Wednesday, March 25, 2015

The False Flag Fugitive Chronicles

It's a funny thing, killing people. The more you do it the more necessary you think it is to continue. But the more you do it the less you know why. It's the slipperiest of slippery slopes. That's why you don't want to get into that business in the first place.

Yet, so many walk with hands incarnadine.

The cult of killing has its own unique rules of miraged morality. If you're angry at someone and kill them you're a criminal. If you're angry at someone and order someone wearing a uniform to kill them, both you and the killer are heroes. That's how the state protects itself. But the veil of morality is wearing thinner and thinner. We just wanna kill in the end.

In the old days a high priest would come out and bless the sacrificing of the human. Today, we have lawyers issue memos to sanctify our deeds. God help anyone who believes there's a difference. But killing is like eating a food that never sates your appetite. The hunger still grows - and so must the futile killing. At some point, the desperation boils over.

That's when you get a "false flag" operation. False Flag is when you're itching to kill but can't find an enemy or your enemy doesn't justify being killed. So you attack yourself, blame the attack on your enemy of choice, and voilà you gots yourself a bona fide war on your hands! Of course, that also takes a corrupt and naive populace unwilling to pursue the truth. So far, the rulers we've put in place have a stunning track record of success with false flags, even after the truth comes out no one remembers the lie because everyone was in on it.

Not that I can call anybody out. I got swept up too. And I mean suckered royally. "Gosh! Really?? Wow!!" That about sums up my critical reaction to the line of bull fed me. I didn't want to see the lies nor does the world want to see lies. I'm paying the price for my stupidity now. The rest will pay later - and just as dearly.

I don't suppose it matters to retell the lies told me. I'd be speaking to those without ears. But as a matter of record it went something like this. Our dear President felt unloved. He set a record number of vacation days because like a sulking Nixon on the night of his reelection he knew his con would come to light sooner or later. How ironic the con has yet to be admitted - and as the sins daily mount at this point it never will be.

I can't tell you how much that fucks me.

I was such a clever boy!

Instead of Special Forces I was part of Special Services. Yeah, man, we were even "more elite". Moron me swallowed that even with skipping the grueling training Special Forces requires. Those guys selecting us were smart. They knew to select greedy schmucks looking for shortcuts to glory. We were to feign an attack on the White House. It made sense. There had been high profile stories recently of security breaches and also of the Secret Service engaging with hookers and drunk driving. What really got me was the White House official who showed up giving us this big rah-rah speech on the importance of our exercise. We 16 lap dogs licked up the drivel of self-importance we were handed.

It's really heady when everyone's telling you you're great for the first time in your life. These guys were pure masters of psychology; never a wrong tone or inflection. They played us with a delicious zeal. What a bunch of obvious rubes we must have been to them. I wanted to believe. I wanted to believe so badly I was doing something important, that I was somebody important and that the people I trusted were the moral icons they pretended to be. Well, fuck, I was O for fucking three on that.

What saved me - if I can use that term considering my situation - was the shred of doubt I let stay inside me. I hated it but I couldn't shake it. It was all too easy, too convenient, too neat a fit. I was giddy when picked and the rest was a cake walk laid out for me. Looking back, the self-satisfied smiles on the faces of those professional liars were clearly mocking us. Part of me knew it should have been harder. But that voice wasn't loud enough to ask to pull out of our elite squad. Besides, an even stronger voice (rightly) told me that would be a dangerous move to make - lethal, in fact.

The night of the operation my little voice was screaming. But damned if I was going to listen to it. In the end, it saved my life. When our "radical Islamic terror attack" on the White House began I instinctively separated from the group. "Life is here," said my voice. And from my hidden vantage point I watched the slaughter come from all directions. I also knew I was in deep, deep trouble. The area would be sealed off and searched allegedly for precautionary reasons but the real reason being they would count only 15 bodies and then come hunting for my idiot ass with a vengeance.

I had the advantage of them having exposed themselves during the attack. Not taking it seriously yet the commander of the assassins sent out lone searchers in a loud public display of concern for security. I knew my only window was in this time before the bodies were counted. I had to trust myself as never before. No time for my usual self-doubt or self-pity. You got in you, man! Use it! So I clubbed the searcher who passed by me, dragged him into the bushes and swapped gear.

