i swim inside a sea of endless blackness, a voiceless void suffocated in formless vacuum outside i see faces. their lips move, thinking i can hear them. the void disallows contact as there's nothing to carry the sound. to leave the void is to return to the awaiting horror. i'm trapped in time, never to live again. i can't go back to that spiderweb, to be feasted upon, unable to move. i am a student of sin. i became its slave by believing i was its master. my atrocities are like a fire that can't be put out. only the void can suffocate the flames. the jungle hell still jails my recruited soul. they told me to kill to be good. life ended when i signed my name. how can such a small act be so powerful, to take one from possible dreams to certain nightmares? That Which Cannot Be Spoken grips my universe in unbreakable hold. the answer, she said, was in my head: my prison of pain, memories of a family's death screams from a burning thatched hut. "that which can be destroyed should be destroyed." this became the code i lived by. it included myself. my code of dishonor allowed me to rot for the greater good. how convenient. the dry straw ached to be burned it was so perfectly fragile. my life was a nightmare, so shouldn't everyone else's be? the dying screams of the souls inside gave voice to my inner tears. i fed off them, a red-faced monster playing god as master of life and death. and in that moment i am freeze-framed. what is time but a measure of consciousness? decades are a blink of the eye. eternity is each day passing. i can't un-know my crime, so there is no "time". and no rest. closed eyes only continue the slow searching march through the seething jungle of sinister green leaves and villainous yellow sun. the stain remains the same. my child would have to die in punishing payment. it should thank me for not being born. or curse me for never seeing the light of day, blindly picking me in innocent knowledge of my sins. yesterday, today, tomorrow - i have nowhere to go. nothing ever changes. not a single particle. god is a lost cause
Taking a note from our infamous history, self-loathers have taken a new shine to witch-burning as a cure for present day ills. And with self-loathing itself on the rise, self-dealing politicians were quick to seize on this phenomenon.
"Friends, I may be phony and retarded, a despicable loser from the bottom of the barrel, the rottenest of rotten apples, but I'm here to tell you today: I will not let this country be overrun by witches!"
(Much cheering was heard.)
"And we know who those witches are, don't we?" Crowd chuckles. "It's everyone we hate!"
(Much cheering was heard.)
"No one disagrees this country has been going to hell, but I got a word for you witches out there, and the word is it's you who's going to hell!"
(Much cheering was heard.)
"Now, we all know about the radicals, don't we? They don't want to burn anyone!" Crowd boos lustily. "They'll just let the witches do anything they want. Are we going to stand for that? Are we going to give up our country?" A chorus of "NO" erupted in reply. "That's right! I am your savior. I am the only one who'll stand up to the witches!"
(Very much cheering was heard.)
The witch-burner-in-chief proved successful in his election bid, who then duly followed forth on his promise, burning at least one witch a week to the very great delight of his anti-Christ supporters. Even when courts ruled his burnings to be illegal, the criminal kept right on doing it - also much to the delight of his fanatical following. "He's a man of conviction!" they crowed. Plus the moron didn't know how to do much anything else.
These suicidal circumstances put opposing politicians into a pickle.
"See, we can't be seen as opposing all burnings or we'll lose the centrist independents, alienate the pro-witch-burners, and divide the nation. We'll be called "Witch lovers" if we ban burnings outright. No, what we'll do is start some investigations that prove the burnings are unwarranted, make the case to the public, reverse the polls, and then we'll be able to stop the killings. We can't just be seen recklessly acting on our own convictions and doing the right thing!"
As the janitor in the room who overheard this conversation, I repeated it to my friend Tony the next day. Tony, however, has no interest in political calculations.
"Shit, man, we leave that crazy motherfucker in charge this country don't deserve to live noways."
Buckley Pierce had lost the last lie in life; 55 and time to die. His devil's bargain with the devil's world finally expired yet his middle-aged body lived on. He hadn't counted on this tragic timing. To live now would be to live inside a coffin in a grave, buried alive, no one to hear his screams - and worse yet - no one to revive his dead dreams. Such is the fate of a corporate cunt.
He hadn't always been a hatchet man setting up innocents for betrayal. In the beginning he served an actual purpose for the big box company. But as times changed he did not; outmoded and outdated. He had to invent a new way of serving his masters, and that was by being willing to do any dirty deed he was told. He'd write up underlings on the flimsiest of excuses - even outright fabricate if needed - and then railroad whomever he was directed to right out the door. He told himself it was kill or be killed.
The big test was the massive management reorg where no one was safe. Surviving that meant more than just slitting someone's throat. He had to find a way to take the place of a legitimate person who actually contributes. Just how much did his masters value him? Buckley took sick pleasure when he heard the news a competent person would be thrown out into the street so he could keep his place. The executives knew the loyal dog they were buying because they knew their days of ill intent were far from over.
Curiously, the worse Buckley felt about what he was doing, the more he defended it. Savagery was his way through this world and he prayed to it as his god, teaching his twin children the necessity of being cutthroat. He donated money to church to buy off his Maker. He paid off his wife with gifts as he as a person had less and less to offer. "I must be savage! I have nothing without it!"
Painfully white feeling painfully entitled, this drowning rodent fed on a diet of desperation. But at some point the corporate Judas becomes a liability to his masters, evidence to be rid of. The rats in charge could barely contain their laughter when they betrayed the betrayer with a smile and a handshake. It was only then Buckley realized the true price of his previous treachery.
