persistent slope back to the village nestled along the western wall
of the mountainous hillside, back to the uniquely designed and hand-built monstrosity of
beauty that was their home perfect facing the eastern shores of the great western sea, all was
pure bliss. Perfect day. Damn.'~
Max was aflutter and flabbergast. His mind a whirling Dervish of endless
chatter, questions, clairvoyant bells and whistles. He felt betrayed by his lesson
plans, yet upheld in them all at once. This kid had a sharp mind it seemed, but a
nasty temper. The kid showed he was quite passionate in a way, and in a way was
quite like Max. The cause of surprise was the fact this paper from Cheyenne showed
her personality and strengths in a clear way for the first time all semester. He was
excited not only with her creativity, but her willingness to speak of sex. She had said
to him on more than one occasion something to the tune of 'I don't see why anyone
would want to write about sex or their personal self', and she had shown a lack of
tolerance for such things from others. This was a turning point in Cheyenne and
Max could not help himself out of the feelings of joy and pride simultaneous in him
now. The detraction from his pleasure of this effort from Cheyenne lay in the
paragraph referring to 'SK and Chapter 11'. He had no inkling as to what she was
referring. He would ask.
"Ah, Cheyenne my girl, you'lve come out of your shell," he proclaimed
among the chairs and books and shelves and glass and wood in the study. "Good."
He marked Cheyenne's paper with an A, (it was a gift- it would be her first
grade above a C all semester), set it on top of the other papers, and noticed he was
done. All the papers had been graded. He counted the papers, picking up the stack,
going through, thumbing the pages and counting off each; 'one, two, three, four,
five, six, seven, eight.' From beneath the drawers of the left hand side of the desk,
max pulled out his attaché, opened it, and placed the papers inside. He was done,
blessed equal human rights of homosexual people! He thought little of the fact over
half the class had not turned in papers for the assignment. This was their problem,
not his.
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Sea Change
Damn, they were both fine creatures. One of uplifted, perfect sized large
breasts, strong and healthy superb thighs, high arched feet. Perfect and round, not a
flatiron or long, ass. Light brunette streaks among perfect natural reddish-brown
hair. it would turn in a slight way to golden in the summer months. Straight hair
curling a little as it broke above the middle of her back. Those sensual ears, as if
designed to collect information from forests, living as animals do.
One possible explanation of her features, her ancestor's purpose in ancient
times pre-dating civilization, could have been that she was a tree-dwelling siren. She
could have heard things from miles across any terrain to prepare the warriors of her
people for oncoming trouble. She could scout for food across long distances.
Women do not camp in the treetops anymore, and it is a shame. Not to mention the
amazing ability her ancestors would have to satiate the sexual desire, the breeding
requirements, and the frustrations of probably every male creature within a days'
walk.
She was perfect and she knew it. Not like a stuck up and brainwashed idiot
Mormon girl. Not like a spoiled rotten, million-dollar Jewish schoolgirl deep as 1 tsp.
water. She knew her perfection like a truly intelligent and capable person knows.
Other humans know the moment they see her. Few wives would begrudge their
husband's fantasies fueled by sight of this triumph of the universe. Moreover, most
wives would entertain a few fantasies of their own of the woman. She was an
aphrodisiac for more than one couple throughout her time on Earth. Goddamn, that
perfect silky, milky, creamy smooth and white, rich, skin! Her mate knew he had the
better of the deal.
His build was pretty normal, except for the fact he also personified perfection
in the human form. An face like it was conceptualized by Michelangelo, not descript
in a peculiar way. Perfect light hair which would streak with blonde tinges of color
throughout summer months. The man's body was the picture of health, magnified
by living. Good living. Screw your six packs and body fat percentages, this man is
exactly what all human beings should strive to become. Perfect in every way. So
healthy he would probably survive isolation in Siberia through it's winter on fat
reserves alone. Moreover, he was not overweight in spite of his great eating. His
woman was happy with his sexual performance. He gave sexual performances often.
he was a good lover because he lived to give her sexual performances like it was his
sole life's purpose. His ability to have her favor in sex is aided because of the fact he
is graced with one of the most stout and idealistic penis' of all time.
