A crime of passion. A crime of deep disease, of heinous rot, of apocalyptic fear. An 11 year old boy mutilated, strangled, raped, and slaughtered. This criminal soul lost to darkness must be found and brought into the light before it strikes again. And this beast will surely strike again - and again, and again, until it is stopped...
Nikolai was a revered man in his rural Russian burb. A giving soul of whom no one spoke an ill word yet he was a man of passionate conviction who railed against the injustices he saw, including those perpetrated by The Judge, newly arrived in the territory. The Judge was an ambitious man who never met a truth he wouldn't crucify. Injustice was his lifeblood and like a vampire he needed constant injections to stay alive. To him, a man like Nikolai was a threat to his doomed lifestyle he dare not admit. Thus Nikolai was arrested on the bidding of blind goons who'd lost reason to live.
"Dear Lord in Heaven, have You no ears to hear this slander upon Your name? Have You no eyes to see the dying of the light? I am but a simple man, I cannot right this world, only myself. But there's no future for anyone without the truth. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was good and Word was God, and it was Love. Let us rejoice in the truth. How else to have hope for the present?"
The Judge was furious, as all who betray themselves are. "You dare speak of the truth! Only I know the truth! You do not! You blaspheme on top of your other outrages, for God is ours and ours alone. Only what is just is permitted by God therefore what we do is godly!"
The Judge was correct in one thing: only he knew the complete truth. For he was the beast killer and this trial his masterpiece of injustice, to feed off of for years. He tearfully orated on his devotion to victim's rights (while victimizing Nikolai), that monsters (like himself) cannot be allowed to roam freely, and that he, The Judge, was the one to make their community (un)safe! As Nikolai's ashes smoldered to the empty sky, The Judge was carried out on the shoulders of the townspeople.
For his zeal, The Judge received national plaudits from the country he betrayed; so many that he even began to believe it. He was finally the moral pillar he longed to be, handing down cruelty in the name of God, a conservative star giving safe haven to the unprincipled and unwell. And well he knew the axiom: 'Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall', thus ever vigilant he to never let virtue in any form, shape, or fashion through the door.
The extreme righteous indignation of The Judge with his God-hating religious fervor had made news even in Moscow, where it caught the eye of The Creature who ruled the land. Recognizing one of his own kind, The Creature quietly sent investigators to seek the truth. When informed it was, in fact, The Judge who'd killed the boy, the Creature spake, "We can use a worm like this!"
At The Creature's behest, The Judge moved to Moscow to destroy life after life on a national scale with the viciousness of a revenge-filled snake never saved. Drowning in power, scorning his Maker, he reveled in his mountain of rot, reaching the limits of space to avoid noticing his face, declaring himself a victim of cruel Nature and critics of love. What soul of ugliness can let a mirror stand whole?
Back in the burb, the mists of an unholy spirit infiltrated tweak-minded ears whispering of a vast and grand conspiracy of unspeakably evil elites secretly ruling the world. This secret cabal was working against the righteous endeavors of The Creature and The Judge, their holy protectors and saviors. In a toxic brew of fear and unreality came forlorn masses to drink from this cup of death.
The movement named itself BooAnon ("We's scared of everything!") "We are the honest ones who know the real truth! We speak no lie we do not believe and woe to those who do. Feel the burn we suffer upon ourselves! Angry with you, we are, for what we've become! Elect us, or we'll Start The Steal! Pray ye to God our glorious lies never end! Our will be done."
So Mark Cuban, the Jed Clampett of Dallas, has done bought his hisself a whole town! Says he doesn't know what he wants to do with it but knowing his luck "up through the ground come a bubbling crude". Luckily for him, I have an even better idea - even if painfully obvious: build a recreation of Japanese warlord Oda Nobunaga's Azuchi castle. Duh!
Truth be told, this wouldn't even be the first Asian landmark recreation in Texas. That distinction belongs to The Forbidden Gardens, just outside of Katy near Houston.
Forbidden Gardens was built in 1997 at the pleasure of Ira P. H.
Poon, AKA "Mr. Poon," a Hong Kong real estate mogul who wanted people of
Asian descent (including his teenage children) to know something of
Asian culture besides firecrackers and kung-fu. Mr. Poon lives in
Seattle, but preferred constructing the sprawling exhibit somewhere
outdoors, open year-round, on flat, cheap land, where there was a large
Asian population. Houston, 25 miles east of Forbidden Gardens, has the
third highest in the nation.
Terra-cotta army.
People visit Forbidden Gardens from all over the world,
particularly from China. We were told the Chinese government makes
travel within China so difficult that it's easier to fly to America and
see a miniature replica than it is to stay home and see the real thing.
The attraction, built for an estimated $20 million, covers 40 acres
and 2,000 years of Chinese history. It is a curious, impressive,
motionless place on the Texas flatlands, with its tranquil courtyard,
shaded arcades, koi fish pond, the smell of incense in the thick air and
the sounds of Chinese zither plucking from hidden speakers.
Just imagine driving down the highway and seeing an exotic Asian silhouette reaching out to the sky. People would be crawling over themselves to get to it. Oda Nobunaga was the greatest mind in Japanese history, a man from a small, weak province who led the conquest of a nation. His was the first of the great castles, built more as a palace than a military structure.
Accoutrements would include a satellite installation of the Barbier-Mueller museum (they have enough to fill several museums), small garden, along with Torii gates and stunning red Japanese bridges, recreation of a fuedal village, and maybe even a ryokan (traditional Japanese inn). It would be as magical as any Disney park but overflowing with the history of one of the most unique cultures in the world.
99,000 drawers on the wall!
99,000 drawers!
Open one up
See what's inside
Remember it till you die!
The enormity of the Building is so large you have to take into account the curvature of the earth to correctly calculate its size. Even then, some said its size could never be calculated because the human life span is too short. As fresh meat to be ingested and digested within, I watched my fellow inmates scurry to and fro, possessed by purposelessness, forever fetching the needs of countless faceless machines.
Along the top of the walls is an ever present electronic ticker scrolling an endless stream of drawer numbers demanding to be served, like Times Square in Hell's alley. The LED lights glanced off my awestruck face as I was escorted mouth agape to my own personal cell. Worst part was I forgot to leave a trail of bread crumbs if to ever find my way out again.
I kept thinking, "This must be how Jonah felt - only without the hope."