He'd been living the Aryan dream of assumed superiority. Hiding in one of the last vestiges of white male dominion deep within the tangled web of modern corporate bureaucracy, Buckley had grown drunk on a feeling of invincibility and privilege. He'd subscribed to the "might makes right" theory, that he couldn't be wrong in what he was doing if he were allowed to do it. That justified every knife he put in every back. On this day, however, "Buckley the Butcher" got butchered.
Now it was his turn to ponder life without a future. (Actually, those he helped terminate were better situated at the time of their demise having led more honest lives.) Buckley was too old and too withered to start over. In reality he'd become a charity case. Then the devil came to take his due.
Rage. Red seething rage. Without the bribe of his protected position, his true feelings could no longer be held back, the dam had burst. Always a right winger, he radicalized into joining the Konservative Krist Killers, who blamed the ills of the world on everyone but themselves. Buckley's appalled wife divorced him when he started bringing assault rifles home "for the coming race war." Even after realizing his corporate masters had used him and thrown him away he still could not let go of his old ways.
For the rest of his miserable existence Buckley spewed filthy hate, a victim of "our savior Jesus's betrayal", forever seeking acceptance without penance among the world's losers. A man who preached to his children "money over dreams" ended with neither; lost and alone in a sea of darkness, flailing and screaming to his bitter lonely death.
Every life before it's born is assigned a car code of some sort. Country to country, land to land, it varies. Here in the home of the knave, it's possible to have a very fancy car code such as the one I got: Ferrari. I know what you're thinking: You lucky dog! But not so fast.
Rare is it for someone to know their car code but mine came to me in a dream. I guess the universe needed to help me get unstuck. (Unfortunately, it still does.) It came to me clear as day, as real as the sun. To achieve a Ferrari would mean I'd achieved success, simple as that. So I started with the direct route. I stole one.
It's not easy to steal a Ferrari. All I can tell you for a hint is try hotels. But when I read up on stealing high end cars, it said to leave the car parked for three days to see if it's hot. No one comes for it, you're home free. But sure enough, I saw a police stakeout van monitoring the car, just waiting to nab me. Those tracking devices are tough to beat. Bottom line is, I didn't get nailed, but I lost the Ferrari.
Failure.
Next up on my search I found you can rent high end exotics. So I saved up my money and for an entire week I had my own Ferrari. I waved to God as I got in to make sure my success was noticed in Heaven. Was a great week but the aftermath was hell. The financial hangover was grueling and nothing magical happened during the week that allowed me to keep it. Not sure what I was thinking.
Failure.
I was starting to get a little worried. How the hell was I going to get a Ferrari in my lifetime. I hung around the Italian car club meets and I thought maybe if I could get a driver job in one I could fool God into thinking the car was my own. One thing I know now for certain: Ferrari owner don't let other people drive their cars EVER. Out of luck again.
Failure.
I was flummoxed and stymied and paralyzed. Now what the hell do I do. I don't know any rich people to help me out. Nor is there any reason for them to do so. It seems getting a Ferrari is as far away as the moon. I can see it, but never get there. I fell into a deep depression. When I ate it wasn't because I thought I had a future. I was just too chicken to die. How the fuck did God ever think I could own a Ferrari. If it's my destiny then why didn't one of my plans work?
So you see, had I car code of VW I'd been fine. Ferrari is not a blessing. It's a curse. I felt I had a scarlet "F" branded on me - only my F stands for Failure. I left the house as little as possible for fear of being seen. Paranoia's roots sprouted, reaching deep into my soul. Stands to reason: if I could find out my car code, so could others. Oh, God.
So I started my very own propaganda campaign. "I'm a Volkswagen bug guy!" Since that's what I drove, I had to prove that it was my Sign Of Success. There's all sorts of aftermarket accessories for bugs, of which I ordered many. That proves I'm into this car and I've achieved success! I was always trying to show it off to everyone, to impress them with my alleged satisfaction. It seemed to work.
This is me! No, really!
What they didn't see was my constant nightmares any time I closed my eyes. Goddamit, I can't escape the Ferrari car code! I'm doomed. All that's left for me is to keep up this charade and die before anyone finds out the truth. An ignoble goal, I know. But I see no way to escape my shame. My constant pleadings fall on deaf ears. If I'm here, then it's Ferrari or bust, no exceptions.
I let no one touch me or see me. It's forbidden by my state decree. Anyone gets in and finds out my car code I'm finished. I curse my Maker who does not understand I have no path to my so-called destiny; imprisoned for life. Just by virtue of remaining here, I've been forced to consider cruel thoughts, though. Perhaps there was a way and it was I who failed to understand. Oh, dear. Oh, very dear.
Much to my dismay, another angel spoke in my tormented sleep. "Pursue love and the Ferrari will come. Pursue the Ferrari and nothing will come."
Second part sure as hell was true! But that first part? How could that possible work? Don't I need the Ferrari to prove I deserve the love?
It was night on the edge of downtown Dallas where every street is one way but never the way you need to go. All I wanted to do is get on the highway and get my ass back home. I got more and more angrily frustrated as I felt the streets pushing me into a corner where I didn't want to be. I kept thinking "There has to be way out! It would be insane for this to lead to a dead end." But my screaming instincts told me otherwise.
Part of what bothered me was nobody else was going same way as I was. What do they know? I was in an area I'd never been before, just wandering aimlessly as I have no place to go and no place to be. And no one to be. But my boiled rage had had enough and I wanted out, my direction home. But I was denied with every imperious one way sign until finally, eerily, I saw no lights ahead. But I was doomed on the one way road I'd chosen.