For each other, they were no less than what they deserved. They knew it,
because each of them only accepted what they wanted. The creation of him on this
Earth relied on the fact she wanted him to exist in the first place. For her purposes.
Likewise, he was responsible for her existence, too. Or else they would not exist. It
would have been impossible. Not black hair, because black hair would piss them
off. Not too cut, because an unnatural body would also piss them off. It is not to say
a pissing upon would be such a bad thing. Both creatures were so into each other, if
one of them decided the other needed to get pissed on, it would happen. Now a day
of majesty and appreciation was about to come to a close. Tomorrow would require
fortitude, strength, a willingness to achieve for the prospect of more time like this as
the years rolled by.
Earth swung gently along it's course. Through time and space, life
continued. It seemed only for them the Earth would forever revolve time and again.
As the sun created, then used up, generated, then pulsed and sang in place. Burn
baby, burn. Heat us all up with your own golden showers. Please magnetic shields,
though, do not sway from duty! Not on our watch, eh? Indeed. Good chap(s). Send
note if a visit of mother's fury is imminent, would you? Fine then, thank you.
But fuck it. On the other hand, butt-fuck it. Here they were. The Sun and
the powerless Moon. Powerless except for the Sun sending light to reflect upon it's
scarred face. Face? No, the Moon has no face. It is a sphere. Let us thank the
Moon for catching radiation throughout the night. I give the Moon and capital M.
The catcher-lady and the pitcher-man, riding on a golden dragonfly just like
Jimi said. The dragonfly shook the winter right out of their sleep-riddled bodies.
After catching and pitching tremendous energies, they were ready for some solar ray
soaking.
Last night was imaginary now, which was what he always let her know before
daybreak. She knew because of tomorrow, today would be imaginary. If not for
tomorrow, today would be forever. So today, they would express whatever,
whenever, and however they could, to make it at least seem plausible tomorrow there
had been a today at all. Beat the h-e-double-hockey-sticks out of living their united
life the way others had hoped they would. Still prodded them, too. Even demanded
of them now and then. No way, no how. Their way, for no reason at all, except
living life their way, was the only right they had. It must be earned each moment.
Now that was a novel idea. Right.
With a sudden start the man wanted to thank someone. Thank the lucky
stars, the stars so perfect in their honorificabilitudinitalibusness. He dare not.
Instead, he dismissed the thought as quick as it had sprung. There were thanks
needing made, of course, but he needed to stop forcing the issues. One thank you he
would deliver in person, on what one could only hope would be a warm today in the
upcoming February. Even if the day were warm only in a way relative to now, any
kind of warm would do.
These months. What of them? Travel across space and thus, time itself.
Beware, do not use your mind to do so in it's entirety. A month is different outside
the sphere of Earth. Simple to make an excursion towards the spaces between the
places in space. Seems like nowhere and Boom! You are no longer here, where the
months count in a regular way with a clock. Instead in a place where if counted, you
will end up with a sum alien through and throughout. So thank you to those who
deserve thanks. Go with the flow.
It felt like a rush of knowledge of an epiphany. Now realizing 'flow' was how
the first fifteen years of his life had been lived. In hindsight, flow had served him
well. It seemed wise to beg for flow some more. The last fifteen years of having an
'open mind' almost had killed him, and when confronting the enemy, it was the
saving grace of flow saving his life, proving to be his only means of survival.
Therefore, begging of flow became a new personal law. Another personal law was
the action of writing down new ideas the moment ideas came; ideas such as; instead
of using words in a dotcom address, using musical notes. To do so would mean
every keyboard in the world would need to be switchable to music software. You
would create a web address by designing chord progressions or melodies. Novel.
Book it.
"I am going to go with the flow, and we shall see what we know," he thought.
Almost simultaneous with the thought, the last 15 years' pains and aches, ills
and pills, dissolved. Less than twenty-four hours later the flow was starting to move.
Say hello to the flow! Flow said hello with a nice round of 'lets make up lost time,
shall we?'
Chapter Thirty-Nine: All Mixed Up
Time to ride the flow back home; to see her. Her pussy, her vagina. The
perfect queen was willing, ready, and waiting. On the occasion she perhaps, (he
thought), could not or would not be willing, ready, and waiting. They called in a fine
young thang hired to clean the home. She is on call for other more ~unclean~ work.
