Goupil: Final Report, USA (Classified)

OVERVIEW:

Goupil, Born c. 1973; Marseilles, France. 5'11, 82 kg.

Following is pieced together from worldwide intelligence and police reports and subject's diary.

At 17, subject killed his girlfriend in a heated argument. From this incident he was unable to recover.

Tied to a guilt that hounded him until death, he judged himself a killer, a fate from which he believed could not rise above.

Attaching himself to criminal elements on the French docks, the subject made his first for-hire kill at 19.

His reputation grew over time as that of a "reliable man". Connections were made overseas making him an international commodity of the highest order.

Subject kept to himself with an extremely low profile. This was fueled by the fact he did not trust himself with another personal relationship.

His career both peaked and crashed in Russia on an assignment originating from Senator [CLASSIFIED], after which the subject himself became the target as a possible loose end.

He self-documented his time on the run, psychologically breaking down as his self-myths shattered, leaving him in a hazed state of confusion.

Searching for lost redemption and grasping for impossible hope, he strayed into religion, online political forums, and self-exposure in a fast food drive-through.

Still, through this time he was able to remain connected to the reality of his legal situation and was able to evade pursuit though much of it was due to his unexpected life choices throwing off law enforcement.

With the walls closing in on him over time, realizing escape meant merely treading water with no resolution in sight, subject ended his wasted life.

A full accounting of the subject's activities is still ongoing by French authorities, hoping to solve past assassinations on French soil. All references to Senator [CLASSIFIED] were scrubbed beforehand.

Aguirre, The Wrath Of God Revisited

It's been a good 25 years since I walked into Premiere Video, Dallas's legendary movie rental store, and saw this snarling face of Klaus Kinski. I had a standing rule never to rent a film based on its cover alone. In this case I (thankfully) violated it.

From the initial haunting scene descending from the mists of the mountainside into the depths of the Amazon jungle, we're taken on an odyssey of insanity. Watching the film, one senses the terror of being trapped in a whirlpool, hoping against hope for a way out. It never comes.

Kinski is the perfect vehicle for this madness, a single-minded agent of destruction whose purity in thought lies in its absolute devotion to power. His way must rule! Only when it's too late does anyone stand up to his beloved delusions.

I had a chance to view it on the big screen at the famed Texas Theater last week. And, boy, did it blow my socks off. Not just its enlarged presence on the big screen, but as a commentary on the suicide of our time. I can't tell you how many moments I wanted to scream out loud, "This is us!"

Even the first time watching this I said to myself, "What the fuck are they doing dragging that stuff through a jungle?" The "civilized people" taking vestiges of civilization wherever they went in some sort of fantastical delusion, reality be damned. The environment must adopt to them.

"This is us!"

The more dire the situation the more they cling to vain illusions of a future: passing laws, nominating a king, instituting a social structure. In stubbornly adhering to these rituals signifying nothing, the more they seal their fate while floating down a river into oblivion; running out of food, driven onward possessed by a false sense of entitlement. This is us.

Our pretense is everywhere, ceaselessly propagating our madness can continue forever. We're all supposed to be in on the joke, congratulating ourselves on our cleverness of lying and "getting away" with it. But just like the grotesquely doomed party of Aguirre, we only become more pathetic, more ridiculous, and more farcical by the day - until nothing is left.

BONUS FILM REVIEWS:

Anatomy of a Fall 7.5

I had my doubts while watching this on where exactly it was going with the story. Turns out my fears were mislaid by a rewarding ending. The film is an outstanding commentary on how peoples' lives look from the outside as compared to the inside. Or, at least, that was the intent. It does succeed in many ways but they failed to fully flesh out the story. The wife keeps saying there was more to their marriage than just the negative aspects that came to light. Fair enough. SHOW IT. Show us what brought you two together and the flower of love once nurtured. That would have been a home run instead of a triple.

The Holdovers 4

What a mess this film was. For some reason it was set in 1970 but the dialogue is very 2023. That's just the beginning of the contrivances for characters that have no real grounding and a story with no underlying truth. This was written wholly with the audience in mind as to what will get the most applause from moment to moment. These people simply had nothing to say regardless of how badly the film wanted to believe it has something to say.

Napoleon 1

Another Ridley Scott spectacle film. This will thrill the mouth-breathers who will be taken in by the huge battle scenes and allegedly kinky bedroom dialogue. Good for them! But while Scott is many things, he never has been and never will be a storyteller. I'm a huge Blade Runner fan and his broken narrative style worked perfectly for that film but only in an outlier case like that does it excel. The director is also highly defensive about his utter lack of historical accuracy and as a Napoleon fan I can tell you I don't know who that character is up on the screen, but it's definitely NOT Napoleon (or even a hint of Josephine).

Instead, the names were used as outlines to be filled in whole cloth from whatever commercial fantasies the filmmaker dreamed up. Scott's offensive response to those who criticized this approach was to say, "Get a life!" I suggest he should take his own advice to prevent any further waste of time and energy (his and ours).