I bluffed my way out, ordering some ignorant underlings around as needed (the professional liars had taught me something after all) as I raced to "secure" the grounds. I had guessed Colonel Sanders (real name) who'd been our leader was in fact our betrayer too. I threw his name around as I commandeered a car and exited the ever tightening lock down. I drove an hour north towards Baltimore careful never to take a main road. I parked the car leaving the keys in it hoping someone would steal it even with the government tags on it. Then I started walking, knowing I could never go back to my life again.

The "raid" was a stunning success. Approval ratings for the President and his hardline harping on the perils of tolerating evildoers soared to all time highs. "These are men who will stop at nothing to achieve their goals. Life and liberty mean nothing to them compared to their agenda of ultimate control and power. They must be destroyed if we are to preserve our way of life." Watching that speech on TV I became both the most wanted and unwanted man in the country. My little voice was speaking again, telling me things were about to get much, much worse. It was right.

Monday, March 23, 2015

Part 5: Letting Go

So I'm putting the penthouse up for sale. A steal at 4.9 mil. The money doesn't really mean anything to me and the sale should be easy. Like the broker keeps harping, not that many penthouses to go around in big D. The $40,000 yearly dues is outrageous, of course. But the samurai museum is close by and I like the Harwood district. Or did, anyway.

What means anything? That 40,000 dollar figure nags me like a rock in my shoe. That's what the Woman Of Fabric grosses in a year. When she mentioned that in conversation I wanted to interrupt and say, "Hey, that matches my yearly dues!" What a jackass. It made me realize the price I've paid over the years for riding on my money. I've nothing else to point to! I felt threatened by her, she bringing out long buried insecurities. I never feel threatened by the moneyed idiots I run around with.

I couldn't stop pacing, like a caged animal I was. She drove me out of there. I can't go to her but I couldn't stay where I was. So now....what?

I'm in a hotel right for the foreseeable future because I feel so...temporary. No place is home. I keep thinking back to that tour of the homeless shelter and my thinking, "That's me! That's me!" It's trailing me around like a bad smell. What gets me most is I can't see the difference between them and me. Over and over I try. If anything, I'm the lesser.

Secretly, I'm worried. I find my millions becoming oppressive. Of course, I know the smart ass response if I tell that to anyone. I could give up my money like Jesus said to. But even that feels like just one more way of running away. I can't just go away, I need to go to.

I thought about giving money to the Woman Of Fabric. Not as an apology or restitution. I'd have to give a piece of myself for that. In that I am bankrupt. On one hand I feel it would mess up her life. On the other I feel money should never be an obstacle for her. She deserves to live. Perhaps I'll simply keep her situation monitored and step in if necessary. I did put her in my will. Perhaps dead she won't find me so objectionable.

One of the hotel maids is young and kind of hot. Took all my efforts not to show my dick to her. Having lost my taste for hookers I want to expose myself to regular people. The rich can be losers too, senorita!

I may gradually strip my way down each day. It's ridiculous but this one crumb feels like the only real thing exciting in my life. I want to stand there before her naked and erect as if it's perfectly normal, having a regular conversation. Complete role reversal. If she allowed that I'd leave her a thousand dollar tip. But you can't tell her of the money beforehand. I have to know she's OK with it first. I can imagine the story she'd tell when she got home.

Well, hell, I guess that's a direction I'd like to go into. But that's not going to lead to anything - even if it does interest me more than anything else at the moment. For a while the Woman Of Fabric thought I was a real person. Funny thing is, I felt like one in her presence. The clock always struck midnight when we parted and I turned back into a pumpkin. But showing my boner to the maid is all I really am, lady. Can you really say you want to friends with someone like that?

Or should I simply have not betrayed you and let you decide? Oh, my.

Sunday, March 22, 2015

How Am I Still Alive?

4:45 AM. Everything is quiet. Perhaps it's true and this is nothing but a mad dream. Can it be! Can it be? Oh, the relief. I'm still angry but I should not have done what I have done.