And then, nothingness.
Yes, I was still moving as I saw the lights behind me grow farther and farther away. But the road noise stopped. Any relational points of reference vanished. I had, it seemed, driven off the edge of the earth. I gripped the steering wheel as hard as I could as if that would make a difference. I also pondered the idea my gasoline engine needs oxygen for it to combust and in space there's no air. But then like an irrational child, I feared mental inquiries would make my fears come true. So I stopped questioning.
It was then I truly learned the meaning of the word 'disconnected'.
I had left the world behind and I would die alone, a freak in outer space who thought he could do without. Please don't let anyone catch me dead out here! My heartbeat slowed into a panicked crawl like a slowly hit bass drum. My head compressed as if an ever-tightening vice squeezed forbidden room for thought. I'd always wanted off the planet but not like this!
I would go down as the biggest fool in history. Who gets so lost they drive right off the edge? I didn't even know it was possible. Aliens could be watching me, wondering what the hell this crazy lunatic is doing. These thoughts kept running through my head but all I wanted to do was get back before anyone found out what I'd done. Of course, in the back of my mind, I'd always know what I'd done. But I would deal with that later.
Truth is, I was too panicked to panic. If I were to ever get back I knew I had put my hysteria on hold. Without any visible reference points - black was here, black was there, black was everywhere - one only has one's self. The timing for this couldn't be worse! In a fit of madness and fear, I had destroyed my hearth and home. Horrified of my own hands, I'd begun to disconnect. Perhaps...perhaps that's why this is happening. To die alone in space could be my just desserts.
But I tried to find my way back in spite of my certain judgement of a deserved death. I just let go, surrendering to the car's path, closing my eyes, not daring to utter even a prayer. And in time, I found myself back on earth. You could say I survived, but I certainly paid a price.
What I say now I expect no one to believe. I write this for me alone, a testament to God. Yes, I made it back, but not to the earth I knew. The sky was a brownish orange; burnt and forlorn. Gone forever was the blue I knew. When I tried to point this out I got quizzical looks. "What are you talking about? It's always been this way. You need your eyes checked." Yet in the books I saw, the sky was blue in older photographs. A creeping horror seeped within me, impossibly bubbling to the surface. "Oh, God, no."
I adopted a stance of silence. I observed as one person put it, "Laughter carefully acted and tears carefully crafted." That's when I knew: they did know the sky was once blue. But no one dare admit it - even if they said it. To what other lies had they agreed to pretend? I began to wonder if I had entered a space-time warp when I drove off the edge. I don't know how it happened, with a bang or a whisper, but a Great Darkening had descended on the land. They feared to face it, as if silence could keep them safe from something over which they felt they had no power. But to my exasperating dismay, I knew they were deadly wrong.
CODA: I wander alone now in quiet disorientation. Maybe others have driven off the edge of the world too but are too scared to say so - just like me. I feel a heaviness that was not here before. Do others see in my eyes what I see in theirs? It's as if someone has died. We each feel something must be done - but nothing is. An ill wind pushes us forward - and that end is to a cliff from which there is no return. I feel I've joined a brotherhood of self-betrayal. Sometimes I tell myself none of this could be true. But the sky does not lie - nor answers to Man.
The two biggest factions among the mice of the house were the anti-cat and pro-cat factions (mice being pro-cat is a phenomenon that can be observed but not explained). The pro-cat faction, though irrational and suicidal, had achieved the upper hand and convinced the majority of the mice to let the cat roam the house freely, even though the cat said very clearly, "I'm going to eat you" - something the cat had spoken aloud for the first time. Many mice applauded the cat's "authenticity and honesty" - and then observed in horror as their children were eaten.
The pro-cat forces had never been happier. They had made a deal with the cat for it to eat only anti-cat mice and this the cat did vociferously. And while the cat, emboldened as never before, roamed the house it destroyed as many of the defenses as it could that had been built up over the years to keep the cat out. He lifted up pro-cat mice into places only the cat can reach, having them "guard" windows and other entry points. This infuriated the anti-cat mice, however.
The anti-cat faction pushed back, putting their leader Fancy Peloshi back in a position of power. Fancy had the reputation for being "radically anti-cat" which she had cultivated over the years. In a secret meeting with the cat, however, she told it, "I'll say bad things about you and you say bad things about me and that will keep both our power bases happy. But don't worry, I won't do anything meaningful to get you thrown out of the house. Your bad behavior got me back in power!" The cat wasn't so sure. "Won't your side be angry when you don't do anything?" Fancy Peloshi smiled, "They believe in me, not themselves," she purred. The cat understood all about suckers.
The cat and its mice supporters were having the time of their lives. While it's true the cat did betray on occasion its promise to eat only anti-cat mice, the pro-cat faction thought that was worth the sacrifice for the "greater good" of giving the cat free reign. And while Fancy Peloshi did nothing to keep the cat from feasting on the mice, the anti-cat faction also looked the other way for the "greater good" of keeping Fancy in power. In this way each side hoped to have a future.
Both were wrong.
Though only a sliver of the population, a third faction existed: the pro-mice mice. The pro-mice faction was bitterly hated and vilified by both the anti-cat and pro-cat groups. While it's true the anti-cat faction pretended to represent the pro-mice group that was only part of their power play. The pro-mice group maintained that the only path to survival was the wholesale banning of the cat, no exceptions. "We don't want to hear about how you think you can 'work with the cat'. That's just a fantasy," they scolded Fancy Peloshi. Instead, the anti-cats accused the pro-mice mice of being the fantasists. What both the pro-cat and anti-cat mobs realized was that their power depended on the cat's threat.