Romancing The Stoned

Wonder if they had him sign a waiver

my life is trash
i am trash
i smell like trash

some earth girl told me "no one is trash, we are all valuable"

i asked her if i could my rub my hard dick on her nice soft leg
then she said i was trash

i have that kind of power

 
i saw some fancy blonde chick in a giant ass white suv stop at the intersection
i wanted to rush up to her and say "mmmmm! you smell good!"
then she'd scream, go home, wail about how "something must be done about all these smelly homeless people!"

i have that kind of power

i could woo her with lines like "i used to shit inside too"
then she'd do her utmost to vote me out of existence

i belong to the army of the fallen
every day our numbers grow stronger
the number of yet to fall grows weaker
guess how that will turn out!

 

we have that kind of power

blondie stands barefoot on her marble floor demanding the world can be no other way

don't worry blondie, i got a spare trash bag for ya

Un-Bonded

By virtue of his 00 designation, Bond has a license to kill. It is not, however, a license to live.

*****

Oh, no. No way. This will never happen.

The minute Q branch brought out the device for him (were they smiling?), Bond's instinctive rejection was resolute and final. The scuba gear was for deep sea ice water with a special air tank designed for its user to be shot from a cannon with an ersatz umbilical cord deep into the sea where the user would have minutes to spare before death by compression.

"It's fully vetted, sir," claimed the technician, reading Bond's face.

Bond snorted with a wry smile and walked away.

It had always been a fine line he walked between being useful and being used. The difference, of course, being life and death. While Bond would never say he has no appetite for danger - bordering on a need - he kept it in balance with his survival instincts. It's the other fellow's job to die. Thus, when called before M for an explanation, Bond refused.

"So you'll not give me a reason then?" mused the wrinkled face of the ex-admiral.

Bond had never tested the old man like this before. He was about to see a side he'd never seen.

Bond shrugged. In observing the time it took M to form a response, 007 saw the respect the man had for his instincts and the futility of arguing with them.

"You understand this is not my decision. I have to revoke your 00 designation. In consideration of your considerable contribution in the past you may continue your time in the service in an administrative capacity, if that suits you."

The idea of that revolted him as much as the scuba contraption. "No, sir, it does not."

"Then let me leave you with this thought: Once you go out that door, there's no coming back."

M's final card played, Bond laid his gun on the desk and walked out. He, too, had no choice.

*****

The myriad of thoughts racing through Bond's mind while sipping whiskey alone in his flat were beyond his consciousness to record; a near death experience flashing before him.

He remembered The Promise, when he first entered the service, his rationale for taking orders in the first place: "If they ever cross the line, I'm quitting. No ifs, ands, or buts. I'm out, end of story."

As the days passed his peace with leaving had only grown stronger. No, he had not been rash or hasty. He did not overreact. For the first time in his life, time was on his side. It dawned on him that the day the service would cross the line was inevitable. He'd simply been pushing it out of his mind.

For whatever reason, Bond had always been drawn to Battersea Park. He'd sit on a bench overlooking the Thames and dream of 18th century naval ships, when Britain came to rule the seas. But sitting here now he felt something different. He noticed the soft sun, the glistening greenery, the mysticism of the shire.

Good God, how they'd laugh back at the office if they knew the thoughts in my head!

M was right about one thing, though: there's no going back.

*****

Though Bond no longer haunted the "good old boy" bars of his past, preferring rather a local pub that granted him a more lively view of the world, he knew contact was imminent.

The psychology of the man the service picked was obvious: send a younger version of himself. And as he approached Bond in his booth, the man certainly had all the boxes checked - except one. Bond was his own man while his opponent clearly was not.

The sent man was all grins and charm as he put out his hand. "Why, if it isn't 00 coward!"

The comment was loud, intended to be overheard, to rattle Bond.

Bond stood as the man arrived, gripped his outstretched hand and sheepishly replied, "You win! I can never hope to match your repartee."

The man had been prepared for anything but surrender. Truth was, Bond was incensed that such a juvenile comment was meant to fluster him. But it was the fake Bond who was now flustered.

"Sorry about that. Was a stupid thing to say. It's just that's there's a general consensus you skipped out when the going got rough. If there is a bomb embedded in the ocean floor it has got to be defused. I don't have to tell you what's at stake."

"Oh, bloody hell, you're right! Put that damn contraption on me and give me a shot at disarming the blasted thing."

The man squirmed trying read Bond's famous deadpan expression. "Well, uh, there's no coming back, of course."

Bond's eyes were drill bits into the man's mind. "But, of course," agreed Bond, still giving nothing away.

It's impossible to counter-punch a man who won't punch. Bond threw him a lifeline, flashing an ironic smile. "Kind of makes this entire conversation pointless, doesn't it?"