My mind is playing tricks. The fog in the morning gets thicker. So little rest. I cannot stay here without hope! Where is the hope? There's never been hope! What I thought was hope was no hope at all. But that was my only hope.

Scheisse! Scheisse! The quiet seduced me. I should be dead, I just know it. I'm right. I'm always right. There is nothing to live for. Who can say differently for me? Who ever loved me? They said I was not worthy. I tried. I really did try to be somebody. I thought I could have something to offer. But that was too much to hope for.

They ride their high horses but I saw through them! If they were as great as they said then none of this would have happened! Do any of them realize this? It's the Great Question of our age. But never do they question themselves. That's how I knew they'd never question me. I have to say it was a glorious ride. What a dream - if I were allowed a dream. Must never let them know what I really wanted or they'd know me a fraud.

Everyone loved me, praising me with their lips. We made our own myths. I dared dream as no one had dare before! Only I had the imagination, the vision. Is it true it was I who betrayed me? That thought I must share with no one.

Was I a success or not? It was a mirage, wasn't it? How very painful. I never thought it through. The Successful Lie, what does it mean? Part of me knew it meant doom in the end, yes, I realize that. I just hated people feeling they were better than I! It drove me insane! This madness forever plagues me. I can never reach their level. Just wishing and wishing and wishing...never getting.

I must pretend to the end. Show I too can have a personal life and true love. Please, oh please, let someone pretend with me so I'm not exposed as the World's Biggest Loser. The criminals can call me criminal, but don't portray me as a loser! How is it the other criminals have wives and children? What is the secret? I know only of the suicide of love.

Yes, it was the appearance of success I had, not success itself. So many followed in my footsteps! We thought ourselves clever finding this shortcut, laughing at fools struggling for love. The ones who knew the truth we got rid of. The power was intoxicating! What else is there to do with nothing real to live for? The Day Of Reckoning must be delayed at all costs! After that, there is nothing. There can only be nothing.

Love. It favors so few. If only God had smiled upon me. Then I would not have needed to create my own gods! Is there no god who can give life? So much misery in the loveless world. That was my currency! They could never blames themselves so I gave them someone to blame. They took to it with a hungry vengeance! So exciting to see my utter acceptance! For a time I felt alive. Who can resist that feeling?

I made a mockery of them and still they do not realize this. Afterwards, seeing the total destruction, will they turn their backs on me and grow up? Will they no longer see freedom as the enemy and control as the savior? Will enough terrorists remain to eliminate the truth-tellers and keep darkness safe in the world? Will they go so far, repulsed by me, as to even give up the slavery of money? Oh, how I would be branded then! It's unbearable to think of!

This will be the end of the age of war too; the romance of it forever gone. Never again can a voice like mine rally tens of millions of men to a false calling. How I will be hated in the coming world of peace. I cannot face it! I will be deemed the lowest of the low, the One Most Deceived. Can even death set me free?

How am I still alive? Shouldn't I be dead already after what I've done. And yet, here I breathe after mountains and mountains of self-destruction. Could I be wrong and my efforts not been an entire waste? Yes, surely that is why I am still alive. I shall go up to the surface today and award medals to those who keep fighting. Who's to say what is a lost cause. Oh, this is wonderful!

I shall marry Eva too. She must accept! That too will show my life has not been a complete waste. Just one little scrap would mean the world! Did I not try to stop the cruel killing of animals with my position of power? But I must hedge my bets so I don't seem the deluded fool. I will write me will after the marriage. If I live we can laugh about it later. If not, I'll appear the sober realist who faced the gritty truth.

I hate these moments like this! I want to live! I want to liiiiiive!

April 20, 1945. The Führer's bunker.

On 20 April, his 56th birthday, Hitler made his last trip from the Führerbunker ("Führer's shelter") to the surface. After midnight on 29 April, Hitler married Eva Braun in a small civil ceremony in the Führerbunker. After a modest wedding breakfast with his new wife, he then took secretary Traudl Junge to another room and dictated his will.