In the end, with the majority of the mice refusing to ban the cat altogether, the cat continued to devour them over time one by one, not bothering to distinguish between pro-cat and anti-cat mice. Too late it was determined to ban the cat but the defenses had been so weakened at that point that any decision the mice made was moot. Some mice only learn by dying.
"But before - before the camp was built. Did you hate them then?"
"I heard the talk but never much thought about it. You expect me to go out on some sort of research expedition?"
"No, no. But you hate them now?"
"It's our duty. They wouldn't have us loading them into the kilns for no reason. They must have done something pretty awful to cause all this to happen."
"Ja, that's what I thought too. It would be crazy to order this unless there's a good reason. But my wife says we should each judge for ourselves what is right and wrong."
"Don't talk treason, Frederick. No man is bigger than the state. If you're going to start causing trouble I'm going to stop talking to you."
"Oh, it's nothing like that. But her Christian god will punish us, she says, if we are unjust."
"You think too much."
"But what if it's true!"
"It can't be. If this is all murder then what justice can there be? How can these people be brought back to life? All these orphans growing up alone, how can that be fixed? Punishing us later fixes nothing. If there's a god of justice that god has to stop the wrongs before they happen, OK? I don't see anything stopping us."
"The Americans are coming."
"I've heard that too. But are they your god of justice?"
"I don't know. I don't know if they fight for the Jews or not."
"If they win the war, will they stop? Will they let go of war or will they go on warring, always looking for someone new to kill? They could be just like us."
"Will they be angry for us working here at the camp?"
"How can they be? Wasn't our idea to do this. The commandant says we are serving our country. We just do as we're told like good people do."
"Even Heinrich? He has a picture of the Fuhrer in every room in his house. He says the Fuhrer is a force for good. They'll leave him alone too?"
"Heinrich is an asshole. He just likes anybody that makes him feel good about being an asshole."
"Do the Americans put their Jews in camps?"
"How should I know? But I don't believe they are any better than us. If their President said to kill and rape women and children, they would do it. It's OK to do that to the enemy."
"So Jews are our enemy?"
"That's what's been decided. They cause bad things to happen. You can read about it anywhere."
"Yes, I know. So when they're gone, you'll be happy?"
"Me? My life is shit. I got no life. No woman can want me. To die would be good."
"You blame the Jews for that?"
"Feels better to blame them than me. I'll do anything not to face myself." Hans turned to look directly at Frederick. "Anything."
"But what if everything we're doing is wrong? Maybe we shouldn't be killing anybody. If this is a giant lie, how do we wash the blood from our hands? How can we be forgiven?"
"Stop it, Frederick! That is too horrible to contemplate. We mustn't think of such things. Do you not like providing for your wife and children? Do you remember how we struggled before we got camp jobs? Do you want to go back to that?"
"Of course not...but not everything can come down to money, can it?"
It's nothing personal, Earth, just business. Someone once said you can't serve two masters but that person wasn't a businessman so no one listened. But get this: Nothing comes before business! If Nature gets in the way then Nature has to go! That's just good, commonsense economics. Idealism has its place but one has to be pragmatic and always, always, always put numbers first.
When one starts a business, no one asks: "Is it in tune with Nature and the universe?" That would be nuts and wholly irrelevant. Instead we ask: "Do the numbers work?" Numerology is our actual religion. It's called practical and real because it requires no conscience. Bring the conscience in and things go all to hell. Order must be maintained - and if we all believe in living a lie then living a lie maintains order.
Until we become extinct, of course.
The propaganda is so overwhelming and all-consuming at this point we barely blink an eye when we see it. Soothing commercials of pleasant lifestyles parade across our eyes nonstop, implying we've achieved civilization and the good life is out there waiting to be had. We have those living in false idealism, of "saving" the world in conjunction with our number worship. In our hearts we know we can't win going down this path - and it's eating us alive.
I have been to the Lost Mountains and inhaled their ancient mystic dreams waiting for the inevitable release. Anyone can visit them but few seek them out. Most fear what they might find, of what they may see and hear from that which cannot be conquered by Man. Under the rumbling ground I felt the pockets of repressed love ready to explode. Once released, there will be no going back. Anything not in accordance with that love will be wiped out - numbers be damned for all eternity. Then we'll be forced to face that only Love is pragmatic and everything else is death.
This calls for wisdom: let the one who has understanding calculate the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man, and his number is 666.
Boyfriend Of The Moment (BOTM) was ringing her phone. She did not pick up. Talking, breathing, living - these things held no interest to her. It was all she could do to grapple with the alternate universe in which she found herself.
She'd taken her vacation to Los Angeles alone for a reason. That reason she would take to her grave. L.A. was where she belonged. In the group tour she'd taken of the Hollywood Bowl that afternoon, only she was shattered and unnerved by it. "This is the only way I'll ever walk on this stage." The reality of it collapsed her within her own private rapture. She couldn't afford to let anyone see that.
The invading ringing phone on her motel nightstand wanted to hear all about her Instagram-worthy vacation. But all she could think about was returning to the Midwest dive bars where her singing career had stalled for the past ten years. She'd have to stand on the stage and somehow pretend her life was on the straight and narrow even has she now faced it had gone off the rails for good.
L.A.'s siren call had to be answered. She kept hoping when she finally made the trip it would be because she was pursuing her ticket to success. But ever since she refused to audition for a recording contract - refused to see if she truly had talent or delusion - the ice beneath her feet had slowly melted, forcing her to run away to the place she'd once believed she deserved to be.