The knockout blow had its effect, the man dropping his facade, in a struggle for his life.

"I understand how you feel. I read your file. I was recruited like you were. I had my doubts when these pompous buggers made their pitch but I couldn't get their words out of my head."

Bond sipped his martini, recalling that same moment for him - the moment he made The Promise. At least he was being treated with more respect. He leaned back to let the man continue.

"So I think I know how you feel, this sense of betrayal. I've struggled with it myself." In this the man is being genuine, thought Bond. "But I've learned there's two types of evil in the world: both good and bad. We use the good evil to protect us from the bad, so to speak. It's how we ensure the future. And as ridiculous as this sounds, that's a pragmatism I've had to face."

Bond's sense of self-preservation went on red alert. He had no doubt of the struggle possessing the man's soul, of trying to live beyond the crossed line, crying out for both help and murder with the same voice.

"Sounds like a conversation for your pastor," Bond blithely responded, buying time has he calculated the situation.

The man's presence left the moment. "You could say I've already had it."

The 'pastor' in this case would be an overlord in the secret service sanctioning the job - as if one man can sanction another man's murder in the eyes of God.

Could Bond defeat this man? Yes. Could he defeat every man sent to kill him? No. Bond had come too far to look over his shoulder the rest of his life.

Sliding out from the booth, standing as an easy target mere feet away, Bond looked at the man as one who'd faced death before. Everyone must pay for one's sins. Time to pay for mine.

"Then do what you musn't," he offered, his gaze never leaving the man's now anguished face.

Like all assassins, the man had been programmed, cajoled, bribed, and punctured into making the hit. Bond was simply giving him a sense of his immortal soul.

Then something unexpected happened: the man retched, turning his head, coughing and puking on the bench. He felt used, a sucker on a fool's errand, placing blood on his hands like a Roman crucifier, wrecking his own future. No "good" evil, after all.

Bond left the man to himself, slipped out the back door, and checked into an anonymous hotel.

*****

CODA: In ancient Japan, the country was divided between East and West. Ishida of the West took over Osaka castle, an impregnable fortress. His plan was to take hostages from the families of the clans there to force them to his side. First on his list to kidnap was Gracia Hosokawa, the beloved and admired wife of a powerful general. Literate and multi-lingual, she changing her name with her conversion to Catholicism.

Only his plans went awry as Gracia let herself be killed before she'd let herself be taken hostage. The fury and outrage over this bungled attempt forced Ishida to abandon his plans for hostages. In this way, also, the plan to eliminate Bond was discarded.

Lying, Before And After

After meeting Her
He no longer has a future
Of life without Her

After meeting Her
He no longer has a future
Of himself with Her

Why I Hate Jews And Niggers

Losers of the world unite!

Soooo? What was her response??

You sure you want to hear this?

Of course! More than anything in the world!

She said she 'wants no part of your sick, twisted, pathetic existence'.

There's more.

She said 'under no possible circumstances is your life of any concern of hers whatsoever.'

There's more.

She said 'any further contact whether directly or indirectly she will pursue all legal avenues both civil and criminal.'

There's more.

She said your 'baseless, ridiculous delusions must cease immediately and going forward you are a non-person upon this planet.'

Do you have any response?

I hate Jews. And niggers.

Response recorded.

********

I didn't know she was Jewish.

She's not.

Or Black.

She's not.

Then I don't get your response!

Because my life is completely fucking ruined. Somebody has to pay. Not gonna be me!

You're one of those guys that voted to kill Jesus, aren't you?

Brenda McNeal: Wanted ALIVE

The death of Brenda McNeal made national news as the housewife turned late-in-life hyper-fierce anti-abortion critic was finally silenced. Her urgent pleas were legendary for their passion and conviction as someone who just knew abortion as a wrong. While many were those who lionized and lauded her, none knew the origin of her crusade, a crusade which Brenda often described as "life and death!"

*******

In the post-apocalyptic ruins of her dreams she scavenges for scraps of life among her landfills of decay; her struggle a silent hunger she can not escape.

Her unadmitted agony drives her forward like a lost wanderer in a seascape of snow who knows that however tired to stop is to die.

Her caged marriage entangles her in a viper's nest of lies where nothing is deemed more forbidden than freedom.

To end her travails she fantasizes of a wolf to ravage her, leaving her to die a tragic victim; a blameless sort.

Crying robotic tears she prays for death but death does not come.

To the world she's willing to donate anything except herself; Pyrrhic hope begs her to the idea of victimless crime.

Only when her defeat is complete does she find victory.

Her art gallery visit was merely Something To Do, another useless energy spent.

But art director Heinrich, the twice-divorced émigré from Holland, connected with her eyes in a way she thought long lost.

After year upon year of drudging through hellish muck with its hideous smells and heartbreaking horror, has she found a scrap of life at last?

They speak on issues across the board but the subject is always the same: each other.

Sweet water of hope rushes in as if through a broken dam, a reviving transfusion into her embalmed existence.