The drawers ran from floor to ceiling, running into the billions, surrounding me and drowning me in terror, plastered with mind-bending labels like "GUBIJN584578RTBIUY" and "!@#$%^*(*^%$#$%^*". My smiling co-worker was talking nonstop guiding me to the center of my demise but I could barely hear her over the roar of silent screaming in my head. Surely, a place like this is not allowed in the universe. Surely, God thinks more of us than this. Has Darkness won the battle for eternity?
One phrase made it through the jungle mist of horror: "Don't worry. You'll get the hang of it. Been here all my life and still don't know where everything is. You never can.Sometimes I even mumble numbers in my sleep! But, yes, you can become like we are." In the fog of whore I saw a smile meant to reassure. Like a tire with a hole, my spirit dissipated into the miasma until I was fully emptied as I arrived at my computer-designated post. Squinting through the gloom I saw my various "colleagues" chained to their own posts in various states of disrepair, like a dog outside, exposed to weather that gradually reduces it to death; its eyes already vanquished.
Your value is judged by how many drawers' contents you can memorize. 1/2 inch copper conduit. Solenoid wrap indicator switch. Bell housing flex material by grade. Along with six million variations of widgets. And don't forget the vendor ID.
During my night sweats I dreamt I was on a treadmill, never reaching the drawer to which I had been called. The company ogres who can take lives at any time for any reason yell at me louder and fiercer as I fail to fulfill my order and therefor my reason for being. Yet on the treadmill, the harder I try the more I die. In a fit of despair I fling off all my clothes with a cry of pain. "Look, he's human! The fucking freak! Get his damn ass! Get him NOW!" Their hatred is fired by the torment of needing to hide their own humanity.
The only food sustenance is Soylent Green (we all ignored the guy exclaiming what it was). We were animals who'd stepped into a tar pit with only one possible outcome. But no one ever speaks it aloud. We have a mutual contract of doom. We are to substitute the Building's dreams for ours, that the dreams God gave us were immoral and irresponsible; the Building is the highest calling. This clarion call I heard as I watched souls drop and die daily, pleading to a world without ears.
One does not reach such a hellish position without feeling cause to review one's life and felonies past. The Building preys on personal guilt as its foundation; judge, jury, and executioner. Still, I'm left to ponder the severity of my crimes or do all roads lead to power's illusion regardless? Any sliver of escape would do, however remote and distant it may be. A drowning man throws his hand up even with no ship in sight, hoping against hope. Falling down a bottomless pit, a man will grab razor sharp blades if it stops his descent. But in a void, there's nothing to carry the sound of your voice.
Then, standing on my last leg, I heard a message was to be delivered to me. Would this be my deliverance? Had a long lost love sent for me? Had I misjudged the cruelty of the universe? I felt sheepish in realizing I had not given life enough credit for the sanctity of my well-being. A girl with starburst eyes handed me a folded note.
I unfolded it and read: "God Corleone says, Hello."
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the children of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.
After hearing these things a Man Of The World was unimpressed.
"Excuse, my good man. You talk about what will happen, but what about now? What happens now to these people you speak of?"
"Oh, now? Well, now they're fucked six ways to Sunday."
"Fucked as in nothing good happens for them or like really fucked?"
"Fucked like in your worst imagination. Raped, tortured, jailed, maligned, ostracized, and killed in the most sadistic ways possible."
"I see. Not much of a calling card that. So evil has won the day."
"Remember when the Israelites were warring to make a homeland for themselves and suddenly started losing battles? This was because a few among them started to loot their vanquished foes. Had that been allowed to continue they would have been wiped from the face of the Earth. Instead, the looters were purged to preserve the good. But now it's the opposite. The world purges the good in the false hope of making evil safe."
"That strikes me as a bit of a logic problem then. If the good are purged and since evil is self-destructive, that leaves no one left alive in the end."
"True dat."
"Well, how come you got it made? Why hasn't anything bad happened to you? Seems to me your whole argument is invalid since you're doing so well."
"They don't know who to kill until the truth has been fully spoken. Then I'm to be vilified and nailed to a cross until I die with painful thorns stuck in my head."
Onward Christian soldiers!
"So what's the point of all this?? Why were we ever made to begin with just to be wiped out? This is insanity! So much human suffering..."
"Everything will be fine in the end. The good will be restored and the evil of their own volition will leave."
"That all seems too good to be true. Fuck, man, why not just do it now? It really sucks here and is getting worse every day."
"Once this happens no more souls can be saved, the window will be forever shut. In order to save the maximum number the window is left open as long as possible."
"But why wait? I heard God can do anything."
"You heard wrong."
"So there's no hope for the present?"
"There's always hope or the window would close. Just don't confuse hope for yourself with hope for the world - and don't confuse hopelessness for the world for hopelessness for yourself. One is your concern, the other is your Maker's."
"I'll be damned. What a shithole place this is! What in the hell ever possessed me to be on this cursed planet!"
"No one's here who didn't ask to be."
The Man Of The World walked away spiritually destitute and inflamed. He saw no profit in what he heard and vowed to take his reward in this world instead of the next. And for his trappings of power and luxury he would smirkingly "praise God in Heaven" to all who would listen, getting the world to vote him as holy and thus buy the stairway to heaven. And that's how he became a killer.
In the desert Sinai
Where I wandered to die
Comes manna from the sky
"Damn!"
***
The purgatory of a purposeless existence is beyond pain. It crushes, suffocates, demeans, debilitates, and pierces the mind with a cutting blade that twists in endless pursuit. No wonder so many turn to a foul purpose rather than no purpose at all. But in this vacuous domain I do find myself, praying for death that will not come.
If only we'd let Nature take its course we'd be driven to be released as a fulfilled people instead of blackmailed slaves, no doubt.
I tire of fighting the wind. I surrender in hopeless defeat. The killing desert has taken many a life, so take mine.
Yet, just as I dropped to my knees, ready to drown in despair and make my final exit, manna rains down upon me.
Manna, if you did not know, is irresistible to the human form. It sustains not only the body but the spirit, invigorating each. Long forgotten dreams feel obtainable once more. There's a connection to something universal, a wild hope beyond logic or reason that makes you want to leap for joy. It's electrifying and exciting and humbling. Though death was my wish, I ingested all I could.
But why did this miracle happen to me? I am unseasoned salt, a fallen angel, useless in all ways I can conceive. I felt it time to go, that I had tried God's patience to the point of no return. And yet...