Part of her begged her not to return, to forget the smoky bar faces that awaited her in bored fascination. She would stay on here, start over, become a new person, to at long last become unstuck! "Don't answer the phone. Answer only to yourself." But her network of support was back in Abilene. That's where she'd be safe to rot.
Dreams aren't safe, she thought. Being dreamless is the practical thing to do. What was it BOTM said? "I love you...and I don't." Her entire life was like that: one foot in, one foot out. But that recording audition was a once-in-a-lifetime offer, never to return. She lied to herself just to be able to keep singing. "Tomorrow I'll audition..." That stage she walked on today - something about hearing the sound of her own shoes as she crossed - told her she's just one more person on the scrapheap of history wishing for talent that was not there or allowed to flourish.
"Fuck me in the ass. I'm good for nothing else," she actually said aloud to a previous BOTM. He was more than happy to oblige because even the mere threat of her having talent was something his no-talent ass needed to destroy. Besides, if she could convince herself of her unworthiness then how could she be a failure? She was like a drunkard who spent every last cent on getting the next drink. Easier to chase a rainbow that can never be reached than be caught fooling yourself in front of the whole laughing world.
Like a needle in her arm, she injected the despair, sprawled out and strung out on a cheap motel bed at the edge of the universe. What would happen if she stopped lying and pretending? What if she broke down and confessed her life a massive disappointment and to its nightmarish existence? She couldn't see the point in that. At least her lies bought her acceptance of the romantic notion of publicly still chasing a career; just another corrupt politician.
Unable to move forward or backward on the railroad tracks of life, she simply decided to let the train run her over, a mercy killing. Trapped in Heaven, she looked down to see the enormity of the talent she left unshared. Even in death she couldn't get away.
It's not just that all the world's a stage. It's that all the world is a fraud. We've set up false metrics for success to give ourselves cover - but whom are we deceiving? Our Maker? The universe? Or simply each other? But guess what. Fooling you into believing I have a million dollars doesn't mean I get to live like a millionaire. Yet that's the game we are playing: even when you win you lose.
I have nothing and am nothing. But I have to pull off the con otherwise day after day after pointless day. It's meaningless. Look around you. The whole world is in cahoots kicking the can down the road of the day of reckoning. What farce. I'm sick of it. I'm tired of dragging around the weight of my lies.
Everyone is.
The ending to our Dance Of Death is already known. We get the room to cheer a plausible sounding hope but it's an illusion and the mood fades like a vanishing vapor. That illusion is the worst drug of all. It keeps us from embracing actual solutions. Until that time, all acts are meaningless.
Because we know the futility of what we do, we're cracking at the edges, like a paper that burns from the outside to the center we are being consumed. Just a matter of time before your turn comes. Hope died on the cross two thousand years ago. But as long as there's any piece of paper left, we continue to say the burning is not a problem. Don't forget to duck from the mass shooters.
You'll hear pieces of truth - mostly from those who have nothing to lose - but never whole cloth. All the "heroes" are zeros. Only have faith in yourself. There's nothing else left - thank God.
The words of the Teacher, son of David, king in Jerusalem:
For some, more is never enough. Two dark-skinned fellows dressed in the finest of linen surveyed a neighborhood inhabited with white-skinned folks. Little did the whites know their property had been deemed "valuable" and thus it was time for them to go!
"Just like pulling weeds, isn't it, Mortimer? Got to get rid of the infestation for the flowers to grow."
"Well said, Randolph. Time to get rid of the last of the white niggers!"
Mortimer, gas can in hand, sauntered royally over to the first house spewing accelerant on the side of the house as a curious neighborhood couple watched.
"What ya think that man is doin', Jemima?"
"I nots know but dem is dark folks an' we need to be respectful of 'em," she whispered.
Randolph then walked over and casually set the house ablaze. An angry white man came rushing out into the yard just in time for the TV camera crew.
Mortimer gestured towards the screaming man as he spoke to the newsman. "You see, there's no living with this type of angry people. They are never satisfied, always wanting more, but instead of doing something about it, they just simply blame us innocent darks for all their problems. Outrageous how they stoke the flames of hatred!"
Cleaning up the neighborhood!
The neighborhood whites organized a protest which was quickly condemned by the dark-skinned. "They just need to be quiet! They keep causing trouble like this and something bad will happen, just you wait and see." And to ensure this, the dark-skins ordered the police to shoot a white protestor. "See! We warned you! We're trying to keep the peace but uppity whites won't let it happen."
Furious whites tried to make their case to a prejudiced public but their concerns were dismissed as the whites were labeled an "angry mob trying to score political points. Next thing you know they'll be saying Jesus was white!" Mortimer and Randolph claimed in reality they were the true victims, suffering unfair attacks and any outcry against them was simply sour grapes about their economic success.
Watching the debates on TV had Mortimer and Randolph howling with laughter as their bald-faced lies were repeated ad nauseum. Fueled by an argument of victimization, crackpot dark-skins savagely attacked the neighborhood whites until they were forced to flee (to someplace less valuable). Soon, wonderful (no whites allowed) condominiums were erected and everyone non-white lived happily ever after.
"All my worth, the entirety of my life, is in my bank account. It's what makes me special in the world. I don't need anyone nor heed anyone. No one can argue with money. Right or wrong, I live as a king among peasants.