I never thought I could be wanted again! How I miss this feeling!

Tremors of desire shake her world in volcanic torment, she nightly gripping the side of her bed to prevent telltale tossing and turning.

Can I even step out of the cage at this point? Is it too late? Does only a fool reveal a Wasted Life?

She faced a Decision: to grow the newborn relationship or abort. The Choice she made left her in abandoned terror at the bottom of a lost well.

And for this she famously screamed bloody hell the rest of her life in electoral deceit.

Compound Fracture

"So where's the fun in that?" she texted.

This fissure of a comment wedged into his mind like a siren call.

He had immediately dismissed it as "devil talk" and laughed with the surety of a never-to-be-opened door.

But if he was so right, why did something so obviously wrong stick in his craw?

For the full 20 years of his existence he'd spent life in the Compound. He'd heard horror stories of life on the outside: stories of war, famine, and decay.

Why ever leave? As he'd heard from birth: "The Compound way is the Only Way!"

So where's the fun in that?

Such an idiotic statement! Who'd find fun in a cruel world? Everyone in the Compound agreed! It's an axiom of life.

He'd been warned of "Outsiders" who'd have him give up paradise for purgatory. Insanity!

Then one night, a voice - from inside or out he could not tell - punctured his paradise found: "This place is your prison."

Not another night did he sleep in peace. He wondered at the faces of his fellow Compounders, as if mocking him. He feared a wrongness within.

The only cure would be to step outside the Compound, reassure his convictions, and return to paradise stronger than ever!

***

My God! That smell! What is that? I've never felt so alive!

Further and further he ran into the open field exploding with the infinity of Nature. This was a Good Without End, something even the compound had never seen.

He ran back to spread the Word, finding an old friend as gatekeeper, he told all.

"I'm not sorry. I don't know you. You speak with the deliberate ambiguity of a devil."

A devil! In all his lauded life he'd never been called that! Then in the traces of his tears, the gatekeeper sang a song as a forever ban:

That's a strange way
For me to say I love you,
When my sorrow is all you can see.
If I just want to cry to somebody
Don't cry to you.

Can I Go Now?

Her friend Sunny on the left.

Her name is Tisa, a nurse so irresistible she'd turn Liberace straight. She's every male's living fantasy: good looking, aggressive, bold. Everybody wants her.

And the only way I can meet someone like her is by lying in this hospital bed.

Don't get me wrong, she is a passionate and dedicated nurse, serious about her work. But having a purpose to her life is just one more thing that separates us.

Yet she's not all I'm thinking about with this godawful downtime to muse on the sum total of idiocy in my life. I'm thinking about how I got here in the first place.

I got knifed.

Some lunatic, like a wild animal with an impacted tooth, sliced me and three others on Akard street. I heard the commotion coming but stubbornly refused to move.

I'm so fucking tired of having to react to every damn shit event in this world. But being tired of shit doesn't make you exempt from its consequences.

I don't even know if the cops captured the maniac.

But this is my life stranded on the streets. This is what I'm subject to. No wonder so many worlders want to hide behind security gates.

My own horrific and tragic decisions have brought me to this hospital bed. Being treated by Tisa makes the ruin in my life all the more clear.

She sees every life as important and valuable. She will suffer no protest on that score.

At the point in my life where I most want to die she ignites a desire to live - a dangerous thing for the emotionally imprisoned.

She doesn't see my shame, only my potential. She knows not of my legendary negativity and lost opportunities, only my inherent worth.

What version of me could ever be with her?

Maybe I was meant to meet her just so I can realize how over my life is: doomed to die alone in the streets.

False hope is something I use to muddle through the day even as it perpetuates my misery. I sabotage all chances, so what difference does it make?

The room is dark. I scribble by the light of my phone. Shadows pass by in the gap beneath the hallway door. I hear alien voices and laughter; no place for me.

Can I go now?

I Read My News Today, Oh Boy

HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...I can't BREATHE...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...It's so COLD...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...Pressure is KILLING me...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...I have NOWHERE to go...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...HELP ME...Where is LOVE?

"Everyone's telling me it is what it isn't."

Five Alarm Fire

Henry is a quiet lunatic. That makes him more dangerous.

Not that he tries to be - he just is.

Worse yet, his lunacy flows seamlessly into the insanity of the times, giving it a veneer of acceptability.

We went to the same day labor job once. I remember it well as the sun kept popping through the humid clouds as if we'd stepped under a heat lamp.

I wrote down beforehand the license plate of the asshole in charge and, sure enough, he took off without paying.

I told Henry for 25 bucks we could look up the guy's address. But he didn't care. Said he must not of deserved the money.

That was a five alarm fire to me. Others said leave him be if that's what he wants.

Nobody wants that. Somewhere, the lava was rising. It showed in his politics as he was adamant in his support for the arson party.