Strange thoughts had I in the burning colors of the desert sunset. Is this some leftover karma granting me a seemingly undeserved time? Or am I like a homeless soul, this emotional vagrant serving a purpose that only heaven can see? Why is my life being extended?
The ancient Hebrews tasted this taste and now so have I. But God was introducing a consciousness back then, a Presence we've since banned at all costs. Then I think of misguided Israeli assassins deceiving they protect the homeland, turning their back on the covenant, the one truth that actually can protect; more twisting aching minds seeking purpose across the globe.
Thus I remain in purgatory having been revived by the manna. When I seek death, I get life. When I seek life, I get death. So I move onward to God knows what - and God knows why.
Goodvine Bar's innocuous name in uptown Dallas belies a raucous and free-spirited reputation. Only one rule is enforced: leave your judgments and attitude at the door. (And woe to those who believe it won't be enforced!) When it comes to fun, these guys are fascists.
For the past fifteen years Betsy had made the bar her personal hunting ground, trolling by on a near weekly basis. It was Halloween time (her favorite) and she arrived in great anticipation with her handmaid tale outfit, ready to serve. The bar was small and tight but complemented with outdoor seating - and a rooftop stairway out of sight of the others. Betsy surveyed the landscape for a willing partner. Though the bar was visited by both billionaires and bums, from straight-laced to sex queens, only a small sliver could suit her needs.
The young bucks she had downgraded on her scale years ago - and they usually had nubile accompaniment. The wolf looks for weak strays from the herd. She spied an older man - much older than her 42 - and decided he was the best of the lot. His silver mane still had signs of life and she predicted she could be a fantasy come true for him. Fantasy fulfillment was her self-designated job in a world populated by the army of the dead.
She struck up a conversation, slyly speaking of the dangerous deeds she'd witnessed over the years, couples engaging right there on the grounds! See planted seeds of possibilities to see what would sprout. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. But she always has to keep trying.
She had her day job. She had her small and tidy apartment. But in them she had no life; neither were home. Goodvine Bar was her hope, her base of operations. A shy wallflower would look upon Betsy with awe as she commanded the field and made her charge without fear or hesitation. What wallflowers did not see, however, was the ever louder ticking clock in Betsy's head.
Her looks have a shelf life and one day her visits will bear no more fruit, a wretched lipsticked hag throwing herself in unseemly desperation. She knew she had to stop before she became that creature. Each time she looked in the mirror preparing for her visit a piece of her heart broke as she took one step closer to the end of the trail.
To deal with her aching fears she became a "Comfort Christian" to hedge her bets for eternal life. Next to her bed she kept an unread Bible below a wall-mounted cross hung in dutiful devotion. She waxed and waned on her rituals participation according to her current level of panic. When Betsy did pray, though, her most fevered request was to extend the number of days of her blow job career.
She imagined the thrill she must be giving, offering a gift available from no one else but her to the shadow men she serviced. She felt she was in a small way keeping the world alive, to spin another day; human need never-ending. Yet outside of this, she saw nothing else to offer.
Unconfessed and unadmitted until her dying was the Turning Point in her aspiring youth. Betsy had always felt special - even if she couldn't exactly explain why. Back when she had relationships she took pride in domineering her companion. "They'll do anything for me." She reached her height of power when she formulated The Speech, laying down the law of her escalating expectations. Then she went too far.
It was her strongest lecture yet, sure to cow her latest companion/conquest into permanent submission, demanding he up his game to match her lofty ideals. She deserved the best! (Plus she had just read that in a magazine). She'd never forget that Moment, the Look on his face, the Confidence she was sure was hers.
But his crestfallen face did not export the words she expected to hear. "Jesus! If I were all that why would I want you?"
She'd been tumbling ever since, trying to regain her footing, her one certainty neverto feel that burn ever again. It was as if she'd been branded with a scarlet letter. "They might reject me but they won't turn down a blow job." Betsy settled on her formula for success, not to be swayed otherwise.
"Look, I'm headed over to this block party down the street. OK, if I get your digits?"
Flattered, the silver-maned man duly provided his cell. Betsy cheerily waved goodbye.
Stepping outside into the crisp night to make the half-mile walk to the block party was like stepping into a dark swallowing void. Sleeping in her place was like sleeping in a house slowly on fire: only a matter of time before she has nowhere to go, no way to live. Nights were getting longer, the sedatives getting stronger. Tick...tick...tick
"I have to get this fixed! No point waiting another day. I feel like the national debt, for God's sake," Betsy blubbered.
But in the end, the only crop she could reap was the seeds she had planted. Trembling and isolated at the block party, she whipped out her phone. "Heya, how's it going?" she texted, Blow Job Betsy for one night more.
The Dreaded Dream - the recurring ever-present nightmare - perpetually lurks in the shadows waiting for unredeemed eyes to close in dire search of escape.
It starts in a place of darkness, down a slippery slope of black ice, scrambling for absent grip, praying for a way to stop the slide, unable to see above or below - or what horrible unimaginable fate happens when the slope runs out.
His fingers ache from the stress when he wakes up, the desperate clawing to no avail. Each time he asks himself: "Is this when the slope ends? Oh, God no!"
Russian roulette has never been more real.
"How can no one see me? How can no one see what's going on? I must have help! But I must hide my truth at all costs. How can I win?"
Each day he waits unredeemed, his truth becomes more horrid.
His was the last house standing in the neighborhood. He'd burned down the rest in fits of insanity. He thought himself clever making himself fire marshal coming to "rescue" his victims. As he hears the families scream in burning deaths, he gloats with smirking outrage as the hero of the day.
Of course, some people aren't happy unless they are being lied to.
But his victories are his defeat. "Please, someone - anyone - stop my madness! Intervene! Is there no crime big enough for you to detain me?"
His crimes are his plea for help. He is too weak and too helpless to do so on his own. He is scared of the sun.
He crawls naked into his his closet, begging his suits of respectability to clothe his shame and suppressed sex fantasies of dominate; a life of tortured charade.
As much as he needs his veneering suits he needs his enemies. Life would be unbearable without these illusions of love. "You must love me for I wear nice suits!" "If you don't love my suit you must be enemy of my state!"
He never met a lie he didn't like.
So desperate was his soul he cries out before the world: "There is no happiness in life, only a mirage of it on the horizon." Even this could not break the crushing silence.