"It's so wonderfully artificial, this feeling. Nothing real to be attacked. I live in the floating world, unstrung by responsibilities, feet never touching the ground, aloft in a sea of servants living in self-imposed chains who live to grant my every wish. "I need be nothing to have everything, the free ride dreamed of by the masses. A zero in life - a hero in lifestyle. Walking the streets, I'm the envy of the bustling crowd straining at their leashes to live the life that's passing them by. I pass through portals they can never reach, for I own my time. This is the magic of money, its power runs through my veins like an electrical current. "Money gives our puny lives purpose, meaning and direction; accumulation is your growth. It is the alpha and omega. No life does not suffer without it! The need for it is inescapable. You can try to fight against it but all roads lead to surrender. Face the inevitable and serve your master. There is no other way."
"All my worth, the entirety of my life, is in my heart. It's what makes me special in the world. I need be someone to have someone. No one can argue with love. Right or wrong, one must have it to be alive.
"It's so wonderfully true, this feeling. Nothing unreal to survive attacks. I live in the floating world, freed by responsibilities, feet firmly touching the ground, aloft in a sea of servitude, gaining myself by giving myself. "I need love to have anything, the dream ride of every living soul. A hero in love - a hero in life. Walking the streets, the bustling crowd straining for love to live the life that's passing them by. I reach the wonderland only two can share, no wasted time. This is the magic of lovr, its power runs through my veins like an electrical current. "Love gives our puny lives purpose, meaning and direction; accumulation is your growth. It is the alpha and omega. No life does not suffer without it! The need for it is inescapable. You can try to fight against it but all roads lead to surrender. Face the inevitable and serve your love. There is no other way."
Black Riders cannot be killed because they are already dead. Spawned from a godless world, no force can destroy them - unless that world is destroyed. They surround my house in furious anticipation. I can stay in and die or come out and die, either way. But my death they must have. I've seen others in their time of dying gather guns and other useless weapons in vain pursuit of protection. The look of horror on their face when they find out the futility of what they've done is like seeing a man who suddenly realizes he's facing an oncoming train. Black Riders want you to arm yourselves in whatever way you feel makes you powerful and safe: your lie is their pathway to destroying you. You can cry for help or disappear in silence, makes no difference. The very world that spawned the Black Riders cannot come to your aid. You're alone as Jesus on the cross, hung out to dry with no penitent hope. Some fools believe the Black Riders serve them and their purposes not knowing no living soul will be spared. Some lament how things got this way, pointing and blaming. Some speak out against the Black Riders' rule in fiery opposition. Some chase rainbows that will set the world fantastically free from the consequences its own decisions. Some profess victory in self-immolation. Some profess glory in pointless sacrifice. None of it changes anything. Powerless we're born and in helplessness we die. Every oar is tied together, those untouched as well as those that row forward and backward. Unity is a universal death sentence yet only in unity can there be hope - yet nothing true can be mandated. The world is its own victim, mandating death as survival's price. The only sound left last is the Black Riders' laugh.
He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth;
he was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before its shearers is silent,
so he did not open his mouth.
I've got no way to live. Not possible for anyone to love me. I'm just a big nothing. What can I do! What can I do if there aren't any other losers like me out there???
The Creep slowly but inevitably stepped across the roof of the skyscraper. Peering over the edge he saw his fate. It's one thing to be unloved, he thought, it's something else to be unlovable. He never met a friend if he couldn't bribe them and never met a bribe he couldn't befriend. The entirety of his life had been one long series of retail transactions. "Say and pray" had been his mantra, pounded into himself night and day until he lost any perspective. "Say anything and pray they believe it."
I'm the biggest loser in the world. The biggest of all time! I must be Judas reincarnate.
Stepping onto the edge of the roof, truth and lies became opposites. To die was to live, to live was to die. He never did find a way to make his lies work for him - just as no other person in living history has. Living in constant terror of exposure (not knowing he was already exposed to anyone who looked), life had become unbearable, a ceaseless circus of distractions banning him from the paradise of peace: the outsider always yearning to be in. To end it is to win it.
Then a voice came down from below.
"Jump!"
The voice gathered other voices to it.
"Hey, moron, you gonna dive offa there or what?"
"Make my day and splatter your ass on the sidewalk!"
"Don't be a coward full of chicken ambition. Show us what guts ya got!"
The Creep cocked his head in wonder. They love me! Listen to that sound. So earnest! And all for me!
He started clapping his little hands in mutual applause, his audience cheering him and he delighting in finding his long sought approval; a moment he'd been unknowingly preparing for all his life.
"I love you all!" he shouted out. "I'll show you I'm a man of the people. I'm coming down to join you!"
As the crowd roared its approval, a horrified woman walked by, appalled at the crowd's ravenous hate.
"Are you people out of your minds urging that man to throw his life away? You have no idea what you're doing. That's just deplorable."
"Ha ha, lady! That's us, alright, we're the deplorables! No one cares what you have to say. He's our hero! He makes us feel good about being morons."
Then they told her to leave or she'd be lynched because "we don't want anyone to know us."
The Creep was giddy seeing such dedicated support. "As long as I'm going to die anyway, I may as well burn this building down too. How about a simplistic mindless chant? Burn it down! Burn it down!"
The taunting masses exploded in response, lustily carrying cans of gasoline up to the roof. At long last they could take unjust revenge for the sorry state of their lives, praising with their lips the Creator they hated while cursing with their hearts the world they created. If they couldn't be happy then nobody could, terrorists and traitors all, feeding off the outrage of the godly, carrying the deluded convictions of a spurned lover. To them, hope was a word never to be uttered, never to be dreamed; the ultimate betrayal of their cause.