But in these times - where the list of things unfaced expands daily like air in a balloon, where fear of words that can be heard riddles the soul like bullet holes, where the weight of a doomed future swallows sad hearts - to many silence is truly golden, a nonthreatening treasure not to be questioned.

So I wasn't surprised when I heard Henry launched a brick into some girl's car windshield. He'd been panhandling off 635 and she refused to oblige him. I guess Henry felt that was money he did deserve.

I walk around, I see so many five alarm fires I realize there's not enough firemen to put them out even if we were to try. Have you noticed no one ever says, "All bad things must come to an end."

But we will.

Baby, You're A Con Man

Yes I so wish to be
One of the beautiful people;
No one can know who I am
My life is one long scam.

"Have you taken your lies very far?"
Far as the eye can see;
Yes I so wish to be
One of the beautiful people.

"Have you seen in your mirror?"
Often enough to know;
"What did you see when you were there?"
Nothing I can let show.

They think I'm a rich man!
They think I'm a smart man!
And a businessman, it's true!
Hiding my real face in a big brown bag
Like winners do
That's what we do!

Yes I so wish to be
One of the beautiful people!

If your whole life is rot
But others think it is not;
Then you need never change!
No matter how you get strange!

Born a natural liar
I burn with my pants on fire!
But I'm happy when I find
I can live inside your mind!

They think I'm a rich man!
They think I'm a smart man!
And a businessman, it's true!
Hiding my real face in a big brown bag
Like winners do
That's what they do!

Is This Really Happening

Are we really
going to FUBAR this planet?

Are we really
keeping not feeding everyone?

Are we really
poisoning the air we breathe and the water we drink?

Are we really
not helping the weak and defenseless?

Are we really
rising nation against nation?

Are we really
not speaking our love?


Are we really doing this?

We live in a time to be forgotten.
By our fruits they shall know us.

The Prison Quiet

Every night the same nightmare. Over and over again, never to be escaped. I can't adequately describe the nightmare in which I was trapped, it's too soul-curdling to repeat.

And it wasn't even my nightmare. It was Ritchie's, my cellmate.

But I had to listen to it. To hear his wails from the depths of hell, terror striking so deep it tapped into the worst human fears; he'd wake up covered in sweat, his sheets stained beyond repair.

Over time I learned the details, even though the circumstances he described could never be lived.

Ritchie's a Formula 1 driver, wearing a suffocating suit and suffocating helmet, as required. He has a wreck, he's sealed in the car, seat belts fused together; cut off and alone, doomed without recourse.

And he's on fire. But not any fire, an alcohol fire which no one can see. Communications with the pit severed in the wreck.

He's crippled, unable to move, to reach out, buried alive, burning to death right before his eyes, screaming at the top of his lungs and help - if any help is possible - is too far away.

To this day I cannot watch that type of racing. I can't take the chance on seeing Ritchie's nightmare come true and that somehow I'd live it too.

At the time, I thought it was a metaphor for his being in prison: condemned in a helpless hell, drowning in torment. After all, Ritchie had never done any sort of racing in his life.

Man, was I wrong on that. And the truth is more frightening than what I ever imagined.

For you see, Ritchie's sentence ended and he was to be set free. I still had time to do but was happy be rid of his nightly wailing and actually happy so miserable a creature could at last have a chance to heal.

On the day of his departure, though, he was curiously quiet but went through the motions of a man on his way out. Then came time to leave.

Ritchie refused.

I literally saw him sit on his bunk and softly say, "I'm not leaving,"in the most determined resolve

I thought I was in a movie or something. Maybe being pranked. I was too gobsmacked to speak as the guard grabbed him by the arm to lead him out.

Like a violent animal, Ritchie yanked back, retreating to the farthest corner of the bunks, gripping the frame as if he were hanging from a pole ten stories high.

Another guard came and they began to pull him out.

"No! No! I'm trapped! I'm trapped! Someone get me out of here! God help me! God help me, please!"

Prisoners within earshot were as shocked as I was. I sensed a silence in the cells I've never heard before or since.

I saw the look of frozen fear on Ritchie's face. It's something you don't forget. I saw a man being tossed off a thousand foot cliff and heard him scream all the way down.

That's the only way I can describe Ritchie's being dragged out of there as I heard his squalling down the corridor to the prison exit.

Worst part was, afterwards no one wanted to talk about it, or even mention it. Were some remarks I heard at the time. "Dangdest thang I ever saw!" and what not. But that was it.

Not even the guards gossiped about it. It was as if Ritchie had touched something unmentionable in every man's soul.

Took a good while for me to get to the bottom of it. I had to let the truth seep in slowly to be able to absorb it. And when I had, I swore I'd never publicly speak of it.

You see, Ritchie lived with an unexpressed soul. He never once didn't lie about his feelings and couldn't stop himself - or find a way out. It was all this desperate creature knew to do.