Craving fame he'd chosen infamy, begging and bribing others to join his folly. Who needs to be voted a "winner" more than life's loser?
But nothing solved the riddle of escaping the Dreaded Dream's cage. He could imprison the world but still not escape his own. This thought scares him more than any other: that his path does not lead to ultimate freedom.
"I'll burn down the world if they don't stop me! You say you are so moral! Prove it!"
Then it hits him: Life is a love or death situation. And in his broken mind love is not an option.
So he fixes himself a brew of polonium tea, to equal his cruelty of the past. He notices while contemplating its ingestion the wild elation of finally being free of his godless world, causing an erection. Not one to waste a rare opportunity, he stripped down and masturbated as he drank the poison.
And that's how he was found by his traitorous aides the next morning: naked, covered in ignominy, and assassinated.
After my escape from VieselHoffen Inc I was inspired to write what I'm reliably told is sure to be a best smelling book: "How To Ruin Your Life While Blaming Those Who Haven't Ruined Theirs". My pseudo-seductive publisher said it will be the hottest thing since Texas Air. When I heard this I urgently left to musically masturbate to Instagram influencers. That's when you know you've got it made.
Starry-eyed, I imagined myself making slick Nerf football commercials and being invited to park the very best cars at swanky sex parties. My jacket size is 42 regular. I'll move to L.A., get a map of the stars' homes and drive by screaming, "I'm one of you now!" Yup, that's when you really know you've got it made.
Some Hollywood chick asked why my literary hubbub. I said I emoted a simple-minded guide for concocting political stories to sell your life as a raging success when it's actually a raging dumpster fire. She said how did it feel being an upcoming Arthur but I coyly implied I wasn't bothered erecting my name. Dramatically I ran fingers through my Tom Cruise hair, declaring: "I'm not interested in being myself, thank you, Academy." That's when you absolutely know you've got it made.
Those freaks and solenoids at VieselHoffen filed a lawsuit hoping I revealed their trade secrets of betrayal in my "inciteful" book and that I must have started the 17th floor fire since I didn't. I couldn't refute what I hadn't done which made their lawyers clap like happy seals getting a wet fish while making ludicrous barfing noises. I overheard one lawyer say he aspired to be a circle jerk and that he receives high praise when looting the company. "That's when you know you've got it made," he slyly confided.
They say not to let success spoil you but I was like, "Fuck me that!" and went to visit the nearest yacht yard to pick mine out. But the ship guy was adamant (or Adam Ant, not sure which as he mumbled a lot) that "to git on my boat ewes must be a person of note or one of them GOATs." I wasn't sure about the farm animal references as I watched him spit tobacco overboard but curiously found his need to rhyme even more alarming. He said his daughter was "a TikTok slut who shows her butt viewed by rotten nuts." Outted as her pervert follower I noticed his letterhead motto as I slipped away: "Must make the grade or you won't get laid or have a hot maid."
My silicon success was proving a failure even with intemperate corruption. Drifting through rain stained streets I was approached by an ancient Lakota warrior who demanded I be his spirit guide. I tried getting out of it telling him I speak with forked tongue but that only increased his conviction. He went on how the "Indian Spirit" was sent to save the White Man but instead "we raped the Land" and became "fuckers without a future." I told him if he came back Tuesday at three I could give him advice on how to be racist. His face lit up with the news and giddily rejoiced, "Then I'll have it 'white man' made!"
Ergo, I began to suspect the Pyrrhic secret of my Texas Air success. In an upside-down world, if I'm nothing, I'm something, and if I'm something, I'm nothing. Who can win in a world of sin after where I've been? (Sorry, damn boat guy rubbing off on me.) Salvation is suicide but suicide's a cheat. Did I really think a Nerf commercial was my stairway to heaven? Sioux that Indian for making me think! Dammit, somebody on this planet has to have it made!
So I'm back where I began: the outlaw of outlaws, a jobless soul. On a sunny Fall morning I return to the downtown of my demise and see the Sunlight I'd never seen before. What unassumed beauty I'd missed in my blinding heyday. In the hustle and bustle circling me I belie fearful purpose and purposeful fear. But in freedom's dream I lift my arms to glorious sunbeams riding me to the sky in endless bliss. "Stop that, you!" I was vexed from below. But I know this is how life is meant to be in the Natural Order, walking in Forever Footsteps, exploding song from the Universe. Then we'd truly have it made.
Later I wander into a back alley of Forbidden Feelings where I bemoaned sighs of the times. A girl with streaming ears emphasized: "It won't work anyway! Burn it all down!" Retail worker, I presumed. A grieving guilty man goaded: "I need you, Emily." A laughing hyena newly elected celebrated: "Fry like me or die!" A parked Rolls-Royce had its sign sticking out the moon roof: "I'm dead without my slaves." A whore from the executive mafia insisted: "You'd do it too!" A loathing loser lamented: "Love is for losers." Then I figured it: no one's really got it made.
Thus sprouts art from failure:
Freedom's pulse breathes brief,
Dew drop hanging from a leaf
Must live like a thief.
The corporation of my subsumption betrays itself between the 14th to 17th floors. Success has never been so hollow. Or brittle. Or little. But nonetheless I got the call of calls to recede up to the 17th floor.
The desultory top gods roam there, aka "people way high up!" I put on my rectally awed face for the occasion. I never knew fetching documents could be such an odd ordeal.
I'd been sent behind enemy lines to C's office. "That's not her name but what she goes by on Tuesday." Jesus, who are these people?
As I plunged off the elevator I could see a partial view of misty mountains outside the windows of C's corner office - which I thought was strange since we were downtown. Yet worst part was everything on the 17th floor had a place of predetermined righteousness - but for me. All I needed was a spotlight shining down and an intruder alert alarm.
As I veered in on the windows of the corner office I imagined scenes of Napalmed villages in southeast Asia with children artists fleeing in terror. Was now a good time to scream?
With Kashmir steps I trespassed my way through a minefield of rotting souls so much better housed than me. Thus I went into my usual standby mode: hold my breath and bluff.
Or maybe I'm just a footlocker of failure projecting my own fuckedupedness.
Then it happened if it did.
As I happenstanced into the corner office I found myself in freaking Amsterdam as gifted by the randomness of the universe. "C" was speaking some sort of foreign fucking language (is it Dutch over there??) and typing with authoritative keystrokes that scared the lie out of me.