The Creep poured the gasoline down rooftop ventilation shafts, followed by lit matches. As the smoke billowed out he cackled in glee. "I can't wait to lie about this later!" The giggling monster at the top of the towering inferno gloried in the crowd's accolades. "We are the true victims!" he declared. "See how they fight us every step of the way, trying to put out our lovely fires and even saying I'll die from it? But I don't care what they say because so many people agree with me!"
Self-important talk shows posed questions on "how do we stop this madman?" The Creep and its supporters laughed as they watched the consternation they caused in those whom they wished the most to love them. The TV voices cried out, "We must call him out! People won't know he's doing evil otherwise. Now is the time to unify! We must be like a farmer who unites the wheat with the chaff so everyone can win."
As the flames engulfed the building, those who were trapped by the fire cried out for help from the windows, furious with the rooftop ruler. A reporter from Eyeballs News dangling upside down from a helicopter gave forum to the arsonist. When asked about his burning victims, the Creep replied, "I don't know these people. They're saying bad things about me for no reason. I tried to help put out the fire! I deserve an apology!" Then, fearing some may yet pay attention to his victims, the Creep pulled out his penis to create a distraction ("I'm going to tweet my meat!") which was quickly seized upon by a compliant media.
With the camera off his victims, the cult leader addressed his acolytes: "Do you hear their partisan complaints? So full of hate! They want to destroy us, they are so vicious! There's no living with them! Repeat after me: Rape! Torture! Kill! This is God's will!"
The angry swarm below religiously repeated the chant, faces glowing red in the reflecting flames. They too had been waiting all their lives, waiting to reveal their murderous intent, steeped in their philosophy of discontent. But fires consume oxygen and thus can't last forever. The crowing Creep was at its zenith, forced to leap as the building crumbled beneath him.
"They called me a fraud but as I make this jump you'll see the true winner that I am!"
The mob gave its loudest cheer yet. Intense media speculation and debate ensued as Creep supporters shoved their way on camera.
"He's the greatest of all time! You naysayers will be left with egg all over your face. Just you wait and see! All you goddam reporters trying to take him down with facts are going to be exposed in the end."
A woman passing by was asked of her opinion of the murdering arsonist creep. "I'm sorry, I just can't believe those awful things you say about him in the press. It's just too terrible to believe so it must not be true."
A random smart ass was asked next, but he only replied with, "Homo says what?" As the reporter reiterated the question the smart ass kept with the same response. Finally, the reporter dropped his professional stance. "Look, smart ass, I don't like getting played like that!"
"Why not? You been letting that creep play you."
A group calling themselves Creep's Angels congregated on the Creep's projected landing spot, loudly proclaiming, "We love the Creep and the Creep loves us! He'll never hurt us!"
Under his breath the smart ass retorted. "You're exactly whom he's going to hurt, morons."
The justice of doubted reality was served. The Creep landed on his godless angels, killing himself and everyone beneath him. History declared the Creep a "forever loser." Those who still cared about life burst into applause at the end of the reign of terror. Others committed suicide, following in the footsteps of their Judas leader. Never again was the Creep mentioned by any living soul.
CODA: Creep followers were undeterred in continuing the decline of civilization even in the face of death and history's humiliation. In the face of their unrepentance, a mother who'd lost a daughter in the Creep's fire lambasted them. "Your barbaric cruelty is evil without end - and evil has no future!" "Lady, don't blame us because you're a loser. The world is evil and you're in it. So if evil has no future then neither do you."
In Revelation it speaks of a rider on a pale horse, come to change the world. I too saw a rider on a pale horse - and it too brought revelation...
The two girls who'd been in the car with me emphatically pleaded with the police who were handcuffing me.
"It's not him. He did nothing. He was with us the whole time!"
"Have you lost your minds? How could he have caused all this when he was in our car?"
The police have as their stated goal to be the truth. But the truth is more than most can bear so one switches to what is considered to be a more pragmatic - if eventually fatal - view of keeping one's job. Just arrest somebody - anybody - to keep the angry masses at bay. God can be dealt with after paying the rent.
So I was led away in handcuffs, never once protesting my innocence nor speaking a word. Amazing how the truth comes out sometimes.
The two girls were sitting up front in the four door sedan while I was in the back. We'd all seen the madman on the white horse interjecting himself into the stopped traffic at our intersection just below a highway overpass. It was a WTF moment for all of us. As if sensing the tension he was causing, the rider suddenly took off to the right. It was easier for me to track him from my vantage point and I wondered how he was going to overcome the concrete obstacles on the side of the road that would hamper his escape.
The galloping horse attempted to jump over them but failed on his landing, knocking the rider off but with his foot stuck in the stirrup. Panicked, the horse veered back into traffic, bouncing the head of the rider on the pavement who must either be unconscious or dead. Cars were slamming into one another in avoidance and just when I thought it couldn't get any worse the horse became entangled with a car, causing it to veer onto oncoming traffic and the tragedy increased multi-fold.
I'd witnessed all this as if watching a dream, not believing my eyes, not wanting to witness the daylight insanity before me. It repulsed me to think I lived in a world of such disconnected values that a man would endanger himself, a helpless animal, and others in such a reckless way. What was he thinking? How could he have hope? All I knew I was put in a position of undeniability - the last place my lying ass wants to be.