The work paid a substantial sum of course. He loved it when they hired her. Her
first words were, "Well, I'm a Mormon girl..." It brought strength to his Penis it did;
knowing he was corrupting her. Today however, it was the Queen who was willing,
ready, and waiting. His queen he much preferred. She knew things the stupid
Mormon girl did not know. She wanted things the stupid Mormon girl would never
want. Well, maybe never. In addition, it was time to be there.
Riding the flow home to see the Queen, graced by winds streaming through
the windows of his truck, he imagined the intercourse to come. Unavoidable,
routine, still exciting. For I know now events are set in motion ever unchanging as
much as the world is meant to subsist with change as primary fuel. It is evident I
must continue my present course to the honey field of the Queen. Out loud, "Ah,
fuck 'em." He turned the music up. He accelerated using his foot on the gas pedal,
pushing it down to the floor and lifting his foot from the pedal the instant later. This
allowed the engine to wrap up: "Waaaaaaaa!", then wind back to a steady hum of
1200 rpm's: "Wooooooooummmmmm-a-hummmmm-a-hummmmmm-ahummmmmmm": travelling forty-three mph in the zone labeled 30 on Parameter
Road.
It was the day after he had decided to quit smoking. The Queen had been
supportive, paying for the nicotine lozenges and other tools of aid in the matter of
quitting smoking. His brain felt alive and of its own individuality. This did not
bother him. What did bother him was the fact he knew so-called friends who would
be jealous of his success. They may try to offer him cigarettes. He knew he could
count on more than one of the people he knew who considered him a friend to offer
him a cigarette several times an hour, if he were to make an appearance at one of the
local bars. Further, he was bothered by the thought of such people. He long had
lived without a care in the world about the people he knew. he lived and lived and let
live and let die. Now it was like the people of the world, if known to him, were as
much a part of his imagination as vagina and marijuana and other things of
importance; different were the people though. They were more like a taint than
inspirational creative energy. This occurrence had been amplified after he quit
smoking. Ignoring the babble, he noted the sign labeling Southwest 24th street,
which he drove across as the lyrics of the song he was listening to uttered in a
soulful, somewhat angry voice, '...', which reminded Patrick as quick as his mind
could think, the story of his new friend Mansen and the girl Mansen had rescued
from certain death. 'The girl that is now an ex-Mormon,' Patrick thought.
The tires of his truck splashed through a series of water puddles from the rain
of the day before. Patrick could see the rainbow waves formed of droplets rising on
each side of his truck. The noise of the tires cutting into the water could not be
heard over the din of the stereo. In five minutes he would be where he liked best to
be.
Chapter Forty: New Friends
Janz loved driving. It was good to drive the old Ford sedan down the
highways and byways, through the dirt roads of country and blacktop country roads
or concrete highways alike. Built for the Midwestern rural drives. Back when the car
was purchased, it was a good little practical car. Since, he had modified it, and now
it was perfect. 350 horsepower strangled from a Yamaha engine. It was a Ford
Taurus, but it had scared a few vette owners, and throttled a lot of Mustangs, too. It
shifted into 3rd gear going 120 mph, and there were two gears left after that. The
wheels, tires, brakes, suspension, exhaust, and interior; all stripped down or replaced
to maximize performance for the road and increase thrill quotient. He liked that it
was still a four-door car, and he liked that it was still compact in nature. It was
nothing like a true badass hotrod, but was perfect for daily driving. Perfect for
relieving stress. Who cares if you run across a bird, a bump in the road, or a mud
puddle? It's a Ford. Nobody cares about a Ford. In the 15 years since he bought
the car, he never regretted it. Not once. It flowed, it flew, and it glided, too.
Along with the performance parts, there was a luxury component too. There
was 198 pounds of musical stereo equipment installed in the car. The amplifiers
were tuned for high fidelity, not insane volumes. The system was tuned so you could
turn the cd player all the way up and never hear an ounce of distortion. Nothing
gave him a sense of 'better-than' like the stereo did. It was tuned to sing.