Being in prison was his way of expressing that. His incarceration was his way of communicating his true life. But who the hell in this Godforsaken planet can even understand his dilemma, much less address it?

He'd always pretended to be the "happy child" for his parents from what I gathered. Maybe he never stopped the lying, forever wrecking his life and prospects in the process. Dear God!

No person here is going to speak of that crime. In fact, Ritchie's exit and the tale thereof changed the entire culture of the prison. Veterans of other prisons remark on the "strangeness" of this place.

Who do we blame for this tragedy? Ritchie? His parents? An unforgiving world? God himself?

Nature is bigger than all of us. Ritchie forced that consciousness on our souls as we dwell now in somber anticipation of our own day of reckoning.

God help us all.

The Shortcut

Don't ask me about God, life, the universe, the world, fate, deception, the devil - anything.

I know nothing.

Not how the sun rises or the sun sets. How the world spins around. How the moon is white or why stars are in the sky.

I know nothing.

So please know this going in.

For decades now I've had The Card. I found it at what was then the lowest point in my life, ready to give up and let cruel fate take my life.

I was working as a janitor in a newspaper building. I'd pick up after the reporters, listening to their banter, hearing lives I could never lead.

Like school, jobs are not for me. I take whatever takes the least out of me. But there's no future in that. Time to depart the planet.

That's when I found The Card tucked inside an envelope out by the back dumpster as I was throwing out the nightly trash behind the building.

It was an ATM card with a sticky note attached with the PIN.

Like in a movie, I looked around, then stuffed it inside my back pocket, unsure of what I was going to do.

"Maybe God doesn't want me to die, after all..." I mused.

Couldn't hurt to test it. No need to take any money. Just check the balance. No doubt it's a dead account, emptied long ago.

12,487,536.92

I did it twice just to be sure but that was the balance printed on the receipt. Enough money for a lifetime!

My head was buzzing like a bee hive. The daily limit at that time was $200. I could easily live off that and then some.

And a person with 12 million dollars wouldn't miss a measly 200 bucks. Not if I did it just once.

"Transaction cannot be processed at this time. Please try again later. We apologize for any inconvenience."

Frankly, I'd been suspicious had it worked that easily. Every shortcut comes with a price. But the ATM telling me "no" just made me want the money all the more.

First, I swore I'd tell no one of this card (That Which Can Not Be Told). What I didn't know at the time (or wanted to know) is that is when something possesses you.

No telling what someone might do for 12 million dollars. I began to withdraw from friends and acquaintances. After all, they can't pay my rent. The Card can.

Or could it? I kept getting the same message over and over. I checked the balance but it never changed. I tried various machines from different banks. Same result.

I became obsessed, a hermit researching banking rules and ATM networks, driving me to hysterics.

"First God wants me to live by giving me this card, but it's only a tease to further drive me into despair so God wants me to die after all!"

Part of me just wanted to let go and be free, turning the card into the bank. I wouldn't try to pretend it's mine or make any claims. Just return it and be done.

But then another Monday would roll along at my soul-destroying job and made me all the more determined to get that money in what turned into a wrestling match with the universe.

I heard a message from a preacher telling me the devil wants me to give up, to forego the blessings I deserve. Yes, I should be a person of faith, not doubt!

Turning in the card would make me feel better, bringing me relief from this weight I carry. But it was also a relief to know that that was the devil talking and I need have no qualms about taking that money - all of it.

Being saved means never having to say you're sorry.

So I trudged on for more years, always saying to myself the next time would be the breakthrough, keep the faith, be strong, never break. Failure ensued each time.

Then I started getting sick. It was like each try took something out of me, stinging me, draining me. I figured it was another tool of the devil to deter me.

It came down to simple survival in the end. I was at the tipping point of even being healthy enough to hold a job. Give the damn card back and let the world know what a failure I am in both spiritual and worldly terms.

I did note on the drive to the bank my spirits starting to lift - but I wasn't giving in to that! I was sorely bitter how things turned out, proving the curse of my life. Come clean and be saved! Bullshit! All hope is now lost.

I was left sitting in the chair of the bank lobby, cameras trained on me from all directions, as the woman took the card into another room to check it out.

Part of me wanted to rush out as a creeping panic told me I'd be arrested for my many thousands of attempts at theft. I could just see the woman coming back with an accusing voice and making a spectacle of me.

When she comes back everyone will be alerted to what a failure your life has been, trying to take a shortcut you failed to make work, passing on true treasures.

Right then, there was nothing more I wanted in all the world than a friend. It was a gaping, gnawing feeling swallowing me whole. I almost literally cried out.

Naturally, it was during this absorbed, vulnerable moment the woman returned to the desk in front of me before I could even think to leave. I'm sure the look on my face was not pleasant.

The suited woman was actually somewhat excited, though, explaining how the account had been locked for 25 years after the owner had passed away shortly after opening it.