I unconsciously started rocking back and forth as I stood there waiting in suspense. Then C looks up at me, handing the precious corporate paper full of the numbers that rule a dying world. Since I couldn't understand her words I could only make what I hoped were appropriate facial expressions in accordance with her tone.
Oh, to be a footnote in history.
All I could think about was escaping to the space temples of Syrinx reachable only through wormholes of nonlinear dimensions.
Oh shit, she stopped speaking and is expecting a verbal reply of responsible bureaucratic witchcraft. If I respond in humanoid form will she still understand?
"Pickle vomit am I!" I declare with the furor of a horny Nazi.
Luckily, that seemed to satisfy her superiority as I goosestepped out the office to loud applause and hopefully back into the Texastan of my known demise.
In the elevator I finally took a breath - a breach of faith, I know. But having made a successful foray behind enemy lines I couldn't resist a small self-serving smirk of suicidal sanity.
When the doors closed on my revelry I went to press the button to take me back to the lower depths where I belonged. It's then I witnessed the horror of horrors: ONLY THE 17th FLOOR BUTTON REMAINED!
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
I can't go back to where I couldn't go before! Is it me or is it sin? I wanted to sigh, cry, die, and fly at same time. Just what are my false options in the fake free world?
I could pretend to be an elevator doorman like I'd seen in old movies or I could cut through the top where I'd truly be shafted or simply wait for starvation to serve out my hierarchical sentence.
Jesus had only one bad day, mine is every day.
Suddenly in the midst of my rapidly increasing aging I got swept away in tornadic titillation as I remembered the super hot receptionist stationed just outside. Since I'm dead anyway, should I just drop my pants and show her my enthusiasm?
How long before I'm accusingly discovered in here lost confused at wit's end as the sun sets in the real world while I'm trapped and useless mired in excommunication - and still on the clock.
If I could pray my way off the cross I would - and leave the world to burn in the sanctimonious shit of those who do and those who don't.
With lips quivering in this mental coffin, I start pressing on the panel where the buttons should be to get me off. Maybe they're there and I just can't see them! I've been wrong before, I could be wrong now. It's my usual bad attitude blinding me to the pathway to success.
But despite my clever political arguments to the contrary there wasn't a fucking button anywhere except the one damn button I dare not push! So this is what it's like to drown in full slow motion replay.
And then the door opened in gaping ignominy.
Some Liberace executive steps in with trophy rings on every finger and a blockbuster grin gripped in perpetual pleasing panic. I was able to spy like Bond that the ravenous receptionist I'd hoped to impress was gone from her throne and my lust for ill-gotten glee would have been in vain had I attempted it. At least one song remained the same...
Of course, now that someone else is here the buttons re-appear, so I hit the ground exit button quick as I can, pleading for it to obey the laws of physics according to my understanding.
The sensations of movement were not false ones as the elevator doors opened to the lobby zoo of stagnating suited animals and killer piranha where I heard an aproned fellow yell, "Throw that man a parrot!" Seeing the revolving doors to freedom I immediately start running but in a wary weaving manner to make sure I avoid any sniper fire.
Once outside I instantly look up to see if any falling pianos are headed my way. None were but one did land on a fellow down the street who was vociferously arguing how God would never allow that to happen to one such as him - or maybe he should have said Him.
But while looking up I did notice another coddled conundrum: flames shooting out the 17th floor windows. Reflexively, I grabbed a Texastan Karen passing by and pointed, "Look! Fire!"
Only she angrily wrangled her way out of my grip and without looking up defiantly declared, "I see no fire - I only vote for it." Then she started hopping down the street in her Playboy bunny outfit crying out: "#metoo! #metoo!"
I tried to point out the firestorm to a few other passers-by but only their cats were curious. In merciful resignation I crossed the street and sat on a park bench where I had a good view of the increasing fury of the flames. Around me I heard idle social network chatter, jokes of indeterminate value, and plans for futures not meaning to live.
Outside of cats and other good-hearted souls, no one objected to the conflagration above, and I wondered to myself: "What's right with me that only I see this?"
Somebody somewhere out there right now is asking, "WHY?"
Why did it happen? Why the pain? What does it mean? Is more madness to come? Where is hope?
They're praying for answers like a Jew in a box car, but none shall come. Mystery is thy name.
But now, I'm no longer alone. Welcome to the world.
****
Deep Ellum is the crowded nightclub district of Dallas. A girl was shot there Saturday night, maybe from a passing motorist or maybe from a rooftop. No one really knows. It's suspected a silencer was used. Police have no suspects and no motives at this time.
I'll never forget the screams of horror from her nearby girlfriends. They can't believes their eyes but they have to, no political spin to help. Lives changed forever, no going back. For them, the morning sun will never be as bright.
A few will become professional victims. Sill others will withdraw into permanent suspicion. Maybe one will survive the devil's guilt of having not been shot to live a normal life.
I just aimed at a group of girls as I was driving by. The loud music spilling onto the streets gave cover to my homemade silencer. I just couldn't stand the thought of being alone with my fate any longer.
I scour news everywhere for every last crumb of a word. That's me they're talking about! Camera footage sought. Tip line. Quotes from bystanders. It's like a transfusion of life.
I debated yelling out, "Get a job!" as the shot was fired. That's only because I can't get one. Like that girl, I too have been sentenced to death. They tell me I could be a dishwasher or school bus driver or some other form of slow suicide. Of course, no one who tells me to hold these jobs has these jobs. No bribe to look the other way for me.
Soon the attention will be gone, just another cold case file. I'll be wondering for some time if the police will show up on my doorstep. There might be a lucky break but, really, those only happen on TV shows. Real life doesn't have an acceptable plot line for the big screen. No one wants to know the real truth.
The world is cruel and getting more cruel. Like those girl's friends, I have no answers nor hope to find any answers. We live in an unspoken club.
Some spread love. Some spread pain. But we all spread something good or bad, no exceptions.
I'll never know what I could have been if I could have been. That's my nightmare. Who can I be if I don't get to be me?
Out of the blue I get a letter. She wants to see me, to save me, with enough money to last rest of my life.
So she doesn't want me to die.
When you're a zero, everything is the opposite of what it's supposed to be (a working class zero is nothing to be). So how is this happening?
Like I said, I have to re-think everything. As a zero, destroying yourself is a good thing.
But if I'm actually not a zero, then my self-destructive behavior can no longer be a moral thing.
Damn.