On 30 April 1945, after intense street-to-street combat, when Soviet troops were within a block or two of the Reich Chancellery, Hitler and Braun committed suicide; Braun bit into a cyanide capsule and Hitler shot himself. Both their bodies were carried up the stairs and through the bunker's emergency exit to the bombed-out garden behind the Reich Chancellery, where they were placed in a bomb crater and doused with petrol. The corpses were set on fire as they were given the same chance to live as they gave.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Babe Ruth At The Unemployment Office

"George Herman Ruth. Age 52. Held various odd jobs over the years. Hmmmm...don't stay too long at one place, do you? No skills listed...Unmarried...attitude..."


"Excuse me?" The proper woman in her proper pant suit looked over her half-lens glasses at the slovenly subject sitting beside her prim and proper desk.

"Incorrigible," he repeated more strongly. "That's the word they used."

"And who might "they" be?"

"Reform school. That's what they all said about me."

"Yes, I see you were placed at St. Mary's Industrial School for Boys when you were seven. Says here it was also an orphanage. Did your parents die?"

"No...they just dumped me there."

"Do you know the reason why?"

"Well, you know..."

"No, sir, I do not."

"I guess they figured I was good for nothin'."

"I see."

"They were..."

"Could you please speak up?"

"They was right. Just good for nothin', I guess." The very rotund man tucked in his shirt in a hopeless attempt at looking more fit. "Guess they'd been real bad parents if I'd turned out to be somethin', huh?"

"And have you been looking for gainful employment?"

"At least I didn't make them feel bad, my parents. They really are dead now, but I made sure I did they like they expected of me. I think my mom loved me some before she died."

"I'm sure you were an excellent son. What I need from you today is a list of the places where you've applied or we'll have to cut off your stipend."

"Oh, I been applyin'! But, man, you turn 50 and it's hell out there. Nobody wants ya. They either think you won't stick around or are too good for the job or just plain too old."

"We live in the greatest nation on earth, Mr. Ruth. Opportunity is there for one and all. If you're not happy in these positions of janitor, driver or dock worker, then tell me what you do like."

"Nothin' really suits me. Only time I'm happy is playing softball in the evenings. I wanted to be a ballplayer once."

"The odds of being a successful ballplayer are almost beyond reckoning. Better to be mopping floors than chasing impossible dreams." She strained not to point his weight out to him she was so disgusted by the idea of his wanting to be an athlete. Same conversation she was having with her spoiled, musical son.

"I didn't want the other guys to know."

"What guys know what?" the woman exasperated.

"On the team. I didn't want them to know I was no good like my saintly parents thought. Other boys called me Niggerlips. Nothing I can do about the way I look, is there? Nothing I can do about who I am at all!"

"I'm sorry. I don't see what this has to do with finding you employment."

"It's why I had to quit baseball. I didn't just do like whatever I wanted so I wouldn't be called a bad person. I did like everyone said I ought. My parents hated me so I been hatin' myself too so not to disappoint them. I been fighting my whole life trying to get baseball out of my head. I know it's silly but it's like every time I relaxed baseball kept coming back in!"

"I'm sorry to hear that. But even if you'd been the greatest player in history - " she almost choked on the words -" you're 52 now and can never have a career in baseball, regardless. Have you ever thought of being a dog groomer?"

"I know I can't play now. I had a big nervous breakdown in my 40's when I knew was past the age forever. I don't even know why I was born. It all seems like such a waste. My parents wanted nothin' to do with me guess they knew from the start I was cursed. I feel like the most cursed man ever!"

"I can see why you were labelled "incorrigible". You need to work on your attitude and stop this talk you've wasted your life. You have many productive years ahead of you. You just need to find your niche. Please have an open mind, sir, and, frankly, learn to be responsible and stop blaming your parents. Is it not time to grow up and live in the real world? It's 1947 and the world is changing fast!"

Seeing his money threatened frightened the life out of Ruth. But he also felt something else for the first time in his life: Why? What was he fighting for? What could he hope to accomplish? Say nothing! She'll say it's your bad attitude again if you say how you really feel. Keep it inside like always! Bad as ever!