She asked for my name and address in case the estate wanted to offer a reward. But maybe this was all a clever trick by her to be able to track me down later for the police.

They could dig deeper and find out I'm not the good Samaritan they think I am but I figured it would be too suspicious not to give my info. I did debate giving a false name tho.

Next couple of months I heard nothing, feeling a fool for giving my real name, more sure by the day cops would come banging on my apartment door to haul me in for questioning. I had no idea from right or left or up and down.

Sure enough, a knock came on my door. I peeked through to see an official uniform. I'm caught and going to die, at last.

It was the postman, asking me to sign for a registered letter.

Inside was a check for 1.2 million dollars, ten percent of the account. I fell to my knees.

I could have been living a completely different life the past 25 years. I bought my first brand new car yesterday but all I could think of was the love and friends I'd lost and the true price I paid.

Her Ethereal Eyes

This endless mystery
of Fascination

Unguarded outposts
of Revelation

Drowning in dreams
of Speculation

Daring a bridge
to Communication

Has left me spellbound
in Captivation

Olaf, The "Sculpture"

Olaf, if nothing else, is a true believer. There is a belief inside him that is unshakable, impervious to any outside influence. He just knows.

I'll give him that much.

Olaf is a sculptor (But if you ask him he'll say he's a sculpture as he always gets the two words confused. If you point it out he'll agree with you but next time you see him he'll be switching 'sculptor' and 'sculpture' all over again.)

And he'll tell you he's working on the greatest piece in history. A piece that will save mankind, altering our perception of reality, so that we can see what we think is impossible is actually possible and the world can live as one forever.

Sounds impressive!

When I asked to see it he says he's needing only one final breakthrough for it to be completed. And it has, in fact, been decades in the making. I tell him I want to see it anyways.

Olaf obliges me and we head through a secret corridor into an enclosed room with a door saying "My Eyes Only".

He proudly points to the piece, informing me it's called, "Portal To The Gods."

That's when I discover why it's taking so long to complete. Olaf is trying to fit an oversized square into a round hole.

I instinctively react: "That will never work!" It slips out before I stop to think of Olaf's response to my negative review.

But he's simply standing there, wholly unmoved, smiling at me like I'm child who has yet to learn. I knew I was right no doubt about it, but that smile really bothered me.

"It's OK. I've heard that all my life. But there's nothing you can know that can't be known."

"That's fine. I just don't see the point of it."

"You will after the breakthrough! Then no one will ever be sure again of what they "know". It will open minds for all time!"

"But of course. Good luck with that! I just don't see how it can ever work."

"Of that I have no doubt!" Then he gave another of his Cheshire smiles.

"OK, I really don't get what's going on here."

"It is because you think there's no other way but the way you see." I shrug my shoulders in agreement. "Look at the world around you! You think it has to be this this way and this way only?"

"Perhaps not, but - "

"It's not comfortable, is it, having your beliefs challenged, that someone may know something you do not, leaving you to feel foolish, that perhaps you live your life in vain."

"I have to admit I could have an angry reaction to that. It's just not the case here," I heard myself saying.

"But it is! If we simply let Nature take its course, each life will have direction and purpose and the sorrow of the world will disappear."

"Wow, now that's really crazy! In order to make a society run you have to have rules and regulations, economic and political policies, a standing army and ways to kill people. There's no other way. That's as certain as your square not fitting in that round hole."

"Ah, but you have all those things now, is that not true?"

"Thank God! What else would we do?"

"And is it working?"

Well, crap, no one complains about the world more than I do. He had me in a spot. Still, I did not want to admit he was right.

"Not yet. These things take time."

"So you're saying things are headed in the right direction."

Dammit. Got me again.

"Maybe not now but we can always change course."

"But of course. Good luck with that! Why change when you believe there's no other way?"

There was something very unsettling about this conversation and that made me angry. I got the feeling Olaf was trying to say we suffer for no reason. But how can the world be such a miserable place and something so good be true?

"I'm sorry, Olaf. That's too terrible to think about. I'm just not a believer."

I got another famous smile. "You don't have to be for it to be true."

The Inhuman Condition

"But you don't need me," she said,
her eyes breaking contact, looking down.

I did not realize at the time that, to her,
greed was a need
and others' needs deemed greed.

So I wander lost in the forest
scarred and sliced by never-ending knives of fear.

Safely out of hearing I scream:
"Where ARE you!"

Prey-seeking snakes slither
while I'm forced to drink from foul pools.

Truly I say unto thee:

"Life is a love or death situation."

She said I didn't need her,

Numbering my days,

Damned a futureless fool,

I tried to prove her right,

To win her love.

Art Of The Deal

The desperate man yelled to the crowd, "Do you love me!”

The crowd yelled back: "We'll do anything for you!"

"Then I'll give you what you want! This is true love!"

"You are the best and greatest!"

"Then we have the perfect deal!"

"We agree! Now jump!"

Thus the desperate man jumped off the building, landing in a huge orange splat.