The letter said her life is empty, decades of lies hollowed her out. She needs something real.
She loves me! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!
But wait. She must be deceived. She thinks I'm not a zero. I only feel like something when I'm with her. But what can a zero have to offer?
Zeroes don't deserve to be saved. How could my judgment be wrong? The right thing to do is betray her so she'll see the light of what I actually am.
Letter said she wants to stop at a "Texas store" before coming to see me from the airport. That made me feel good, like there's something outside of me that makes the trip worthwhile.
I go get my gun. I feel like a real bastard but there's no other way. I have to un-deceive her. Only then she'll understand what a blessing I gave her being out of her life.
By shooting her I can prove my integrity, of knowing my true worth, not lying to myself. Otherwise, she'd just find out on her own and then I'd really be cooked. It's just a matter of time.
I heard the rental car pull up in the driveway. One thing I know for sure is she hasn't screwed up her life the way I have. Yeah, maybe she's made some mistakes but nothing on the scale I have.
I just can't face her. I look down at my loaded revolver then hide it behind my back as I get up to open the door. She's got a big surprise coming to her but the truth will out, I always say.
I flash my Judas smile mixed with curiosity of how she is. Part of me wants to surrender and throw myself into her arms and falsely believe I can have a future.
The urge is overwhelming but I remain strong and resist doing what I want instead of doing what I should. My will be done.
She too has a smile but something is hidden in her eyes. Must be the delusion I'm worth saving. Well, time to correct that.
But as I whip my arm from behind my back I notice she also has one arm behind her and she too draws out a gun.
"Oh, that Texas store," I remember thinking as my last thought.
The guns fire simultaneously, dropping us both. The neighbor's dog starts barking. We fall to the ground, each trying to assassinate our coming revelation. Romeo and Juliet got nothing on us.
"Son, let me tell you something: everything is the opposite of what it seems. Them politicians, what they say they wantin' to defend is really what they wantin' to betray. People talkin' 'bout 'Country first' really puts it last. Things we doin' in name of saving the world is destroying the world. Only thing people really wantin' to save is their greed."
"But papa, I must save you."
"What for? I've already decided I'm a Christian."
"No man may call himself a Christian. That substitutes your judgment for God's. One can only say one hopes to be a Christian."
"I can call myself a goddam Christian if I want to!"
The Button Man's son sighed, his priestly robes raising and lowering upon his shoulders. "Father, you've killed on command your entire life. All is forgiven if one repents, but first you must admit what you are: a murderer and a criminal."
"Be careful how you talk to me, boy," seethed the Button Man.
"Why? Am I your savior?"
"Listen, kid. Some people is dead before they're born. There's no place for 'em in this world! You can preach all you want but there's no praying your way off the cross."
"Don't nail yourself to a cross and call yourself Jesus. That's beyond despicable. Harming yourself makes up for nothing and does no one any good."
"Look, don't lay the world on me, boy. I just did what I was told, no questions asked. You want to complicate everything with your questions, so be it. That you, not me. What do you want from me? I'm just a button man."
"Those are lies you tell yourself. You can't vote your way into heaven. That's the oldest lie going."
"Everyone lies, especially you priests. But see, only lies I believe is God's lies, so I'm good."
-----
When the Button Man arrived at the Pearly Gates, Saint Peter was on vacation, replaced by a flunky.
"What do mean he ain't here?" insisted a fuming Button Man.
"I mean exactly that. Saint Pete told me anyone shows up just send them straight to hell."
"That's a outrage! You can't do that just cause someone tells you to. Think, man, think!"
"What do you want from me? I'm just the Lever Man." Then he pushed the lever down.
So after years of waiting my name finally moved up on the list for a room in a halfway house. It's halfway to nowhere but halfway off the streets. It's not all what I expected or imagined.
One thing I found out is how exhausted I am. Having a space where I can fully collapse found me free-falling to the point where I could hardly move without seeming like pushing boulders. I've had flashes of this before in stolen moments when I was able to stop running. But now I see the true depths of my condition.
Something's eating on me so badly (Emily) I'm moaning in the night as demons come out with their pitchforks. Another consequence of allowing my guard to be down. I have to be careful no one in the other rooms hears me. It's like home all over again.
Where does this lead to? I've never had to face that question in the thousands of days and nights I spent on the run. Seems I imagined some sort of paradise awaiting me if only I could get off the streets. But the freedom of the streets is its own sort of sanctuary from the ties that bind and maim. Maybe I'm trying to have the best of both worlds here. Or maybe I'm just caught someplace in between.
There's still some adjusting to do so more to come. I can't write while I'm in that place, only scribble here on the street. With all the bad decisions and extreme cowardice I've shown in my life, I feel more bad news awaits me as I finally have the time and space to face myself. Everything has a catch.
UPDATE: I'm drowning and can't reach the surface. The more I settle in the more I face how lost I am. Life on the run is hell but at least you can lie to yourself how good things could be if you had a safe place. I got my wish, now I want to die.
Dexter was proud as he could ever be crashing through the front door of his domicile.
"Boy, you shoulda seen it!" he gestured incoherently to Derrick, his roommate. "Dem fools was all up an' in it! Had 'em barking like a buncha drunk dogs, I did!"
Dexter displayed the joy of a man newly saved, a validated soul destined for immortality. He glowed with the certainty of a true believer being his own god.
Derrick, sitting on a faded velour couch with his faded velour mustache, took no notice of any of this. To him, Dexter was a clown's clown, incapably serious. No matter how excited Dexter got about anything, Derrick preemptively dismissed it. Secretly, he called him "Jethro Bodine - only more evil."
Vaping on vacuity, Derrick felt obligated to throw the barking dog a bone. "Oh, really, Dexter? Sounds great - like a rusty circumcision."
Dexter was a man who sliced his news to what he would comfortably digest. He heard "Sounds great" and took that as an invitation to share even more of his misadventure.
"Yeah, I know! It's this shirt what got 'em!" Daffy Dexter stretched forth his proud-boy "Black Lives Splatter" shirt portraying the picture of a policeman with a pointed gun standing over the bloodied body of a black man with red drops emanating outward in chorused death.
Derrick never looked up as he had already considered the source of his conversational other. "Yup, shirts'll do that."
Getting no gratification from Derrick, Dexter excitedly seated himself on his own torn leather sofa. He perched himself as if unopened presents sat below him. And in his mind, such was the case as he began to verbally unwrap them.