"I understand, ma'am. I'll try, I promise." Ruth felt his heart shattering into a thousand pieces with the lie - even as he dare not let a soul know.

"Good! Glad to hear it. Now here I have a list of some very promising jobs: Forklift driver (license required which I'm sure you can get); Concrete crewman (construction is a fantastic industry); chef trainee (a choice I think could be highly suited to you!). The future is looking up, Mr. Ruth!"

Ruth pained her a smile as he shuffled off with the papers and their addresses and contacts to see. The world went black.

EPILOGUE: Ruth missed next month's appointment. He was dead: heart attack in the night. He knew that anything that had ever meant anything was gone forever. In mercy he was taken, though haunted for eternity by what might have been, disbelieving in himself to the end.

Sunday, March 15, 2015

Part 4: Things Keep Ending

Freaky view, huh?

They say when you have 900 million dollars you've no right to complain. But I always say, "Hey, it's not like I'm a billionaire!" And besides, I'll fucking goddam complain if I want to and who the hell is anyone to tell me otherwise? If you actually knew anything you'd have kept your damn mouth shut in the first place.

It's been rainy far more than usual here lately in Dallas, leaving my downtown penthouse fogged in a good deal of the time. (No, that's not a complaint, dingleberry) I actually like this as it has suited my mood of late. I'm in a fog in every sense of the word. I guess some would say I am in purgatory, somewhere between heaven and hell. Heaven (Woman Of Fabric) shuns me while I shun hell (Texas Railroad Commission, the ISIS of Texas*). The mental trips I endure on a daily basis would blow your mind. It's as if I'm in a whirlpool that never drains; a plane in a holding pattern that never lands. But I see no possible good endings for scenarios like that.

A lifestyle is not a life but I keep trying to shop my way to victory. God knows what I'd do with my time if I had no money. Ever since my failure with the Woman Of Fabric, my pleasures keep dying. It's as if the world has turned to ice and I can gain no grip. Just slipping, slipping, slipping. Even so, knowing nothing but the old habits I stick to them until I can find something better. So I went antiquing in Dallas' famed Design District. Whip a dead horse and maybe it will twitch.

I found a nautical item I wanted at Griffin Trading Company. I'll find a place to squeeze it in my office but the whole time I felt more like Citizen Kane than an honest purchaser. I kept picturing the end of the film where they're throwing everything into the fire to rectify a life uselessly spent. I imagined the Woman Of Fabric watching that scene and shaking her head at me. I feel no hope.

Bored, not wanting to return to the confines of my gilded cage, I made a left turn down Irving Boulevard from the store. It's one hell of an ugly street. That's when the mental trip began. Without the illusion of money, where would I be? Would I be stuck off in those crummy apartments I'm passing by till the day I die? I have no discernible talent. I know in the movies it always turns out a guy like me has some hidden talent or skill or something to offer in the end. In real life, you're just stuck in the shit.

"If they only knew." That voice keeps getting louder in my head. Some people have to believe I'm happy with my paper wealth and even turn violent if I suggest otherwise. They are but pawns in the world. If you could join the circles of the rich and hear how we candidly talk you'd be shocked at how full of shit the entire situation is. Most of us are worthless bums looking for a free ride as we complain bitterly about so-called worthless bums in the street "looking for a free ride."

Irving 2 Irving Boulevard

Irving 11 Rooms with a view

Being on the other side of the looking-glass, so to speak, I'm forced to face truths the moneyless do not. Looking for a free ride is what the money concept is all about. Oh, you'll hear all the bullshit rationalizations of it being a tool for commerce or how it's "needed" to force productivity and a bunch of other rot but if you could hear how these fuckers talk you'd see how farcical it is to call these jerks "pillars of society." They just want to keep their de facto slaves while propagating the alleged morality of money.

We super rich, you see, are really scared shitless on the inside.

We wonder when you're going to wake up and realize the con. Truth be told, it's you conning you, so eager to believe the lies of paper wealth. But if you were to realize your best interests - give up the idea of ever getting a free ride - we'd be out on our arses in a heartbeat. We're hanging by the thread of mutual corruption. True, it's been like that for thousands of years but you still can't help yourself thinking it's going to end any minute.

