Escape From VieselHoffen Inc

After my escape from VieselHoffen Inc I was inspired to write what I'm reliably told is sure to be a best smelling book: "How To Ruin Your Life While Blaming Those Who Haven't Ruined Theirs". My pseudo-seductive publisher said it will be the hottest thing since Texas Air. When I heard this I urgently left to musically masturbate to Instagram influencers. That's when you know you've got it made.

Starry-eyed, I imagined myself making slick Nerf football commercials and being invited to park the very best cars at swanky sex parties. My jacket size is 42 regular. I'll move to L.A., get a map of the stars' homes and drive by screaming, "I'm one of you now!" Yup, that's when you really know you've got it made.

Some Hollywood chick asked why my literary hubbub. I said I emoted a simple-minded guide for concocting political stories to sell your life as a raging success when it's actually a raging dumpster fire. She said how did it feel being an upcoming Arthur but I coyly implied I wasn't bothered erecting my name. Dramatically I ran fingers through my Tom Cruise hair, declaring: "I'm not interested in being myself, thank you, Academy." That's when you absolutely know you've got it made.

Those freaks and solenoids at VieselHoffen filed a lawsuit hoping I revealed their trade secrets of betrayal in my "inciteful" book and that I must have started the 17th floor fire since I didn't. I couldn't refute what I hadn't done which made their lawyers clap like happy seals getting a wet fish while making ludicrous barfing noises. I overheard one lawyer say he aspired to be a circle jerk and that he receives high praise when looting the company. "That's when you know you've got it made," he slyly confided.

They say not to let success spoil you but I was like, "Fuck me that!" and went to visit the nearest yacht yard to pick mine out. But the ship guy was adamant (or Adam Ant, not sure which as he mumbled a lot) that "to git on my boat ewes must be a person of note or one of them GOATs." I wasn't sure about the farm animal references as I watched him spit tobacco overboard but curiously found his need to rhyme even more alarming. He said his daughter was "a TikTok slut who shows her butt viewed by rotten nuts." Outted as her pervert follower I noticed his letterhead motto as I slipped away: "Must make the grade or you won't get laid or have a hot maid."

My silicon success was proving a failure even with intemperate corruption. Drifting through rain stained streets I was approached by an ancient Lakota warrior who demanded I be his spirit guide. I tried getting out of it telling him I speak with forked tongue but that only increased his conviction. He went on how the "Indian Spirit" was sent to save the White Man but instead "we raped the Land" and became "fuckers without a future." I told him if he came back Tuesday at three I could give him advice on how to be racist. His face lit up with the news and giddily rejoiced, "Then I'll have it 'white man' made!"

Ergo, I began to suspect the Pyrrhic secret of my Texas Air success. In an upside-down world, if I'm nothing, I'm something, and if I'm something, I'm nothing. Who can win in a world of sin after where I've been? (Sorry, damn boat guy rubbing off on me.) Salvation is suicide but suicide's a cheat. Did I really think a Nerf commercial was my stairway to heaven? Sioux that Indian for making me think! Dammit, somebody on this planet has to have it made!

So I'm back where I began: the outlaw of outlaws, a jobless soul. On a sunny Fall morning I return to the downtown of my demise and see the Sunlight I'd never seen before. What unassumed beauty I'd missed in my blinding heyday. In the hustle and bustle circling me I belie fearful purpose and purposeful fear. But in freedom's dream I lift my arms to glorious sunbeams riding me to the sky in endless bliss. "Stop that, you!" I was vexed from below. But I know this is how life is meant to be in the Natural Order, walking in Forever Footsteps, exploding song from the Universe. Then we'd truly have it made.

Later I wander into a back alley of Forbidden Feelings where I bemoaned sighs of the times. A girl with streaming ears emphasized: "It won't work anyway! Burn it all down!" Retail worker, I presumed. A grieving guilty man goaded: "I need you, Emily." A laughing hyena newly elected celebrated: "Fry like me or die!" A parked Rolls-Royce had its sign sticking out the moon roof: "I'm dead without my slaves." A whore from the executive mafia insisted: "You'd do it too!" A loathing loser lamented: "Love is for losers." Then I figured it: no one's really got it made.

Thus sprouts art from failure:

Freedom's pulse breathes brief,
Dew drop hanging from a leaf
Must live like a thief.

VeiselHoffen Inc

I thought I knew reality until I took a breath...

*****

The corporation of my subsumption betrays itself between the 14th to 17th floors. Success has never been so hollow. Or brittle. Or little. But nonetheless I got the call of calls to recede up to the 17th floor.

The desultory top gods roam there, aka "people way high up!" I put on my rectally awed face for the occasion. I never knew fetching documents could be such an odd ordeal.

I'd been sent behind enemy lines to C's office. "That's not her name but what she goes by on Tuesday." Jesus, who are these people?