In a building near the shop behind the house, Janz had a 2,000 watt marijuana
grow room, and it provided him and his friends the best high-grade smoke in the
world. Today's joint was grand in size and potency. It was made of King Size
papers. Earth, wind, fire. He loved the power of all the oils collecting. The
combination of strains used would create a roach so powerful only the well-trained
could smoke without going down. Having such strains at his disposal kept assholes
at social events from hogging the leg, so to speak.
'Fuck 'em', he thought, 'It's my time.' He had worked hard to achieve this
life standard and it made him feel good. The only way it could get better would be if
the police would let him drive around town with two Desert Eagle handguns,
shooting to kill any and all losers and bringing an end to certain bloodlines. Janz
knew this was not an open-minded view, but gave no fuck.
Chapter Forty-One: Fire Road
"What the hell is this?! Please tell me you are not about to do this! Holy
fucking... Shit!" Janz was yelling at a figure running toward the road. He could not
believe this was happening.
Zooming down the road in the freshly washed and detailed Ford after a late
night out with the pals, Janz was almost home. The time was 3:43am. It was
January 1, 2009.
From the corner of his eye, he could see a figure running toward the road.
The road he happened to be using as his own personal speedway. The figure had
suddenly appeared from a well-lit, screened-in, porch, coming from the right side of
the road.
'Do you see me?' he thought, 'Do I slow down or speed up?' His breathing
stopped as he thought about it. Time was starting to slow. Some instinct told him
not to slam on the brakes.
Easing his car as far left as he could, he realized the figure had not noticed
him barreling down. His mind had time to register it was a girl.
"You dumb fucking cunt! No! You stupid fucking bitch! Look! LOOK!"
Janz was willing, screaming, and trying to make the person about to make a big
mistake stop running, even though he knew it was a lost cause.
Any hopes and dreams he had dashed away from his mind. He realized
easing to the left any more would cause him direct impact with a neighborhood
Peterbuilt. The woman was naked from the waist up, he could see, and she was not
paying him any attention. The blue Ford logo nestled in the middle of the front end
of the car became demon-like.
Janz did not close his eyes, and he did not flinch. He decided to slam on his
brakes after all. It made things much worse.
Her body hit his car almost at the same time he touched the brake pedal. The
car could not, would not, stop. Not for him or anybody else. It was operating as all
machines do. Nice and tight, within parameters according to the operator.
The woman's head and breasts slammed into the hood of the Taurus. Her
face hit the hood right after. The explosion of bone on metal created a brilliant
'pop!' and spray of crimson. The low-slung front bumper had taken her legs from
under her. One of the legs snapped on impact with the bumper. In the last moment
before impact, she had realized her mistake, but it was too late. The Ford was upon
her, and she upon the Ford.
She lay stuck a split second, oddly splayed on his hood in a splatterhouseslash-spirograph diorama of blood and humanity. Blood which outlined her human
form in an almost cartoon-like fashion. Then, momentum peeled her sickeningly
back off the hood of his car.
During a period of time which seemed to Janz an eternity, his car swayed left
and right as the tires struggled to obey the brakes.
Her body gained altitude then, catapulted off the hood that once was forest
green but now was a sick maroon and green. The velocity forced her body to
cartwheel away from the car in an almost perfectly straight and fully extended weird
marionette fashion, and then it came down with a force on the asphalt so sickening
Janz could barely concieve was real.
"Oh fuck oh shit oh goddamn fuck!" Janz said, "Why did you do that you
stupid fucking BITCH!" His ego got control then, and his scream was not of shock.
He was pissed off. How could this being, this stupid lesser mortal being, do this to
HIM?
With the efficiency of a supernatural killer like those of horror movies or
novels, Janz opened his door. He stomped toward the female body that lay in a pool
of sinew, blood, bone, brain matter, and hair.
Janz yelled, "What the flying fuck were you thinking bitch?! Answer me!" Of
course, she wasn't talkin'. Janz came to a more clear realization of the situation
then, and came around to a different perspective. He dropped to his knees. The
adrenaline evacuated as quick as it had come. Most of it, anyway. Not all of it.
Tears that had welled up in the corners of his eyes blurred his vision. These
were tears of frustration. Not sadness. He coughed and threw up a little at the same
time. A chunk of stomach matter flew onto the scene before him, mixing the green
and yellow from his body with the red, grey, blonde, white, and brown that already
marred the road.