"Oh, man, was them libs riled up. I pwned them! Couple of 'em even tried ripping my shirt off. And they be trying to tell me I gotta be tolerant and shit? The nerve!" Still no reaction from an unseduced Derrick. Dexter attempted further enticements. "Shoulda seen how red their faces were! Just made me start laughin' and laughin' away. Best I felt in a long time. Fucking libs a buncha losers!"
"True dat. Have to be a real loser to care what you think."
Dexter continued in oblivious splendor. "Got that right! Always on their high horse! Well, I took 'em down a notch today! All is right in the world!"
Dexter meets a new friend!
Taking that as a challenge, the world deemed to have "Dopey Don" (as so monikered by Dexter) knock on the same entry door Dexter had so joyously burst through minutes before. Dopey Don was Dexter's arch enemy in the open wild. "That idiot don't know a whit of shit but always thinks he does. Stupid son-of-a-bitch needs to look in the damn mirror for once!" With this deepest of insight he sought to pluck the splinter from Don's eye.
Don came armed with his own hot take on the day's dueling protests. "Man, what a faggot convention! You see all those MAGA caps? Make America Gay Again. Who the hell puts that on their forehead?"
An upended Dexter boiled in righteous outrage. "It's 'great', you idiot! 'Great' not 'Gay'! You hear me?"
"Dude, you think gay is great, fine by me. Bet your parents real proud of you!"
Dexter had unresolved parental issues just like any right wing lunatic. "Leave my Daddy out of this! Can't you understand anything! It's 'great', not 'gay'!"
"I see your lips moving but I can't hear what you're saying."
"Jesus H Christ, you just hear what you want to hear, don't you? I'm so sick of it. That kind of behavior can't just never be tolerated! How can you not see that? What kind of fool are you??"
Don cupped his hear as if hard of hearing. "I'm sorry: homo says what?"
Derrick, who'd watched the scene as if he were watching an amusing tennis match, let loose a sly grin at the explosion that was Dexter who shot off the sofa.
"I've had enough! Not taking this librul shit no more ever again. When you want to stop bein' a hypocrite and a dern fool let me know! But till then don't talk to me no more! Dang you to hell!"
With a final indignant glare, Dexter slammed his bedroom door and sealed it with sulking fury. Back in the airy living room, Don plopped down on the now-vacated sofa, easing his outstretched arms over the cushions and making himself at home. Then he nonchalantly remarked to no one: "Pwned that bitch..."
[Editor's note. This is a transcript of a recording made shorty before Goupil's suicide. He must have felt it was too personal to commit to paper and only by luck was the cassette noticed and saved. That said, perhaps this is the most important piece in the puzzle that was Goupil.]
I am liar. Everything with my life is lie. Yes, I kill many, but this I feel is greatest crime. Do not forgive me.
End is near. I not know how or when but is coming. I feel to tell this truth, it will happen in stupid way but happen it does. So best to confess while is time. My voice heavy in grieving. It never stops. Never will.
Some ask: why assassinate? I tell why. I tell why all assassins are: because that's what we are. If this sound obvious then you never listen to me. Assassins are made, not born. It is not a life of choice.
I find about me short after I leaving school. I was lost in the world, doing bad jobs like I expect for me to do rest my life. I write before how I fall into underworld. But I leave out my real first kill: Cheri.
This hard to get out. I am staccato in speaking. Cheri sent to save me, is clear now. For me, she was perfect in every way. But the step for me, from me to her, seem like canyon I can never cross. I know now things change when you face them and maybe had I face her things not as I fear. This I cannot get over.
Oh, the excitement, the ecstasy, just the joy of hearing her voice take me to place of heaven. How could this dream be for me? I am not trusting myself. I run away so she not see me inadequate. But this drive me crazy out of my head. I on roller coaster ride I cannot get off. I can find no relief, my heart ready to explode. I know is life and death.
Then I break.
I kill the one sent to save me. What kind of self traitor do this? I let down whole of universe for gift I refuse. For someone else to have her, this too much for me. That body so perfect - never match since - had to be mine, to be in heaven on top of world like I anyone deserve. Never can I leave this moment, my cheat, this dirty secret of secrets.
Yes, I fall in with bad people after that, leading to life of criminals. But you see? I invite this in! I am not victim of this foul world, I am victim of me, part of the foul. Foul world just excuse I hide behind. This is me, a Judas.
Every killer a Judas. First you kill love in own life then spend rest of life killing others'. You have to, is only way to keep going. Is nightmare of drowning nightmares. See, without dreams is only nightmare left, no middle between. Love is life or death, life is love or death. All killing birthed with cowardice.
So hate me if you must. Many do for many reasons. But no one hate me like I do for I have most knowledge of me. A woman once tell me I have kind heart. This kill me. She not know The Secret that haunt and destroy my life. My whole life since Cheri in this prison. Every liar is punished. I wish not to be these lies that burn down my house, that make you alone in cold world.
Pete and Re-Pete had beat the system. Two mid-level drug dealers making the biggest score of their lives, they'd never have to work again. Unlike the "suckers" out there, they had the world figured out. Pete even fancied his worldly success as a blessing from God, that he was indeed a moral figure (Re-Pete never thought much anything of anything except taking what's in front of him). But Carlos was a drug lord of his own making and that's how Pete and Re-Pete found themselves tied to a pair of chairs in an underground room with their clothes covered in gasoline.
"You think you clever boy!" Carlos accused Pete. "Put your sniper man up high to protect you!" Pete had used Re-Pete as his backup as per their usual plan when making a switch. But Carlos had been one step ahead. It was clearly a case of minor league versus major league.
"Please don't!" screamed Re-Pete, horrified by the sight of the lighter in Pepe's hand (Pepe was Carlos' right hand man.)
"Just take the money! You'll never see us again!" promised Pete.
"What a pair of idiotas we got here, eh, Pepe?" Carlos leaned down into Pete's face. "Hey, smart guy, you know how many times I sell this same cocaine? This make third time! Now that what I call high profit!"
Re-Pete fell into sobs realizing what complete suckers they'd been from the beginning, blinded by their own greed. Now they had no way out. Pete, who fantasized his life a moral endeavor, found his brain short-circuiting as he could find no rationale for his present dire dilemma.
"God won't let you get away with this!" he lashed out. Carlos and Pepe laughed at a response they'd never heard before by a victim about to be killed.