Then everyone laughed, except for Jesus who loved him.

Whiplash

"Don't want you now! You're all used up. Go off and die for all I care."

The beauty of unvarnished social media truth shocked her back into decades ago teenage years - which she both feared and craved.

In the genteel cocoon to where she had retreated, no such directness ever penetrated. But the bottomless cruelty of loneliness drove her out.

Reconnecting on internet apps had her wondering of the life arcs of those with whom she'd lost touch. Time to compare!

After all, she had a millionaire husband, lovely children, and a claim to lifelong morality.

As a Worlder, she saw success at first telling the tale of her outward conquests, a true juggernaut. So she got brave.

Finding the guy she burned to be with her husband - now there's a chance for vindication!

Researching his photos and status she saw he was alone in the world, writing freelance articles for websites, just getting by. Loser!

Shimmering with keyboard courage she reached out and let slip her ride to glory. She even tried what she thought was a cleverly disguised taunt as a flirt.

But he came back with his earth-shattering quote, her face freezing in the pale monitor light, desperate for her cocoon cave.

Next day she deleted all internet traces, having a conversation with herself even God can never hear.

"I am used up."

How she had thrilled over the years at her objectification, at being deemed a useless female in a man's world as her husband's career skyrocketed.

She fantasized of his friends passing her around for her only possible purpose, running roughshod over her feigned protests. Yes! Yes! Yes!

This she secreted away with extreme prejudice, her only clue being her Christian identity as properly submissive woman.

Thinking back she knew there'd be a price for degrading her life. But she somehow convinced herself that day would never come.

Oh, how she prided herself on never lying to herself! His remark made her want to jump off a cliff with each and every fiber of her being.

More trapped than ever, her remaining days lay in ruins regardless of what story she could sell. Shame-pain-outrage-regret-forsaken-fraudulent fool for the ages.

No helping hand to ever come; no Jesus from the sky; waiting with hidden tears for the end; her makeup her most precious commodity.

Her only solace in knowing justice of the universe had been executed upon her.

Down And Out In Beverly's Hills

I've seen documentaries where they ask homeless people what "Home" means to them. But I already know the answer.

It's where you can take a shit in private!!

Some say that in a roundabout way. Others try to be more philosophical. But in the end, that's what it means.

To do the most simple and inevitable of human tasks without the weight of the world on you. You promise God you'll never ask for more.

So you're driven back to life indoors no matter what it takes, no matter how soul-crushing the work. You finally get your private place.

Yet the feeling fades quickly as a new hunger moves in: to find meaning and purpose in it all.

But meaning is nowhere to be found which prevents you from faking it you're making it and back to the free streets you go.

These God damned hot nights are killing me, the heat chasing me like dogged Javert, the freedom thief.

I've also had the thought in whatever hole I'm in that I'm in the most powerful position in the world.

Just try and track me. Marshall your forces and comb the planet! But you can't because you're perpetually trapped by other priorities.

Unfindable. Untouchable. Unseeable. No rich man can claim those things. He needs his possessions too much, hiding behind his gate.

So maybe, at the end of the day, there really is no place where you can shit and call it truly your own.

Why Anything?

The fool on the pill
Sees the world burning down
And the spies in his head
Spot the smile turning frown

Why anything?

Why up? Why down?

Why left? Why right?

Why pay rent?

Why not lie?

Why anything?

Armies of empty hearts
Marching off to whore,
Pretending purpose
To hell's holy war

The greedy savior
Sanitizing sin,
Claiming suicide
The way to win

Forget tomorrow's tears
No need for despair,
If love is what you fear
No need to breathe the air

Bondian Blues

Nothing like being left disavowed in a foreign detention camp to reassess your life...

I've lived my life by my wits, walking up to the edge, always coming through in the end.

Maybe I became entitled. How ironic after it was I who often quoted, "Tomorrow is promised to no one."

Hope fades as each day passes. I've come to wholly realize no fate is as lonely as a lie.

The freight train in my mind never stops. Odd songs popping in, replaying schoolyard incidents, musing paths not taken.

But somehow I knew. What was my flippant remark at the office? "Do not fear, I'd never be caught there. I can't stand the food!"

And the food IS bloody awful.

But something twinged when I made that remark. As if it wasn't coming from me, that I had to live up to "being Bond."

And this is the price. To spend my remaining days in devout misery. Bloody hell!

Smart thing to do is top myself, end this once and for all. But that instinct for life that served me so well now imprisons me in stubborn desire.

If I were to be rescued, would I continue this career? Would I fold like that, helpless as a trained dog?

Or would I free myself? Worse, what if I find I have nowhere to go?

How could this happen? Staying beyond my expiration date like an overeager rookie.

With all this time to think I've had a thought I cannot bear, wondering of the cruelty of life:

Did I let myself be put in prison for having come to live in an emotional prison these last few years?

How do you un-need someone?