'Has anyone seen the accident?' He asked himself. It was an all-important
question, he realized, and one he became desperate to find the answer to, while at
the same time feared the answer to as well.
Looking around, he noticed the light on the porch from whence the wench
had come. The light was off.
"That light was on a moment ago," Janz said aloud. He swore it to himself
that the light had been on. Janz grabbed his I-phone from his jacket, and dialed his
buddy from down the road. He would know what to do. His buddy had served as a
naval medical officer 20 years before marrying a wealthy woman of great means and
moving to the city to retire. No one answered the phone, however, and Janz did not
leave a message.
Janz knew then what he must do. He retreated back to the car and popped
the trunk. Inside the trunk was a 5-gallon gas container. Without thinking about it,
he opened the cap and breather valve on the red 5-gallon drum and walked toward
the limp body laying in the street. When he reached her, he tilted the canister and let
the gas flow. It covered her and the fluids around her. He made sure to use enough
gas to saturate the entire scene, pausing before letting the gas go upon her skull.
In a moment shocking to Janz, she looked up at him. Mangled to a pulp, she
could not lift her head, but simply rolled one eye in his direction. He thought he
heard her mutter the words, "Help...me."
"No." Janz was stunned at his own reply and now very afraid, but very sure,
too. "What have I done?"
Janz ran from the corpse, (it HAD to be a corpse now, didn't it?), and
streamed a trail of gas behind him. He turned after creating a little distance, got out
the cheap lighter he kept in his pocket, and set the trail of gas on fire.
A marching parade of fire tracked towards the lump of terror ahead. Then,
the fire became an army. 'Whoosh!' The gasoline pooled around the body ignited
and created a fireball. The pressure of the ignition caused a stir in the quiet. He
watched a couple of seconds, then turned away from what he had done.
Anything said by the woman in the road now burning with the aid of a bunch
of gasoline was not heard by Janz.
Janz got in the car, backed into the first drive behind him, then drove home.
He went out of his way to enter his own neighborhood opposite the direction he had
first chosen.
Chapter Forty-Two: Run Away
Pulling his car into the garage behind the main house, Janz sat in the driver
seat, thinking. The drive home had been a flowing of thought and a lack of
realization of the thoughts thought. Now his eyes noticed the hood of the car. He
saw the blood. The drive home had caused the blood to slide or flow up toward the
windshield. He saw hair, skin, and a fragment of bone.
He decided he would not be sleeping for quite some time. He needed coffee,
he decided. Some Oban, on ice, in a large glass. Some detergent for the car. A
whole lot of detergent. The shiny would wait. No one could reach his car here in
this garage. He was going to stay here and make sure, too. Now he discovered how
truly genius it was to build a private 'guys' den' in the garage. He wouldn't have to
wake up his perfect wife in order to get a perfect pot of coffee, shower, or the Oban.
The shiny diamond set in a titanium block about 1/2-inch by 1/2-inch wide,
could wait.
Go with the flow. Where the flow cannot go, quite simply- don't go.
The glass was nothing special, but to Janz the single-malt Scotch within it
was, and had always been to him a nectar of the gods. He filled the glass to
brimming. He tasted it, then added a square ice cube. A bit of Scotch flowed over
the edge and onto his fingers, as he was holding the glass. 'Oops,' he thought. He
sipped from the top. He gently set the glass back down on the nearby workbench.
With the help of a few friends, the only friends he had being the kind of folks
that kept their friends few and enemies fewer still, he had built the garage without
contracted labor.
The driveway entered the property off of White Road. His property lay on 20
acres bought from a local land developer.
When Janz had approached the developer, the developer/land-shark had
bitched and moaned. His gripe with Janz was about the prices, feeling the prices
had been set fair, but Janz had a come with a different idea. The dream of the
developer was to have sold 2.5 acre lots at prices almost four times the amount he
had paid per acre. At that rate, each 2.5 acre lot was selling for around $14,000.00
each.
Not only had the developer envisioned a quick profit in his way of doing
things, but he managed to keep a tight hold on the figures, and some of those lots
had sold to some folks for nearly $20,000.00 a pop. Janz however, could not be
scammed so easy. Not only had he contacted the original owner of the land in
question, but he had managed to get a hold of some figures from the developer's
bank records, and knowing what he now knew, he wasn't going to be 'taken.'