"Eh, Pepe, we got a man of God here! Let's put it to the test and see if God stop this fire. Torch these assholes."
"Wait!" screamed Re-Pete. "I don't care about God at all! I just want to live."
"It too late for that, homie. It dying time now."
Pete felt he had nothing to lose. "One day God will get you! Let us go and God will spare you."
Carlos turned to Pepe with a wry smile. "You get this guy? He looney tune!" Then he turned back to Pete. "You know what? God can suck my dick. How 'bout that?"
"It's true! I believe with all my heart! God exists and God saves."
"Like I said before, let's put that to the test. Roast 'em, Pepe!"
Both the bound victims wailed in protest as Pepe stepped forward. But suddenly Carlos realized he was enjoying himself. "Wait a minute, Pepe," he said waving him back.
"Thank you!" begged Pete, having deceived himself yet again into thinking he was saved.
"You idiotas want to live so bad, then say after me: God, suck my dick!"
Re-Pete blurted it out right away. Pete hesitated. "Please don't make me say that."
"No one make you do anything! God protect you, right? But I got a idea for you. Listen to this."
Carlos held up his large screen phone for the pair to see. "These last guys that buy my dope. Mira este!"
Right before their eyes Pate and Re-Pete saw their fate as three men were burned alive, screaming and wailing and howling from the depths of hell, every second an eternity. Re-Pete was overcome with terror, crying uncontrollably. Pete broke.
"God, suck my dick!"
Carlos laughed like he hadn't in a long time. He wondered why he hadn't noticed before how much fun it is for the cat to play with the mouse before killing it.
"Like Sister Maria say to me: you got no faith, boy. How you gonna face God now saying somethin' like that?"
"But God is true. This isn't right killing us like this."
"Right? What right got to do with it? You think you in a movie or somethin'? It right because I do it. Tell you what, if it make you feel better, you just pretend I'm a cop and you a nigger. Now I got right to kill you!" Carlos confirmed with an approving smile from Pepe how clever this argument was.
"But them niggers deserve it!" Pete crossly declared in complete conviction.
Carlos and Pepe both burst into laughter.
"You get this guy? Mister racist Christian think he somebody! I bet he even vote!"
"I do! Republican always!" proclaimed Pete, misunderstanding all he saw.
"Well, you got no vote here. Glad I talk here first. I'm gonna enjoy toasting you twice as much now."
"What!? I thought you understood! I'm a man of God!"
"Only God here is me! I say what happens, nobody else." Carlos' face turned dark, as it always did on the brink of committing murder.
"Please! How can I prove it?"
The sound of Re-Pete's sobbing filled the cold concrete room. Carlos had had enough of this "man of God."
"This last time I say it. I the only God here. You want to life then you have to please ME! You make your choice and you make it now!" Carlos un-paused the burning video. Pete made his choice.
"I will please you."
"Good! Now since you said God to suck your dick, now you gonna suck mine. Suck it like God's!"
No precept of Pete's previous existence remained intact. From that moment on he was wiped clean, forced to face how unhinged from reality he'd lived his life. He'd convinced himself he was a "good man" who made up for his sins with religious gestures and thus nothing bad should ever happen to him. And yet, this nightmare didn't stop as he watched Carlos walk over putting his crotch in Pete's face as he unzipped his pants.
"Go ahead. Meet your new best friend. Make it happy, your life depend on it!"
Pete thought of the blow jobs he'd received in his life and how powerful it made him feel. As the cock slid into his mouth he felt a sensation he knew he could never un-know, branded for life. Pete still felt he was in a dream, that none of it was happening, and that as he desperately followed Carlos' commands to "work it, bitch", he'd somehow wake up safe in bed. But the last bit of denial vanished as he tasted the bitter, salty cum in his mouth. Where was God, his savior?
Carlos was pleased with himself. "I been too quick torching you punks! Shoulda made all you suck my dick first! OK, Pepe, light 'em up!"
"What!" wailed Pete. He'd pleased his god and that was supposed to bring salvation.
"You still whinin'? Don't you ever stop. Die like a man! You think suckin' my dick gonna save you? Man, what in your head?" But once again an idea hit Carlos has he waved back Pepe. "No, wait. I'm gonna give you a choice."
Carlos walked over to the camera he used for recording and showed it to Pete's face. "Tomorrow, I'm gonna send this to police. They won't see me. Just my dick in your mouth. Then I send to news people. Then it go on internet for whole world to see! You be famous, bitch!" Carlos laughed at the look of horror on Pete's face. Then he felt compelled to lecture the self-righteous hypocrite tied up before him.
"Welcome to the real world. It all about winners and losers. You been thinkin' you a winner, don't you? Now you know different! Know what happens when that video go out? Whole world laugh at you! Your momma gonna be proud when she see you!" Carlos turned to Pepe who chuckled at the thought. "Your girlfriend gonna leave you. No girl gonna suck dick of loser like you. Cops know your face. You gotta go get a job! Maybe janitor. Make ten dollar a hour! How that sound to you?"
Pete was drifting into shock, hearing the words in an out-of-body experience. The entire speech was a litany of nightmares he'd sought to avoid his entire life. He wished for death's escape.
"But then they not even let you do a job after video. Put you on street to die. You ever live on street? I have. You die sloooow. Your knee start hurtin', what you gonna do? Go see doctor? No money! Something go wrong, nothing you can do, just hurt more and die more so people run when they see freak like you. Maybe then you go to votin' and church and see how that work for you! You too stupid to live!"
Carlos snapped his fingers to Pepe and pointed to Re-Pete. Pepe then lit the pool of gasoline at Re-Pete's feet who was quickly engulfed in flames, screaming at the top of his lungs. Pete had slipped into complete shock, losing his mind at the sight of his best friend burned alive after just days ago planning a vacation to Tahiti. Every time his mind tried to re-engage reality it snapped back in horror. Hell was for other people, he'd always assured himself.
The next morning he was alone, the bonds cut from his chair. Re-Pete's charred body was gone but the burn remarks on the concrete remained. Pete was nauseated by the still pungent smell of gasoline on his clothes. He was alive but worse than dead. As promised, the video was released to the world, exposing his foolishness in lifelong shame. He grew a beard and labored at menial jobs until the pandemic came and even those weren't available. Pete ended up on the streets as predicted, wishing he'd never been born and had never believed he was the exception to the world.