Man, I'm not gonna lie. I want to keep my fancy digs, my jet, my beloved car collection and, yes, my lifestyle - even if it really isn't a life. Whoever has the most life wins, though. That's how I see the order of the world anymore. "Many who are first will be last and many who are last will be first." That all makes sense to me now. I'm at the top of the world, ma - and sweating out every single fricking day.

I just know I can't live in this world:

Irving 9

Irving 5

Irving 12

Irving 4

*Yes, I was asked to join the Texas Railroad Commission which regulates oil and gas despite its name. I actually do have an expansive understanding of the oil industry considering my father's background and from one point having to make a "good faith effort" to run the company. (It was in bad faith all along) Anyway, as you can probably guess, the TRC pretty much gives industry a free ride and, uh, railroads anyone who stands in their way, from landowners to even municipalities.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Goodbye, Emily

I'll never be the person without you I was with you.

Life only gets harder.

Sunday, March 08, 2015

Central Park Five (Blacks Who Raped White Woman)

"The Central Park Five are innocent."

"Whaaaat? Can't be? That was a done deal." Or so I thought.

I didn't remember much about the 1989 case except its notoriety and its swift conclusion. Of course, they did it, case closed. When I heard they were innocent and a documentary made I knew I had to see it.

To recount, a blonde, blue eyed female jogger was brutally beaten and raped in Central Park. That same night a group of about two dozen non-white teenagers were in the area causing mayhem of anywhere from throwing rocks at cars to beating up a homeless man. When news came out that five of them had done this attack it made sense. The cops knew this, the press loved the story, prosecutors had a career making case. Everybody wins!

Except for the five who were framed brilliantly by the police.

The phenomenon of false confessions has been studied by the Innocence Project and would be well served to be put on the front page of every paper in the country. To wit:
"Astonishingly, more than 1 out of 4 people wrongfully convicted but later exonerated by DNA evidence made a false confession or incriminating statement."
Take a bunch of 14-16 year-old terrified youths and sweat them for hours on end and you'll get the "confessions" you want to hear. Children inherently want to please authority figures when in trouble (cops know this) and these cops were screaming death at them. To this day, these false confessions are the only "evidence" that ties them to the rape. If the actual perpetrator had not come forward, the hysteria around the case would have sealed their fates. Even with that, some less than honorable people hold with the original lies.

But the truth came out only after serving years in prison, lives and families destroyed, time lost never to be regained. In Ken Burns' 2012 documentary we hear the full story for the first time. It is moving and powerful, a statement not only of those times but of any time, that witch burning by any other name is still just as prevalent. We haven't learned our lesson yet.

It's understandable there wasn't a firestorm of outrage when the verdicts were vacated. Everyone had egg on their face, from the police to the prosecutors to the populace. When it came to looking in the mirror afterwards there was only silence or even a doubling down on the lies. All those passionate people calling out for justice during the trial (Yes, I mean you The Donald), did they suddenly lose their voice? Or was justice never their aim?

When one of the five asked if it could happen again he replied "Yes" without hesitation. You see, it wasn't those five teenage boys who were guilty, it was us. We fear this society we have created, we fear the repercussions of the greed we have embraced, we fear the mirror could cost us everything. When a convenient scapegoat comes along on which to blame our ills it's just too much to resist. "We the jury find ourselves guilty."

Some call these convictions a de facto continuation of Jim Crow laws. But while racism is still out there, discrimination these days has moved to be more economically based. Used to be a time when no outrage was heard when a black man was wronged. No it's changed to no outrage when a poor person is wronged. Poor whites are shot by the police too but if an element of racism can't be attached to the shooting it gets a big "Meh!".

One day this insanity will end. Siding with the truth is never popular and speaking truths no one wants to hear (especially to those who are party to the lie) is a difficult thing. The longer we allow this to continue, the greater the spread of injustice. Everyone's turn is coming and it's to our benefit to listen now if we want to prevent tragedy in the future.