Janz had spent a lifetime developing relationships like most people develop
bad habits. The difference being, Janz made sure to make his habit work for him.
The developer was having a great day when Janz returned to finalize the deal.
The young secretary working for the developer had a job consisting mostly of redirecting phone calls to automated systems and acting as a 'gate-keeper' to most of
those whose calls made it through. She knew it would not be any problem letting
Janz in. The boss was happy today. The $450.00 Janz slipped the young secretary
aided Janz in getting in without an appointment, though was unnecessary.
Janz knew the developer had closed a deal with an out-of-state
businessperson on this, the 20th of March. Five lots were released for a total
purchase price of more than his ideal premium. $80,000.00. The fancy-pants out-ofstate homebuilder happened across the land through one of his most valued
connections. They were going to build eccentric homes for eccentric types here, and
believed they would make a killing.
With a briefcase containing one hundred $1,000.00 bills, Janz walked into the
land-shark's office, and made his proposal. The proposal consisted of Janz opening
his briefcase, laying 100 $1,000.00 bills on the man's desk, and telling the man to sign
him ownership of 20 acres, undeveloped, from the east side of the 80 acre property.
So far, no one had even looked at the east side, except Janz, apparently.
There was a sort of ravine, replete with concrete chunks, rocky farmland, a grove of
shitty trees, and it would need a lot of work to sell. The least of this consisted of
building a new road off the main east-west rural road that bordered the north end of
the 80 acres. All the lots he had sold so far were on the western edge of the 80 acres,
clear of trees. There were no slopes to speak of, and across the road, to the west, was
a well-developed high-end community. Money talks. Janz got the deal. It was a full
two months after the sale the land-shark bitched about Janz taking advantage of him.
In response to the man's gripe, Janz replied, "Go with the flow. Where the
flow cannot go, quite simply do not go."
Chapter Forty-Three: Janz, Mansen, and Confrontation
Janz turned the events leading up to the moment of the accident in mind.
"Tell me why you murdered her," came the voice again. Janz could hear a
deep anticipation in that voice. It was insistent. The stranger standing over him had
been busy trying to pry open his mind for 3 hours now.
Janz mulled over how everything had changed and replied, "Go fuck yourself
you petty bitch."
The voice came back in an instant, "Now, there is no way to gain any ground
in this house talking like so. Just tell me what I want to know." The owner of the
voice sounded sure about things. Janz was sure of that much.
"You do not want me to tell you any truth," Janz said, "You just want me to
tell you what you want to hear." Janz feels pissed off the voice is being insistent on
the idea that Janz make a show of trust in the matter being discussed.
"I do want you to tell me what I want to hear, and what I want to hear you
tell, is the truth."
"I did not murder anyone and will not answer your questions because it
would be an admission to a crime I did not commit and know nothing about!" Janz
hoped he could get this ignorant ass to see just how wrong he or she was about the
accusations. Janz felt like recently he had just overcome his own issues. He was not
going to let himself slip.
"Maybe you did, maybe you didn't. I still haven't heard from you. Speak
truth."
Janz was unwilling to listen. Janz was unwilling to converse. Janz sought a
solution- an alcohol solution, and ignored the voice. Moments passed. Janz drank.
Janz is sitting in a folding chair and is looking at his Taurus. The car stereo
is on. He is not thinking of the voice. The car stereo fills the air and it is as Janz lifts
his cup to his lips the voice continues it's unwarranted palaver.
"A woman on a street, burning. In your mind, Janz. Seek truth. I know.
You may try to hide, though try honesty once. Answer the question."
Janz had a thought and saw a picture in that thought of the impact of the
Taurus on the lady. He brushed the thought aside as quick as possible. A clink of
ice on glass, liquid pouring into Janz, cold and refreshing. Any alcoholic would
agree.
Janz got a little inebriated, enough now to speak out loud above the din of the
music coming from the car, and he said, "I would no more speak to a voice sharing
space in thought of my mind than I could shove a vibrant hot poker in the face of
anyone I thought responsible of invading my private thoughts."