Besides the unfolding horror of what I saw, what got me most was my unspoken guilt in watching it. Maybe I wondered if I could be that man on the horse, losing his way, perhaps desperately asking for help in some perverse way. It was if he'd reached inside me and grabbed my soul in questioning inquisition. I was not ready for this thief in the night.
I guess the guilty nature of my recounting to the police made them arrest me, that I was somehow in cahoots with the horseman, that I was holding back. Most of all, I knew I could never say the words, "I'm innocent." I couldn't remember the last time I felt innocent.
Naturally, in jail I was asked what I was guilty of. "Name it," I'd reply, giving no eye contact. Even the creeps wanted nothing to do with me. Maybe they felt I would be a vehicle of revelation for them too and no one wanted that - especially the lying cops.
My silence frustrated everyone. Yet, I had nothing to say. To speak would be to do self-harm. "What is truth," inquired Pilate of Jesus, as if Pilate could not know himself. Why would I speak to what is self-evident? I've spent a lifetime of lying and could do more, regardless of the consequences. But a society that fears change more than damnation needed a convenient scapegoat. There was no shortage of professional Judases willing to define me in the worst possible way and did it with great, if short-lived, glee; for it was themselves they were defining in the end.
Can there be any seepage of real-time justice into this world? Apparently not. I'm surrounded by those who insist the farmer mix the chaff with the wheat, bringing ruin to all. It became clear judge and jury wanted to leave no living witnesses to their earthly deeds. How ironic they did not perceive my own guilt, that I had simply run out of lies. I was placed on a pedestal of righteousness and in doing so gave cause righteous cause in the minds to tearing me down. The more I was reviled, the more moral they must be.
I was silent to the end, a witness to the persecution, watching mad fairies fly around me in constant agitation, wielding swords and lances in wild ejaculations of ecstasy, furious at the inner fears they cannot escape, blindly stabbing at repressed demons of their own making, seen only in their own mind, praying to slay that which cannot be slayed - only freed - and to lose their life by trying to preserve it.
The madness was here, the madness was there, the madness was everywhere.
People think this is political. God, do not forgive them, for they know what they do.
I got your contract, got your job permit. For a hundred years I've had to write this shit. I have to dot the I's and cross every T, But I need a job, So I have to be a Paperwork Shuffler, Paperwork Shuffler! It's a dirty office in a dirty land, And my doting boss doesn't understand, He lives his life inside a dry inkwell, It's a boring job, But he wants to boss a Paperwork Shuffler, Paperwork Shuffler! Paperwork Shuffler... Paperwork Shuffler... Cried a thousand tears, what's a soul to do? I got no windows so I lost my view, Days stretch longer in the corporate life, It will stone your heart, I pray not to be a Paperwork Shuffler, Paperwork Shuffler! If you really want it you can have this job. Call me a dreamer, can call me a snob. But I'm suffocating in a living hell, So I need a break, Want to be more than a Paperwork Shuffler, Paperwork Shuffler!
There's a saying prison: "The deeper the sleep, the deeper the nightmare." So you never really get complete rest, part of you must stay awake 24/7 just to keep the monsters out, perpetually pushing against the door they keep trying to beat in. Some fail, of course, and the monsters come in and take over. Those are the scary ones and you wonder where God is. So every scrap of friendship is a lifeline not to be ignored.
Some take advantage of that, buddying up to you to see what they can wrangle. Self-doubt creeps in when you're in a place like that, surrounded by animalistic creatures, guards and prisoners alike. Cut off from the outer world, it turns into a distant dream becoming more unreal every passing moment. The overwhelming desire is to rebuild a semblance of life like you had on the outside, seeking out your own kind. The system, of course, only wants to crush you - because it can.
Men talk of the bonding that comes from wartime. In here, we're also under siege. Two or three at the most you'll come to trust. Once the suspicion passes, you see the mutual fear and there lies the foundation. You talk about things: normal things, outside things, future things. I had people say they were glad to of met me, that our paths had crossed like they had. "Dude, we're only meeting because of my crimes!" What purpose does it serve to make relationships in prison? Shouldn't I be hanging with the fellow shining stars like I was meant to be?
These unfair questions crossed my mind.
Afterwards, in the real world you find out how real things were inside. In there I could hide what a loser life I lead, so easy to appear to be more than you are. Oh, sure, I'm going to do all these cool things when I get out. But in the daylight I cannot hide. A few of the guys really do go one to do cool things, having a life and family. I remember sitting there on this guy's couch wondering if he knew how miserable I felt seeing him and his family living their lives. That was hopelessly out of reach for me.
He showed no hint of rejection or being ashamed of me. Friendly as always. Maybe he figured prison had done something to me and it was understandable I was still broken. What he didn't know was I was this way before I ever got in. I mean, were I functional person I'd have never of committed my crimes in the first place. I never went over there again or even made contact. I felt I was merely soiling the carpet with my presence.
Other guys are fuck ups like me. They are genuinely happy to see you, excited to meet someone to whom they need not explain their past. They like to bring up old bullshit that doesn't interest me but still they are better than nothing. In the end, I don't see a future with them, either. The last group is those whom you immediately avoid on sight - and they you. No one wants their shame revealed.
So all of them and none of them are my friends. I think of the Beatles hanging out with the Stones and other rockers in that Swinging Sixties London scene, colleagues and collaborators. Then I think who Lennon might have met stuck in prison when his actual soul-mates were worlds away. I feel like he could of made some genuine lifelong friends - but no Paul McCartneys. He'd of led a shadow life, at times pretending it was his real one, but only he knowing the truth.