As I plunged off the elevator I could see a partial view of misty mountains outside the windows of C's corner office - which I thought was strange since we were downtown. Yet worst part was everything on the 17th floor had a place of predetermined righteousness - but for me. All I needed was a spotlight shining down and an intruder alert alarm.

As I veered in on the windows of the corner office I imagined scenes of Napalmed villages in southeast Asia with children artists fleeing in terror. Was now a good time to scream?

With Kashmir steps I trespassed my way through a minefield of rotting souls so much better housed than me. Thus I went into my usual standby mode: hold my breath and bluff.

Or maybe I'm just a footlocker of failure projecting my own fuckedupedness.

Then it happened if it did.

As I happenstanced into the corner office I found myself in freaking Amsterdam as gifted by the randomness of the universe. "C" was speaking some sort of foreign fucking language (is it Dutch over there??) and typing with authoritative keystrokes that scared the lie out of me.

I unconsciously started rocking back and forth as I stood there waiting in suspense. Then C looks up at me, handing the precious corporate paper full of the numbers that rule a dying world. Since I couldn't understand her words I could only make what I hoped were appropriate facial expressions in accordance with her tone.

Oh, to be a footnote in history.

All I could think about was escaping to the space temples of Syrinx reachable only through wormholes of nonlinear dimensions.

Oh shit, she stopped speaking and is expecting a verbal reply of responsible bureaucratic witchcraft. If I respond in humanoid form will she still understand?

"Pickle vomit am I!" I declare with the furor of a horny Nazi.

Luckily, that seemed to satisfy her superiority as I goosestepped out the office to loud applause and hopefully back into the Texastan of my known demise.

In the elevator I finally took a breath - a breach of faith, I know. But having made a successful foray behind enemy lines I couldn't resist a small self-serving smirk of suicidal sanity.

When the doors closed on my revelry I went to press the button to take me back to the lower depths where I belonged. It's then I witnessed the horror of horrors: ONLY THE 17th FLOOR BUTTON REMAINED!

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

I can't go back to where I couldn't go before! Is it me or is it sin? I wanted to sigh, cry, die, and fly at same time. Just what are my false options in the fake free world?

I could pretend to be an elevator doorman like I'd seen in old movies or I could cut through the top where I'd truly be shafted or simply wait for starvation to serve out my hierarchical sentence.

Jesus had only one bad day, mine is every day.

Suddenly in the midst of my rapidly increasing aging I got swept away in tornadic titillation as I remembered the super hot receptionist stationed just outside. Since I'm dead anyway, should I just drop my pants and show her my enthusiasm?

How long before I'm accusingly discovered in here lost confused at wit's end as the sun sets in the real world while I'm trapped and useless mired in excommunication - and still on the clock.

If I could pray my way off the cross I would - and leave the world to burn in the sanctimonious shit of those who do and those who don't.

With lips quivering in this mental coffin, I start pressing on the panel where the buttons should be to get me off. Maybe they're there and I just can't see them! I've been wrong before, I could be wrong now. It's my usual bad attitude blinding me to the pathway to success.

But despite my clever political arguments to the contrary there wasn't a fucking button anywhere except the one damn button I dare not push! So this is what it's like to drown in full slow motion replay.

And then the door opened in gaping ignominy.

Some Liberace executive steps in with trophy rings on every finger and a blockbuster grin gripped in perpetual pleasing panic. I was able to spy like Bond that the ravenous receptionist I'd hoped to impress was gone from her throne and my lust for ill-gotten glee would have been in vain had I attempted it. At least one song remained the same...

Of course, now that someone else is here the buttons re-appear, so I hit the ground exit button quick as I can, pleading for it to obey the laws of physics according to my understanding.

The sensations of movement were not false ones as the elevator doors opened to the lobby zoo of stagnating suited animals and killer piranha where I heard an aproned fellow yell, "Throw that man a parrot!" Seeing the revolving doors to freedom I immediately start running but in a wary weaving manner to make sure I avoid any sniper fire.

Once outside I instantly look up to see if any falling pianos are headed my way. None were but one did land on a fellow down the street who was vociferously arguing how God would never allow that to happen to one such as him - or maybe he should have said Him.

But while looking up I did notice another coddled conundrum: flames shooting out the 17th floor windows. Reflexively, I grabbed a Texastan Karen passing by and pointed, "Look! Fire!"

Only she angrily wrangled her way out of my grip and without looking up defiantly declared, "I see no fire - I only vote for it." Then she started hopping down the street in her Playboy bunny outfit crying out: "#metoo! #metoo!"

I tried to point out the firestorm to a few other passers-by but only their cats were curious. In merciful resignation I crossed the street and sat on a park bench where I had a good view of the increasing fury of the flames. Around me I heard idle social network chatter, jokes of indeterminate value, and plans for futures not meaning to live.

Outside of cats and other good-hearted souls, no one objected to the conflagration above, and I wondered to myself: "What's right with me that only I see this?"