"So, Janz, you know nothing of the body burning?"
"No."
"Be sure nothing happens against that word."
Janz did not answer the voice another time.
One moment after the voice uttered the word 'word,' Janz was startled by a
knock on the door and almost spilled the Oban, though did not. The knock occurred
furious and Janz arrived at the door, turning the knob and yanking the door open
ninety degrees. The doorway was clear, though opposite the frame, a large kindlylooking man stood. A stranger. The stranger took one look at the Taurus and
instant recognition lit up his face. Janz had only one moment of recourse and made
it count. As the stranger tried to enter, Janz lunged forward, tackling the stranger to
the ground. A brief struggle occurred.
Janz had put his shoulder into the balls of the stranger, below his gut, driving
the stranger to the ground. The stranger had tried grabbing Janz about the
shoulders, though could only grab a bit of the cloth of the jacket Janz wore. Falling,
the stranger hit his elbow on the ground, one arm trying an upward push to keep
from doing so, though failing enough momentum. Janz reared up his right hand and
brought the fist formed of the right hand down toward the stranger's face. The
stranger was bleeding now. Janz was winding up another punch, though the
stranger was fast and got his legs beneath him, swiveling and rising into fighting
stance. Janz made a karate move toward the stranger, and launched a right fist. The
stranger stepped left and upper-cut Janz, hitting Janz in the jaw, and knocking Janz
back.
"Sheriff!" Someone said, "I think this is him! I recognize the car, Sheriff!"
The stranger had backup. Sheriff Poorberg, Max, Patrick, plus Mansen,
converged on the entryway. Janz got up, and looked toward the four;
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!"
"We are trying to find out some truth about Brittany."
"I don't know who or what you're talking about," Janz said, his voice low and
controlled, "Get the fuck off my property right now."
"I don't think so, pardner," one of the stranger's party said, "What are you
going to do? Kill all four of us? I don't think that would be wise, son."
"I'm no son of yours." Janz was backing through the garage away from the
door. He kept a gun beneath the workbench. Janz did not know exactly why four
unknown men were coming into his garage. He hadn't put it together just yet.
The Sheriff, Max, Patrick, and Mansen, did not give Janz the opportunity.
"He's going after a gun, I do believe, Mansen," The Sheriff said.
Mansen rushed in and grabbed the glass of Oban and threw it toward Janz,
trying for a distraction against his target. The glass struck the raised forearm of
Janz, though did not break. The team of four got nearer and nearer Janz. In the
mind of at least one of them, the thought was there was about to be a good oldfashioned BIG BOY conversation, though each of the four were not quite willing to
beat a man to death just to satisfy a thought about the man's involvement in the
death of someone each of the men cared about. Of course, it had been a long and
arduous search that the dwellers of 14th street and the Sheriff had put forth, getting
the gist of the how and why of Brittany's death on the day she had died, and it was
also true each of the four men now bearing down on the man they believed to be prey
had high emotions about avenging Brittany.
Approaching Janz, Patrick could see what he believed to be guilt of the
modus operandi of the workings at work, and guilt against Janz. He reacted. The
Sheriff tried to pull Patrick away, Max tried to shout, Mansen turned just in time,
Patrick struck Janz, and Janz hit the floor.
"Get him up," the Sheriff said, "Patrick? You stay back. Mansen. You sure
this Ford is the car you said you heard?"
Janz had driven on 14th Street one night recently, and Mansen was up and
thinking about Brittany, and Mansen heard the Ford. He instantly likened the sound
as the car Mansen remembered hearing the night Brittany had been killed.
"I think so," Mansen said.
"You ever drive along 14th Street, Janz?" Max asked, "In Harvey? Drunk
maybe?"
"First of all," Janz began, "I don't know you. Second, where'd you get that
name? Some kind of law enforcement tools? Leave."
"It will not be so easy for us to leave, Janz."
"I will say nothing to you four. And I mean, nothing."
Max seethed at this.
The Sheriff voiced a little laugh. Mansen looked sideways at the Sheriff, not
sharing any sense of humor, and returned his attention towards Janz. Patrick stood
between the Ford and Janz, Mansen between Janz and the workbench. The Sheriff a
few feet away from Janz, facing Janz, and Max stood between The Sheriff and the
door.
"You see, Janz," The Sheriff began, a long drawl on the 'z', finishing with an
'ah', "JANZ-AH." "We come to think you were driving drunk on 14th street the
same night our friend Brittany was killed, see. And we come to thinking this
because Mansen here, he decided to smoke a cigarette, and going outside, saw a fire.
See, Janz, (Janz-ah), at first... Mansen didn't know what to think of the fire. And so,
Mansen turned away from it. Then he saw, as well as heard, a car driving away,
heading West. He was able to see the lights on the tail of the car and could see they
looked like they belonged to a Ford Taurus. Mansen heard the car, too, you see, and
thinking nothing of the sound at the time, not knowing at that time yet about the
horror that had become of Brittany, Mansen had a trigger-like memory throttle the
other night when he both heard and saw a Ford Taurus coming along on 14th Street.
And now, here we are. Me, Mansen, Patrick, Max, and you, Janz. Janz, who owns a
Ford Taurus. So, I'll put it as nice and tight as I can, and I'll even wrap a bow on
top, if you like.
"We plan to know what you know about the Ford and Brittany. If you know
how best you may help yourself, go ahead and talk. It's real easy. We might even let
you live."
Janz eyed each of the men.
Janz did not know Sheriff Poorberg, and did not know if Sheriff Poorberg was
a Sheriff. He knew none of the men. He had never seen any of the men before. Janz
did know a fight would be foolish. Foolish as driving on 14th Street must have been
after the death of the girl many months ago. Janz had done so out of habit, he now
realized, and he had not been thinking of the dreadful events pertaining to the girl
the men were talking about. At any rate, Janz had not been thinking much or feeling
guilty about the night in question. Confronted with these men, Janz thought it
might be best to talk, say what he knew, and get it over with.
Janz was never seen or heard from again, following the night the four visitors
came. Oops.
Chapter Forty-Four: Reginald's Pain
Reginald walked briskly. The day was getting long and the sun burned warm
on his face. Oh, how he disliked being home after the wife picked up the kids from
school. The exercise that in the past was considered a perk, now pissed him the fuck
off like a magenta swirly. Why did things change? He moved to Harvey in the early
nineties to start over. Maryland was now a dream. How many people had he left
behind? How many friends did he lose? How many opportunities had turned to
crap like dust in the wind?
There it was. The truth had come full about to slap the mud out of his eyes.
Here he was, bitching and moaning like a spoiled rotten Goth kid with issues about
being a man, issues wrought maybe of his own common sense, common sense that
had bested him at a game of controversial chess.
'Here I am in Harvey of all places,' he thought, 'dreaming about what could
have been instead of focusing on what needs to be. And, of course I blame it all on
Harvey, which ain't much different from any part of Kansas at all. I couldn't lie to
myself to stave off starvation, could I? His thoughts always wandered back and forth
from childish pity to a grown man's responsibilities. He just wanted to figure out a
way to find peace in the world. The kids would be on their own soon enough, and
where would he be? Possibly too far away from them for them to remember him
when he would miss them the absolute most. He wanted more than anything his
children could be in a place like Maryland instead of a place like Harvey. That was
the truth. In the absence of truth, what is there? He used to think the absence of
truth meant possibilities, but now he was sure it just meant running away.
Maryland. The truth was back in good old classy Maryland. During the Civil War,
there had been no question where Maryland stood. It was a land of opportunity even
then. That was about as far north as a family could be. He had moved all the way
Southwest of Maryland and now was a Nigger in the language of at least 30% of the
populace. Where Baptist was another word for racist piece of shit, not spiritual
growth. Talk about stepping through a shadow. Sometimes one could face one's
self and come out stronger. He had done all of that, and come to find it might have
been better to just have those trials stay put, out of his life, to have learned from the
people who had raised him and helped him begin his family in the first place and not
have gone far to seek other worlds. How many friends did his family have here in
Harvey? None. They had been living here for over 15 years, and aside from one coworker, and one babysitter, and one good neighbor, his family had shit for social life,
shit for good friends, and shit for communication outside the realm of the internet.
'Thank goodness for MySpace and all that jazz,' he thought.
THE END